Hank

The Elder Scrolls: Eye of the Hurricane

Inanna Aryon

“Everyone always leaves in the end.”

playlist

Name: Inanna Aryon, also known as Snow-Hair-Ash-Skin, Brightmane, and Sujamma -- or just Ina for short.
Race: Dunmer.
Sex: Female.
Age: 52.
Birthsign: The Mage.
Origins: Windhelm, Skyrim.

Appearance: Of average stature for a female Dunmer, Ina measures 5’7” from head to toe and clocks in at a reasonable 130 pounds. While she does not possess the lean musculature of an athlete or the bulky strength of a warrior, Ina is used to long walks out in the countryside to forage for ingredients and she’s in fit condition, giving her a normal figure that neither understates nor overstates her womanhood. Her skin is the characteristic ashen grey of her people and relatively free of blemishes -- in part due to a strict skincare regime -- aside from a large and noticeable alchemical burn on her left shoulder and breast, which has discolored the skin into a lighter shade of pale grey. Across her collarbones, down the nape of her neck and below her eyes, Ina has a series of bumps that are the result of a traditional Dunmer scarification ritual. Other than that she has no scars to speak of, indicative of a life that has not been martial in nature.

The features of Ina’s face are shaped by her race as well. She has a strong brow with powerful, dark eyebrows to match, which slope into a nose that is prominent, but modest by Dunmer standards. Her perceptive scarlet eyes, supported by sharp and high cheekbones, display a typically elvish slant and spacing, and she enhances her heavy-lidded gaze with kohl for a supercilious and smoky effect. Two large, rectangular, golden earrings dangle from her ears as another touch of fashion. Her lips, slightly darker than the skin of her face, are full and soft, but her mouth is modest and Ina does not smile broadly very often, adding to the overall aloof and unphased impression she gives off.

Most striking, however, is Ina’s voluminous and wavy hair, which is a frankly alarming shade of pale silver and the source of many nicknames over the years. She has given up trying to tame the unruly mass of hair for the most part and usually only bothers to sweep the bouncing curls to the side, leaving them free to cascade down her left shoulder. If she needs to keep her hair out of her face for whatever reason, Ina uses two black wooden pins to tie most of it together on top of her head, but there are always several locks that evade capture. Ina takes pride in and good care of her hair and it usually smells of the coconut oil that she uses to nourish its lustre.

Her mannerisms can best be described as unhurried and unbothered. Ina grew up in poverty in the Grey Quarter and even though she’s picked up some more metropolitan habits during her time with the Synod in Cyrodiil, she still vastly prefers to be comfortable over presentable and has no qualms with sitting down on the floor with her legs pulled up or taking off her shoes to walk barefoot over a field of grass. Ina is often seen smoking the hackle-lo leaf of her native Morrowind while she works, the smell of which mixes with the perfume she wears for a rich, smoky fragrance. If hackle-lo isn’t available, she’ll resort to chewing or fidgeting with something instead. Never one to hurry while walking, she’s equally relaxed when sitting down and her speech, spoken with a husky and resonant voice, tends to be just as languid. After a few drinks, Ina becomes significantly more familiar and handsy in a casual, flirtatious way, and her normally stoic gaze gains a salacious quality.

Ina’s preference for comfort extends to her wardrobe as well. Her work as an alchemist and an enchanter requires a certain level of protection, so the only mainstay in her day-to-day outfit is a thick, sturdy coat woven from cotton and wool, dyed in the earthy tones that are characteristic of her culture. Beneath that, she wears simple tunics and trousers and often adds fingerless gloves, pants, a colorful sash around her waist and an equally vibrant scarf around her neck. When lounging around, however -- her favorite time of the day -- Ina is content to potter around barefoot in a single loose, flowy robe, if the weather permits, most often black, that may slip to reveal a little more skin. Not one for melee combat, Ina doesn’t wear or even own any armor, but she does have a spear on her person at all times. It doubles as a pilgrim’s staff for support on long hikes.

History: Inanna Aryon was born in Windhelm, long after the Red Year that had decimated her homeland and forced her grandmother and father, still a swaddled babe, to flee to the west and seek refuge in the land of the Nords. Her grandfather, Master Aryon of House Telvanni, had been a powerful and influential sorcerer, but he was killed by the eruption as he had taken to cataloging the Sixth House relics left behind within the Ghostfence after Dagoth Ur had been defeated. His death and the devastation wrought upon the land left his wife without status or fortune and she reluctantly settled in Windhelm, relegated to a tiny apartment in the newly-designated Grey Quarter, working as a seamstress while she raised her son by herself. On Ina’s mother’s side the same story played out, and so it came to be that her parents grew up together in the coldest, darkest city in all of Tamriel.

She was born many years later, an unexpected child at the twilight of her parents’ reproductive years, a miracle -- their little Ina. Azura had answered their prayers at last and seen fit to bless them with a daughter. Ina’s father toiled in the fields outside the city walls and her mother worked as a barmaid in the New Gnisis Cornerclub, and they were poor. The Nords who had taken the Dunmer refugees in had been kind at first but as the tensions between the Dominion and the Empire increased prior to the Great War, they slowly turned on the Dunmer in their city as well -- elves are elves, after all. Ina mostly remembers her father, the embers of his hackle-lo smoke reflected in the window as snowflakes drifted through the high and narrow streets of the Grey Quarter, the the elf’s own hair turning gray with worry. “Soon, I’ll look just like you!” he would say and run his hand through Ina’s silver locks, and laugh. But she could hear he was forcing it.

Things did not improve after the Great War. Ina had never really felt at home in Windhelm, or in the Empire in general, but she hated the Dominion just as much as anyone else, and yet her Nordic peers would treat her with scorn and contempt. To them, she was just another knife-ear. Ina learned to stick to her own people and developed a livelong aversion to Nords as a result. She would assault the small handful of Dunmer in Windhelm that had been alive before the Red Year with an endless barrage of questions about the homeland that they had lost, and her mother made sure to pass on every morsel of knowledge she had about the histories of their families and the culture of Morrowind. Ina learned how to read, speak and write in Dunmeris, how to worship the Reclamations, heroes and saints of the New Temple faith, and even how to dance and play the kwama flute in the old Vvardenfell tradition. Morrowind still existed, of course, decimated by volcanic fire and Argonian invasions but alive, and Ina dreamed of going there instead of wasting away in the black stone city of the Nords she hated.

That longing was made even more powerful by the nighttime visits of her ancestors, Master Aryon and his forefathers, in her dreams. These visions were accompanied by ancient memories of lost Balmora, Ald’ruhn, Vivec, Tel Vos, and all the other places that had been destroyed in the Red Year. Her ancestors spoke to her in riddles and poems as the snowfall outside her window turned to flakes of ash that fell upon her face. Upon waking, she always felt like a child of two worlds that belonged in neither one and resolved to travel to Morrowind, no matter the danger, as soon as she was able.

But her parents had other plans. Despite their poverty, they saved up every last septim that they could for the duration of Ina’s childhood and on her nineteenth birthday, they insisted on sending her to Cyrodiil to train in the magical arts. The talent of her grandfather ran strong in her blood and Ina had been conjuring small tufts of flame to banish the reviled winter chill and moving toys around through magic ever since she could walk, but there was nobody in Windhelm with the skill -- or the inclination -- to teach her properly. The College of Winterhold was much closer by, of course, but her parents did not trust a Nordic institute to give their child a proper education, so Cyrodiil it was. Ina was to study with the Synod and become a great sorceress. Not one to disappoint the hardworking parents that she adored and was immensely grateful for, Ina agreed and decided to put her plans of visiting Morrowind on hold. Besides, it was true that it would be much safer to go there only once she knew how to cast powerful spells.

But staying in Windhelm had become almost as dangerous as going to Morrowind. Racial violence between the Nords and the Dunmer had intensified over the years and scorn and taunting had turned into beatings -- or worse. One of Ina’s friends was stabbed and left for dead in the gutter over a minor dispute and the Nord responsible was never punished. Jarl Ulfric turned out to be much worse than his father once he ascended to the throne in the Palace of the Kings and he turned a blind eye towards the discrimination and hatred that the Dunmer were forced to endure. As Ina left the gates of Windhelm and set off on her journey to the Imperial City, she spat on the threshold and mouthed a prayer to Azura to curse the Nords into an early grave if they ever did something to hurt her parents while she was away.

Her time in the Imperial City, studying with the Synod, was a revelation. The multicultural society of the metropolis was a shock to her system at first. She wasn’t the only Dunmer student attending the Synod that year and she naturally gravitated towards them at first, but she was surprised to find that all the other races were just as welcoming to her. Her first interracial friendships were forged in the fires of exam stress and binge drinking -- she gained the nickname Sujamma, a strong Dunmer spirit, for her ability to drink anyone under the table, courtesy of her upbringing among Nords -- and for the first time, Ina felt that the world was not such a bleak place after all. The much more agreeable climate also helped and Ina developed a lifelong fondness for loose, flowy robes that allowed her skin to breathe. From some of the other women that she studied with, Ina learned how to apply kohl around her eyes to make their red color pop and how to take better care of both her hair and her skin so that both shone with a healthy gloss.

She was drawn to the art of alchemy and the peace and serenity she experienced in the dutiful, precise measurements of ingredients and their preparation, with only the sound of a simmering alembic and the grinding of her mortal and pestle for company. It became her specialisation, but Ina made sure to stay invested in a broad range of topics and schools of magic, and she achieved varying levels of proficiency in Destruction, Alteration and Restoration as well. Enchanting was another magical art that interested her but one that she found she had less patience for. It was added to her arsenal mostly for its lucrative potential as a business venture, but she never became an expert.

She maintained a string of relationships throughout her years at the Synod’s college, leaving a trail of broken hearts and satisfied lovers in her wake in equal measure. She dipped her toes in both sides of the gender divide during this time and ultimately decided that she had no firm preference either way. Ina was not willing to settle down with anyone and she was a capricious and mercurial partner, as young Dunmer women often are, but all of that changed after she graduated and she met Theros.

Having wrapped up her education and learned the magic necessary to defend herself during a voyage into Morrowind, Ina spent some time working as an alchemist in the Imperial City’s market to save up the coin she needed to fund the expedition. On the corner of the street where she had her stall, another Dunmer took up residence as a busker, performing songs and poems of his own composition. Many of them were funny and delivered with an easygoing charm that caught Ina’s attention, and she often found herself chuckling along to his lyrics and stanzas. His name was Theros and he was a wandering bard from Cheydinhal, she learned when they started having their lunches together.

It wasn’t long before they became lovers. Theros made more money with comedic songs that made light of current events, but his real heart was in the profound lovesongs and poems that he wrote in his spare time, and he performed them for Ina around a campfire on a hill overlooking the Imperial City, with nobody else but the stars above for company. The emotion in his voice and the tender strumming of his lute captured Ina’s heart in a way that nobody else had ever done. She discovered a hidden pain behind those words, no matter how much he tried to hide his demons from her, and resolved to soothe his tortured soul with the love he deserved.

Theros had never been to Morrowind before either, so they pooled their earnings together and bought themselves a place on a heavily guarded trading caravan that was headed for Blacklight. Both had a romanticized image of Morrowind in their heads and the two dreamers were terribly excited to finally see their ancestral homeland for the first time.

Arriving there was a rude awakening. Even though it was close to two centuries since the Red Year, Blacklight was still bursting from the seams with refugees. The city center, a marvel of Dunmer architecture that brought a tear to Ina’s eye, so reminiscent was of it of her dreams of old Vvardenfell, was dwarfed by the slums that extended far beyond the city proper. Ash covered everything, as Red Mountain had continued to smoke and rumble in the long years since the eruption, during which new waves of refugees had arrived as the Argonians had continued to harass Morrowind’s southern border. Great House Redoran dominated Morrowind’s politics and policies and Ina found a significantly more martial and pragmatic society than the the mysterious and wondrous realm that the land had been in her grandfather’s days. She learned that there were still secluded Telvanni wizards in their bizarre mushroom towers scattered throughout Morrowind, and even one on Solstheim, but was assured that none would have time for nor interest in speaking with her.

Instead, she and Theros traveled to the smaller coastal community of Rhun Huk on the shores of the Inner Sea, overlooking the smoldering ruins of Vvardenfell, and they settled there for a while and plied their respective trades. Theros continued to be plagued by sullen moods and dark thoughts -- his ‘demons’, as it were. They were the fuel for the poetry and lyrics that Ina found so beautiful, but his own mind playing tricks on him was draining for the Dunmer bard and he would lash out in irrational anger sometimes, of which Ina bore the brunt. Other times Theros would turn his back to her in bed and remain cold and distant for days on end. With patience and love, Ina always managed to get her lover back to his normal self in the end, and that made his moods bearable. She knew that he was not like this through any fault of his own. Theros explained that he had left home specifically to avoid burdening his parents with his problems, since they were proper ash-blooded Dunmer that did not, and did not want to, understand him. But Ina promised him that she understood him just fine and that she loved him just the way he was.

She got used to the strange conditions of life in Morrowind and developed a sense of belonging, surrounded by nothing but her people and her culture at last. She wrote to her parents and told them that life in Morrowind was still possible and pleaded for them to join her as soon as they could. Life in Windhelm had become even harder for the Dunmer. Tensions had increased with the Nordic resistance against the White-Gold Concordat prompting Thalmor Justiciars to prowl the tundra, snatching people up in the middle of the night and dragging them away to hidden dungeons. The Nords, in their xenophobia, had started accusing the Dunmer of being Dominion collaborators and even banned her father from working the fields outside the walls. Her elderly parents managed to scrounge the funds together, in part from money that Ina sent back home to them, and made the trip. They welcomed Theros as a son-in-law with open arms and the four of them lived together as a family supported by Ina’s alchemy and enchanting business and Theros’ performances on the town square. Ina and Theros talked about starting a family one day, when they would be finished with being young and were ready to relinquish their freedom. Maybe they’d have one more grand journey, an adventure, perhaps to see the fabled Summerset Isles or the cities and castles of High Rock, before then. But they were in no rush. Life was good.

Then, on a cold winter morning in Frostfall, Theros took his own life.

Ina’s world collapsed. She had always known that Theros was plagued by anxiety and depression, invisible specters that had no name in the society in which she lived, but his mood had seemed to be improving in the last few weeks leading up to his death. She read the note he left behind through tears and choking sobs and learned the heartbreaking truth: Theros had never believed his own worth -- he had never believed her when she told him. His demons had convinced him that he was nothing but a burden to Ina and her parents and that her love for him was nothing but pity. He had only seemed in better spirits because he had already resolved to kill himself and therefore relieve his beloved Ina of the terrible weight of his presence. She threw the note away and cried until she was sick, weeping into the fabric of her pillow, begging and pleading with Azura to bring her lover back, and pulling her own hair out because she had not seen it coming. She’d failed him, and he had abandoned her.

But there was no coming back from the dead. The demons had won, and Ina had lost. Her wretched tears subsided into a sullen silence. Her parents helped her track down Theros’ ancestral tomb and his ashes were interred with the rest of his family, but Ina could not stand to even be around the ceremony for more than a few minutes. She was heartbroken, angry and upset with herself for being angry, but mostly she was wracked by guilt. Ina blamed herself for not being able to save him. She blamed herself for not having seen it coming. And she blamed herself for the fact that a part of her dared to feel like Theros had selfishly betrayed her and left her to deal with the aftermath.

Ina and her parents returned to Rhun Huk, but life there had lost all of its appeal. It was as if Ina could only now see the ash-covered and hostile land for what it truly was: Morrowind was nothing more than a tomb for her people. She only remained there because she had a duty to take care of her aging parents, who were too old and weary to travel back to Windhelm. Suffering in silence, Ina did just that, turning into a shadow of her former self, a shell of a woman that was merely going through the motions. Until both of her parents, first her mother and then her father, slipped off into peaceful eternal slumber, one quickly after the other. Old age had claimed them.

Ina packed her belongings, grabbed her spear and burned her house to the ground, cursing the land that had brought her nothing but woe.

She wandered across Tamriel. wary of other people’s affairs and mostly keeping to herself. Bereft of her loved ones, Ina turned to the one and only constant in the world: the gods and her own faith. Through the arcane rituals of the Dunmer ancestor worship, she was able to commune briefly with Theros’ spirit -- just enough to sense that he was at peace now, wherever he was. Ina herself learned to accept through the teachings of Azura that everything that happened was part of the woven tapestry of fate, and ultimately served a purpose.

Over time, the pain of Theros’ passing lessened and she rediscovered a sense of tranquility and inner peace on the road as a wandering alchemist. Her work allowed her to take her mind off things and her travels gave her something new to discover each day. That way, the past couldn’t catch up to her, and if she always kept moving, she could never grow that close to anyone again, saving herself from experiencing pain and loss like that in the future. She had her happy memories with him, which became easier and easier to remember without feeling like she was drowning with every passing year, and drunken nights of revelry and easy sex with strangers kept her from being overwhelmed by her solitude. It would have to be enough.

Until a chance meeting with the wild and untamed Bosmer jaqspur Venwen during one of Ina’s yearly visits to Cheydinhal to quietly celebrate Theros’ birthday. An unlikely pair of opposites, the two two of them nevertheless become friends and headed out to visit Valenwood, Venwen’s homeland, said to be a magical land full of rare and exotic alchemical ingredients. The Dominion, whom Ina despised as much as the Nords or the even the Empire that had sacked her childhood home of Windhelm by that time, had kept her away from Valenwood until then. But under the guidance of a jaqspur… well, what could go wrong?

Personality: There are several sides to Ina. She has known poverty and discrimination, self-discovery and success, peace and domestic bliss, and love and loss. She has lived in xenophobic backwaters, bustling metropolises, rural countrysides and everything in between as a traveler on the road. All of these experiences combine to create the woman Ina is today.

Above all, she is reserved, aloof and collected. Ina doesn’t care much what other people think of her, as Dunmer often do, and also cares little for bothering others with her opinions of them. She is not unkind, and friendly enough in passing, but there is always an emotional distance between herself and the people she interacts with. Because she is so cool-blooded, Ina is slow to anger and she’d much rather shrug off any insults or threats than reach for her spear and her spells. In the same vein, she does not participate deeply in the joy or success of others, making jealousy a foreign emotion to her. She learned long ago that it’s best to focus on her own worth instead of comparing herself to anyone else.

That said, she is capable of powerful love and deep affection, but that door was closed after her lover’s death. That kind of emotional commitment comes with a risk of such tremendous pain and hurt that Ina can’t bear to experience that again. She had her happy years with Theros and those memories will have to be enough. Instead of emotional closeness, she seeks physical intimacy with attractive strangers, just like her Synod days, and keeps her lovers at an arm’s length afterwards. She needs to drink to loosen up sufficiently for that, however, and as such maintains a level of consumption -- from a glass of wine with lunch to a few shots of brandy after dinner -- that one can reasonably describe as functional alcoholism. The only other narcotic she indulges in is the smoking of hackle-lo leaf, which helps her focus during her work.

Ina possesses a dry, sarcastic wit that she applies liberally and without regard for custom or etiquette. She’s a pauper at heart, even though her time in the Imperial City has taught her how to take care of her appearance like a lady, and has no respect for wealth, birth or status. She judges people based on their character exclusively; that Theros, her lover, went through dry spells of inspiration and motivation where he earned little money didn’t bother her at all and she gladly made up the difference. She has a soft spot for sensitive souls, quite possibly because she has one lurking in the depths of her own heart. Not that she’d ever admit it to anyone, or even to herself. Even if people have fallen on hard times and done questionable things to survive, Ina will accept them as long as their hearts are in the right place.

The mundane tasks of alchemy that many consider tedious, preparing the ingredients and getting the brew just right, bring Ina peace and serenity and she spends most of her waking hours attending to her alembics and calcinators in silence. Predictably, she does not tolerate disturbances very well and is liable to become irritable when interrupted during her work. Outside of those hours, she can usually find time to make conversation with people and she enjoys drinking with strangers and listening to their stories, even if they are just tall tales. She becomes much more familiar and personable during such occasions and frequently ends up taking someone to bed afterwards, only to send them away again in the morning.

She is a pious and devout follower of the Reclamations, the heroes and the saints of the New Temple faith, but of Azura and Almalexia in particular. Ina maintains an active relationship with the gods and always makes sure she has the required incense and attributes with her for her nightly prayers, and lets the teachings of Almalexia stay her hand in revenge, preferring to err on the side of mercy when she is slighted. Even her carnal escapades are dedicated to Mephala with a quiet prayer; most of what Ina does is internally seen through the lens of her faith. It helped her a lot in processing the grief she has experienced in her life and she values it highly.

Biggest Regret: That she didn’t see Theros’ suicide coming, that she wasn’t able to prevent it, and that she wasn’t able to make him happy.

Inanna’s Goal: Ina can’t see a future beyond tomorrow. She doesn’t believe that she can ever truly recover from the loss of Theros, so Ina has abandoned her one-time dream of having a home and a family of her own. Now she merely wanders the continent in search of work and coin, which she spends as fast as she earns it in order to be comfortable.

Equipment:

Steel spear: A simple weapon with an ironwood shaft and a leaf-bladed tip. It’s a foot or two longer than she is tall and Ina uses it as a walking aid for her travels as much as a weapon for self defense. She picked the spear because it is the simplest weapon to learn to use at least somewhat effectively, and its range keeps some distance between her and whatever it is that she’s trying to kill. Ina doesn’t like to use it much, but in Tamriel you sometimes don’t have a choice.

Alchemy set: This travel-sized set of alchemy tools includes a mortal and pestle, an alembic, a calcinator and a retort, designed so that they neatly fit together in her backpack without taking up too much space or weight. She can’t brew potions as powerful or as plentiful as she can with a proper dedicated alchemy station, but at least this means she can ply her craft anywhere she goes.

Enchanting tools: This includes several soul gems and the ritualistic attributes needed to establish a provisional arcane enchanter. As with her alchemy, a proper arcanery would be best, but this will do when out on the road.

Alchemy ingredients: A selection of ingredients stored in various pouches, satchels and bandoliers on her person -- too many to list. Suffice to say that she has the ingredients on her to make most types of potions and poisons, and the vials and bottles to store them in.

Misc. Possessions:

Map of Tamriel: Comprehensive and up-to-date. The margins are scribbled full of notes made during her travels.

Backpack: A sturdy netch-leather traveling rucksack she bought in Morrowind. It’s large enough to contain all of her belongings and she’s enchanted it with a feather effect to make it easier to carry.

Travel supplies: This includes a bedroll, dried foodstuffs, a water skein, some rope, a book and a tea set. Just the essentials, obviously.

Makeup: Kohl, coconut oil and various face and skincare creams, plus the ingredients to make more. One of the perks of being an alchemist.

Clothes: Several tunics and pants to wear beneath her coat, two black satin robes as loungewear or nightgowns, various scarves, gloves, pieces of jewelry and underwear, from practical to lingerie.

Money: Ina currently possesses 120 septims and an emerald that she keeps on her person to barter with in emergencies.

Bard’s notes: A selection from Theros’ sizable collection of unfinished songs and poems, left to Ina after his suicide. She reads them from time to time.

Telvanni pendant: An amulet that once belonged to her ancestor, Master Aryon. Their ancestral tomb was destroyed in the Red Year, but possessing the amulet allows Ina to have at least some connection to her ancestor’s spirit.

Kwama flute: A hand-carved kwama leg, one of the most popular music instruments on Vvardenfell once upon a time. Ina can play it well enough.

Family and Associations:

Family: Her immediate family is deceased, but she still has a few cousins and nephews in Windhelm.

Theros: Her lover and the mer she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. He took his own life.

Synod: There are still some professors from Ina’s day that continue to teach at the Synod, and several of her classmates have become researches and explorers with the organization.

Rhun Huk: Ina was a beloved figure in the coastal community as an alchemist, enchanter and a healer, and there are still many people living there who would consider themselves to be her friend.

Favored Attributes:

Major: Intelligence.
Minor: Willpower.

Favoured Skills:

Expert: Alchemy.
Adept: Destruction, Enchanting, Restoration.
Novice: Alteration, Athletics, Spear.

Spell List: Flames, Fireball, Fire Rune, Healing, Heal Others, Magelight, Stoneflesh, Telekinesis.

“This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.”

Proposal: Spam 2

Daily reminder that Hank killed and ate a person.

@Doivid

IRC Shenanigans

That's like making me a mod. Some men just want to watch the world burn.

Not that Hank wouldn't do the job capably, but moreso that I think the rabid masses would go into manic depression.

@Mammoth

I think we're good.

The Elder Scrolls: Night of Pestilence

House Cleaning

_{ft. @Leidenschaft and @Spoopy Scary}

Solomon waited by the staircase at the back of the great hall that led down to the storerooms, leaning against one of the massive stone pillars that held up the ceiling. Looking up at the state of the structure, he could only hope that the subterranean rooms beneath their feet hadn’t collapsed in on themselves. They needed those supplies, and Solomon needed a certain something that he knew was sequestered in the back of the armory.

The others had dispersed and gone about their own business, and he looked up when Janus approached. Solomon gave the man a nod of respect. He was glad that the big warrior had come with them this far, and he hoped that the Colovian would stay. “Sorry about your sword,” Solomon said by way of greeting. “It looked like a fine piece. With any luck, there’ll be something suitable for you in the armory.” He nodded over to the stairs that circled into the rock. Impenetrable blackness awaited them.

Janus peered down the shadowed stairway, squinting hard as if it would help him see through the black. He chose to ignore the bit about the sword, the loss of it felt as if he’d left behind a hand. Though, Solomon was right, perhaps there would be something suitable for Janus down in the armory. Besides, that was where he was headed anyway. “Why this place?” Janus asked, turning to Solomon, “Ken Muhyr?”

“Because it’s isolated, defendable and abandoned,” Solomon answered. “And few people know about it, which is convenient because it’s our business to know more than our enemies. Every province has one or more fallback locations like this. It was stocked with supplies after the Great War, though I’ll be the first to admit it hasn’t been properly maintained since then. I came here once, to familiarize myself with the place, when I first moved to High Rock, so I knew where to find it and what to expect.” He placed a hand against the stone and patted it once as he looked around. “Needs some love, but she’ll do.”

“So important they abandoned it.” Janus pursed his lips, shaking his head. The budget cuts and reshuffling must have hit some harder than others. Savian dropped in an embassy while Solomon was shoved into an inn was evidence enough.

But who was Janus the wanderer to talk, “Let’s get on with it. You’ll need whatever’s down here.”

Solomon sighed. “Long past are the days of the Blades, who were able to maintain a constant presence at Cloud Ruler Temple for centuries. The Empire isn’t what it used to be. We all have to make do with less than our predecessors.”

Putting those thoughts aside, Solomon drew his falchion from its scabbard and tested the edge with his thumb for a moment before nodding and descending down the stairs, taking point. “Yes, let’s.” It seemed only fair after the Colovian’s duel with the Rider. He lifted a torch from its sconce on the wall on his way down in his other hand and lit it with a spell, banishing the immediate dark around them.

A door waited for them at the bottom of the stairs but it was already ajar, the lock burned or melted away by some foul essence. “Thought so,” Solomon said quietly. “Something made its way in here.”

Bruno’s unmistakable voice echoed from up the stairs behind them, though it was more sour than usual. “Good thing I decided to come down here too then,” he said, letting his weight fall onto each step of his descent. His hatchet was in hand and he was wearing the same angry look on his face ever since they left the cabin, though Solomon’s body cast a gloomy shadow over him amidst the torchlight that seemed to underline the fact that his anger was not like his usual boisterous self. He looked like he came down here with the express intent to kill something. “Thought I heard rats a-scurryin’, but turns out it was just you two.”

“You hunt, yeah?” Janus quirked a brow at the sturdy figure of Bruno in the flickering torchlight, at least there was one man he liked here, “Gotta wonder how you do it if your step sounds like rockfall.”

“I can turn it off.” He replied bluntly. “When I want to.”

“Best start wanting, friend.” Janus smirked, turning back towards the door left suspiciously ajar, and took his axe and knife in hand. Perfect tools for tight spaces, at least. His saber wouldn’t be missed here.

“Ladies, please,” Solomon said. “Focus.”

He kicked open the door and stepped inside, brandishing the torch and falchion in equal measure -- light was as much a weapon down here as steel was. It revealed the first of the storerooms mostly as Solomon remembered it -- the ceiling was low and barrels and crates of preserved foodstuffs were scattered about. Some of them had been opened, either by mandible or by claw, and their contents spilled out, consumed or left to rot.

More important and more urgent, however, were the thick cobwebs that covered the ceiling and the walls, and the creatures that stirred among them. “Frostbite spiders,” Solomon surmised, and he was proven right by the first of them that leapt at him with a fierce hiss, an eight-legged monstrosity the size of a large dog. He caught it on the tip of his falchion and the arachnid impaled itself on his blade, sliding down the steel weapon, jaws chattering as it tried to reach for Solomon’s arm to inject its venom.

Five more emerged from the gloom. Janus was the second target, the spider leaping much the same and Janus caught its fangs on the end of his axe’s head, bearing its weight as he thrust his long knife up into its body. He wrenched it out and spilled its guts as he threw it from him.

“Looks like sneaking won’t be a problem,” Bruno said as he glared down the familiar faces of frostbite spiders. “Lucky me.”

After spending his childhood in northern High Rock, it became easy to tell what the warning signs of frostbite attacks, and seeing the crouching spider before it leaped was almost nostalgic. He seemed to sidestep away before it even leaped forward, and swung his axe wide, striking it in its underbelly and allowing its momentum to carry it overhead and strike it against the ground behind him. He jerked his weapon out to bash the handle at the mouth of another incoming spider before kicking it away, and his eye found one of the spiders behind the other rearing back to start spitting venom at them. Bruno preemptively ducked down and batted it away with the flat of his axe, splashing it against the stonework.

“Solomon, your torch!” He yelled. “The bastards don’t like fire and they aren’t immune to their own venom. Bunch of right pricks!”

“Catch!” Solomon yelled in return after pulling his blade free from the now-dead spider and tossed the torch over to Bruno. He had something better than that. With his left hand free, his fingers contorted into a claw and he held it out in front of him. A roaring jet of fire sputtered to life and Solomon forced the spiders back with the washing flames. The cobwebs caught fire and incinerated, burning up as the spark raced up the walls and the ceiling, leaving the stonework and old wood support beams untouched. He was careful where he aimed, as there were still unspoiled crates and barrels left in the storeroom, but he advanced steadily to force the spiders into a corner.

Desperate to escape the blazing heat, the three spiders scattered in all directions. “Now!” Solomon yelled and cut off the flow of magicka to the spell abruptly, and instead aimed a precise spike of ice that pinned one of the escaping spiders to the ceiling where it had skittered up to.

Janus had tired of the fight the second it had begun. When the spiders turned and ran, he pursued his, growling like a bear as he took a swipe at it and catching only a leg. The thing screeched and flailed about before Janus took it by its remaining legs with his offhand and hauled it back towards him. With a throaty growl, he brought his axe down once, twice, and three times until it curled into itself and died.

“I didn’t know you were a fucking wizard.” Bruno commented, watching the flames lick away at the cobwebs and casting long shadows across the room. Its orange glow and fierce heat seemed like it was enough to scare the rest of them off. The brief chuckle escaped his lips, “Neither did these shits. We should smoke them out of their burrows before they start laying any more eggs.”

With that, he placed the torch Solomon gave them into one of the holes in the wall that a spider crawled into. The rising heat and smoke, he hoped, would draw it back out for him to exterminate with his axe lying in wait. As far the other spiders went, they were already too far out of his range. He didn’t think that he’d have to bring his bow into such close quarters.

Solomon looked at Bruno with surprise. “You didn’t notice?” he asked. “I was using spells pretty liberally during the fighting at the inn. The Penitus Oculatus taught me. Field agents are all nightblades or spellswords of some kind.”

“Suppose I was a little distracted to tell who was casting what.”

Solomon paused for a moment to catch his breath and to assess the situation. They were in the first of the storerooms; more lay beyond a door at the far end of the low-ceilinged space, its lock similarly dissolved with the acidic venom the frostbite spiders produced. “Kill that one when it comes back out,” he said and nodded to the hole Bruno was smoking out, “and then see if you can harvest any of their venom, if you want. We should pile them up and burn them afterwards.”

In the meantime, the spymaster turned to Janus. There hadn’t been time to speak plainly before to discuss things Solomon didn’t want the others to hear. He glanced sidelong at Bruno -- the man was already invested in the fight against the cult for personal reasons, so he doubted there was anything Janus could say to discourage him. A Nord, once his mind is made up…

“Why did you say this war is already lost, Janus?” Solomon asked. He didn’t sound accusatory, but there was still a hint of an edge in his voice.

Janus replaced his axe at his hip and sheathed his knife, turning to Solomon. He glanced at Bruno and back, “Because it is.” He spoke bluntly, “Look at us. You and me are the only ones with the skills to deal with things like this, and you and me aren’t enough.”

He nodded at Bruno, “We have a forester, up there’s two girls I’m sure haven’t ever brawled, let alone fought a guerilla war.” Janus hooked his thumbs in his sash, “What do we really have to work with? Henry?”

“I told you I’m not fighting other men’s wars. ‘Specially not with these long odds.” He shook his head left and right, slow as slow. In this place, among men like him, the smiling Janus was nowhere near, “And that fancy goddamn badge ain’t nothing to me no more.”

“I’ve fended off beasts and Forsworn raiders from my home, but bears and pissant tribals are a far cry from a provincial takeover.” Bruno admitted with a nod. “I’m no soldier, but even I know a handful of bastards an army doesn’t make. I’m also willing to wager we’re not the only ones who made it. If we want a larger crew, we need to start by considering those who know how to live outside city walls. I’m talking bandits.”

Scurrying echoes within the walls as smoke filled its nook and crannies. A spider crawled out, drunk and dazed by smoke, and not expecting an axe to come down on its head like a guillotine. One more left.

Bruno continued, “Most leaders probably won’t submit without a fight. So take out their boss, and promise the rest fame and fortune for liberating a whole damn city. Maybe even a title. I don’t really know how it works, but you get the idea. Maybe then when we finally take a city, we could actually use real soldiers. Maybe they didn’t kill ‘em all.”

Solomon slowly shook his head. “We aren’t fighting an army. They’re a cult of zealots, not the Aldmeri Dominion, or even the Stormcloaks. Cut off the snake’s head and the body dies. The Lord of Moths and the High Priests -- assassinate them, install a lawful ruler on the throne, and this all ends.” He knelt down next to one of the unopened barrels and popped the lid with his falchion, revealing salted meats chilled with frost salts. “Don’t need an army for that. Just intelligence and a sharp blade. This isn’t the first insurrection I’ve put down.”

Satisfied that the meat was still good, Solomon straightened back up and returned his focus back to Janus. He wanted to say more and explain more about his plans and ideas, until the exact words that the Colovian had used struck him. “You said that the badge meant nothing to you no more. What does that mean? What do you know of the Penitus Oculatus?”

Janus frowned, “More than I wanted.” He said, turning away and taking a few steps before he stopped for the other two, “Are we finished here yet? Or you want to keep measuring cocks over how many insurrections we’ve put down between us?”

“Doesn’t matter who they are.” Bruno retorted, changing the subject back to the actual problem. He couldn’t care less about the Peni-penis Ocu-whatever-you-call-it. “If they’re as fanatic as Forsworn, then I can tell you killing one of ‘em ain’t gonna stop all of ‘em. If they aren’t lying and somehow actually took every kingdom in High Rock, then they have the numbers. Maybe a hierarchy. You can take the chance in doing everything yourself, or you can pull an army out your ass. Either way you still need to defend those cities.”

“He’s right,” Janus added to Bruno’s words, “How many of Ulfric’s old Chiefs you think are still wanting to fight the good fight? I watched him die. But his ideas ain’t dead yet. And there’s a whole lot still ain’t happy with the Empire.”

“I’d have to defend the cities if I intended to rule these lands, but I don’t,” Solomon said. “That isn’t my duty. Order must be restored and authority returned to rightful rulers. Daggerfall’s king is dead, but there’ll be someone to take his place. There always is. I saw the people. They didn’t welcome the cultists. They were afraid. Sow chaos, take out the High Priest, inspire the populace. They’ll defend their own city. And after Daggerfall comes Camlorn, and Shornhelm, and so on. That’s how we do this. One step at a time, until it’s done.”

The Imperial sighed. “Though I don’t know why I bother explaining this to you, Janus. It’s not your fight if you don’t want it to be. I’m sure you’ll make the world a much better place somewhere where the going isn’t so tough.”

That was a petty shot and Solomon knew it, but he was frustrated with the big man. Knowledge of the Penitus Oculatus, involvement in the suppression of the Stormcloak Rebellion -- he was clearly cut out for this job, and it felt to Solomon like he was witnessing dereliction of duty happening in front of him. “Whatever,” he grumbled and turned towards the door. “Armory is this way. Come on.”

“Making the world a better place ain’t my duty. And trust me.” Janus snorted, “Was never yours either. I thought the Oculatus needed men with more between their ears than a sense of duty and loyalty to orders.”

“Working outside the boundaries of honor and the strictness of the Legion to do everything an honorable man wouldn’t.” Janus pursed his lips, almost riling himself up about things he no longer seemed to care about, or outright resented, “Penitus Oculatus, the Emperor’s Tertia Optio. Or did that get reshuffled too?”

“Nevermind that defending a city has nothing to do with ruling it.” Bruno added with his own brand of bitterness. “I don’t know how you do things in this dumb faction, but it sounds like lone wolf shit to me. And I get it, me too. But if they’re able to go in and take a whole fucking city and its guard, it’s gonna take a whole lot more than uppity peasants to defend it. Whole lot of fuckin’ good your so-called duty is gonna do if they decide to come back and take Daggerfall again. You’re fighting an entire fucking war whether you like it or not, and the whole lone wolf thing has come and gone.”

“And Janus,” Bruno added, turning to him this time, “I know this ain’t your home, and all the gods know I don’t give a shit what happens miles away from me either. But where the fuck do you plan on going that there ain’t gonna be no undead or crazy idiot waiting for you? Because if you can think of one, I’m two seconds from kicking you in the dick for holding out on us. None of us wants to be holed up in a dusty fort either! We’d all rather be getting fat and having sex on the Gold Coast, but we can’t, because there are a thousand monsters between here and there waiting to kill us.”

Finally, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. His hand was shaking and a headache was wracking his brain between the smoke and trying to settle what he thought was a stupid dispute between two old soldiers. “You two, just… be a good neighbor and help me take back my home. Free Daggerfall. After that, the both of you can go back to bitching about your lives as much as you want.”

Solomon was glad for Bruno’s intervention, because his grip on his falchion had already tightened and the arcs of lightning that he favored were close to dancing around his fingers. Janus insulting his honor had been one step too far, but killing the man over the slight wouldn’t have helped anyone. Solomon took a deep breath and forced himself to nod at Bruno. “Of course,” he said. “Your home comes first. A promise is a promise.” After a final glance at Janus, Solomon turned his back on him and marched over to the door. “We have an armory to liberate. Let’s get to it.”

He slowly pushed the door open with the tip of his boot and peeked inside. It was even darker in there than it had been in the storeroom, and Solomon resorted to magic this time, conjuring a magelight and sending it into the armory. It illuminated racks of weapons lined up against the walls, anything from halberds to axes and swords to daggers, and numerous grindstones and tables for maintenance and repair. The back wall had been destroyed, however, and the magelight’s rays were not powerful enough to resolve the abyss beyond. A subterranean cave, Solomon figured, and the sound of running water coming up to them from the deep confirmed his suspicions. “Might be how the spiders came in here,” he mumbled to himself.

As if on cue, a giant frostbite spider, clearly the largest of the brood, climbed out of the depths and shot a glob of venom at him. “Fuck!” Solomon yelled and dove for cover behind one of the armor tables.

Janus had swept his eyes over the menagerie of weapons just before the spider had arrived. He jumped to the first one he saw, grasping up the spear and sending it sailing straight into the body of the monstrous spider with a roar. He grasped up the second, a crossbow. It felt familiar in his hands, he’d lost the last one in Skyrim, and he missed the feeling of one in his grip. He took cover with Solomon, loading the first bolt onto the crossbow and sighting up, breath even. At the top of his first breath, he squeezed the trigger and felt the jolt, the bolt flying towards the spider and striking it. He ducked back down, loading another as he spoke to Solomon, “Anymore fire?”

Firelight illuminated the hall, but it didn’t come from Solomon. Bruno had picked up his torch and charged ahead after Janus’ volley of spears and bolts, as the low growl rumbling in his throat quickly escalated in a thundering roar. He batted its legs away to hack his axe into the giant spider’s side. Though its chittering caterwauls were shrill, he dug in his heels and used his axe to pull the spider in closer, either gone mad or unafraid of its dripping fangs, so that he could thrust the hot torch into its face. It reeled back and grazed against Bruno’s arm with one of its fangs, but the shepherd kept his hold secure on his axe and was pulled along with it. He yanked out the crossbow bolt from its exoskeleton and with desperate and enraged shouting, throwing every vile insult and slur at it that he could think of, repeatedly stabbing at its eyes as he was dragged into its den.

“You eight legged piece of shit! You gods-damned oversized, prickly cunt!” He roared as the spider pushed him off with its forelegs. He jumped back up to his feet and charged it again, prying open its exoskeleton with the spear lodged in its abdomen. He was immediately sprayed with its insides and covered in ichor -- but it didn’t seem to faze him.

“I’ll kill you! I’ll kill every last one of you fucks!” His insults were sprinkled intermittently between his attacks, stabbing at its face repeatedly with the spear in several downwards thrusts. “Then maybe, just fucking maybe, I for once can have a home that won’t fucking burn down! Maybe, just maybe, I could have a family!”

There was no escaping death for the giant wounded spider at this point, even if it did manage to escape. As it weakly struggled to back away, Bruno thrusted the spear through its leg and into the ground so that it would be pinned in place. Suddenly it didn’t seem like he was talking about the spider anymore.

“But no!” He continued roaring, kicking the monster in its head while it was down. “Because gods willing, there’s always got to be fetchers like you who just keep fucking TAKING!” He kicked it again, crushing one of its mandibles beneath his boot. “You take my land! You take my parents! I’m tired of all the stupid fucking monsters, I’m tired of the stupid fucking soldiers, the fucking people! Just give me back my life!” He ripped out his axe and stood before the spider like an executioner. Then with several savage and over-headed swings, he carved its body into pulp with each and every word he spoke. “GIVE! ME! BACK! MY! WIFE!”

Solomon jumped to his feet when Bruno was dragged out of the armory and ran after the man, but the sounds of the Nord's hard-fought victory and all the rage that spilled out at the same time reached him before he reached them. The Imperial stopped just short of the broken wall and listened instead, and his expression turned from fear for Bruno's life into something worse -- fear for the man's sanity. He sympathised with the loss, even if he'd never had a wife of his own, but the savagery that occurred just beyond the dark precipice spoke of a man that was threatening to fall apart.

He looked over his shoulder at Janus, all enmity between them forgotten. "I had no idea he had a wife," Solomon said softly. He hesitated. Fury led to darkness, and despite his own losses, the spymaster had never allowed himself to go down that road. It was his biggest rule. But then he'd never invited disaster by trying to settle down and raise a family. Suddenly the box of clothes in Bruno's hut made sense and Solomon turned away. This was too intimate. He wasn't supposed to be seeing this. Joy would know what to say, but not him.

Instead, Solomom busied himself with the weapons and searched for a sword to replace Janus' saber. After a moment of Janus’ empathy for the big man’s screams, he went to help Solomon with the endeavor, his head bowed. As they perused the stock of sharp metal and grindstones, Janus spoke, “Why an inn?” He asked. Solomon had to know what he asking, his voice less biting now, “Some of us were put in embassies. Why an inn?”

It took a second for Solomon to change gears and put all thoughts of Bruno and his past aside. “To gather intelligence,” he said and lifted a slim, slightly curved blade out of the weapon racks, and continued to speak while he held it up to inspect it. “Not very exciting, and definitely not the kind of position that my training and experience would point towards, but… well, you were there,” he explained and sighed. The sword looked to be an Akaviri-inspired katana, similar to the old weapons that the Blades once used. “Makes it all the more embarrassing that I didn’t see this coming. Whoever this Lord of Moths is, he kept a tight lid on everything. What about this?” Solomon offered the sword for Janus to try.

Janus took the blade by the hilt and tested its balance with a finger on the flat of its blade. He spoke as popped it up and caught it again to give it a test swing, “It’s no saber. Leaves my weapon hand unguarded.” He observed, “Can’t half-sword with it. Beautiful blade though.”

He looked to Solomon, “The Blades couldn’t warn the Emperor before the Dominion attacked. They had enough time to marshal an army and land on Cyrodiil’s shores.” Janus shook his head, “Things happen.”

He plucked another sword from the racks and nodded. A side-sword, fine craftsmanship for Breton upperclassmen. Decent protection for his hand, it’d do. “I should repay you for the blade.” Janus went to work belting it to himself, “Before I leave. What’s your price?”

Solomon evaluated the worth of the sword in septims for a moment before he realized the futility of trying to do so. What use did he have for money at this point? Instead, another thought occurred to him and he looked from the blade back to Janus.

“Teach Henry and Joy how to swing one of those,” he said. “Just for a week or two. You can’t defend them when you’re gone, but you can help them defend themselves. You said it yourself -- they’re dead weight. If they try to help me now, well…”

The Imperial sucked in air through his teeth. “Don’t give them more than a week myself. A month, tops. Which I’ll take from them.” He met the Colovian’s gaze. There was nothing but cold steel in Solomon’s eyes. “You know I will. Isn’t that what we do? Churn people up and spit them out?”

Turning Janus’ words back on him and tugging on his heartstrings was playing dirty, but Solomon didn’t care. This is what it took to win in this craft. “Give them a fighting chance and we’ll call your debt paid.”

“They stay here.” Janus said, equaling Solomon’s steely eyes in intensity. A little bit of Havel peeking through, “You and I both know what we are. It’s been a neat little stage play.”

“I’ll do it. If only to make sure Henry doesn’t trip over himself and put his big fucking axe through his forehead.” Janus frowned, glancing to see if Bruno had come crawling back yet and seeing he hadn’t, “You send Joy on one of those fool’s errands to take back a city, I’ll dress you like a buck. She’s a cook. She cooks.”

“She ain’t like us.” Janus nodded, spitting in the palm of one of his tattooed hands and offering it out to Solomon.

It wasn’t a difficult decision. Joy learning how to fight was secondary to the primary goal of keeping Janus around a little longer. Delayed plans eventually turn into cancelled plans, Solomon knew. The longer it took for the man to leave, well…

He nodded, spat in his own palm and shook on it with the Colovian. “She cooks,” he echoed. “That’s fair.”

“None of us came crawling out the womb with weapons in hand.” Bruno’s voice rumbled from behind. Upon turning around, they found him staggering back through the hole in the crumbling wall with his weapon in hand. He was covered in sticky ichor and blood, and sweat was pouring down his face. It was hard to make out in the lighting, but his eyes were red even if it didn’t look like any tears had fallen from them. Those floodgates held strong even if the dam had cracked. They shifted between the two men with a still-bitter scowl on his face. “No one’s a fighter ‘til the hour comes. Cook,” he scoffed, “she’s also a Nord. You’d do well to treat her like one.”

Bruno turned, pointing his axe at the hole from where he emerged. He said, “Thing’s dead. Say the word and I’ll board that hole up ‘til we’re ready to see where it leads,” and as he turned back to march past the other two men, he added, “we will not speak of this.”

Janus shook his head. He’d seen plenty Nords die, man or woman. He’d make damn sure he wouldn’t see this one die, least not on some errand, that much he could do. He turned from Solomon to follow Bruno out, the crossbow slung on his shoulder, his hand resting on the pommel of his new sword. A badge of his new debt. “I’ll start the lessons tonight.” He called over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Solomon replied. “I appreciate it.”

He waited until the two men had left the armory, his eyes fixed on Bruno’s back. The spymaster would have to keep an eye on Bruno from now on and make sure that his mental state didn’t deteriorate further to the point that he became a danger to himself and others. Freeing Daggerfall and giving the man his home back would be the best he could do for him. He sighed before he turned back around. “Alright, now, where are you?” he mumbled to himself and set about the task of rummaging through the mess the spiders had made of the place, searching for something he had squirreled away down here years ago.

It took him more than ten minutes before he finally unearthed the chest he had hidden from beneath one of the overturned armor tables. Solomon grunted and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Finally,” he growled and hoisted the chest upright. He produced the key from his pocket that he had dug up from the bottom of his backpack earlier, when he had settled into his suite at the top of the castle. He tried it on the lock; it still fit snugly. The mechanism resisted him for a moment as he tried to turn it, however, and Solomon fought the rust until he hissed in frustration and zapped the lock with a small bolt of electricity, shocking the oxidized metal clean off.

The chest opened smoothly this time and he threw back the lid, regarding the items that greeted him within with a heavy-lidded gaze. Solomon clenched his jaw. He had hoped he would never need any of it anymore, but the world had different plans. The Imperial fingered the hilt of his old gladius, the pommel carved from ivory and emblazoned with the Dragon of the Empire. Its touch brought back battlefields long past and the lives he had taken there flashed before his eyes.

He reached in for something else and rose to his feet, holding it out in front of him to inspect: the armor and battledress of an Imperial commander, modified over the years to suit the needs of an agent of the Penitus Oculatus. The steel breastplate, decorated with swooping eagles and molded to fit the shape of a muscular chest that he no longer possessed, the elegant vambraces and the pauldrons, carved in the shape of a raptor’s snarling head, were still in fine condition. The artificer metalwork had held up admirably over the years. The white fabric of the hooded battledress, however, complete with the red cingulum straps and the shoulder cape that indicated his rank, trimmed with fur and sporting the coat of a wolf across the shoulders, was worse for wear. It would require serious stitching -- and refitting -- for Solomon to wear it again. Still, he wanted to have it, even if it was just a ceremonial piece. They were at war again, and what was a soldier without his uniform?

“For the Emperor,” Solomon whispered.

The Elder Scrolls: Night of Pestilence

The Great Game Begins

Afternoon, 17th of Sun’s Height, 4E206
Ken Muhyr
Ilessan Hills, Glenumbra, High Rock

Solomon hurried up the stairs, familiarizing himself with the layout of the keep once more. He passed the half-empty library, the alchemical workstation, the arcanery and a bunch of rooms and suites on his way to the top, but none of them held anything for him. He knew what space he wanted -- nay, needed -- for himself. Big enough to serve as a strategium and high above the everyday going-ons of the castle below, where he could plot and scheme undisturbed. The spiral staircase ended at last as Solomon reached the top floor, slightly out of breath and with an ache in his knees. He’d gotten soft. At least the climb would help him get back into shape.

A large, circular chamber awaited him, already furnished with chairs, tables, rugs, closets and a mahogany bed. Solomon dropped his backpack on one of the cabinets and lit a few of the candles with a snap of his fingers. He meandered through the room, his fingers brushing against the furniture and the tapestries on the walls that bore faded images of battles fought long past. A large table dominated the center of the room and Solomon looked at it for a few seconds. Returning to his backpack, he produced his map of High Rock and unfurled the papyrus across the wooden tabletop, pinning the corners down with paperweights. Solomon took a step back and looked around, ducking low and rummaging through the cabinets.

“Aha,” he said and held up a box of chess pieces. The white king went in the center of the Ilessan Hills, representing the fortress of Ken Muhyr and its new inhabitants. He deliberated over the next piece and eventually settled on the black rook, placing it over Daggerfall -- the High Priest of Stendarr. Not the leader, but an important avatar of strength for the cult. He fingered the black king and sighed, placing it off the map. The Lord of Moths, High Priest of Akatosh, waiting in the wings, his location unknown. In a similar fashion, the rest of the black pieces were distributed across the other cities of High Rock, painting a gloomy picture; a single white king surrounded by nothing but enemies.

“Big things have small beginnings,” Solomon whispered.

Pulling up a chair, Solomon sat down and allowed himself a moment of rest. Eventually his gaze looked beyond the map in front of him and he replayed the events of the past days over and over in his mind. The people he had lost in the inn. His guests. His barmaid. Lucy, the old cook. Henry had been close to her. Solomon knew that she had snuck him treats every so often, like the grandmother he’d never had. He’d allowed it. Was there something he could have done differently? Could he have saved them all? The Imperial rubbed his temples and noticed that he was chewing his jaw and tapping his foot.

You can’t let the stress eat you alive, an old commander’s voice echoed in his mind. Don’t live in the past. Don’t live in your regrets. Focus on the here and now, and on the future. You cannot change the past. You can always change the future. Solomon dropped his hands to the chair’s armrests and exhaled slowly, forcing himself to sit still. Tension was still wound tightly into his limbs and the knot in his stomach threatened to squeeze the life from him if he paid attention to it. He hadn’t felt like this since he was a young man, when the Great War had been its most hopeless. But he had other commanders back then, orders to follow, superiors to trust. All he had now was people looking to him for leadership, or people doubting him and telling him this new war was already lost. No matter how large the room was, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the walls were slowly closing in on him. Abruptly, Solomon got to his feet again.

He stepped through the double doors on the other side of the room, emerging onto a spacious balcony. The wind immediately tussled his hair, as high up as he was, and he leaned on the railing on both hands, looking out over the valley and the Ilessan mountains that surrounded it. Pine forest stretched ahead as far as the eye could see, punctuated here and there by rivers and other bodies of water, and wisps of cloud drifted by lazily overhead. He took a deep breath of fresh mountain air and closed his eyes, savoring the sensation of the sun on his face, and he allowed its light and warmth to expel the darkness from his mind and his heart a little. There was still hope, no matter what Janus said. They had this place, for one, and they had their lives and their freedom. Wars had been won with less. Sometimes all it took was one person to tip the scales. It was his duty to be that person or to die trying. What else did he have to live for?

After a minute or two had passed, he straightened back up and rapped his knuckles on the stone railing. “Back to work.”

The Elder Scrolls: Night of Pestilence

A Home of Stone and Air

Afternoon, 17th of Sun’s Height, 4E206
Ken Muhyr
Ilessan Hills, Glenumbra, High Rock

Their journey had been tense, but ultimately uneventful.

The sunrise had come as it always did, which was an immense relief to them all. Fortunately the world had not been cast in eternal darkness. In the light of Magnus, it was like the horrors of the Serpent’s night had never happened. Birds chirped once more and a warm summer breeze whispered down the fields and forests. The group packed their belongings and set off in silence and formation.

For two days they travelled along the empty roads that led away from Daggerfall, as fast as their feet could carry them. Strange as it was, there was no sign of the undead that had chased them out of The Loyal Hound, and Solomon deliberately led them around the smoldering ruins of the inn, wisely giving them a wide berth. He had no desire to cross paths with the headless horseman once more. He wondered where the undead had gone to -- perhaps they had crawled away somewhere else to die once more, or the sinister force that animated them had directed them out of the sunlight. Either way, their journey was unimpeded, in part because they continued to avoid any inhabited areas, even going off-road where necessary to stay away from the villages and hamlets that Solomon and Bruno knew to exist. They could not be sure that encounters with other people would not turn out to be dangerous, and Janus had managed to heal himself -- to Solomon’s pleasant surprise -- so they did not need to risk it.

The night they had spent on the road, however, had been less pleasant. An early darkness fell once more and they sought cover in a cave a little ways away from the road, having already arrived at the foothills of the Ilessan range that sheltered Ken Muhyr -- the group had made good time. Solomon kept first watch and grimaced when he could sense the burning lights of the Serpent overhead in the black-soaked skies once more.

He could not see anything but he could hear things moving through the trees in the distance. Throughout his watch, Solomon kept a firm grip on his falchion until Janus relieved him, and once in his bed he laid awake, tense and… afraid. What little sleep he managed to get was filled with waking dreams of dead men grasping him from below and pulling him into the pitch-black deep, the iridescent eyes of slaughterfish circling him as he sank.

But the morning came once more and banished the horrors of the dark. The forested hills turned silent again, save for the sound of birds and small critters that dashed through the underbrush in the shade of the pine trees -- the road they had followed had petered out and given way to forest and sloping grassland. Solomon, however, could not shake the feeling that they were being watched as they traversed the uninhabited valleys, mountains rising up on either side of them, the snow-capped peaks gleaming in the sunlight. If it weren’t for the situation, the scenery could only be described as idyllic, but he couldn’t enjoy it and as much as he tried, he could not catch anyone or anything in the act of spying on them. He picked up the pace instead.

They finished the second leg of their journey just after noon, further away from any areas of civilization than Solomon had been in years. The walls of Ken Muhyr rose up to meet them as they turned around the bend of the babbling brook they had followed on Solomon’s directions. “At last,” Solomon mumbled to himself, and hope filled him at the sight. “You’re still here.”

The keep was built into the side of a mountain and overlooked one of the valleys that lay nestled between the the Ilessan range’s tallest peaks. A single drawbridge crossed the semi-circular moat that surrounded it, and tiers of fortifications and courtyards crept up the mountainside, culminating in a series of towers and turrets that lorded over the lands below. It had clearly been abandoned for a while; there were many holes in its walls and several of its structures had collapsed entirely, strewing debris across the courtyards and cascading down the mountainside. But the parts that still stood were sturdy enough and plentiful enough to shelter them from most of the elements… or worse.

“It’s a little worse than I remember,” Solomon said over his shoulder, “but it’ll do. Come on.”

They filtered into the keep through the gate and the first thing Solomon did was raising the drawbridge with the mechanism inside. Once he was finished, the spymaster exhaled deeply. For the first time since the zombies had broken the windows of the inn, he felt some measure of safety. It would take siege engines -- or wings -- to reach them now. They went up, through the courtyards, passing training dummies, stables, forges and even a complete and functional ballista, until they climbed the steps of the great hall.

Dust and cobwebs coated the inside, from the black-and-white tile floor to the vaulted ceiling above, and a strong wind coursed through the near-empty space. Only a few crates of unidentified supplies and a long table greeted them, a far cry from the feast-worthy hall that the room must have been once upon a time, and parts of the ceiling were supported with rickety-looking wooden support beams and structures.

“Alright,” Solomon said and turned around. “The doors to your left and to your right lead up to various rooms and suits. Claim a bed and make yourselves at home. For those with combat skills and the inclination to use them, the keep has bowels too,” he explained and pointed to a staircase in the far corner that descended into the rock of the mountain. “That’s where the store rooms and the armory are. Knowing old castles like this, something has probably moved in and made its home in the dark there by now, so I want to clear that out as soon as possible, lest we’re ambushed in our beds by hungry spiders or goblins,” Solomon said.

He didn’t mean to, but his gaze found Joy and Henry as he continued. “As for the rest of you, this place could clearly use some housekeeping and I’m sure we’re all hungry. Down the end of the hall is a hearth and a kitchen -- see if there is still anything we can use, and feel free to make a fire there. We’re as safe here as we’re ever going to be.”

Then he looked up at the ceiling and the rooms he knew to be above them. “There’s a library here, though I don’t know how many books are left, an alchemical workshop and an arcanery. Feel free to use and peruse them at your leisure.”

Solomon clapped his hands together. “Let’s get to it, people!”

The Elder Scrolls: Night of Pestilence

Call to Arms

_{ft. everyone!}

The three made it back to Bruno’s hut without incident and Solomon gave a nod to the watchful shepherd by the window as they slipped back inside. He turned to Sinalare and Sihava. “Thank you for your help,” he said in a low voice. “It matters more than you know. I think it’s time that I inform the others.”

He made his way to the middle of the small cabin and cleared his throat. “Everyone, if I might have your attention for a moment. I have some news to share. Bad news.” Solomon’s face was somber, though his eyes were alive with grim determination -- not the face of a defeated man, but the face of a man that knows the war has only just begun. He took a deep breath and looked around the room’s expectant faces in turn before he spoke again.

“Daggerfall has been overthrown. The king and his family have been executed and the nobility hunted down and slaughtered the man. A cult has infiltrated the Imperial Faith, led by an individual known as the Lord of Moths and High Priest of Akatosh, who has allegedly predicted… all of this,” he explained and gestured to the black sky outside, “and they have seized power. Sihava has learned that the leader of this cult in Daggerfall calls himself the High Priest of Stendarr, and he claims that every city in High Rock has fallen to his allies, presumably other so-called High Priests. They wish to use this event, whatever it is, to carry out a purge against the ruling class and establish a new state. They are obviously enemies of the Empire. More importantly, they are our enemies. Sinalare and I were attacked by their cultists and we were forced to flee the city after killing them. They are not on our side.”

He paused for a moment to give his words time to sink in. Then he reached inside his pocket and pulled out his rosette for the others to see: the all-seeing eye of the Penitus Oculatus stared back at them. “I am not just an innkeeper. I am an agent of the Empire and it is my sworn duty to protect it against threats both from without and within. As such, I will be working to resist this cult and their machinations. But I can’t do that from here. There is a castle, a keep, nestled in the mountains northeast of here. Ken Muhyr. It’s been abandoned for a long time. The Penitus Oculatus has designated it as a fallback point and safe house for situations such as this, stocked with weapons, armor, supplies, books, and so on. It has never before been used in that capacity, but the time has come,” Solomon said. The more he spoke, the straighter his back and the more fiery his eyes became.

“If anyone wishes to aid me in exercising my duties to serve the Empire, your help is most welcome. Even if you don’t, there is room in Ken Muhyr’s walls for all of you. We are each brothers and sisters in arms now, arrayed against both the cult and the undead, and there is strength in numbers. We can’t stay here -- the cult will reclaim the land outside Daggerfall for their own purposes.”

He looked at Bruno, who had denial entering his hundred yard stare, and a solemn tone crept into his voice. “I know this is your home, but the cult outnumber us a hundred-to-one. Come with me and we will be able to bring the fight to them once we have regrouped, resupplied and hatched a plan.”

Solomon put the rosette away again and clasped his hands behind his back, an officer once more. He swept his gaze through the room again. “What say you?”

Janus regarded the rosette with unimpressed eyes. He’d seen them before, carried one himself even. But he turned his in at the end of the Civil War and did his best to forget he ever had one. “‘Less you pull an army out your pocket, I’m not swearing to a cause that ain’t mine.” Janus shrugged, no sign of an easy smile coming, “I’ll follow you to your castle for the protection of the others, but that’s as far as we go.”

Having sat in silence for the most part, her hands resting against the neck of her lute, it was Janus that made Joy’s head turn. It shook too, slowly but surely defiant of his words. “But we need you,” she said softly at first, her words picking up pace and weight as her mind painted the scene of Daggerfall in flames, and blood running over the streets. “This is your cause. This is Bruno’s… Sihava’s cause. Mine and Henry’s too…”

If anyone else felt to scoff at the idea of a barmaid standing to Solomon’s call— Joy did not. “People are dying,” she said desperately, her eyes wide but her posture steady. Taking a breath, she ran her tongue over her teeth as her gaze scanned the room, her hand balled to a fist that she wouldn’t know how to throw to save her life.

Joy felt everything. Anger, sadness, exhaustion, and fear, but there was something else too, buried and fighting from drowning under it all. Her hands fell on her hips and she sighed from her nose before turning on her heel to meet Solomon’s gaze with no trace of her smile, just burning sincerity in the brittle blue of her eyes. “I’m with you.”

The fire in Solomon’s eyes had spread, not just to Joy but slowly to Bruno too, burning away the shock and denial and replacing it with anger and rage. His heavy breathing, the huffing and puffing, replaced the silent air surrounding him as he straightened his back and marched toward the fireplace, growling as he pried loose the hatchet stuck in one of the logs beside the hearth as if he were silently cursing the gods in his mind. “First undead, now this…” he muttered. With his axe over his shoulder and his bow in hand, he stared down Solomon and his rosette, his twisted and angry countenance still perpetual on his visage. “I’ve already watched my home burn down once,” he snarled, “and I’ll be damned if I stand by and watch it again. Solomon, if you’ve got a plan then I’ll wait… but it better involve killing as many of those fucks as possible.”

Janus didn’t meet Joy’s gaze, but he felt it like burning coals held against the side of his face. She didn’t understand. From the time she likened splitting a man’s face with a blade to music and dance, he knew. Even Solomon swaggering in and flashing his fancy little badge didn’t understand any amount of patriotism wasn’t worth it to Janus. He fidgeted with his tattooed fingers and only muttered again, “Ain’t mine.” he looked at Solomon, then to the others and back, “You got my word I’ll split any prick down the middle stands between here and that castle. I’m not fighting this war with you.”

He stood then, grunting and wincing as he got to his feet, “Any of you can’t see it’s already been fucking lost then you’re all fools. We could barely hold an inn, think of how well it’ll go we try to retake the whole fucking Kingdom.”

Sihava thought.

Janus was right. There was no hope for High Rock. Any war they might wage had already been lost. She had no allegiance to these people. No allegiance to the Empire either. Solomon had already revealed his secret; there would be no pleasure in peeling it back now. She was gifted enough in subterfuge that even if the entire countryside was crawling with these priests and zombies, she would be able to survive with...minimal effort, really. She could just leave, if she wanted. She should just leave. It was the smart thing to do. Go to Skyrim, or if that wasn’t far enough away, Cyrodiil or Elsweyr. High Rock wasn’t worth it anymore. Nobody to steal from. Nobody to trick. All of her skills would be...not unused, of course, but used wrong. If she was smart, she’d just walk out and never see these people again.

But when had she troubled herself with what had been the smart thing to do?

The warmth of her amulet, when she’d gone to Daggerfall with Solomon and Sinalare. The stupid joke that Joy had made in the inn, before the country had gone mad. Her conversation with Inzoliah on the road. Solomon, staring in horror up at the Serpent’s horrorlight. Despite herself, and she wasn’t quite sure exactly when, she’d started to care about these people. Was staying with them a bad idea? Yes. Very much so. Could she stop herself anymore? Not likely.

She walked the few steps over to Solomon and laid her hand on his shoulder, giving a single sharp nod and letting what certainty she felt leak over into his mind. I hope I’m doing the right thing, Nocturnal, she thought grimly. Her amulet stayed cold.

Sinalare stood near the cabin’s entrance, still clutching a bloody rag from when she cleaned herself off outside. Solomon was an Imperial agent, which shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise to her as it did. She tensed on reflex, already placed as near to the building’s exit as she could be, but held off on leaving, like she would have in the past. It was no threat to her - she had to drill this into her mind, reminding herself over and over that those days are long gone, as well as her ties, and she in fact was not standing across a battlefield from this man, despite the sudden reminder. She remained silent for several minutes, simply keeping herself sane as her mind raced and jumped from thought to thought. Her nerves stopped her from properly considering or hearing just about anything he’d said afterwards, so she slowly refocused on the conversation.

Henry got to his feet, fingers fidgeting with the handle of the axe that Bruno had given him, eyes darting furtively around the room between the others, wondering whether it was appropriate for him to speak. He cleared his throat and found some measure of courage. “I’m not much good at fighting, sir, but… I can help make the keep a good place to live,” the young man said. He’d stared in awe at the Imperial rosette. To think that he had spent years under Solomon’s roof without knowing what kind of a man he was. Spies and such had always seemed like larger than life to him. Then again, so had everything else that had happened this night.

He looked at Joy and the ghost of a smile flickered around his lips. “I’ll clean and wash our clothes and run errands and so on, and you can cook and sing and mix drinks, like you did, miss.” Then Henry looked at the others again and swallowed. “So it won’t be all uncomfortable or… or anything. That’s what I -- what I wanted to say.” He sat back down quickly and looked at his feet.

“Thank you all,” Solomon said, gaze lingering on Janus a little longer than the others. He didn’t appreciate the man’s defeatist comments. Now was not the time to be undermining morale. “Hope is not lost as long as we draw breath,” he said pointedly. Joy’s stalwart declaration had been admirable, but Solomon had not seen an immediate use for her until Henry reminded him that the keep that was to be their new home would need tending to as well. Inzoliah had not said anything yet, but Solomon was content to let the older Dunmer woman formulate her thoughts a little while longer.

In the meantime, he felt Sinalare’s gaze stabbing into his back and he turned around to look at the bloodied Bosmer by the door. He knew that look in her eyes. It tugged at the frayed stitches of scarcely-healed wounds in his own mind. “I was in Cyrodiil,” he said softly. “Third Legion. Saw action in Anvil, Bravil, Skingrad, so on. In the winter of 174, my men and I hunted patrols and Thalmor officers in the Great Forest. And I was at the Red Ring, when Lord Naarifin was captured and the Imperial City retaken. I saw what the Dominion did there. I buried all of my--”

He took a deep breath and stopped, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again. “I killed more of your kind than I can remember. Swore I’d never trust another Aldmeri elf.” Solomon chuckled. “But here we are. For the record, I thought we made a good team back there,” he added and nodded in the direction of Daggerfall.

“What about you? Where did you serve?” he asked.

Sinalare’s arms crossed in front of her chest, her jaw set and muscles tense. Her gaze slipped to admire Bruno’s floorboards as if they were a fascinating book. Tersely, she answered.

“Hammerfell. I fought under Lady Arannelya. A long time ago,” she mumbled at the end of her sentence. With a deep breath, she raised her head and glanced around at the others in the room. “I… I gave up fighting for causes.” She considered all the strange things they had seen that night, and couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

“I’ll come with you,” she said, before her brain could even catch up with her mouth. Immediately, she wasn’t sure why she had said it at all - seriously, causes were placed far in the past, and she wasn’t looking to take up a new one, aside from gold. Sinalare had said she’d never believe in one again. And she didn’t, she insisted, she was only going along with the safest way to prolong her life, for the time being. She shuffled her feet, wrung her hands together a few times.

As soon as she finished talking, it was like the cabin shrunk three sized. The heat was overpowering and the others’ presence stifling. “I need some air,” she snapped, and turned abruptly to the cabin’s door. Or a drink. she thought. She couldn’t stand to be near everyone. The door swung closed behind her with a thud.

Janus quickly followed suit, not saying any words as he made for the door. In his eyes, this was just another con-man drumming up the sympathies of fools. He was one once. Once. He wasn’t going to fight anyone else’s wars for them, and this time they asked, there wasn’t even mention of gold. He placed his hand on the knob and said over his shoulder, “I’m readying my horse.”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Bruno stood among them quietly, allowing the information to swirl in his in a boiling whirlpool of emotion. It was chaotic and difficult to process, mostly leaving him to stare at the inside of his cabin and all that he has made with his own two hands. This wasn’t the first time he was forced to leave his home, but this time it was made worse by the fact this this home was of his making. He imagined filling it with a family as his father and mother had, and it suddenly became crystal clear why they died so brutally defending a home that was doomed from the start. He would’ve fought and died to defend his home; twofold if he had a family to defend. What would come of his home in his absence? It would certainly be raided, maybe burned to the ground. The cattle… they’d definitely attract the undead horde. If not them, then the cultists and marauders who sacked Daggerfall. He understood what he had to do, even if it only gave his home a slim chance. This place had to look tapped.

He turned toward the front door where Janus had exited through and tossed a few solemn words over his shoulder, “I need to cull my flock before we leave… take whatever you need from here. If it’s not bolted down, it’s yours.” With that, he stepped into the night with a sharp axe in hand.

Inzoliah was content for most of the meeting to watch the discussion without commenting. The badge Solomon had been waving around meant nothing to her. At least, not as much as it meant to some people. A few flinched when he revealed it, a few seemed to get angry or scared maybe. But it could have been a reaction to the news of Daggerfall’s King being killed. Honestly she wasn’t too surprised, being a ruler in High Rock had a life expectancy similar to an Imperial Legionnaire. That’s what she had learned from her time at court here. It was practically the provincial pastime to kill nobles. Funny then, that she had contributed to that in her own small way. Her attention gradually came back to the room. Janus seemed to not be on board with the innkeep-turned-agent Solomon’s plan to head for a clandestine castle. Most everyone else seemed okay with the idea. Inzoliah had a small vision of herself on a castle battlement, flinging great blobs of fire into a stinking mass of undead and her mind was made up on the spot. “Well, I have no love for High Rock or the Empire but ‘twouldn’t hurt to help either out.” She stood up and brushed her robes off, seemingly unable to remove the permanent layer of soot and ash that clung to them.

As Joy watched practically everyone else leave the room around her, she gave a small wave to Sihava, who she was pleased to see make it back in one piece, and whom she was glad would be around a little longer. As her gaze caught the last image of Janus before he walked out of the door, she set aside a thought in her mind to speak to him later. She had to. Bruno too. With one last sigh, she turned again and found Henry.

“Alright then,” she spoke out into the tense silence that had been left behind. “Let’s see if we can find any food for the road, you and me. Anything that will bring any comfort on our journey.” She smiled again, bringing her hands together behind her back. Her fingers fidgeted, and clenched against her palms but she kept a smile for the young man. As the redhead cleared free a tickle in her throat, she brought her hands back in front of her, smoothing down the fabric of her skirt to her knees, before placing a hand on Henry’s shoulder to give him a playful pinch.

Having something to do filled him with a sense of purpose and Henry nodded, returning Joy’s smile with one of his own. “Yes, let’s,” he said, nodded, and set about the task of upending Bruno’s pantry in search of something edible.

Solomon looked outside at the dim shapes of those who had stepped out for a breath of fresh air or a moment to clear their head. He exhaled slowly through his nose. Something broke his reverie, something wet and insistent -- Sirius nuzzled Solomon’s hand and whined quietly. The spymaster glanced at his dog and ruffled the fur on his head. “I know, boy,” the Imperial whispered.

“Everything is about to change.”

The Elder Scrolls: Night of Pestilence

The Dagger Falls

_{ft. @Lemons and @LadyTabris}

Joy and Henry tended to Janus and that freed up Solomon’s hands and his mind for other matters. He got up from the bed and stepped back out of the hut, into the cold and deathly night. He didn’t look up, even though he could feel the Serpent staring daggers into the back of his neck. It was a deeply uncomfortable sensation and he took a deep breath before sighing hard and closing his eyes, wishing so very hard that daybreak would come soon. He stood there, rubbing his temples, and weighed his options.

It was his duty, explicitly outlined in a warrant signed by the Emperor himself, to gather any and all information pertinent to the survival of the Empire. This definitely counted as an existential threat. He could only be sure about Daggerfall, but something told him that this wasn’t just happening here. The sky, the Serpent… if they couldn’t see the stars, then surely nobody could. Perhaps all of Tamriel was under attack. But he couldn’t do anything about the rest of Tamriel. He could only do something about High Rock. And right now, that meant going to Daggerfall and finding out who was sacking the city.

Sirius had joined him outside and Solomon sank down on his haunches next to the dog, still wide-eyed and panting hard, whining softly at his master’s soft touch. “It’s going to be okay, boy,” Solomon murmured and ran his hand through Sirius’ plentiful black coat. “Stay here with Bozo and the others. Okay? Stay.” His tone was commanding, but not unkind, and the dog settled down on his rear and licked his chops as if to say that he understood. Solomon nodded and straightened back up, though it was a while before he moved again. He stood still, eyes staring blindly into the gloom, while he processed what had happened.

“I’m going to the city,” Solomon announced a while later to the people inside as he stuck his head in through the door. Bruno and Joy were busy with Janus, so Solomon looked towards the others instead. “I have to find out what’s going on.” He hesitated for a moment. How much about his motivations should he explain? They’d probably already guessed that he wasn’t just an innkeeper, and if Breton society had collapsed there was no point in keeping secrets. But still… “Anyone coming?”

Kneeling in the corner, Sihava opened her eyes for the first time since she’d entered Bruno’s cabin. Praying to Nocturnal had yielded...predictable results. No response. Of course, the Daedric prince had never actually spoken to her, not really. She’d only ever communicated in the subtlest of ways. Often, Sihava hadn’t noticed them until they’d made themselves obvious. So she needed to make her own way, now. And she desperately wanted to know what was happening. An undead uprising and the sacking of Daggerfall, all in one night. The Serpent’s sign burning above. All of it was connected somehow. Sihava had spent her life in search of power. And knowledge was power.

Not to mention, she added to herself, I don’t much like Bruno, and as far as I can tell, he doesn’t like me. The less time I spend in his house--indebted to him--the better for everyone. Especially me.

She sent some thoughts to Solomon, then: an image of herself, an image of Daggerfall, a nebulous feeling of readiness. Nodding once, more to reassure herself of her decision than anything else, she rose to her feet smoothly, cracking her knuckles with a series of satisfying pops. Then she felt an odd sensation on her chest, and realized: there was a faint warmth emanating from her amulet. Not enough to be comfortable or uncomfortable, but more than enough to be noticeable. A ghost of a smile flitted across her face for half a moment at the acknowledgement.

Sinalare was leaning against the wall, some distance away from the rest of the group. Her hand twitched irritatedly, tapping against her thigh. She was aggravated by what was going on. She truly thought she had seen enough city-destroying level disasters when the Great War ended, and yet here one was, directly in front of her, and she stood doing nothing, safe in a shack. Irritation pricked at her the longer she stood still, anxiety about her companions and the events of the night only growing as long as she didn’t distract herself.

Solomon’s announcement was welcome. The innkeep was, clearly, more than that, but Sinalare hardly cared, so long as he continued to be as capable as seemed. She pushed off from the wall, her unsteady hand coming to rest calmly on her sword-belt. Her nerves relaxed once she knew she’d be outside again, doing something -- sitting still never agreed with her.

“I’ll come,” she announced. “I’ll be of more use out there than in here.”

He was still not used to Sihava’s arcane method of communicating but he refrained from flinching this time and merely nodded in acknowledgement. It had been a chaotic fight at the inn but Solomon hadn’t failed to notice her skills in stealth and misdirection. The Illusion magic, in particular, was impressive. Given that they were walking into a presumably hostile city, her abilities would be invaluable.

His eyes fell on Sinalare after that and he didn’t say anything for a moment. She had been antsy and restless until he had called on her and Solomon recognized that for what it was immediately. He was the same, and he felt a strange kinship with the Bosmer despite their obvious differences. The question of whether he could trust her was still alive in his mind and the idea of having someone that was once an enemy watching his back made him uncomfortable. After seeing her fight, and now seeing her fidget, he was sure that she was ex-Dominion.

But if there was one thing that old soldiers hated the most, it was waiting. He couldn’t stand it and neither could she, and now she had seized the opportunity to do something useful. Solomon couldn’t deny her that. They were all on the same team now. “Alright,” he said eventually and unsheathed his falchion. “Let’s do this.”

Leaving Sirius to rejoin Bozo and the others inside, the three of them set off towards Daggerfall, keeping a low profile and hugging the lay of the land to stay out of sight from any potential sentinels outside the walls. The once-wooded areas outside the city had made way for farmland and they moved silently through the stalks and rows of corn and grain, staying off the roads to avoid any unwelcome encounters. After half an hour they began to approach the killing fields outside of the gates and Solomon sank down in a ditch by the side of the road that led up to the walls, surveying the field in front of them.

The bodies of those slain in the slaughter they had first witnessed on their arrival remained where they had fallen, but the laughing killers had disappeared. The columns of smoke that rose over the city had thinned and diminished and less flamelight illuminated them. Most important, however, was that the bells had ceased ringing, and a strange silence had descended over the city. Solomon surmised that the people that had sacked Daggerfall had started fighting the fires, which meant that the fighting -- if there had been any -- was over. It was still and quiet outside the gates, which remained wide open, probably shattered off their hinges, and Solomon could just barely make out that the streets beyond the high arch of stone were devoid of people. Staying low in the ditch, they followed the length of the road, shrouded by the intense darkness and the shadows cast by the crops that whispered over their heads. Solomon’s anxiety disappeared with every step they took, replaced with a reassuring, iron resolve. The closer he was to danger, the less agitated he felt. It was a strange paradox that he had never been able to adequately explain, but it sure came in handy now.

After waiting in the ditch for ten more minutes to make sure that the field outside was well and truly abandoned, Solomon and the others broke cover and sped across the frozen ground -- their breaths steaming in the inexplicably cold air -- in order to kneel down by one of the corpses that had been left in the dirt. Solomon rolled it over to reveal that it was a middle-aged man, clearly in good health and garbed in fine clothes, who had been stuck through the neck with something viciously sharp before bleeding out in the mud. A merchant or an aristocrat, Solomon thought, and he mumbled something to that effect before he left the dead man to inspect another corpse.

They were all like that. Rich men and women, dressed in their evening finest, who had been run down and killed like game. An uncomfortable sensation crept up on Solomon as memories came back of his work, before the Emperor had been assassinated and he was reduced to gathering intelligence at a wayside inn, his field privileges removed -- certain groups he had investigated, festering in High Rock’s dark underbelly, who had whispered of overthrowing the rich and seizing control for themselves. With black foreboding, Solomon turned towards the city gates. His gaze lingered there for a moment. Was the gate left undefended because the unknown belligerents did not expect anyone to come from outside the city? Were they aware of the dead rising to drench the countryside in blood? Had they been counting on it?

Solomon beckoned for his allies to follow him as he crossed the remaining distance to the towering city walls and huddled up close against them, the vast shadow cast by the stone monolith shrouding them from sight, the sundered gate two dozen yards to their right. “Alright,” he whispered and looked Sihava and Sinalare in the eye as best he could in the near impenetrable gloom. “We can either chance it and go in through the gate, or we stay out here and keep moving along the wall until we find another point of entry -- a sewer grate or something. The gate appears to be undefended and I have a feeling that whoever has taken control of the city isn’t expecting anyone to come in from the outside.. That’s why I say we take the gate, but you never know. Maybe we should play it safe. Thoughts?”

A jolt of nerves hit Sinalare as the idea of crawling through a sewer was mentioned. Going underground was the last thing she’d like to do. She leaned over a little to throw a glance at the gates. It would probably be fine, right? She hesitated to voice an opinion, fearing a wrong choice.

Sihava held up her hand, the deep blue glint of an invisibility spell dancing along her fingers, and gave a little smile. Holding up her other index finger in a ‘hold on’ motion, she breathed deeply a few times to slow herself down, or to calm herself--a strategy she’d used countless times to stop herself from doing something reckless--and let the spell creep over her, fading her from sight. She stalked down the road towards the gate, making sure to remain as quiet as she could. After all, no matter how invisible you were, you could still make just as much noise. Her breaths faded to quick, light, and silent as she passed through the gate.

Sinalare pressed back against the wall, hoping Sihava would have success at the gate. “That’s effective,” she mumbled.

The streets beyond the gate that greeted her were still dimly lit by the smoldering structures of the houses that stoo I Ud there, many having gone up in flames during the night’s chaos, now reduced to standing half-structures aglow with embers, sending the occasional shower of sparks into the sky. Not every house was burnt; whether randomly or by the hand of some unknown methodology, some were spared while others had suffered. Vortices of heat swirled through the streets, mercifully banishing the freezing air that wafted into the city through the open gate, sending flurries of ash and debris scattering with every gust. Visibility was limited, as smoke still hung cloying and blue between the buildings, not thick enough to snatch one’s breath away but close to it.

Five men unexpectedly stepped out of one of the unburnt houses, oblivious to Sihava’s invisible presence. All were dressed in grey robes and they wielded weapons -- a mace, an axe, a hammer, and so on -- that were clearly coated with fresh blood. “Was that the last of them?” one, a dark-skinned Redguard, asked the others.

“Yes, brother,” a morbidly pale Breton replied and raised a hand to point, his finger extended in the direction of the heart of the city. “We should go. The High Priest will speak soon.”

“A glorious day,” the Redguard said, a beatific smile on his face, wildly at odds with the near apocalyptic scene around them.

The group of men turned around and began to walk away deeper into the city, leaving the gate still undefended and the streets empty once more. Sihava had remained unnoticed.

She grit her teeth, barely resisting the driving urge to throw them against each other with a quick rune of Frenzy at their feet. There was something more important here to worry about. She should go back. Show the image of the men to Sinalare and Solomon, recollect with them, make a plan, figure out how to do this more intelligently. They seemed smart. Probably smarter than she was at this kind of thing, at any rate. If she was back there, then they would probably grab her by the shoulders and pin her to the ground until she agreed to settle down and wait for an opportunity.

But this was a perfect opportunity, right here! Sure, she could try to slow herself down with measured breathing, like she’d done so often in the past. But...what kind of raiders wore gray robes and called each other ‘Brother?’ What kind of bandit leader was called the High Priest? What ‘glorious day’ were they talking about? Her curiosity was fatally piqued by this point, and she was inescapably in its grip. They’d said it was the last; who knew when there would be another way to find where the leader was? With a quick glance backwards--they can handle themselves, right?--she slid behind a wall and let her invisibility drop. Better to save the magicka, and she could tail idiots like these with her eyes closed. She threw out a thought over the wall, hoping that it might reach the two outside, but unsure whether or not it would: they gray-robed men, their conversation, and then, of course, Sihava behind them as they walked.

Then she followed with silent feet, trailing them into the ruined husk of Daggerfall.

When it remained suspiciously silent and Sihava did not return, Solomon crept up to the side of the gate and dared to take a peek -- only to find the streets empty and the Dunmer woman gone. “Son of a bitch,” Solomon muttered under his breath and looked over his shoulder at Sinalare. “Looks like we’ll have to make our way through the city.” He had caught a snippet of what he thought must have been communication from Sihava, but the only thing he had been able to make out was a vague impression of a group of armed men. The fact that these men were now gone, and Sihava too, meant that she was either discovered and taken by force, or that they left and she followed them. Solomon knew dark elves as headstrong and independent people, so he didn’t put it beyond her to leave them in the ash like that.

Fortunately, the ash gave them a trail to follow. Even with the fire-fueled gale that swept through the city, the footprints of the passage of such a large group could not be erased from the street fast enough to be hidden from Solomon’s experienced gaze. The Imperial and the Bosmer stuck to the shadows as well they could, but they had to kneel down in the middle of the road every so often to check the trail to make sure they were still going the right way. It was during one of these moments that they were suddenly interrupted.

“There!” came an excited voice from an alley, and Solomon looked up sharply as he leapt back to his feet. Another group of armed insurgents -- they swept out of the alley and fanned out in a circular formation immediately, trapping him and Sinalare by surrounding them. There were six in total, four men and two women. They were outnumbered three-to-one.

“Wait!” one of the women called out before Solomon could say anything. “I know his face. From the inn outside the city. The Trusty Dog, was it?”

That prompted Solomon, who still held onto his falchion tightly, to look at her more closely. He didn’t recognize her, but it looked like she had recently cut off most of her hair and her face was marked with red paint in a strange symbol… or was it blood?

“The Loyal Hound, actually,” he said tersely.

She scoffed. “What are you doing here, innkeep? You’re supposed to be dead. You, and all the other sinners out there.”

He shrugged, thunder on his brow. “Didn’t take.”

Another voice behind him spoke up. “You’re surrounded. Drop your weapons.”

Solomon’s scowl deepened. “All I am surrounded by is dead men.”

He elbowed Sinalare with one arm to spur her into action and raised the other in a bright flash of lightning that struck one of the gray-robed women square in the chest, throwing her off her feet.

Sinalare spun to face the opposite direction as Solomon, her left hand flying out in front of her, sending a blast of flame at the two nearest robed men. The flames blew them back, one dropping his sword so that he could block his face from the heat. Her right hand flew to her sword, and she moved to engage a gray-robed woman. The strange woman blocked Sinalare’s blows, once, twice, three times - the Bosmer stepped closer still, and launched her leg out in a low attack. Her shin struck the woman’s thigh, disorienting her, and Sinalare knocked her sword aside, slicing into her unguarded neck. The woman’s blood spattered and her spasming body thumped to the ground, writhing as her blood flowed onto the street.

The gray-robed figures were unprepared for the vicious onslaught of the two Great War veterans, and Solomon could see the fear in their eyes as the street lit up with flashes of lightning and bursts of flame, the blood of their comrades splattered across the cobblestones. But they found their resolve -- they were fanatics of some kind, Solomon assumed -- and put up a brave effort. He had killed the woman in front of him with his lightning bolt, its power fueled by his anger but also draining so much magicka that Solomon relied on his sword for the others. His skill and experience outmatched theirs put together and he dismantled their offense in a clinical fashion, falchion singing with the thrill of blood purchased with honest steel, his face set into a grim sneer. He parried the Redguard expertly, used his free hand to slap his weapon away and pivoted on the spot, a roar escaping his throat as he extended his blade horizontally in his spin and decapitated the man with a single, clean stroke. Another fell to a series of brutal slashes and stabs, a page from a swordsmanship instruction manual come to life, that the Breton was far too slow to stop.

Between him and Sinalare, only two of the six gray-robes remained just a few seconds after combat had erupted. They backpedaled and turned to run, cries of alarm already rising in their throats, but Solomon lifted a piece of charred debris with telekinesis and flung the projectile after them, knocking one down and sending him tumbling onto the ashen street. The other, however, was fleet of foot and Solomon cursed. “Sinalare! After him! I’ll finish this one!” he yelled and bore down on the man he had knocked down with ill intent.

Sinalare wrenched her sword out of the recently-made corpse below her. The man’s blood pooled under her feet. At Solomon’s words, the bosmer’s attention flew up to the fleeing man and she set out after him, smears of blood left where her quick feet landed on the cobblestones. She took three long bounds, raising her free hand to cast a bolt of lightning. The electric projectile launched at the zealot. A cry of pain was torn from his throat as the magic struck his right leg and he went down, wailing the whole way, his weapon abandoned. Prostrate on the ground, the last fanatic’s face filled with horror as he watched Sinalare’s last bloody steps towards him. Her foot caught his shoulder and she stepped down, hard, thrusting her sword into his chest.

She pulled back her sword, which was dripping with fresh blood. She turned to Solomon, from several paces away, and with a smile, she called, “Got him!”

With the assailants slain, an eerie, soot-filled silence descended over the streets once more. Solomon nodded at Sinalare to convey his respect and gratitude. She was his blood-sister now, a comrade-in-arms. Whatever their past differences, he felt that he could trust her. It was a weight off his shoulders.

---

Up ahead, the streets opened up into a wide city square. A large crowd had gathered there, beneath the wafting smoke and the swarms of sparks that soared on the air, staring up at a makeshift podium where three dignitaries appeared to await their execution. Those that thronged at the front were almost exclusively dressed in the same gray robes as the group that Sihava had followed to get there, but there were plenty of seemingly ordinary people further back, most of whom looked frightened and confused. More gray-robes patrolled the edges of the crowd, wielding maces and batons, and applied them liberally to keep the corralled city masses in line.

Someone, a bearded man in a white robe, wielding a massive hammer, was speaking, but his voice did not carry far enough to reach beyond the edges of his audience. Fortunately for Sihava, nobody seemed to be paying really close attention to the streets that emptied into the square -- clearly, whoever these people were, they believed they had done a thorough job at securing the city.

The wind changed, and snippets of the bearded man’s voice carried far enough for Sihava to hear. “... ever the outcast, now the brightest… as foretold by our prophet, the Lord of… on this blessed day.” She would have to get closer if she wanted to hear the rest.

Giving a quiet “tch,” she ducked behind the burned-out shell of a building. As good as she was at sneaking about, she was in the nerve center of their entire operation now, as far as she could tell. No point putting herself at risk. She steadied her breathing, calming her racing pulse. Come on, Siha. This is no different from that time in Solitude. You can do this in your sleep. She let the shimmer of invisibility cloud her over again, then slunk about the edges of the crowd, being careful to avoid any pools of ash that could leave her footprints, or the roaming grey-robed men. If she bumped into one, she knew, she was NOT going to have a good time.

Come on, big guy, she thought grimly as she slowly edged her way closer to the white-robed man, what are you saying? She was so close now to figuring out what was going on, she could almost taste it.

Her expertise paid off and the voice of the white-robed man grew in power until she could hear his words clearly. “Stendarr’s might has guided our victory here today,” he said and lifted the hammer over his head, eliciting a roar of approval from those at the front of the crowd and a demure murmur of forced assent from the rest of the citizenry. “Just as the machinations of Akatosh, Arkay, Kynareth and the other Divines have guided the victory of our brothers and sisters across the cities of High Rock. We will restore balance. The wealth and prosperity that has been hoarded by the so-called elite, the kings and lords in their castles and mansions, their lives full of avarice and degeneracy, will be redistributed among the people. Rejoice, my fellow citizens! You have been spared -- you have been deemed worthy. Weep not for the nobility that we hunted down like the dogs they are, or for those that succumbed to their sin and tried to resist the cleansing. Weep not for those outside the safety of the walls of our great city, for they shall be judged by the Serpent, and those that are pure will have nothing to fear from the servants of the great constellation.”

He took a few steps closer to the people on the platform with him, bowed and shackled, awaiting their fate. “As High Priest of Stendarr, it is my pleasure to tell you that this is merely the beginning of a new era. The gods have ordained it, and the Lord of Moths has enlightened us to this truth. How can anyone question his word now? Everything he has prophesied has come to pass. Recognize now the authority of the High Priest of Akatosh and his humble servants, or perish. Because once dawn breaks and the sun rises on Tamriel once more, on Dawn’s Beauty herself, it will be a new world. The land outside these gates will be cleansed, ripe for the taking, to feed and clothe us. A new world indeed… one that we will build together.”

Looking towards his prisoners, the High Priest raised hammer again and scowled. “But without them. No more leeches, my children. No more parasites like the so-called King and his family, or anyone that stands with them. Their unjust and sinful rule ends today.”

The High Priest’s robe stained red and the sound of the hammer being dropped, crushing heads beneath its inexorable weight, was drowned out by the bloodthirsty cheers and horrified gasps of the crowd.

The invisible thief brought her hand up to her mouth reflexively. She had no love for kings, but murder was murder, whoever the victim. She fought past the nausea, holding grimly on to her mission. Come on, Siha, focus. What did he say? The Lord of Moths? She searched her memory for anything like that--King of Worms, Wolf Queen--but nothing was forthcoming. She'd never put much stock in the divine, at least not recently, but somehow, she doubted that Stendarr--the god of Protection--would have been alright with the slaughter of last night, or that Arkay would have ordained the undead.

Still. This 'High Priest of Stendarr' did bring one comfort to her. This was happening across High Rock. Not Skyrim, not Cyrodiil, not Morrowind. Just High Rock. Lips set in a grim white line, she carefully backed away from the blood-soaked stage. Her invisibility didn't have long left. It was past time to go.

---

The triple-threat trio of Solomon, Sinalare and Sihava met up again as the Dunmer retreated from the packed executioner’s square and they abandoned the city as quick as they had entered, leaving only the six corpses of the cultists behind in the smoking corpse-hull of Daggerfall. The benefits of Sihava’s unique method of communication became evident when she was able to soundlessly relay what she had seen by projecting the memories into Solomon’s mind, who did not recoil from her arcane touch this time -- he devoured the images and the sound of the High Priest’s voice greedily as they hurried through the shadow-shroud beneath the stalks of corn outside the city walls.

It was terrible news. If all of the cities of High Rock had indeed fallen to this murderous doomsday cult, then there were precious little safe havens left in the province. But Solomon could still think of one -- a place deep in the mountains where they could rest, resupply and regroup.

“Ken Muhyr,” he whispered to himself. “I hope your walls still stand.”

Eman mazigon arli...

Welcome back, @A Man Is No One. I'm truly sorry to hear your life has been impacted so negatively by the coronavirus (and other things, I'm sure), and I hope that you can find some peace and satisfaction in writing once more.

How do you feel about the Elder Scrolls?