Francis left his words in the air, a hollow agreement with no loyalty but to the prospect of seeing dwemer die. Francis was not a brutal man, he’d spent his life cultivating an image of being the opposite of such. It was something he left for Vendel to be, but now the Nord was gone. The Nord, he though, is that what he is to me now? Is a lifetime of camaraderie, loyalty and friendship lost and forgotten so easily? Francis clenched his jaw and looked out the window, past Marassa. He immediately shifted in his seat and scorned himself for even thinking of becoming complacent and whiney. He wasn’t his father. He wouldn’t die just because he’d lost someone close to him.
He remembered when he first met the scaled beast, the Argonian. Wets-His-Blade, as he was called by some of the others. He remembered being intimidated, an Argonian who could rival Vendel in height and strength but didn’t hold the same trust between them. He was wary, something in his eyes that didn’t go well with him. He kept his eye on the Argonian for the month they trekked across the desert, not trusting everyone’s willingness to keep him around over his own instinct to avoid him and try with everything he had to kill him if the time came where he had to. But now that the great beast spoke about fighting, about war, about offensives, Francis felt like he wanted wrap his hands around the thick neck of his and squeeze.
For a moment, his anger got ahead of him. He remembered what happened when other men rushed to the fight, when others took the fray less serious than it should be. Vendel was gone and maybe even dead because of it. If this Argonian wanted to die, so be it. He opened his mouth to tell the Argonian why his words were foolish but the Orc did it first. The big one. And he did it loudly. The two great beasts in the room fell into silence and Francis readied himself to walk away from the tower and back to Wayrest if a fight broke out. The Orc, Cub, withdrew himself and asked about ruins again. Francis looked around, the rest stayed silent. He sniffed and scratched at his stubbled cheek before speaking, “Zaveed is d-” He stopped himself before he said something to the Orc he might regret, “Zaveed is missing and he hasn’t caught up with us yet. If a rebellion behind us did not help us win, one Khajiit won’t do it either. We ran from a lost cause and here we are in a lost war. In Skyrim. Nadeen said the Governor here does not hide his brutality like Razlinc.” Francis ground his teeth, two big fools, one spoke of fighting, the other told of his Messiah, “Go ahead, Argonian, Orc. Go and find them in their holes and fortresses.”
Francis turned to the Altmer in the room. He didn’t know many altmer but this one didn’t seem too much like the Thalmor. He’d been quiet throughout the journey though. Then again, so was Francis. The two were strangers going the same way it seemed. If he had indeed fought a war like this before, he’d stick close to him. The Khajiit too. But they weren’t shackles and he held no illusion of loyalty or camaraderie. He was simply here to see justice done, vengeance sated, blood spilled. Mer blood.
“When the storm passes we will move. If the storm passes slowly, we can sleep. Until the sun falls, I guess we can enjoy each other’s company. A month of walking through the desert and now this rain, I intend rest my feet in a dry place.” He said, he gave a tired smile and reached into his traveling pack, pulling out a bottle of wine, “It looked expensive when I saw it sitting on an officer’s desk. I killed him and took it. Anyone care for a drink? Elayna? Sion?” He looked to Marassa, offering the bottle.
