Hank

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

The Hand of Mauloch

13th of Midyear, 4E208
Somewhere outside of Gilane, Hammerfell
_{@Leidenschaft and @Father Hank made this}

It took only three strikes, quick attacks in rapid succession, before Maulakanth had disarmed the Dunmer he was sparring with yet again. He hadn’t even meant to do it this time, but the Dunmer had simply dropped his blade and hissed with pain as he clutched his hand. The Orsimer’s strength was too much, and his bastard swords were too heavy. “That’s enough,” the Dunmer snapped, a mixture of resentment and humiliation in his crimson eyes. Towering over him, the hulking shape of Maulakanth shifted slightly as he laughed in return; a low, thrumming reverberation in his chest, nothing more.

They were in the space of the sanctuary that had been designated as the practice room, though it was hard to guess what the Dark Brotherhood had used it for. The Dunmer -- he had not bothered to remember his name -- retreated back to the common area and Maulakanth watched him go, his deep-set amber eyes fixed on his back, idly wondering where he would strike if he wanted to break the Dunmer’s spine most effectively. He shook his massive, tusked head and placed his twinned orichalcum blades on the table unexpectedly gingerly for such an enormous beast-mer. He looked up again when the door opened and another, different elf stepped into the room. Maulakanth straightened to his full height and nodded; it was the closest he would ever get to giving a salute.

He said nothing, his face set in the same scowl that seemed to be permanently fixed there, and merely looked at Kerztar expectantly. The Dwemer may have regarded the huge Orsimer without a change of expression, but he never got used to the vast sight of him. “I’ve need of you.”

As much as Maulakanth's sizable tusks would allow, he smiled. He lifted a glass vial from a holster at his waist, uncorked it and downed the contents in one go, tilting his head back to do so. Whatever it was, it seemed to do the trick as he rolled his shoulders and grunted in approval, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.

“I'm ready,” Maulakanth said. His voice sounded like a cave bear trying to talk.

“With Zaveed indisposed and Sevari’s arrest, we’ve scoured intelligence from them both on the whereabouts of Poncy Man’s Insurgency.” Kerztar spoke, “We finally have enough evidence to take a step further. We need you to head a sizable detachment of soldiers in conducting a raid on the Three Crowns Hotel.”

“I don’t think I need to remind you that this isn’t Al-Aqqiya. The ghost town might stand as a reminder of why you shouldn’t finance insurgent smuggling operations but, well,” Kerztar shook his head, “The collateral damage was a travesty. Something of that caliber can not be as readily covered up when it takes place in such a metropolitan area. I’m sure there’ll be enough fools willing to stand and fight to please you.”

“Right,” the Orsimer growled. Al-Aqqiya had been the mission that had given him his fearsome reputation throughout northern Hammerfell but its outcome had been… divisive. He still disagreed with his detractors but he was done making a fuss about that. “What's the objective? Capture, dispersion, intimidation?” While he talked, he started walking around the room, clenching and unclenching his fists and twisting his neck this way and that. The contents of the vial had been potent, that was much was evident. He suddenly turned his sights back to Kerztar and laughed again. “I heard something else regarding Zaveed’s indisposition, by the way. Was it the games he played with the girl? I bet it was,” Maulakanth continued and forcefully cracked his knuckles. “Coward.”

“The task at hand, Maulakanth.” Kerztar sighed, “He’s a good officer, good at what he does, just too loose. You’re good at what you do, let us focus on that. In a days time, we will have elements from the Redguard city watch and our military, as well as Ministry Agents from other teams staging a full lockdown of the city blocks around the Hotel.”

“You’ll be the first in, leading a team through the front door while the other Ministry agents enter through different entryways.” Kerztar smirked then, a little hubris of his own, “I heavily lobbied for you as the vanguard over Kagrenn’s or Krinnec’s teams. I’m sure you remember them from Al-Aqqiya. Wholly too savage for my tastes but Krinnec was always a bastard that had the tactical and strategic prowess of a rhino.”

Maulakanth found himself nodding along with everything that Kerztar said. “Oh, I remember,” he grunted and scratched his chin. “It will be Al-Aqqiya all over again if those things are set loose. No, you came to the right Orc,” he added and slammed a clenched fist to his chest, which looked, for all the world to see, to be even larger than usual, like a preening rooster. It seemed that Kerztar’s flattery had struck the right chord with the immense Orsimer. He had already forgotten all about Zaveed. “Quick, decisive, clean. Scare them into submission, kill the ones that resist, forge a path for the, uh… Ministry Agents. That sound about right?” he asked, grinning.

Kerztar nodded, “Violence of action, we put down a few of them quickly and with extreme prejudice, the rest will be too stunned to do anything before we’ve got them in shackles.”

After thinking about that for a few seconds, Maulakanth picked his blades back up and tested their weight. They were long, heavy swords, slightly curved in the way that Orsimer smiths prefer, but extraordinarily thick, even by their standards. Maulakanth could drive the orichalcum tip straight through steel plate and out the other end, he knew. “The thing about fanatics,” he said at length, “is that they’re fanatical. They might fight to the death. I know you want to avoid another massacre but they might force our hand just to make you look bad.” The Orc looked up from his weapons and one might say that his brutish features even managed to look inquisitive. “Have you thought about that?”

“Intelligence on the hotel’s staff puts them mostly at auxiliary staffing and a few guards. The rest are foreigners.” Kerztar said, “It’ll be a short fight, brutal and short. Be ready, we leave at first light.”

The Orsimer broke out into a tusky grin as soon as Kerztar uttered the word ‘foreigners’. That was good -- he tired of killing Redguards only. He was aching for a new challenge. “I was born ready,” he growled and gave the Dwemer another curt nod.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Morning, 13th of Midyear, 4E208
Gilane, Hammerfell

Raelynn and Gregor had walked to the markets together, arm-in-arm, in warm and pleasant silence, probably both reflecting on the night before -- Gregor had, at least. Ever since they had reunited they had made up for lost time with enthusiasm and been intimate with each other as much as they could. Now, however, both of them had different errands to run and the couple had split with a kiss and a wave upon reaching the first of the stalls of Gilane’s lively bazaar. The paranoid part of Gregor felt comforted by the fact that Rhoka, Raelynn’s attentive handmaiden, would accompany her while she was out and about today, but he also had to wonder how much use the Redguard woman would be if Zaveed came for Raelynn again. That said, she had assured him that she felt that the Khajiit bastard had been dealt with and that something told her he would not come after her again. Looking deep in her eyes, Gregor had elected to believe her.

The first order of business on Gregor’s list was to let a smith take a look at his steel claymore and his silver longsword. He carried his own whetstones, of course, but it wasn’t the same as professional with real tools, and it had been a while since Gregor had taken the time to have his gear properly cared for. In that time, he had fought several intense battles, with the last against Zaveed certainly not being the least, and Gregor could see the scars of that encounter on the edges of his blades just as well as on his own skin. Coincidence brought him to the same smithy that Daro’Vasora and Shakti had visited a fortnight ago and the same swarthy Redguard that had greeted them that day was there to greet Gregor now. She saw him approaching when she looked out of her shop and into the streets and already whistled appreciatively at the sight of Gregor’s claymore, which he held in his hands, before he even stepped across the precipice of the smithy.

“Now that’s what I call a weapon,” she said with a grin as Gregor walked up to the counter and put the blade down for her to inspect. “Not a lot of those around. Cyrodiilic, early Fourth Era design, a bright steel alloy -- flexible, right?”

Gregor nodded. “Yes. The smith told me that the edges of the blade are rippled to allow it to bend instead of breaking. That was… ten years ago, now. It’s been through hell and back with me,” he said and smiled as the woman picked up the massive claymore effortlessly and held it up to her face. She was stronger than she looked.

“I can see that,” she said and tutted at the sight of the nicks and cuts in the steel. “Want me to give her the love she deserves?”

“Yes,” he said gratefully and removed his silver longsword’s sheath from his belt before placing that on the counter as well. “And this one too, please. They’re both enchanted, by the way.” Gregor knew enough about smithing from his time as a jewelsmith in Bravil to know that such things mattered. Special tools and care needed to be used to maintain and sharpen enchanted weaponry.

The Redguard nodded and took both swords to her workstation. “They’ll be ready in an hour.”

Next on Gregor’s list was the barber. He maintained his beard himself but he did not feel comfortable cutting his own hair. He wasn’t looking for a radical change; just an inch or two off the end to get rid of split hairs and dead ends. Nobody in the party had ever seen him with is hair down, not even Raelynn, but Gregor’s hair was long enough to reach his shoulders if he didn’t have it tied in his signature ronin’s knot. He took a deep breath and was suddenly struck by the sheer mundanity of his day so far; breakfast in bed, a bath, an early morning stroll to the markets and some errands. It was a stark contrast to the events of the past three weeks, most of which had been a seemingly never-ending rollercoaster of life-threatening situations and high-strung emotions, but the reprieve was welcome. He enjoyed the warm sunlight on his skin, the hubbub and buzz of the citizens and the smells of street food that wafted by. Not even the sight of the Dwemer guard patrols could undo his good mood.

That said, he felt somewhat naked without his swords (he kept his dagger in one of his leather boot, but it wasn’t the same) and his heart skipped a beat when he saw a Khajiit arguing with one of the local merchants, but after a second his brain caught up to what he was seeing -- reddish fur with stripes. Not Zaveed. He sighed. He wished there was some way he could meet Zaveed again in a controlled environment and make sure, face-to-face, that what Raelynn thought about him was true. Then he would be able to let it go. Fat chance of that ever happening, however, and Gregor pushed the thought out of his mind to resume his leisurely pace towards the barber. Children were playing on the streets, adults were shopping or talking animatedly to one another and hawkers came up to him to advertise their wares. He was a foreigner and foreigners often had money, of course, but it wasn’t difficult for Gregor to convince them that he wasn’t interested; his white shirt and tan breeches were still crinkly and a little messy after having spent so much time on the floors of the Hawkford residence following Raelynn’s repeated and forceful efforts to get him undressed. Gregor did not look like a wealthy man today.

It was quite busy at the barber’s; many Redguard men were seated to have their birds trimmed or their wiry, unruly hair dealt with. The barbers themselves matched their clientele -- except one, that caught Gregor’s eye immediately, something that was reciprocated. A male Bosmer jumped up from his seat at the back of the barbershop and approached Gregor with vigor, his expression changing from boredom to something approaching excitement in less than a few seconds.

“My good sir,” the Bosmer began and welcomed Gregor with a bow. “Can I interest you in a haircut? Or does the beard require trimming?” The elf had long, flowing hair not dissimilar from Gregor’s own and he smiled to himself as he realized why the mer-barber had been so excited to see him.

“Haircut, yes, please. Just an inch off the edges. Split ends and so on,” Gregor said and moved towards the empty chair he was being directed towards. “Let me guess, Wood Elf; you don’t get to cut a lot of hair here, do you?”

The Bosmer sighed, a sound filled with exasperation, and nodded. “A man with hair like yours, that is what I am used to, not these… tough and rugged bird’s nests the Redguards have,” the Bosmer said in a low voice as he leaned in to fasten the barber cape around Gregor’s neck. “I I was just passing through, truth be told, when everything happened, you know what I mean, and the travel ban kept me here and, well, I ran out of money.” He spoke quickly and emphatically and wasted no time in moistening Gregor’s hair.

“Tell you what,” Gregor replied, still smiling. “If you let me enjoy my haircut in peace, I’ll give you a few extra septims.” He could tell that the Bosmer was the type to talk his client’s ear off and it was worth a few coins to Gregor to avoid that.

“Certainly, sir.”

Gregor closed his eyes and made himself comfortable in the chair. The sensation of the Bosmer’s fingers on his scalp was enjoyable and Gregor idly wondered if everyone secretly enjoyed having their hair cut for that reason, or whether that was just him. He knew he liked it even more when it was Raelynn that ran her fingers through his hair, and he then spent a few minutes wondering what she was doing now, how much of her shopping list she’d already managed to procure. He had seen the list; it was long. The ingredients that she needed were manifold. To sit with his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the city and the conversations of the other patrons around him, reminded him of long, lazy afternoons he would spend relaxing on the massive branch of an oak tree, that stood close by his home in Bravil, in a bid to avoid his chores. The branch was shielded from sight by lower-hanging branches and the tree’s copious canopy and as far as Gregor knew, his parents never did figure out where he spent all those hours. The memory made him smile. It was a thought he hadn’t had in a long time, but Gregor realised that there were a lot of good memories for him to reflect on. The first twenty-eight years of his life had been wonderful, carefree and wholesome. It had been all the more cruel that his father should have met such an unworthy end and left that same curse to his children and Gregor had spent the past ten years thinking as little as possible about the years that came before… but in the end, he thought, that did nothing to diminish the happiness he had been lucky to have. Whether it was his near-death experience or the sheer joy that his relationship with Raelynn brought him that prompted such thinking he did not know. Either way, it was comforting.

He had lived a good life and if he succeeded, he would be able to go back to it. Or something like it, anyway. Gregor knew that Briar would not be waiting for him and that it would be hard for his family to accept him back into their lives after so many years, even if he did manage to save them from the family curse, but Gregor could feel, deep down, that he could have such happiness again with Raelynn, at least. One day, they would have their own home and an oak tree for him to sit beneath on a warm summer’s day.

Was she even the domestic type? The question jolted through him so suddenly that it almost made him open his eyes and he chuckled softly at his own expense. Any day in which that was the most burning question on his mind was a good day. He thought about it for a second and decided that yes, she probably was, and had been before she had left her home in High Rock for a taste of adventure.

Gregor paid the Bosmer his regular fee plus a few extra coins, as promised, after the elf had finished cutting Gregor’s hair. He swept it back and tied it up in its usual style and it looked no shorter that way, but Gregor could feel that it was healthier now. He still had some time left to kill before the smith would be done with his weapons so Gregor found a nice place to sit in the shade and procured a kebab for himself to eat. He savored the juicy meat and the tasty spices and watched the people go by. It was a stark contrast to how he had turned their heads just a few days before when he was on his way to confront Raelynn at the Hawkford residence; now their eyes seemed to drift over him without really seeing him. He was just another man having lunch and staying out of the sun. Nobody special.

The smith, too, received a tip, and she inclined her head gracefully in appreciation of Gregor’s generosity. He inspected his weapons carefully before he fastened them to his person once again but he saw no flaws with the woman’s work and Gregor made sure to compliment her on her skills before he left. There was one last errand he needed to run. His black battledress had been significantly damaged during his fight with Zaveed, so Rhoka had delivered them to a tailor yesterday to have them mended and now it was time to pick them up. Gregor was anxious to have his clothes back. For some reason, he did not feel like he was complete without being in possession of all of his gear, even if he wasn’t wearing it all the time. His mind wandered while his feet took him through the streets, stopping every so often to remember the directions Rhoka had given him, and he felt like he was coming to an inevitable conclusion. If he was going to have the life he dreamed of with Raelynn, he had to do two things: complete his quest and continue the fight against the Dwemer until they were no longer a threat to his existence. Both were considerable challenges and one was measurably more difficult than the other, but… there was a way to combine both goals into a single objective.

The thread the tailor had used to sow the rips and tears shut was the exact right shade of black to fade nigh-seamlessly into the textile of his clothes and once again Gregor found himself impressed with the handiwork of Gilane’s craftsmen. His gold pouch was much lighter than at the start of the day, but his weapons were sharp, his clothes were mended and his appearance was well-groomed. Satisfied, Gregor set off back to the Hawkford residence. In the distance, looming above the roofs of the residences and shops of the citizenry, the Governor’s palace lay shimmering in the sunlight, its silhouette distorted and shifting in the midday heat. Gregor found that his eyes were drawn to it while he walked. A small smile tugged at his lips.

He was going to kill Governor Rourken.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

No Country for Old Men

_{by @Father Hank and the ever talented @Leidenschaft}

Afternoon, 10th of Midyear, 4E208
The Haunted Tide Inn, Gilane, Hammerfell

After having slept for what felt like an age or more, Gregor awoke to an existence of misery and pain. He stared at himself in in the mirror after he got out of bed, eyes tracing the prominent and fresh scars that now disfigured his upper body, and he sighed. Every fiber of his being still hurt from the ravaging poison that had coursed through his veins. He looked down at his hands and saw that his fingers trembled incessantly -- not enough to inhibit his functioning, and when he focused real hard he could keep his hand still, but the sight still filled him with dread. He had always been able to rely on his body. Closer to forty than he was to twenty, he knew that it wouldn’t last forever, but to see himself so suddenly and severely degrade…

He needed Raelynn. No, he thought and his knuckles went white as he clenched his fists. The anger, disappointment, hurt and confusion were still fresh. He took a deep breath and put her out of his mind. But the pile of armor and blood-soaked clothes next to the bed and the large, black pool of dried-up blood -- his blood -- in the middle of the room stared him in the face. He would have to clean everything soon, but not now. Right now, he couldn’t do much of anything. He needed a drink.

Gregor dressed himself in his Hammerfell linens and made his way downstairs, to the inn’s common room. His movements were slow and stiff and he supported himself wherever he could, holding on the railing like an old man. It was enough to make him grimace. He wasn’t familiar with poisons and their effects. There was no way for him to know if things would even improve. The thought was too much to bear. Drink, you fool. Stop thinking. He took a seat at the bar and the innkeeper, a stoic and discrete older Redguard, looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“What happened to you?” he asked while he cleaned a glass.

“Got into a fight,” Gregor grumbled. He pointed at a bottle of Stros M’Kai rum behind the innkeeper. “Give me two shots of that.”

The innkeeper acquiesced and poured him his drinks. “Did you win?”

Gregor was silent for a few seconds as he downed the first of the two shots, but he nodded to himself afterwards. “Yes.”

The door opened and three figures hung at the threshold. A curious looking woman with wavy auburn hair behind two men. A Reachman in Dwemer cloth with an Ohmes-Raht at least a head taller than him making him strain under the weight of him. “We should get a room.” The Reachman said, voice hushed. “Get you into bed-“

“Get me a godsdamned drink. I’ll put up for the room while I’m there.” The Ohmes-Raht rumbled, and Gregor could feel eyes on him, “Latro, stay with Janelle.”

“Okay.” Latro said, letting Sevari go and disappearing with the woman.

With a series of pained breaths and snuffed grunts, the Ohmes-Raht brought his dragging feet to the bar, falling onto a stool. “Colovian Whiskey.”

“The embargoes already took-“

“Then what do you have?” The Ohmes-Raht growled, and gestured to Gregor, “Give me what he has.”

“Alright.” The Innkeeper poured out another shot glass for the Khajiit, who downed it immediately, glass clacking on the bar top as he set it down.

Finally, the Khajiit spoke to Gregor, not turning to him, “Those scars look fresh.”

The Imperial hadn’t turned to look when the door opened, his empty gaze fixed on the now equally empty shot glasses in front of him, and did not see Latro or Aries at all. By the time of Sevari’s arrival a few barstools over, they had already disappeared upstairs. When he did glance sideways at the newcomer it took him a few seconds to process what he was looking at. A tall, humanoid male of indeterminate race (how strange), obviously recently injured. Not a native to these lands. Part of Gregor wanted to be left alone but another part of him welcomed the distraction.

He caught the innkeeper’s eye and motioned for a refill. Alcohol had never been much of a companion to Gregor, who usually preferred to stay sharp and knew that his tolerance for it wasn’t particularly high. The two shots of the powerful rum he’d had were already hitting him and he blinked slowly, letting the feeling wash over him. It was exactly what he wanted.

“I fought the devil and I won,” Gregor said and stared at the swirling liquid that the innkeeper poured in his glass. “But he left his mark.” He lifted his glass Sevari’s direction and gave him a curt nod. “You don’t look so great either.”

Sevari gave a snort at the man’s poetics. For a second, he forgot himself. Forgot why he was at the bar in the first place, then the recognition came back to him. The news about his brother missing. Whoever had taken or killed Zaveed would not have gotten him easily. He remembered the party, watching Raelynn always on the arm of one man and only one man.

Him. It only made sense. It had to make sense. Because if it didn’t, If this wasn’t the man who killed Zaveed then he could just add his name to the list of lost brothers he’d have to avenge someday, but probably never will.

“Another.” He called to the innkeeper, having his glass refilled but refraining from it. “The devil swings axes now?”

Nonsense to anybody else, but he carefully watched the man to see if it was just that to him. He was in no shape to fight, at all. But any kind of reaction to the phrase, any at all, could bring him peace knowing he could cross one more name off of his list of men to put in the dirt.

Gregor blinked slowly and fidgeted with his shot glass. Inside his chest, his heartbeat spiked. He frowned, mind racing, and looked down at the scar across his collarbone that was left bare by the undone buttons of his shirt. “You can tell? Just like that?” he asked, voice as steady as he could make it. When he looked down at his glass, he saw that his fingers weren’t trembling anymore. He bought himself some time by downing the shot. Stupid, he thought to himself, furious at his own mistake, admitting things like this to strangers. Whoever this man was, he knew. He knew.

“Well, doesn’t matter,” he added and looked away. “I won but didn’t get to finish the job. Bastard had help. He’ll get to swing his axes another day.” Gregor took a slow, deep breath, trying to stay calm, and gestured for the bartender to give him another shot. Zaveed was still alive, that much was true, even if he vehemently disagreed with the way his survival had come about. Perhaps it would save him now.

Sevari only shut his eyes and sighed, finally moving in no amount of hurry to pick up the glass in his thick fingers and throw it back, setting the empty glass on the bar top. If it had brought him peace knowing he was sitting next to the man that had made Zaveed disappear wherever the fuck he was, he didn’t feel it all too greatly. “Mm.” He grunted at first, then lifted his glass to the innkeep, who filled it again. “Feuds and vengeance are a fool’s business, friend. Like a river dammed, it only finds a way to flow into another just like it, and on, and on.”

“You either realize that revenge isn’t for the dead, only you.” He paused, letting go a drawn out rattling cough that screwed his eyes shut before taking in a breath and continuing, “Or someone comes knocking on your door looking for the same. You should be careful who’s on the other side of your door… friend.”

Gregor, sensing that the immediate danger had passed, dared to meet Sevari’s eyes again. “Is that what happened to you?” he asked and raised an eyebrow. He was eager to steer the conversation away from what happened between him and Zaveed. There were still too many options, too many possibilities, as to who this stranger next to him was, and Gregor was swiftly getting too inebriated to consider them properly. The best he could do now was to survive this bizarre chance encounter and figure it out later.

Sevari sniffled, wiping at his wet lip and looking sidelong at the man beside him. He took his moment, let the gaze carry on until he felt it right. Willing himself to feel hatred, to feel righteous indignation. To reach for the dagger at his side. Then he shrugged, “Doesn’t matter now too much, I guess.” He turned back to his glass to find it full again, “You go looking for the bad in men and you always find it. Sometimes it finds you. Looks to me like it found us both pretty good.”

It was odd. He felt no aggression, just a conversation. Perhaps it was the fact he’d almost died so recently, but he felt no need nor energy to go looking for another fight after the last one. “The devil. We’ve all got one.”

Gregor laughed and then immediately winced, finding cause to regret his mirth in the pain that stabbed into his chest. “Yeah, pretty good,” he echoed and rubbed his neck. He still wasn’t sure what to make of the stranger sitting next to him but something told Gregor that they weren’t going to fight, no matter what was said. He frowned. It was like… an armistice. Just two old, broken soldiers reminiscing on a war in which they had been enemies. They were both too tired to reach for their blades now. Gregor knew it. Sevari knew it.

He opened his mouth to speak, unsure. It took a few seconds for him to find his voice. “I wanted to teach him that, sometimes, he should be afraid of what lurks behind the door he comes knocking on.” He sighed and shook his head. There was no need to explain. The other man would understand what Gregor was talking about. “Does that make sense? I’m not sure it does anymore, or if it was worth it. Maybe you’re right,” he mumbled.

“Tell me about your devil,” he said before Sevari could answer him, once again changing the subject.

Sevari considered that for a moment. He knew that if he died back there in the carriage, in the street, in the old man’s house he’d murdered with the faulty, shit reasoning of defense. If he’d died on the way to the safehouse, in Aries’ arms as she tried to save him, it all would be deserved. Sevari knew Zaveed now realized the same thing. Maybe he thought he did, at first, in whatever musings he had up until now. But now he really knew, dead or not, and if he didn’t… Sevari didn’t want to think on that.

He thought about how many doors he’d knocked on, how many times he’d taught the same lesson to the ones knocking that Gregor did to Zaveed. But accepting that? Zaveed was family. Nobody would ever hurt his family while he was helpless to watch again. But as he looked at Gregor, forlorn and ragged just as he was now. He knew it wouldn’t bring him any more towards closure than the last twenty years did. When Gregor asked about his devil, he sighed.

“It was a very, very long time ago.” He said, “A boy watched his father die. Watched his mother die. Years later, he saw his brothers dead even though he now had the strength in himself to stop it from happening, if only he’d been there.”

“I have many devils, with many names.” Sevari said, face hanging in agonizing reverie, “The boy he knew as a child is all grown, and now he’s one of them. Wreaking his havoc on people who don’t deserve it. Ironic, I thought I had the strength to stop it from happening again. I let another of my brothers die and now some stranger fills his boots. If only I’d been there, a long, long time ago.”

Sevari chuckled, a bitter, humorless huff from his nostrils. Not even the smile lasted, “He had it coming.” Sevari said then, voice grim and low, “We both know it. I’m tired of knocking on doors in the name of other people, but I’d do it for him.”

He looked at Gregor. Of a sudden, he saw little difference between them in this moment. Two men who’d been scarred all to hell for quests of vengeance. Maybe that’s what they could be. Just two men at a bar and that’s it. But whatever evils and thistle ran across Sevari’s soul couldn’t let him. “I’d do it for him.” His voice gravelly and he let out another grating cough, “Just… not now.”

Silence stretched on between them as Gregor processed what Sevari had said. There was no doubt in his mind anymore; the man that was referred to as ‘another of my brothers’ was Zaveed. Sevari’s confession painted him in a new light. He knew all too well how extreme circumstances, suffering and loss could drive a man to ferociously protect what little he has that remains. Even if Raelynn hurt someone, Gregor would have her back. But that was a big if. The situation wasn't comparable. Gregor had defended both Raelynn's life and honour and his own when he fought Zaveed. She had been innocent and he had been monstrous. If Sevari were to kill Gregor in turn for what he did to Zaveed… for the sake of a cruel torturer and murderer? There was no honour in that.

“You shouldn't,” Gregor said sternly. “He's not worth it. Whatever man you knew in his place when you were younger, there's naught but a shadow of him left. Don't risk your life for vengeance in his name. Not now, not ever. It's a fool's business, remember? I fought him because he was a threat.” Gregor pushed the shot glasses in front of him away. He'd had enough. His head was as heavy as his heart.

An idea came to him. It was a gamble but he couldn't shake the feeling that this stranger knew much more about him and the others than he let on. “Raelynn saved his life,” Gregor said softly. Now it was his turn to observe Sevari intently to see how he would react.

Sevari froze just before the glass touched his lips. He carefully set it back down. Had he heard right? Raelynn? Saved his brother’s life? The life of the man who did everything in his power to break her? To break Gregor? To break Latro’s little family up to pieces and blow the dust to the winds? If she did that, maybe he did break something in her head, he mused. Or maybe she was just so much better than the two men at the bar discussing the possibility of killing each other when they were healthy again. “Huh.” Sevari pushed the shot glass away from him in turn. “Fool’s business. I guess I won’t have to be a fool one last time after all.”

He smiled, albeit a hint of sadness in the corners of it, weighing it down. He slapped some septims on the counter, “Two rooms, please.” Before he stood with some effort. He looked back to Gregor and sighed, “For what it’s worth… I’m sorry. For everything he did to her.”

He looked Gregor over, shorter than him, but thick despite his sickly appearance he had about him. A warrior. A fighter. A killer, just like himself. That, the two could understand of each other, even if Gregor couldn’t understand why he’d avenge the name of a murderous, whoring pirate. But now, they were just two men at a bar. That’s it. “Farewell.”

“Wait,” Gregor said and raised his hand. “One last question. Do you work with a Redguard woman that wields a spear and wears a snakeskin cloak?”

“No.” Sevari said. “Is that all?”

The Imperial did not show the surprise he felt. Who the hell had the woman been that had intervened and stopped him from killing Zaveed for good? “Yes, that’s all. Farewell.”

After watching him leave, Gregor thought back to the rest of their conversation. He had wanted the man to say something about Raelynn, about what she’d done -- to condemn her, call her a fool, anything at all. But he hadn’t. Gregor had seen in his reaction that he had been surprised but not confused. He frowned and rapped his fingers on the bar. Still, his gamble had paid off. The news of Raelynn’s mercy had placated Sevari in a way, whatever his position might be, and that was worthwhile. If Gregor’s reprisal against Zaveed would now no longer draw the ire from a man that called himself his brother… they did not need more enemies actively hunting them right now.

For a split second, he considered that Raelynn might have been right. Then his bitterness returned. Gregor stared at the empty shot glasses he’d pushed away and looked up to find the innkeeper giving him an inscrutable glance. “Water?” the Redguard asked, prescient, and Gregor nodded.

A realization struck him. Two rooms. Who else was here?

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Requiem

_{a Father Storm production}

Evening, 9th of Midyear, 4E208
The Haunted Tide Inn, Gilane, Hammerfell

The pain was overwhelming. It had spread from his shoulder to the rest of his body at frightening speed and Gregor could feel his muscles locking up as the poison carried out its unholy purpose. He had dismounted from his great black steed to ransack an alchemist’s shop, scaring the proprietor away with his blood-soaked claymore, the deranged expression on his face and the foam clinging to his lips, taking what anti-venom he could before hoisting himself back in the saddle and speeding away. The undead horse was fast enough to outrun the city guard that were trying to catch up to him and he made it to the inn where he and Raelynn had made their home undetected. After the horse sensed that it was no longer needed, it simply vanished into a swirling mass of swiftly dissipating magic and left no trace behind of its existence. Under ordinary circumstances Gregor would have been amazed by its sudden appearance and disappearance, a power evidently gifted to him by the Ideal Master that had accepted Nblec’s soul, but he was far too busy trying to stay alive. He’d stumbled into their room, wide-eyed and calling out Raelynn’s name with a voice that refused to cooperate, only to find it empty.

She wasn’t there.

Mortal terror clutched at his heart with ice-cold talons. Gregor uncorked the anti-venom with trembling, stiff fingers and threw it back, coughing and gasping as his constricted throat almost couldn’t swallow the foul-tasting brew. His legs gave out beneath him and he fell to his hands and knees when searing, immediate jabs of agony roared through his collarbone, arms and sides. Horrified, Gregor felt a hot wetness on him and watched as blood began dripping onto the wooden floor. His wounds had reopened. Everything he had done to patch himself up after Zaveed had tore into him was being undone by the Redguard woman’s poison. “Gods, no,” Gregor stammered and rolled onto his back, clutching his wounds with his hands and summoning all the Restoration magic he knew. The panic and the pain made it impossible to think and Gregor could only send a raw, unsophisticated stream of healing magic into his body in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding.

Where was she?

Gregor writhed and coiled on the floor, punching his chest with the claw-shape of his contorted fist, trying to keep his heart beating rhythmically -- every faltering flutter sent another spasm through his body, as if the very core of his being was fighting against an enemy to stay alive. His vision went dark and his limbs went cold and he could no longer feel his heart beating.

He was dying.

The forest loomed above him, trees towering even higher than before, the canopy overhead not even visible in the almost total darkness that reigned. Gregor immediately reached for his claymore this time, knowing what to expect, and he did not flinch when he heard the monster’s roar in the distance. He blinked, trying to remember how he got here, and came up short. He only knew that he was going to have to fight for his life now and that he could not allow himself to be scared. He stood his ground, blade at the ready, and followed the noise of the trees being knocked over and the vicious snorts and bellows of the beast as it circled him at a distance, hidden behind the dense woods. It knew where he was. Gregor could feel it. Slowly but surely, it came closer, and Gregor could barely make out trees being splintered some sixty feet away from him. He took a deep breath and steadied himself, but something was wrong. He felt… weak. Why?

Sudden and unexpected silence fell over the woods. It was as if the beast had vanished in the midst of its approach. Gregor could only hear his own breathing and watched it steam in the air in front of him. The absolute lack of sound was just as deafening as any noise could be and Gregor felt it pressing against his ears like a thick blanket. When he swallowed, it was almost unbearably loud.

“Gregor,” he heard behind him, the voice low and heaving.

He whirled around and saw it -- truly saw it, properly, for the first time, and almost dropped his sword. It was immense, like a mammoth, and shaped like one too: quadrupedal, with massive front legs that ended in cloven hooves, and black fur clung to its skeletal shape. But Gregor’s eyes were drawn to its head, or what existed in place of it, and he found himself staring at two pale eyes in a pit of impenetrable darkness. Two arms with horrifyingly long, black hands, the ones that had grabbed him before, hung on either side of the monster’s baleful gaze, like a twisted, hellish interpretation of a centaur. Above it, like a crown, was the splayed form of a decapitated human torso, antlers growing from where its hands should be. It was the single most horrible thing Gregor had ever seen.

Before he could even react, the beast had closed the distance and grabbed his head with its hands, lifting him from the ground to come face-to-face with its eyes -- infinite and lifeless, just two points of eternal light that stared at him with all the indifference of death itself. The antler-torso loomed above him. It had no mouth and yet it spoke again.

“No,” it whimpered. Gregor knew that voice -- he’d known all along, he just hadn’t realized it.
“Don’t. Please.”

It was the voice of Hannibal. When Gregor looked up, his own claymore pierced the torso’s chest, just like it had done when he had betrayed and murdered the Vigilant in cold blood. Was that what this thing was? His own guilt come back to haunt him? He wanted to cry, to surrender and give in, whatever it took for this to simply be over… but he couldn’t. The Pale Reaper did not allow it. He would not yield and he would not die.

Just like before, Gregor’s silver longsword sprang from its sheath with a musical rasp and cut deep into the monster’s flesh. The quailing voice of Hannibal was drowned out by the beast’s screams, like a dying horse, and Gregor could smell the rancid miasma of rot and decay. It dropped him to the forest floor and he hit the ground running, immediately setting off in a random direction into the forest. He did not know why, but he felt like there was a purpose to his own movements now, and he felt confident that he was running towards something, instead of merely running away. The beast followed and Gregor could hear its anger in its accusatory shrieks and the violence with which it threw down the trees in its path.

Whether or not it was because Gregor ran so fast or the beast had slowed down he did not know, but the noise of the monster’s pursuit diminished and Gregor came upon a house in the woods. He knew this house. It was his home. He fished his key out of his pocket and unlocked the front door, which swung open as smoothly as the last day Gregor remembered, and he slowly walked through the house. The painting over the mantlepiece that his mother had made, the figurines that Gregor and Briar had fashioned from walnuts and matchsticks standing in formation in the windowsill, the loose floorboard in the hall -- it was all so familiar, and yet so foreign, like he was visiting the home of a character he knew well from a book. He quietly climbed up the stairs to the second floor and pushed open the door to the master bedroom with a slight touch of his fingers. There she was, in the bed with the blue covers, her back turned to him, soundly asleep. It was a sight that he remembered well. A moment of clarity pierced the haze that clouded his mind and Gregor knew that this had been the last time he had seen Briar, the final moments before his departure.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, the pain in his chest too much to bear. He looked down and remembered that he was bleeding. When he looked back up, Briar’s sleeping form had burst into flames and the fire spread rapidly through the room, and Gregor watched in horror as his former life was reduced to ashes. He flew down the stairs and burst out of the house and back into the woods, escaping the unnatural wildfire with inches to spare, and turned back to look at the all-consuming inferno. He wept.

“Burn it all,” Hannibal said, like always. Gregor did not turn around. He could feel the monster’s presence behind him. It was like he could see it at the edge of his vision, despite the impossible angle, as if its shape bent light towards it.

“Curse you, Gregor!” it continued, taunting him with Hannibal’s last words, and Gregor could hear in the wheezing, hollow voice that it was laughing. “Curse your whole family!”

Gregor turned and leapt at the beast in a single, fluid motion and drove his sword into the darkness beneath its corpse-crown, right between the eyes.

“We are already cursed,” Gregor spat bitterly.

---

She had ran as fast as her feet could have carried her over the sands of Gilane, through each winding back alley, past every person that seemed to clutter up the walkways as they ambled through the evening - nothing life or death happening in their lives. They had the time to spare to look and ponder and mosey around. Raelynn Hawkford did not, and she sprinted like she never had in her life, her lack of athletic ability a detriment to her mission to return to her room at the Inn. Instinct, and connection to Gregor had told her that’s where he was.

Finally she came upon it, throwing open the door and alighting the stairs to their quiet place. She could already feel bitter chills emanating from it before she had even grown close to the door - it was a chill powerful enough to make the heat from running simmer down. It was a chill powerful enough to run like the blade of a knife up her spine to the nape of her neck - the hairs standing completely on end. She slowed as she approached, the handle of the door as cold as ice. She pulled away from it only for a second, before braving it once more, forcing open the door to see Gregor splayed out over the floor in the very centre, surrounded by a thick layer of frost and ice, wisps of dark magic swirling around his hands as if he was trying to pull himself back from his approaching death. If it had been cold outside - inside was far worse, in the eye of the hurricane she did not falter and rushed to his side. Her breath a mist against his face.

Her hands moved immediately to his chest, to the place where his heart was always
beating it’s slow, languid rhythm - and sometimes thundering against his rib cage. However right now, there was nothing but a faint, dying flutter. A whisper of life.

“No,” she said as she pressed both palms to his chest now, climbing astride him, no time to really focus on a precise pour of Magicka - he needed all that she had, and he needed it now. She closed her eyes tightly and felt the warmth of it in her hands, and with all of her concentration she shot it into his chest with force, she could sense what was going on inside of him. Blunt force wounds, slashes, hacks, broken bones... She felt her Magicka envelop his heart and contract and release, contract and release… until it flowed throughout his whole body. When she opened her eyes again, she saw that she did not have just Healing Hands, rather that her whole body was cascading golden light into him. “Wake up, wake up..” she pleaded, finally falling to his face, planting a golden kiss on his forehead. “Please don’t die… Please don’t die Gregor…”

---

He watched his mother rearrange the floral piece for what felt like minutes, shifting one particular white flower back and forth until it was right, just so, and no other way. Gregor laughed when she finally stopped and took a step back to observe her work, and she turned her head abruptly to look at him. Her long brown hair was slightly wavy, like perfectly draped curtains, and the dark makeup around her eyes made them glimmer like emeralds. “How long have you been there?” Gaia asked and put a hand to her heart, clearly startled, but she smiled as well.

“A while,” Gregor said and held up his hand, showing all five tiny fingers. “This long!”

“Five? You were there for… five?” she asked and laughed.

“Yes, five,” Gregor said in solemn agreement.

She approached and knelt down beside him. Her earrings were pretty, Gregor decided, and he reached out to touch them but she stopped him. “No, no, don’t touch that. Those are not for you,” she said, but her voice was kind and her smile did not waver. She kissed him on the forehead and cupped his chin with her hand.

“Now go on and play outside.”

---

The touch of her lips on his skin broke his dream and he awoke with a start, eyes rolling back into focus and his abused lungs gasping for air. Gregor looked frantically around the room, searching for his mother -- why did everything hurt, and why was he so old? It took him a few seconds for reality to come back to him and when it did, his gaze fell on Raelynn and he practically fell over himself with relief. “You’re here, you came, heavens above, you’re back,” he stammered and took another deep breath, a trembling smile tugging at his colorless lips. It was going to be alright now, he could feel it. His heart was beating with strength again, fueled by Raelynn’s overwhelming magic, and his wounds were slowly knitting back together -- but hesitantly so, as the poison still fought back. “I killed him,” he said, his voice hoarse and unsteady. “I found him and I killed him, but someone attacked me, a Redguard, and there was poison--” He fell silent as he ran out of air and he focused on his breathing instead. He had lost an immense amount of blood.

Of course it was a poison, only poison could burn through the flesh like this, through his wounds and hold them open. No mind, she was a skilled alchemist and she would find a formula to halt and undo it soon enough - but first priority was to get enough Magicka into him to keep him steady, to buy that time. “Shhh,” she whispered, her lips against his. They were cold but hers were golden, and she kissed him on his lips, her hands still working against the clock to put him back together. That was not the only issue, she cried against him when she realised that he believed Zaveed to be dead. “I looked for you,” she whispered again, choking back a sob. Her Magicka beginning to run dry. She did not stop, she would pass out before she stopped healing him now. “I couldn’t find you… I’m sorry.” She wouldn’t lie to him, he deserved more than that. She reached across the floor to pick up her own bag, a Magicka potion rolled out and she grabbed at it, drinking the contents desperately. A small top up of magical stamina, it would be enough tonight. “I found him… I knew you had fought…”

Raelynn spoke but her words did not make sense. “You found him?” Gregor asked, having recovered enough to try speaking again, but he took deep breaths in-between each sentence. “You saw his corpse, you mean? Tell me he is dead, please,” he groaned and grabbed at the hem of Raelynn’s clothes with his white-cold hands. Cracks began to spread through the ice that coated every surface in the room.

Even now his grip was powerful, she didn’t have the answer he wanted or needed to hear. Avoidance. “Shhh, Gregor please. We can talk about this later… You need to keep your strength.” She kissed him again, and stroked his cheek. Knowing that her answer was not good enough, knowing that he would work out what had happened. She lingered over the kiss - wondering already how quickly she could move away from him should he lash out. “Be still… Please?” Her tone was almost pathetic, the inflection of her words like that of a small child begging, her eyes were begging too as her lip shook.

“Raelynn,” Gregor began, lost for words as the truth dawned on him. A horrible, sinking feeling spread through his guts, almost as painful as his injuries and the poison, and he had to resist the urge to crawl away from her -- without her help, he would still surely perish, and yet he could not help but feel disgust and anger. When he spoke again, the tone of his voice matched the frigid temperature in the room. “What have you done?”

Everything had consequences. This was just one of them. She forced herself upright, her eyes closed as if to block out everything, her entire body shivering - from the cold, or fear - she wasn’t entirely sure. She exhaled and whimpered, unable to move her hands from him, not yet. She was growing ever more exhausted and light headed too, she hadn’t much left of herself to give him now. If she had slain Zaveed then Gregor would have taken her in his arms, but she would have been a shell of herself. And yet, she was a shell now, and he was turning on her. All that she could do was turn her head away as her face scrunched, fighting back the tears. Somewhere in it… She felt the simmering rage too. “I wasn’t strong enough to kill him,” She croaked, her voice broken. “Let me fix you, damn it. Let me fix you then we’ll talk.”

“Great gods of nowhere,” Gregor breathed. His arms went slack and fell by his side, limp and devoid of their strength, as Raelynn’s confession knocked the wind out of him. She’d had the opportunity to finish the job and she hadn’t. What’s worse, Gregor knew that he and his Wrathman had inflicted mortal injuries on the Khajiit. For him to live through them… he would have needed help. Her help. He closed his eyes and felt everything spinning around him; his exhaustion was too strong for him to feel anything else. His anger ebbed away and the void it left behind was filled with bitter disappointment. It had all been for nothing. His victory had been snatched away by the very woman he loved, the one person he thought he could well and truly trust.

When he opened his eyes again, tears welled in them and the look of hurt and betrayal on his face was unmistakable. “I thought we were a team,” he whispered, broken, and began to cry. It was too much. He was done and he no longer had the strength to keep himself in check. Like a bursting dam, the tears flowed freely and he sobbed silently, so hard he almost gagged and choked on it. Not even the pain could stop him. He could no longer see Raelynn through his blurred vision, and that was fine.

Everything had consequences, she reminded herself, her eyes glazing over as her own tears stopped. The sight of him crying should have broken her heart and unmade her right there, but she blanked it entirely and ignored his words. Part of her wanted to bite back at him with that rage that had been forming, that had been planted there by Zaveed himself when he thrust the nail through her and into a table. It had been there the whole time longing for a moment like this...

Not now. In this fugue state, all she could do was finish her work. Her hands began to move methodically over each wound and she was completely silent - even if he was not sobbing, and the room was free of noise he would not have even heard her breath. She moved quickly now, feeling from him that he could not stand her presence for a moment longer than was required to save his life. Switching herself off protected her. Like a woman possessed by something otherworldly, each finger worked precisely on his body, finally closing all of the wounds, each left a terrible scar behind, like a map that traced out every attack of the vicious fight to the death. Still swollen and red and like they might tear open again at any moment. Raw. The poison was at bay at last, but too late to have flushed it and saved Gregor’s skin from the scarring.

No apologies in the world would make him alright now. And in turn, no amount of comfort that he could give to her in her time of need was enough either. Killing Zaveed did nothing, saving Zaveed did nothing.

The temperature in the room returned to normal and the ice disappeared. It did not melt, and instead simply evaporated as the primal, unconscious magic from deep within Gregor that had conjured it in the first place ceased its spell. His life was no longer in danger. His wretched sobbing, too, diminished until it stopped, and he merely lay there in sullen silence, too empty to even lift a hand to dry his face with. He kept his gaze averted, his head turned away from her, and Gregor breathed. It was all he could do. It killed him to know that Zaveed was still drawing breath as well. Any sympathy he might have felt for Raelynn’s plight was drowned by the depth of his rancor.

“Please leave,” he said softly.

She did not need to be told twice. She rose to her feet, she should have staggered from the exhaustion and yet she found a strength somewhere to hold herself upright long enough to move through the room. Her hands picked up her journal, which had been by their bed. She picked up a necklace she had left on the table, some alchemy goods - dried flowers and the like that were sat in a pile on top of a dresser. She took every trace of herself from the room, piece by piece until she emptied her arms into her satchel. Saying nothing, making little sound, all spirit and Joie de Vivre void from her.

No amount of comfort or affirmation that anyone could give her would be enough. Hurting Zaveed had hurt her, allowing him to live had ruined everything. Nothing was fair and the only person who could fix this was Raelynn herself. Time and space for Raelynn and Gregor both. As she approached the door, something inside screamed at her to turn and give him one last look, and yet her head was stuck facing forwards, it would not budge to her will and desire. Not this time. She closed the door gently, and gracefully behind her.

There was only one place for her now, Daggerfall.

Minutes passed before Gregor moved. He hissed through gritted teeth as he pulled himself up and shambled towards his bed. He held himself upright with one hand, leaning on the bedpost, while the other undid the buttons and fastenings of his armor and clothes with trembling fingers. He let everything fall to the floor in a jumbled mess and slipped beneath the covers, groaning and grunting with pain and effort, until he was comfortable at last -- as comfortable as he could be, in a room that seemed so lifeless to him now that Raelynn had removed every piece of herself. He pulled the covers over his head and curled up, his arms wrapped around his shins, and let himself drift away into sleep. Anything was better than being awake.

That night he dreamed of loss and regret, but the monster of the dark forest haunted him no more.

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.