The Elder Scrolls: Resurgence of the Frost - IC

[O|NoSoul]

An Hour Later…

A long time coming. Irons around his wrists, bare-chested and wearing nothing but sackcloth trousers secured with a rope belt. All so he couldn't hide any blades like the plethora they'd found about his person when they pushed, shoved, and pulled him this way and that getting his clothes off. Three days spent in a dungeon long ago, a promise to himself broken that he'd never go back to one. Whatever Auriel's Harborage was to the eye on the outside of these dungeons, the dungeons were the opposite. It smelled of stagnant water and the only light around was the torch held in one of the guards' gauntleted fists stood beside Vylewen. The princess stared down at whatever sad cat Sevari looked now, sitting on an upside down bucket, legs crossed. Her accusing eyes, her hard frown, everything was just so perfectly dramatic. The princess meeting with one of her betrayers, perhaps before having him hacked to pieces, screaming all the way to his death. Her fair hair and fair skin, her court dress all in shades of blue, the pretty curves and angles of her features were all out of place here in the dungeon and stood a stark contrast to the ruined once-handsome and youthful face before her.

"Why?" She spoke. Nothing but the torch-flame's muttering for some time and casting shadows along one side of her face. Sevari couldn't speak, couldn't look her in the eye. It hurt something in him when she called him an evil bastard before. But it was just as he'd told himself over and over again- none of them could understand that it was him and his brothers or them. Especially not Vylewen. "What happened to not being my enemy? What happened to that apology? I guess it's all in the dirt now. Left overboard, sunk in the sea. I used to think there was good in you."

"All the shriveled scraps of good left in me went into what I did." Sevari said, his voice lowered to a gravelly whisper. "All the pieces of me that are blackened went into it too."

"You wanted to be the hero that swayed us from our path of allying ourselves with a wicked empire?"

"It's never black and white. The world's all grey, Princess." Sevari said, "I did what I did because I had nowhere else to go. Simple as that. Selfish as that."

"I admire your honesty. But the world's all in shades of grey, like you said. I could have you and Zaveed killed. I could tell Maricus that you two are Thalmor spies and hand you over." She said, "What shade of grey is that? Did you really think you could do this to me and walk away?"

"I've done worse and done just that." Sevari admitted, though he wasn't proud of either.

"Doubtless." Vylewen said, poison on her tongue. "You couldn't begin to understand what you've lost me by doing what you've done."

"I've lost plenty." Sevari squinted up at her, frowning. He'd left a lot of friends behind him with none but the earth and stones for company, he'd made the rest his enemies, and he even found it hard to keep company with his brothers, yet he'd made an enemy out of Vylewen, Maricus and everyone besides for them. A place in a dungeon was all the thanks it got him.

"And you hope to what?" Vylewen asked, "Pull it all back out from Teralfar's arse? You trust this man that much to give it all for him? For your brothers? You told me you never got on well with them."

"I wasn't lying. But family's family, isn't it? A form to be followed." He said, "You or me. What other choice did I have? Safety is a fucking myth in this world for men like me. If you hate me so much," And he squinted and frowned, looking her hard in her unwavering eyes, "I'm right here." He let his shoulders droop again, "But you aren't like most people. Suppose you're better than all of that."

"Maybe I am." She nodded, "I just wanted an out. A new start for my people, I did what I had to. Now you've gone and muddied the water for us. There's a price to pay for these things."

"There always is." He muttered, frowning at the hard ground. High time someone got around to collecting.

"I'm going to give you two to Maricus. Your friends already know you two are Thalmor spies and so does my father. It's only a matter of time either way for Maricus to find out. You'll be in his custody come morning." She frowned and everything was quiet for a moment before she shook her head, "This isn't the way I was hoping things would turn out. Not with this, not between you and I. Not any of this."

"Nobody gets what they want." Sevari shook his head. Vylewen frowned at him, looked away. He was sure she would say for her guards to hack him down like a pig to be butchered even if she said she was going to turn him in. Maybe it was just because he wanted her to, thought he deserved it, but people often don't get what they hope for. So much for being a bloody bastard. More like a bloody coward. She turned away for the door and her guards followed after her, taking their light with them. It didn't matter much to Sevari, being Khajiit, but being alone was something different. Before she closed the door to his cell, she turned around.

"Isnt't that the truth of it." She nodded, chuckling bitterly before looking back at him, "I thought you were trying to be a better man. You told me back at sea." She said, a sad whisper this time, like she was disappointed more than hateful for him ruining her plans. "Nobody gets what they want, eh?"

He frowned at her and looked away, "Nobody." Sometimes you have to learn the same lessons after a time away from them. She frowned and nodded before she closed the door to the cell. She locked it behind her and closed him off to the rest of the world. It wasn't a fate he wanted, but a good fate is for those who live well. He slumped off his bucket and onto the straw mound that was probably a bed, but would be one, either way. He stared up at the ceiling, trying to work out just how fucked he was. He'd buried all his friends, made enemies of the ones left standing last he had anything to do with them. So much for it.

* * *
​

Sevari picked up a stone and made ready to throw before Susanna spoke, he jumped a little, "You always come back here."

"It's what I know." He shrugged, "Cleverer men have cleverer dreams, I guess. Maybe I'm not that clever."

He reared back again but Susanna spoke again, all smiles, "You know, there's a lot in life you can run away from." She picked up a stone herself, made ready to throw, "You can put a lot behind you." She threw, she hit, "But you can't run away from yourself. Wherever you end up, there you are." Her voice all smiling sing-song.

Sevari swallowed and looked at the stone in his hand, now a knife. "I can change." He muttered. But he didn't put it down, couldn't. "I can be better." But she was gone, his promises falling on the dead ground.

* * *
​

He opened his eyes. He didn't remember falling asleep. Still in the same cell, the same smell of mold and rot, nothing changed. His mind went back to the dream, back to Susanna, and he felt a little hollow. He sat up and looked around, nothing in the cell changed. He still wore shackles around his wrists, the same threadbare trousers with a rope belt. He heard something outside the door and his eyes shot to the spot and stayed there. He heard talking, then a scuffle, then the door sounded like it was unlocked. Scuffles were never a good thing to hear. Shackles and threadbare sackcloth are never the best things to be wearing when trouble starts. He swallowed, standing up and readying himself for whatever was coming. He slunk up to the door to hide behind it as it opened and waited. Patience is a terrifying weapon that few have. The door clicked finally and started to be pushed open. He waited for the first of them to emerge from beyond the threshold and the second to inch in just enough. Then he sprang, the ironclad door slamming shut on one's head and he heard him drop. The one that just came in turned around, gasping with surprise. Sevari ducked under any blade that could be coming and wrapped his shackles tight around the elf's throat, cutting any cries for help off gurgling. They struggled, Sevari not able to help having to stumble about the room a bit before his strength prevailed and the dispute was taken to the floor. Sevari was on his back, the elf on top of him, struggling. His wrists were starting to get bloody with all the chafing tight iron and struggle. He held the elf tight, regardless, close as a lover and just stared up at the ceiling, waiting for the struggles to stop. It took some time, some waiting. All about patience, choking a man. But just like always, the elf lay still now. Sevari lifted his shackles and found they'd dug into the elf's neck in the minute long struggle. He got up, looked down at the elf and shook his head, "You or me."

He went over to his friend on the ground just as he started to wake up. Sevari waited for his eyes to flutter open and that look of confusion to spread. The look of a man who knows he's waist-deep in something but not quite knowing just yet that it's shit. Then he knew, and then Sevari nodded and brought his heel down on the man's nose once, twice, and once more. The elf wasn't moving anymore. He stepped over him and looked about the hallway lined with cells, found they'd been opened but all of them were empty. Even Zaveed's. He looked past his cell and found it was the last to be opened. He had the sinking sensation that these elves were looking for him but didn't know which cell he was in. They weren't part of Vylewen's guard then, nor the King's. That didn't bode well for a man with shackles on his wrists and threadbare sackcloth trousers to be looked for by men who seemed a bit threatening. He needed to find his knife. His quiet footsteps brought him through the hallway and to the room where his and Zaveed's things were kept. Zaveed probably left before him, maybe was taken before slipping his captors. What in the thirteen hells was happening? He pushed the door open and sure enough, the chest where they'd been keeping Zaveed's things was broken open and empty. The room was cast in flickering shadows with the light of a single lamp held in a dead guards' hand.

He had no lockpicks, but he saw that the keys were hanging from chains labeled with each of the corresponding cells. He couldn't remember what damned cell he was in and he had no time to go back and see. He just set to trying each of them until one finally clicked and his right shackle fell away and then his left. He rubbed at his wrists, wincing at the pain of them. The chest that held his things was still locked, but Zaveed had the courtesy to leave the mace he'd smashed open his locked chest with. He picked it up and went to work. The wood gave way within the first few blows and he'd smashed through easy enough. He reached in through the hole he'd made and scooped up his old clothes, throwing them on the ground and wasting no time in putting them on. He donned his padded cloth vest and his shirt and then did his belt, slipping his knife into the sheath and the plethora of others about his person. He had a feeling he'd be needing each of them before the day was through. He opened the door back into the palace proper and found the halls quiet. Eerily quiet. He walked through the halls without seeing another person. He was beginning to think he was the only one there until he went to the kitchens and saw men wrapped in grey robes wearing masks like the ones on he'd seen in the caves. He stood in the doorway as their blank white masks devoid of any feature but round eyeholes settled on him.

"You are Ja'Kiefer?" One said in perfect Nordic. Sevari said nothing, just took one step forward and when their hands twitched to the hilts of their weapons, he sprang forward with his bone-handle knife in hand, splitting one's mask, wrenching it out and catching the other in the temple, the tip of his ear falling to the ground with him. More came through the door at the commotion and he flung a pot their way and went through where he'd come in, bounding down the halls, looking for any of the others, any of the maids, anyone who wasn't masked. He rounded a corner and ducked back behind it at what he saw on the other side. The wet sound of a knife going in and out of flesh before the handmaid fell, whimpering. There were two masks on the other side. He charged out from his hiding place and plunged his longknife down to the hilt in one's belly, pitching him onto his back without his breath. The other came at him faster than he could turn and took him to the ground, fingers tightening around his neck. Sevari pushed at his face, gave a few weak punches from his tangled position. He gritted his teeth and dug his claws into the elf's throat, squeezing as hard as he could, blood welling up around his fingers.

He followed the elf as he struggled to get away, holding fast to his neck as he gurgled and hacked. Now he was on top, digging his claws into the elf's throat with an animal anger. He grunted and ripped the elf's throat open, ending him beyond any doubt. The elf's thin neck was a sticky mess of red and he wiped his fingers on the elf's shirt as if it was just a bit of grease. There was no black blood, so no blackblight. For now. He needed to find Zaveed, maybe the others. Then he'd see what needed doing and who needed it done to.

* * *
​

The throneroom was packed with the King's closest courtiers and his council. All was abuzz with whispers, speculating on the proceedings of this morning's address. The room was split down the middle, a crowd on each side of the room with the only ones in the middle were the volunteers and the legion, with Maricus at the head of both. King Erinur and Maricus stared hard at each other. Erinur hadn't spoken yet, but Maricus knew what this was about given Erinur's face. The herald called for quiet in the room and gradually, the whispers died down. King Erinur spoke after a time, "There are things brought to light that change my view of you outsiders." Some in the audience hissed at Maricus, some nodded along with the King's words if they could understand them being in Nordic, or waited for the herald to translate. "I was opposed to my daughter leaving our shores in search for help from foreign powers we had no contact with for ages. Let alone the last contact being bloodshed and humiliating servitude. You will understand why I say I view every outsider gathered here with some… distrust. My daughter is no fool but even smart ones can be led astray." Again, those in the crowd nodded along and whispered their agreement.

"What is this address about, your highness?" Maricus spoke.

"About your Empire, about your Emperor." The crowd came to life with whispers and the hum of voices all sharing the same approval, "Your Emperor, before he was killed, as I understand it, wanted to enslave the entirety of Tamriel. Now, my daughter lets it be known that we live and are weak and ripe for the slavers."

"I assure, I had no idea." Maricus said, "If I may know who gave you this information, surely you are being led astray, as you say of your daughter-"

"I am sure." Erinur boomed over the hissing and cries for Maricus' death. Some of the whispers were none too kind to the volunteers, it must be noted, "It was not your doing, you had no part in their plans, no. But an intruder here all the same. I've a mind to brush my daughter aside and do things the way I wanted to, when this all began." Whispers in the crowd, nods. "But, thankfully, I am a fair man. I try to be, in any case. I gave my ear to your two Khajiit companions, who are oddly absent. I will lend an ear to you. Why should I not have all of your heads and pray to my gods none of your brethren come? Surely, your Emperor would have it that you were lost at sea and move on."

Marcus searched for an answer, "These Khajiit, what did they say?"

"They wanted me to side with the Aldmeri Dominion. I've a mind to, but my daughter urges caution and I feel that is best. For now." Erinur said.

"You must not trust the Thalmor. They've committed great atrocities, massacred hundreds. These spies in my expedition, the Khajiit, they were Sevari and Zaveed?" Maricus asked.

"They were." Erinur nodded, "It's to be said they presented a far stronger case than yours. Your accusations come pissing over while I have a satchel detailing the atrocities and murders your ilk do unto each other. Your own citizens, for no good reason."

"I…" Maricus said, working his mouth. He looked angry for a moment, then just baffled.

"You are inching close to the chopping block, Maricus." Cold, bitter laughter from some in the crowd, hisses, boos, nods of approval for the King. "You should tread carefully, choose your words."

"This is the thing with spies. We came only to make peace with you, to offer our aid in this time and-"

"And spout the same shit that dribbles from all diplomats? Surely my kind that were twisted and warped into the forms of those we left behind in our flight from the mainland heard the same shit dribbling into their ears before being hacked down by Nords or enslaved by the Dwemer." Erinur's eyes crept over the gathered foreigners, legion and volunteer, "I can smell shit here now. Take them to the dungeons." The crowd roared their approval, eager to agree with their king and quick to hate the foreigners. Hungry for something to finally step on and lord over after living at the mercy of the blackblight, perhaps. Erinur did not smile, only frowned, his heavy crown sitting stone-still upon his troubled brow. Such is the burden of those who lead.

The doors opened but he wasn't expecting anymore guests in attendance. It wasn't his daughter, who was absent like the Khajiit, instead it was a man wrapped up in white robes. A mask was the face he offered to the onlookers, a blank white mask with nothing but perfectly round eyeholes. The room grew quiet as their attention shifted to the mask. "I've an objection." And all at once, the crowds exploded into panicked shrieks, the terrified bleating of lambs. Men with white masks were suddenly among the crowd and the Kings guards drew their swords, moving closer for a better defense of the king. From over the unexpected guest's shoulders surged forth more of the masks, clad in shades of grey, cutting at any in their way towards the legion and the volunteers.

 

[Robeatics]

The moons were quiet that first night, unmoving. She could barely register the light they gave off, tickling across the shapes of rocks and trees and countless hills. The road away from the farm was cold beneath her feet, late-night frost already crackling in her path.

She pressed further down the hallway with its ice-cold marble, seeking the heavy doors at the very end. Moonlight interrupted the darkness periodically, filtering through the windows to accent the motes of dust she stirred up in her wake. She'd have thought the moment beautiful if her heart wasn't sitting like a rock in her chest, if the nightrobes she'd been given didn't feel like a shroud of lies. She shed pieces as she went: the shimmering cloak, the delicately-woven shawl, the outer layers, until all that remained was the silky garment that kept her from wandering naked.

A merchant caravan passed, and the horses seemed to veer as far away from her as they could, trudging through mud with a hurried stomping. The man driving them along gave her filthy rags and matted hair a glare, like she might rob him any second, and they both felt relief when she disappeared over the next hill.

The guards at the doors remained stoic as she passed, apparently above stopping a half-nude human from roaming the castle at night. Flowers and moss hit her weak human nose instantly, and she breathed it in with a renewed vitality. The courtyard she'd found was a private affair, isolated on three sides by a watchtower and the alabaster walls of the castle. Magic permeated the air, as the braziers were replaced by pedestals bearing glowing orbs, and a decently-sized expanse of clear space sat before the massive balcony overlooking the coast and its adjacent forests. Her heart burned in her chest at the sight of the moons in clear view, but she turned away before it could become crippling again. Across from the balcony was an outcropping of little trees and bushes of gleaming white flowers, all bordering a bubbling fountain and a few benches. Her brow furrowed sadly.

She walked until her soles gave way to blisters, and walked until every one of them had popped. It was a desperate march, like the moons were chasing her--and they were. Every night she went through the agony of transformation, but always it was fruitless, and always the moons laughed. She wandered toward Skyrim with a new blindness, her nose feeling stopped up, her ears dull, her mouth empty without such huge fangs that came and went with her hunger. And she was hungry. Still endlessly hungry.

Different doors--or maybe the same, it didn't matter--opened into the garden. She didn't move away from the fountain, where she'd dipped her hands into the cold, clear water to wash her face. She cast a look over her shoulder instead, wanting to feel shame, or exasperation, or anything for not just staying in bed like a good little guest. All she could muster up was more guilt.

"Am I interrupting something? You should know that leaving feminine garments sewn about the floor like breadcrumbs solicits the worst kind of company." Zaveed said, holding several of the discarded clothing items Gelinda had left behind. He closed the door behind him and stepped out into the garden, filled with beautiful plants and flowers that against all odds were flourishing in the cold arctic climate. The enclosed nature of the area was in fact rather pleasant feeling, protected from the worst of the winds. In truth, there were far worse places to get lost wandering to.

He regarded the Breton woman, garbed in nothing more than a nightgown that left nothing to the imagination, before approaching and setting her clothing down and placing the robes about her shoulders. The khajiit looked at her with concern. "I'm going to assume this isn't the first time you've decided to disrobe and wander about somewhere. I imagine you're popular with all the men." he said with a weak smile, gently lifting her chin with a finger. "Tell me what troubles you, my dear. Sleep cannot find me tonight, and it's clear you cannot either, so might as well suffer in company. You've been quite off since we left Winterhold, and that attack you suffered at the supply port was more than just nerves, wasn't it?"

She anxiously clutched to the edges of the robes Zaveed draped over her shoulders, forcing herself to look him in the eyes. There could have been worse companions to find her that night; just another moment of misplaced fortune. Her throat was threatening to close up, but she managed to say, "I-I don't deserve this, Zaveed." She swallowed thickly. "And this--this isn't modesty or a desire to keep to the side." Tears threatened behind her eyes, and suddenly she couldn't breathe or speak, just sobbed and covered her face. Zaveed didn't need this, he was a rogue and a man, and despite his romantic streak she could sense that he wasn't the most emotionally-inclined.

Nothing she could do could keep her from selfishness--crying in front of Zaveed, shoveling her weakness upon him without warning, forcing him to half-carry her to the ship, it was guilt upon guilt. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she whimpered, when the weeping subsided and she found herself seated on a bench, "I've been avoiding this. I…can't lie to you." She stared into her hands and only glanced up at him once, as if he'd claw her eyes out and throw her over the balcony any second. "If you were wondering why--why I don't travel with my family, it's because they…" She clenched her teeth in absolute agony, shoving another bout of sobs back. "They cast me out. I was--monstrous. My poor siblings could barely keep my vanity in check." The lies slipped past her tongue like rivulets of honey-wine, indiscernible among the truths."My poor parents. I stole from them when I could, just to get a taste of the finery the folk we entertained had...it was only when my Pa caught me stealing from a family friend did he decide I'd do well enough on my own."

She dug her fingers into her hairline, and leaned forward to hide her face. "I…roamed for a while. Still as wretched as the day I left my family. I climbed into people's windows and stole their precious few possessions just to keep myself alive. Sometimes they were asleep...o-other times I just drew a blade and--"She punctuated that with a short, huffing sob. "…That attack you saw has always cursed me. My chest tightens up like the grip of Malacath and it can take hours to subside. I'm sorry. I should have told you about it instead of hiding from you like a coward."She furrowed her brow mournfully. "I didn't want you to think I couldn't h-help…"

Zaveed let Gelinda speak, spilling out years of pent up guilt and sorrow. He wasn't ideally equipped to handle this; indeed, he was hardly a person who was used to someone spilling their guts in the metaphorical sense, and he had certainly never had to console a grieving woman enough times to really know what to do. Instead, he drew her into an embrace and let her cry into his chest.

"Come now, you and I aren't so different. I was taken from my family at an age I don't even remember them and forced to serve aboard a ship with a bunch of men of ill repute who made it abundantly clear if I didn't make myself useful, the sharks would at least dine well after the archers had a bit of practice." He said, running a hand up and down her back reassuringly. "So, I laboured away. Learned how to cook, clean, mend armour, and eventually weapons. One day, I got good enough for them to give me one. And instead of turning the weapon against those who took me against my will, I let them teach me how to be a pillager, a murderer. I am a product of their environment, and I make no apologies for it. I am who I am because of them, not because I chose to be. What I chose was survival."

The khajiit held Gelinda at an arms length by the shoulders suddenly, his face steady. His gaze was solemn, years of hard earned experience showing from behind pale blue eyes. "You should never apologize for surviving. Lesser people look down on us because of the choices we were forced to make because they've never had to go on the wrong side of the law just to live another day. Whether it's stealing or killing or worse, we become what we have because the world demanded it from us, or we would perish into nothingness, forgotten and alone. It is our nature, as human and khajiit, to survive at any cost. It is not our fault that many have grown soft in their protected and wealthy cities.

"You are not a villain or a monster, Gelinda. You're a resourceful woman who has defied what the world has thrown at her and has come out stronger. Look at you, already a distinguished fighter and on a quest that only a handful of people in history will ever witness. I admire you, in truth. I do not pity nor scorn you, I respect you and I value the time I have spent in your company. Do not be ashamed of your tears or your wounds, physical or mental, they simply were someone's failed attempts to stop you. Never let them." He said with a smile. He placed a warm hand on her cheek, rubbing a tear away with a thumb. "You aren't alone. You aren't rejected. You matter."

She wiped at her eyes as Zaveed spoke, the urge to weep for her guilt shifting into an urge to cry for Zaveed's kindness. But something about it only worsened the situation she was in. She'd heard all sorts of reassurances just like that before, but they were always ignored when her truest nature was laid bare. She would never make that mistake again.

She tucked her legs in atop the bench and she nestled her side into his torso, her eyes now aching but dry. The moons were lower in the sky, now, a hint as to how late it was. The sun would rise in a few hours. Regret washed over her. She'd just lied to a man willing to accept the evil in her--would he accept her blatant distrust as well? Brigands didn't take lies lightly, if the tales were true. "Thank you, Zaveed."She sniffed. "There are elves who could live for centuries and only be half as wise."For once, she meant it. Zaveed was one of those people whose presence inspired thoughtfulness, even when he was toying with his façade of rugged, unaffected charm.

"Was it frightening, being a boy on a pirate ship?" She rested her forehead against his neck, shielding herself from the judgement of the moons' eyes. She felt unusually emboldened, even when questioning someone's bravado could be the first step to making them dislike you. She couldn't help but want to know him from beyond the position of a faithful little bootlick. "My Ma grew on the High Rock coast. She used to describe the fear of the commoners when they saw those sails nearing."

The corsair took a seat next to Gelinda, stretching out his legs ahead, crossed at the ankles and leaning his shoulders against the bench, all so he could gaze at the brilliantly clear sky above. "Oh, definitely." he admitted. "I don't remember the earliest years well, just that I was terrified of everyone, so hard and powerful and absolutely repugnant smelling. I'd seen the fruits of their raids, the blood covering them, both theirs and otherwise, the wounds and amputations, the screams of dying men. I remember spending hours a day trying my damnest to scrub the deck clean, slick and sticky with drying blood. Turns out, it's quite stubborn. I got used to it, even eventually coping by finding enjoyment and humour out of the blood sport."

He pointed and gestured animatedly as he continued to speak, his voice changing to something akin to forced mirth. "'Oh look! Bill couldn't get the rings off, so he had to take the whole fucking hand!', 'Reylion, you look so fierce with an eye missing!' 'J'Orga, were you aiming for his heart or his asshole?' On and on it went. Death was the greatest teacher. I saw things no man should have, let alone a boy.

"But the more I indulged in their world, the more they let me in. The more they let me in, the better food I got, and eventually they stopped looking at me as a helpless whelp and something akin to a brother. Closest thing I had to a father was the Breton man who taught me how to read both books and maps alike. For the longest time, the only women I knew were only the killers on our ship or the women we paid in the brothels. Imagine my shock when I survived the Imperials raiding our ship and me having to find some form of meaning with my life afterwards. A few hard slaps later told me enough about women afterwards." he chuckled softly, his eyes darting to follow a shooting star, captivated by the show above.

"It relieves me to say I've never been to High Rock. I should like to go there some day, maybe when this is over. I hear the climate is agreeable. It is strange, the sky is so much different in the South than it is up here. The stars are all wrong, the moons in the wrong place. This, more than the snow and ice and burly humans with bad beards, tells me I am not where I belong."

The only time Gelina could think of when she belonged was in the priory, with Androla and Tonfir. Her heart ached, for once not from her old affliction. She followed the same falling star, sighing with a new tiredness. "I've visited High Rock." The hills overtook everything. The winds of the sea bounced over them and struck the eastern mountains, carrying the scents of villages, animals, people--the wind struck her eyes first, stinging and salty, slicking her fur back as she stalked along the coast--"I wouldn't mind visiting Daggerfall again, perhaps. The view from the rooftops was spectacular. I could see every chapel and guard tower, and above them the castle and the…the countryside." She yawned, straightening. "I shouldn't keep you out here."

She thought of returning to her chambers alone and glanced down at her feet, stretching out her legs. Her fingers were growing stiff quickly, but she found a way to brush them against his tail as it flicked languidly behind them. "…It'd be a long walk back to my room." She tried to search his face, desperate to find approval. This was too close, too vulnerable. The star was gone over the horizon, only a memory now, flickering and dying somewhere in the night. The moons neither rose nor fell. Time stood perfectly still, settling on her shoulders to share in her apprehension. He can't be so invested in you without wanting something. Give it to him. Don't disappoint. She tried to wipe away the redness of her eyes with the end of her shawl, but couldn't discern its effectiveness. She was pathetic. She needed to show him.

Zaveed offered Gelinda an empathic smile, cupping her cheek in his furred hand, wiping an errand tear from her eye with a uncharacteristically gentle stroke. "I will escort you back to your room, it is the least I can do for you on an evening such as this." He paused, his body growing rigid for a moment. This hardly felt like the typical courtship with one of his many flings; Gelinda seemed emotionally invested, and that was something utterly alien to the khajiit. Unlike other woman, he didn't want to use her for her body and a single night's comfort, but he couldn't afford to be invested, not on the eve before he had to move forward with the Thalmor plot. There was also the simple concern that he simply didn't know how.

Damn the gods, why must you make things so cumbersome? Zaveed thought, removing his hand and crossing his arms. To his credit, he most certainly looked sheepish. I feel like a bloody child.

"Look... everything you are asking of me sounds like something I would almost certainly jump at if I simply knew how. I do not really know what I am doing, at all, with any of this. And tonight, well, let's just say you may think differently of me tomorrow.

"There's some things I must attend to, and I am afraid of complicating matters. You probably won't understand, not right away, but if you give me the chance... I would be glad to tell you anything on our way to High Rock. I'm asking you to do the impossible; trust me, no matter how things may look. Just promise me you will give me the opportunity to talk to you tomorrow." He pleaded, knowing full well he was dangerously close to tipping his hat on the plot he had laboured for weeks to keep secret. Now, on the eve of revelation, he had allowed himself to be entangled with someone.

Oh, what a hypocrite Sevari would think I am if he were here to witness this.

A new heaviness fell on the conversation, and Gelina stared up at him with mournful eyes. "I understand, Zaveed." She went right back to picking at her shawl. "I'm sorry for doing this. It's shameless. Say the word and you'll never have to see this from me again." She almost hoped he would. Then they could go back to side glances across the wagons, secret looks that gave her a good sort of anxiety. She could go back to her dance, uninterrupted, unhindered. She stood and made to gather her shawl around herself. "I don't want to keep you. It's nice of you to escort me." She offered a hopeful smile on her way to the double doors, pulling one of them open with a soft rush of wind. The hall was as cold and empty as ever, but the moons' light skipped across the smooth stone floors and clashed with the orange of the braziers, illuminating them as they walked.

 

[Poeta Perdido]

The Dunmer stood with intention. His seat fell backward, hitting the floor hard like the bodies of those near the assailants garbed in grey. Guests in the hall huddled shoulder to shoulder as they made to escape. Most fell, the aimless slashing of blades cutting down one or two, but wounding many with every strike. A proper coup d'etat or senseless act, neither mattered much to Juin. He reached to his belt to find no knife and on his hip no sword. Shrill cries sped his mind though and his eye fell upon the fallen chair before the idea blossomed. Juin slammed a boot onto the bottom of the leg, cracking the wood. He did it twice before taking up the impromptu clubs and peering into the crowd.

Others took up arms as well. While the Dunmer made his way toward the King Snow, he watched as young legionnaires looked about wildly. His heart sank at the sight of their eyes. One soldier, a lad who visibly shook, grit his teeth and swung his axe into those immediately near. A man dressed in fineries fell to the boy soldier consumed by fear. Juin's jaw clenched. He wondered how many of the young Nords and Cyrodiils would distinguish one elf from the next. How may would submit to the fog of war all too easy and kill until they fell or found themselves amidst a sea of dead mer. Is this the Legion I swore myself to?

"Good King Erinur, Lord of the North, a faithful cousin at your defense!" The Dunmer exclaimed a foot out of reach of the royal guard. He caught a glimpse of the Erinur's eye his way before turning to battle.

Those of the court flooded first to the hall's doors. Bodies piled up in front of each, fallen to the grey-garbed, and perhaps the only thing slowing their advance. Others further into the hall, those like Juin, either made to hide behind the great white pillars of the throne-room or rushed toward the king. Too many ran toward screaming and sprayed with blood. The Dunmer scanned the first swarm as they neared.

He swung his clubs low, tripping the frightened folk. "Stay down if you want to live!" The sound of plate clanged from behind, perhaps a soldier shocked by the action, but he felt no steel pierce him. Better, the folk kept low too. "Let the assassins stand. The rest to your bellies," Juin shouted, catching a few more with his club.

Nearly a dozen lay before the throne before the game closed. The Dunmer watched as the blood-blinded legionnaires crossed swords with the grey-garbed. Enough of them swarmed into the throne-room to effectively surround the soldiers, leaving others to advance toward more royal pursuits. Those others eyed Juin strangely as they approached. One came faster than the rest, swinging their short-sword. Juin caught the blade with his club and jerked hard. The sword hung in the wood as the second club smashed the against their face. Blood trickled onto the grey cloak on their neck, leaving them to fall onto their brethren. Two more lunged toward stabbing the business end of their blades toward his gut. The Dunmer jumped aside, landing a foot sloppily onto one of the lying folk. Falling backward, Juin threw the club-sword toward the assailants. He rolled down the steps atop the whimpering royals until he met even ground. His back and chest felt strangely damp. Juin jumped to his feet, however, eyeing the grey-garbed who'd been watching the fight from below. He brought his remaining club down on the first two before they could register the sight. Their bodies fell limp, heads misshapen, and rolled as he had onto the folk on the throne-room floor. Strange, though, those below the stairs stayed silent all the while. Juin touched his tunic damp with blood and eyed the corpses.

The Dunmer charged onto the stairs less a man than beast. Several had advanced when he fell, and the royal guards held most at bay. A few kept back, however, unaware of death looming from behind. Juin grabbed the nearest grey-garb by the collar and pulled hard. The man fell, dropping their blade, and recoiled upon hitting the stairs. Mercy came by way of a boot-heel. He made equally short work of another too slow to catch his club.

Juin felt his heart beating hard and his senses sharpen. A cool sobriety overcame him, one in which mer and beast might come depending on the challenge. Basically, he felt good. The hardened expression of war nearly broke to a smile as he returned to his original spot on the stair and turned to face the next rush. Yet, in turning he felt such a sting that his eyes shot wide. He struck about with his club wildly until the chill poke warmed. Staggering, Juin spun to meet spear wielding grey-garb at the foot of the stair. A second lung caught the Dunmer in his left shoulder. He fell backward off the blade, red blooming on his gifted tunic, and he began to slide down the stairs toward his assailant. The smug bastard watched Juin fall closer too. Finally, spear leveled as the grey-garb prepared the death blow.

When the staff fell the Dunmer questioned his sight. He looked to the grey-garbed's mask and regarded a white, glistening missile piercing the nape of their neck. Juin stared a while before feeling hands fall upon his shoulders. Pain surged from his wounds, but as he floated up the stairway and was laid beside the throne, the sacrifice seemed small. Others soon joined him too. The whimpering folk who'd run toward before were now being thrown back behind the guard. Juin gazed upward upon King Erinur who could not spare even a glance and thought on his decision.