The Elder Scrolls: Resurgence of the Frost - IC

[Voltair]

Damn, Jei-Tah thought as the mohawked one called his bluff before the addict had his say. To which the argonian growled flatly, "No." He didn't bother looking at the two parasites that had latched themselves to his table as he took another sip of the wine that was offered to him. It was true, Jei-Tah had no intention of doing anything to jeopardize his role in the coming expedition, and he was never one to resort to violence over such trivial matters anyway. But the threat was worth a try since nobody else knew that.

The argonian set his cup down and stared ahead idly at a random spot on the wall. "I will tolerate your presence because I've come to realize that I will be stuck with you for the foreseeable future anyway, so I may as well get a free drink for my trouble." He turned to look at the talkative one, "If nothing else, at least you're observant. Doubly impressive considering how surprised I am that you can see anything past that mouth of yours. There may even be a spine holding holding that big head above the ground, most people don't give a second thought when I tell them I'll do something. I imagine it's my compelling argument."

Jei-Tah turned back to his drink and gave it another swirl. "You may want to consider speaking at a lower volume while we travel though. If we encounter an ambush, you'll likely be the first to catch an arrow otherwise."

 

[Dervish]

"Me? An exile? Preposterous!" Zaveed offered a cheeky grin to his khajiit counterpart. "I happened to come to port on a very reputable ship with papers in order. After all, there's not much the guards can do to bar someone who isn't a member of a skooma-shoving caravan. Besides, I prefer my vices to be temporary distractions instead of lifelong hindrances. That in mind, I've had to kill men while hung over before… you tend to notice how unpleasantly noisy skirmishes are then." He laughed, leaning back and placing his boots on the tabletop, tankard cradled in folded hands. "And naturally, I intend for this evening to be pleasant all around. Far be it from be to bar your enjoyment of the locals, I primarily wanted to ascertain that those I will be braving the perils of the weeks ahead were rather amicable, and alas, I was not disappointed."

Zaveed smirked at the argonian when the other khajiit deflected the conversation. "There's a good man, I know companionship must be the most excruciating of tortures for you, but at least you understand the value of a drink. And perhaps it was my intention to distract our abhorrent foes to distract our fair lady from their vile clutches? Besides," he waved a dismissive hand. "It's not as if I'm a stranger to having arrows, bolts, bolas, hatchets, javelins, knives, tankards, bottles, and the occasional bystander launched at my person. Fortunately, I'm rather quick and I find such affairs quite amusing. You aren't the first large giant-spawn figured individual I've spoken to, won't be the last, I'm certain. I often find that people of considerable stature simply rely on that to force others into submission, but they lack finesse, almost as if they find it inconceivable to rely on anything other than bulk. But you, my friend, I can tell are no such man. You have your share of scars and are hardly boisterous, not a man who feels the need to prove himself." Zaveed raised his tankard in a salute. "I rather like you already, my friend. But what does one call you? I'm sure you have more than a few tales of your adventures, and I am most curious as to what got you to this point." He tapped the table with a claw.

 

[Poeta Perdido]

"I rather like you already, my friend. But what does one call you? I'm sure you have more than a few tales of your adventures, and I am most curious as to what got you to this point," the khajit mused as his claw tapped against the wooden table.

There was a peculiar tension surrounding the table as the two khajit and argonian spoke. Each seemed keyed into one another, despite the drink in their bellies and light of the hearth on their fur. They spoke as warriors might circle one another. Your appearance, your sword; your words, your eyes. Uncertainty is that which keeps each combatant from striking. A keen eye or thoughtful tongue challenges what appears to be a strength, such as the glistening steel or rugged armour, and uncovers the weakness both men and mer yearn to hide. Each of them drank, but each remained attentive. Each remained respectful -- more or less. Lesser beings might lunge and lesser beings might eat cold steel in their haste. Juin did not see lesser beings before him.

The dunmer held his spiced wine and approached the table. Juin walked slow, clearly hesitant, and seemingly quite nervous. His approach was quite the opposite of puffing your chest and telling intimidating tales. In fact, he preferred a quieter appearance. The type that set expectations quite low, easy to achieve even by the most cowardly of folk. Better that way, Juin thought. Better to be assumed when you have a secret, than to weave a story dense with lies, especially with so much at stake. He stood behind the storyteller khajit a moment until the others looked to him and his awkward looming.

"Uh, well," the dunmer stammered, "If I may... you all are signed to the expedition? I am too. I was wondering -- if it's no bother -- if I might join you all. If that's alright, of course. If not... well, I understand. I hope I'm not interrupting."

 

[Cpt Toellner]

Allectus's own words were ringing in his ears as the Dunmer spoke up, himself paying little mind to the mer. Abassador Valeres, astonishing how easily that rolled off the tongue, a fitting title at last it would seem. This would indeed be the start he so desperately needed, a few years with these Falmer, learn their culture, eat their food, and pass on everything to the young Emperor. Visits back to the Imperial Palace would be spent telling tales to Tactus, sharing the secrets of this lost culture as he fell further and further into favor with the Imperial family. If it was appropriate, Allectus could even bring himself to take a snow-elf for a wife, concreting himself as the bond between the two races and doubling his importance to the world. With his reputation so positively bolstered, he would find himself as the Falmer representative at the Elder Council. Assuming these snow-elfs were worthy of their reputation of course.

The Imperial closed his eyes for an extended period of time, tuning into the Dark-Elf's banter about volunteering. This was indeed a dreary individual, just as all of his kind it seemed, so easy to find double-meaning in every simple word. Allectus could feel the skin on his face tighten as he started to actively listen, was this fool really talking about something as mundane as the word he used to describe them? Years of toned etiquette took over however, causing the ambassador to nod his head slowly in acknowledgement of what was being said, betraying no trace of emotion. What this dreary fellow said last however, is what really stood out to Allectus, his eyes opening wider and causing him to gaze at the dark-skinned mer for a moment. Was that a threat?

Years of being with the man, Allectus had a sense for his bodyguard, and he could feel Antone tense up behind him. Even the light scrape of metal could be heard as the mute reached reflexively for the sword hilt that was no longer there. Allectus would not allow this night to be spoiled with Dunmer blood, not tonight, he let out a relaxed breath, silently urging his man to stand down. He played Drevin's comments off as drunkenness or simple ignorance, but still a stinging suspicion lingered. A mental note then, to find someone trustworthy and convince them to watch his back on this journey. Money can buy many things, added security could be one of these. It was doubtful that the mercenaries on this mission would have little qualms about offing a troublesome Dunmer if the price was right.

However, just as Allectus opened his mouth to deliver a reply both sly and polite in nature, the conversation was salvaged by the most unlikely of heroes. The beast of colors spoke in his rough tongue, but his words did have a form of positive simplicity to them that caused even the Imperial to turn his tight lips in a subtle smirk. Ambassador Valeres shifted his weight, attention on the Argonian as he spoke, slowly relaxing as he listened. The offer of safety made by Paints was certantly a welcome thought, even if it was dismissable. "So it seems my friend," Allectus spoke at last, finding himself amused by the skill this Argonian had with words, a rare quality in his race.

"And a pleasure to meet two such individuals on a night such as this," Allectus said, ending introductions. This Paints fellow, he showed promise already, even if the truth of his knighthood were still debatable. Still, no move was made to sit down as requested, as he wove a hand at the offer of wine. "I think tonight should be one of sobriety for me," he said, adding a polite lie, "but perhaps all of us shall partake in some celebratory spirits after we lift these Snow-Elfs of their plight?" Still the Argonian insisted he join them, a possibility, but the mention of Antone brought caused Allectus to smile, always embracing the chance to introduce his personal muscle.

"Ah, I'm arfaid that would cause for quite the dull night. You see, my man here lost his tongue years ago" he said, waving a hand behind him to which Antone bowed slowly. "Allow me to introduce Antone, my personal bodyguard and steward. I assure you he makes up for his loss in conversational skills with his ability with a blade, but he also holds his weight in some of the other duties required by the many positions I hold. He will be handling my affairs while we travel about, a shame he has to miss out on the excitement, but I have every bit of confidence that there will be no loss of good times and strong fighters if the present company is anything to base judgement on."

Just as he was considering a seat, the elder guard returned to the ambassador's side, the faint smell of ale rolling off his breath as he leaned close to the Imperial and spoke in low tones. "A few more in the Grey Quarter, some more of your volunteers as we hear...sir." Allectus rolled his eyes over to the man, still facing the table as he spoke below his breath. "You know where I live, if I find any useful notes before leaving tomorrow, I can ensure that you will be properly rewarded." The Nord nodded and spun back to the entrance. Quickly, Antone pulled out a chair from a neighboring table and sat it at the head of the one featuring Paints and Drevin.

Allectus took his seat with care as he nodded in agreement at the Argonain. A silly topic perhaps, the naming of a group with only limited time together, but a pleasant one nonetheless. The imperial wove his hand and the mute guardian walked to the bar, the usual routine for the two of them. He would return with a cup of water, flavored with lemon, and take his place back at the bar, watching from afar as he enjoyed the benefits of Allectus's pay. "I would say the best names are given after the fact," he said, adding to the topic, "perhaps we should leave the naming to the masses as they hear of the tales we return with?" He rose his brow, betraying a small amount of amusement, "for official purposes, I feel 'Envoy' is the most appropriate, but who am I to prevent a flashier title?

 

[Tick]

The Gray Quarter was full of white, the gray sky was blotted by white, and everything was cold. Skyrim was cold to start, but Windhelm was the icy tit that nursed the whole. Locals drunk the crisp, fresh air and strolled in furs while festival guests slapped on two heavy extra layers and darted between shelters like the streets were blazing coals.

But the sweet old city had the charming cracks and wrinkles of an aged farmer or warrior, toughened and softened by the years. And it was veiled by the lively, vibrant decor of the celebration. Lots of gold and white and deep reds. Even in the Gray Quarter, where some dunmer tried to make use of the occasion. And he'd spotted shiny banners from the Empire and Dominion both in official parties.

Oyd smiled at a young, dressed-up dunmer girl picking at a stray splinter fraying from her small stand, the thin counter neatly covered by a quilt and lined with wooden structures. Statues, frames, simple crafts. Almost all in theme with the celebrations of peace between nations, between mer and man.

"Did you do all of these?"

The girl pried the loose wood off and glanced up. The distinct red eyes flashed and stood out from the subdued blacks and grays around them. "My mom did. She's making me sell them," the dunmer pouted.

"Parents are a pain, aren't they? It's a wonder why we keep them. I'll take one off your hands -" Oyd found what looked like a small wreath, or something to hang one in the middle of. It had a detailed border and swirled around a man and mer, holding hands in such a way that the void between them shaped a heart. Oydiswen couldn't tell if it was dead-serious or a joke by the artist. It was sickeningly sweet, and his mother would have hated it.
He swiped it up with a huge grin and showed it to the young merchant. "This one."

"Ugh." The girl's small gray nose scrunched up, "Hairy Nord cooties. My mom is so weird."

Odd laughed and added a few extra coins with the cost. When the girl glanced behind him, his head followed, and turned to another yellow face. And it was no friend. Oyd's smile was tighter this time. "G'Afternoon! And what can I do for a good brother of the sunny homeland?"

Jyttril
12 Frostfall, 4E208
Candlehearth Hall, Windhelm

The first day of travel was tomorrow. The night was young on his last festival day in Windhelm, and Jyttril was wasting it somber and sober. His throat itched for some northern mead.

He swung toward the warmth and crackling fireplace in Candlehearth's Hall. An inviting and spacious tavern catching all kinds who felt disgusted or unsafe in the Gray Quarter - the majority and the more "proper" types, and the Nord's place to be. Jyttril caught grumbles and mummers from some older ones when he passed by, sore and bitter from the Civil War. He was breathing their air, a little yellow shit from the Dominion. No surprise. Little holds as much loss as a lost war, and an altmer - this whole festival - rubbed their nose in it.
Jay pushed through the swarm to the taproom's counter. Elda handled the crowd well, but the week's frenzy showed, and the wash of faces crying for more made service slow. Waiting for his turn would take hours. Jay made a dramatic wave, flashed some coin, and loudly called, "Need some mead over here!"

Jay slammed the liquid down and flung up the empty cup with a crew of others for more, cheering. His amber eyes flickered about the room for a drinking competitor or a game as Elda floated by and refilled the tankards, catching sight of that argonian. Knight. Blinding orange bleeding down his sharp green face. The altmer bound from his seat and strode over the other side. Halfway through his ears caught up with him -

"-ight should be one of sobriety for me,"

Imperial? It sounded like - it was - an Imperial...Jyttril stopped and breathed out an internal groan. It sounded like an uptight Imperial. Imperials were Jyttril's least favorite child. A less competent Oyd of the Tamriel family. A good Imperial was a good partner, flexible, enduring, open to outsiders. A bad one...Jay wouldn't know whether to pick that or a spoiled Thalmor.

The Imperial waved at the other man, who moved a ways off after. Jay jumped in front of the cheerless joker behind him, blocking view. His energetic eyes locked on the Knight, big teeth shining on the deep tan face. "Hey! I've seen you before, with the recruiter? "Knight of Colors," right? Y'Got whispers all over Windhelm with that show. It's 'bout time an argonian walked inside Windhelm's walls."
"I'm recruited for the expedition, myself, and thought I'd say 'hello.'" He offered his hand, "Jay."

The mer tossed back and leaned on the creaking counter between the argonian and Imperial - who materialized from nonexistence to the focus of Jyt's attention. "Did I hear right? No drink? Is it the masses blocking you? Are you trying to one-up a high elf in pretentiously sticking a needle up your arse?' His eyes narrowed to study the stranger's face, a sly realization stretching his lips ear to ear, "You've got the look, for certain! That sharp and angular face - the cheekbones, the small frame, the fair skin. Ya coulda fooled me. But you're missing the golden warmth of the sun in your cheeks." Jyttril's hand raised to pat the face like a child, and smirked when he got the silent man a ways to stir. His hand loosely bared its palm and retreated, grabbing the fat tankard. "Tonight's the last we celebrate for Tamriel, sobriety's for a man alone and surrounded by enemies. Have a drink, on me! Some mead!" The liquid slapped against the cup's mouth as it rushed to the Imperial's aid.

 

[Voltair]

Jei-Tah pretended to ignore the dunmer that hovered near their table while Mohawk spoke, but he did indeed keep him within his peripheral vision. Hoverers made him nervous. But his attention was brought back to the conversation at hand when the khajiit asked for his tale. "What brought me to this point? I assume you really mean to ask, for what reasons have I volunteered my services. Since obviously my feet brought me to this place." The argonian shrugged, "the simple answer is likely the same as yours I'd guess. Money. A more comprehensive answer involves a history of violence and bloodshed that spans decades, which taught me the applicable skills for this journey. But it's a history I'm not particularly interested in reliving. I left that life long ago, and the only reason I'm coming back to it, briefly, is because I made two hundred septims just for writing my name on a piece of paper that says I would escort an elf back back to her home with the Imperial ambassador. I'm hoping the job will remain so simple. And I'm not your friend."

The partial truth came easy. Jei-Tah knew that an event such as the Snow Elves revealing their existence could never pass without complications. And deep within the recesses of his conscience, he felt the desire for conflict clawing, scratching. Making it's presence known. He glanced down as his hand twitched at the thought of his blade rending flesh once more. Though he'd learned to control his craving long ago, the urge was definitely still there.

His eyes shifted back up as the dunmer he'd noticed decided to make his intentions known, that being a request to join the table. The argonian replied with a sigh of exasperation. This tavern wasn't big enough. He waved a scaled hand dismissively at an empty space and said, "Might as well. Ive come to accept the fact that I clearly won't be getting any peace or quiet until I turn in for the night." He glanced back over at Mohawk, "And it's common courtesy to provide your own name before inquiring after another. Even if you did provide drinks."

 

[BKenScout]

Driven watched the liquid in his glass swirl around and around, bored by Allectus's suspicion and his bodyguard's, Antone's, premature worry for his master's life. If I wanted to kill you, Driven mused, I'd meet your eyes as I took it... Or fire an arrow right through that thick bull skull of yours. His eyes scanned the crowd packed into the inn as he tapped his foot rhythmically. Vanguard, Guardians, Envoy... What did it matter what they were called? He rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"I hate to say so, but our Imperial friend here is right - names usually come after the fact. If we name ourselves, then it will be seem like we're trying to make a name, no?" He took a deep breath in through his nose, hovering right over his glass. "Smells as strong as it tastes. That's a good drink," He praised, barely paying attention to their discussion at the table as yet another person joined them. His gaze met that of one of the Imperial ladies from before - Camilla, he believed her name was. With a nod, he raised his glass and gave her a rather haughty smirk. She turned away and continued dancing, but not before returning the smile a bit coyly. Drevin returned his attention to the group at hand.

Their newest companion was an altmer... He seemed young - hell, anybody with eyes could see that he was younger still than the dunmer sitting at the table. Drevin put little value to age, however, as it wasn't always a reflection. He'd met old elves who never left home and believed they still had the wisdom to shed light on issues with which they had no involvement. Often, the archer would brush them off or let them talk to their heart's content before making his own decision. The young elf was actually quite excitable, it seemed, and Drevin nodded to him in greeting.

"Drevin Sarandas," He said in introduction, but again he did not rise to meet the newcomer. "Pleasure to meet you. Let's hope that we can make this trip a safe and easy one for us all," The dunmer toasted with a wave of his hand. "All quite a strange combination we already have here. From where do you hail, Jay?" He asked, studying the High Elf, meeting his gaze, "You do a lot of traveling?" Everybody else was so talkative, Drevin thought to himself, it made him a bit ousted. But at the same time, inconspicuous was what he usually strove for.

 

[O|NoSoul]

"These jobs are never as simple as they are described to be," Sevari would know, given his allegiance and mission, "but given the wide range of individuals on the roster, I'm sure our only worries will be with eachother. The Sea of Ghosts is going to be free of one of its most infamous pirates during the journey, I hear." Sevari flashed a glance to Zaveed but a Dunmer looming behind him caught his eye.

There were men and mer one knew trouble followed. It was a different feeling Sevari got when he looked at the Dunmer. He was unassuming and seemingly harmless. Seemingly. Sevari knew the tradecraft and he'd brushed shoulders with every type of killer. Given the Gray Quarter though, a Dunmer lowlife was definitely not rare and when the Argonian invited the Dunmer to sit, Sevari gestured to a chair next to Zaveed and across from himself. If things went south, Dunmer-Girl, whatever her name was, would be losing her Khajiit-shaped seat in lieu of the floor and the table could be flipped.

"Khajiit's name is Sevari." Sevari nodded, "This One's name is…" He looked to Dunmer-Girl when he found himself at a loss for a name to give.

"Maryon." Dunmer-Girl introduced herself, "Pleased to meet all of you. You all are friends?"

"Friends? No. Do we know eachother? Only that one." Sevari pointed to Zaveed.

"What is your name, Strange One? Drink with us and tell us your tale. You are interrupting nothing but what could have escalated into bloodletting." Sevari spoke to the Dunmer who'd just sat. He was an odd one. Sevari would keep an eye on this one. The others, he knew what they were hiding. Zaveed would tell his jokes and stories and so long as no trouble was had, no one would be knifed. The big one was an open book, not wanting to talk but telling Sevari everything of himself immediately. That colorful Argonian would be harmless. Maybe. But the Dunmer across from him, he didn't trust him.

 

[Mosis Tosis]

When he heard about Antone's lack of a tongue, Paints instinctively began to flex his own, letting it dart, forked and probing, through his smiling teeth. "A shame indeed," he said, a hint of teasing in his voice, his wine-stained tongue flashing into sight one final time, "for he really shall be missing out on the adventure of a lifetime. Perhaps we can take solace, however, in the knowledge that the story will be in no part diminished for his absence...without a tongue, his own recollections of the events would not have made a very engaging tale, eh?" He laughed at his own joke, slapping an open palm down onto the table top once again. "I kid, of course," he assured the bodyguard when he had quieted. "I truly mean no offense. If your sword is even half as sharp as your gaze, I'm sure you make a fearsome combatant.

"But I am a fool, of course," he continued with a long sigh, leaning back into his chair, preparing another cup of wine. "Names must come after the facts. We are all simply players, after all, actors playing a role. We must wait for the curtains to fall, for the applause to thunder, for the audience to make their remarks...we are all slaves to the story. And of course, of course, it goes without saying: to talk of names is an idiot's errand. A man cannot truly name himself..." he turned to Drevin with a coy wink, recalling their earlier topic of conversation "...or can he?"

Another face materialized from the crowd. An Atmer, tall and lanky, looking boyish and young despite his race. His smile would have been infectious, if Paints hadn't already been grinning. "Aha!" He exclaimed after the elf made his greeting, his smile widening. "I see my reputation proceeds me, as it is often reputed to do!" He grasped Jay's offered hand with both of his claws, giving it a hearty shake. "Always a pleasure to meet a comrade-in-arms. Even more so, when he is as cheerful and energetic as this! You know my title; may you also know me as Paints-With-Blood! Cheers, then, to new acquaintances, yes!" The rest of the wine in his cup was drained, a quick swirl of color disappearing down his gullet.

As Jay moved his attention towards the other men at the table, Paints took the opportunity to look him up and down. A bit scrawny, with a surprising air of exuberance and impatience that only a truly young man could carry. As far as companions went, Paints certainly had found himself among an interesting crowd. Not that he was complaining. At least Jay seemed like he knew how to have a good time; between Drevin's cool demeanor and Allectus' stiff upper lip, he had begun to worry that he was the only one with a true knack for debauchery.

As if on cue, Jay grabbed a nearby tankard of mead and pushed it in the Imperial's direction, much to the ambassador's obvious distaste. With one fluid motion, Paints swept an arm out and plucked the tankard from Jay's grasp, laughing. "I'm afraid our Imperial friend wishes to whet his wits rather than wet his whistle, if you can believe it. I, for one, can only be glad that there is more drink to go around!" He raised the tankard in mock salute before pushing his muzzle to the rim. "And mead! Sweet, rich mead!" He exclaimed when he had finished gulping, wiping flecks of foam from the edges of his mouth. "This night has seen ale, and wine, and now mead. Brown, to red, to gold! I'm eager to see what other colors we might discover if we keep up our valiant search...and our valiant thirst!" He glanced around at his new-found companions, smirking. "A man who drinks liquid fire and solid cold, a man who drinks mead even as he provides drinks for others, and a man who does not drink at all! Truly a strange band of adventurers we are, yes?"

The night was swimming, the colors blurring faster. He was moving further into the heady satsifaction of a pleasantly drunken experience, on his way to the breaking point, the moment when he could call himself "well and truly drunk." Good. At least the night has not been boring. "I suppose Drevin has the right of it, yes? Strangeness is only an obstacle, one stone to be overturned. Talk, talk, I want to hear everything! You all must have some stories to tell, eh?" He turned to Drevin, flashing that winning smile. "I know where your allegiances lie, yes, but not your heart! From where do you hail, and why are you here? Do we chalk our new friendship up to random fortune?" He swung back to Allectus, unable to resist another teasing flick of his tongue. "And you...how does a man come to command such an important endeavor? I'm curious as to how you wound up in such pleasant and charming company!"

 

[Dervish]

The argonian was a man of few words, which was to be expected. A gruff disposition and a desire not to be intruded upon telegraphed that from leagues away, but still, his stonewalling was diminishing and he offered an explanation that spoke to the heart of any sellsword. Zaveed raised his tankard towards Jei-Tah. "Coin is a good of a reason as any, and I respect you keep your secrets guarded. After all, much has been lost at tables such as this when tongues loosen. But since we're all friends here," he said, ignoring the argonian's insistence to the contrary, "It's well enough to make acquaintance and know the men we will be serving alongside, since familiarity brings a sense of belonging and protection. We are to be a team, no? We are simply building the foundation as we speak."

The corsair offered Sevari a bemused stare. "And what would give you such an idea, I wonder? One hears all sorts of stories and rumours, like infamous pirates running amok or even more ridiculous fables such as Sanguine putting on the face of a mortal to drink amongst us. Perhaps he's you." Zaveed winked before chuckling. "Don't believe everything you hear, or you may find your gold lifted easily by men with tall tales and schemes that are too good to be true."

The khajiit made an exaggerated bow in his propped-up position towards the dunmer girl, grinning. "Sevari and our grumpy argonian clearly do not use the term so freely, but so long as we all share a drink, we're all friends and compatriots here, Maryon." He mulled the word over, his tongue running along his teeth inside a closed, ponderous mouth. "A lovely name well-suited to a most ponderously lovely woman. You certainly could have done worse for companions this evening." He winked at the dunmer before glancing back at Sevari with a half-hearted shrug. A timid voice came from behind that Zaveed leaned back further to identify the source by staring at the dunmer, his view upside down as his head lulled backwards. "You're only interrupting if you do not bring the next round with you. Bring us something to wet our tongues and you will be our most esteemed guest." He said, grinning mirthfully at the awkward dark elf.

 

[Poeta Perdido]

Turning on a heel, the dunmer caught the attention of the barkeep and and pointed around the table. After a quick nod of approval Juin sat nearest to the thirsty khajit.

"What is your name, Strange One? Drink with us and tell us your tale. You are interrupting nothing but what could have escalated into bloodletting," the second khajit with the voluptuous dunmer girl on his lap mused. Something seemed off about the way the khajit watched him, studious, or perhaps simply a stare produced from too much drink.

"Juinairo, though most find Juin easier on the tongue," the dunmer offered before leaning back in his chair. He had no interest in sharing his story, but when the khajit leaned forward and gestured forward, as if a reminder of the whole of his words, it became clear this was more than a greeting. Ironic, really, more an interview than the damned calling for volunteers.

Juin sipped from cup of wine from before and continued. "My story is no more interesting than any other, truly. I hail from Solstheim originally, but came to this fine nation along with so many others some time ago. I found it so fine in fact I joined the Imperial Legion to protect it, and so I did for some twenty years. When the Stormcloaks raised their banners our oaths were tested. One day I found myself along with my troop, just scouting the outer reaches of a Hjaalmarch," Juin felt his words cut short.

A feeling deep and hot restrained the dunmer without warning. He bit the inside of his cheek, his eyes growing hollow -- his gaze distant -- as his chest seemed to restrain. There was a flash of movement. Juin stood in his leather and scarlet amongst others of his like in the humid night. A soldier called out then the sound of a horn. The heavy clap of horse hooves against mud set the men off and each began to draw their weapons. When the first fell his blade had only just emerged. The second and third died with a hand at their throats and another reaching for the shadowed apparitions looming about them. He smelled blood and piss and freshly churned earth. His mentor him back along with a few others. They retreated, stood back to back, slashing their swords and slinging empty threats. Another flash of movement. More blood. He stumbled back and watched as the world jilted and rose above him. Everything above him. Everything, gone.

"I'm sorry," Juin gasped, his words weak. "I hadn't realized how difficult it would be to recount. I narrowly survived, though my comrades lost their lives then. My injuries were such that the legion released me from duty. Not how I had hoped to my end career, truthfully. But please... I should hope one of you has a kinder tale to share."

Juin found himself leaned forward and tense. The vision, a flash of the battle at the cliff, came suddenly and without mercy. He felt as if he'd only just survived the ordeal and immediately reached for his cup of wine. It was full now, fresh. Confused, Juin turned back to the barkeep to find her only just returning to the front of the room with an empty tray. He observed the other fresh drinks around the table and wondered a moment before taking in a hearty gulp of wine. Perhaps the vision came painfully, but if it added weight to his half-truths, he would be glad for it.

 

[Mosis Tosis]

It seemed not everyone was as excited as Paints was where it concerned the newest arrival to their table. Drevin was stony and cool as ever, offering the Elf a simple and efficient greeting before returning to his drink. A bit stand-offish, perhaps, but leagues more amicable than the ambassador. Allectus' distaste for Jay was easily observable, even as the man did his best to hide his casual contempt behind the practiced, expressionless face of a true politiican. His bodyguard was a little less subtle; the big mute moved back to the table and placed a fresh cup of water before his master, offering Jay a pointed glare that didn't fade even after he had returned to his prior post.

Paints saw it all. He was good at reading people, or at least he liked to think he was. He liked to watch people, see them react, and laugh, and scowl. A performer is nothing without an audience, he thought, and not for the first time. And so far, this audience has done well to put on a very interesting show of their own.

He, unlike his companions, adored Jay. The elf was a spark...no, for a metaphorical spark implies that a fire has not been started. Rather, he was a log, another piece of firewood to be thrown onto the fire burning at their table, a fire built of heat and laughter and drink, a fire that ran down his throat alongside each mouthful of mead and settled warmly in his stomach. Paints matched the elf drink for drink, and did so happily.

The night was coming apart at the seams. The blurring intensified; the beat of the bard's drums became louder, faster. It was getting hard to keep his head still, and even harder to follow the conversation.

He picked up bits and pieces. "I was born and raised on Solstheim," Drevin answered, presumably in response to Paints' own question, " after my family left Morrowind with the eruption of the Red Mountain. When I was rather young, we moved here, to Windhelm, and made a life around the Grey Quarter. I left quite some time ago for my own traveling and work, but I've not left Skyrim since; it's home, even with the war. I lived near Solitude for a while, but I try not to stay still for too long, and now I'm here... I go whereverer my wanderlust beckons. Nothing special."

"A wanderer at heart!" Paints bellowed in return, clapping the dark elf on the back with a hand that perhaps a bit too heavy. "Yes, yes, I can see that in you! An elf with restless feet, even as you sit there, stone-faced and scotch-tongued! But do not sell yourself short, my friend! You are indeed something special...if you were not, you would not be here at this table, yes? You would not preparing to embark on a quest of epic proportions, if you did not have the makings of a hero in you!"

And then, more minutes that seemed somehow too short, too loud. He managed to catch the trail end of something spoken in Allectus' clipped, professional voice. "...a number of important titles in my career, the postion of Ambassador is only one. I was selected for a number of reasons that I'm sure would bore you gentlemen, but rest assured I am the best man for the job." It was like the man was wearing some sort of festivity-resistant armor: somehow, amongst the commotion and thrash of that busy tavern, he insisted on fixing all of them with a gaze that was as icy and and as serious as his tone.

"I'm aware you all have your own reasons for signing up, but I must make the Empire's stance perfectly clear; your charge is to protect myself and the Falmer representative on our journey. Once arriving at our destination, you are to answer only to my command as to how we will resolve whatever problem is faced by these refugees. Upon resolution, you will report to me, and I will make sure all is in order before sending you on your way. Heed my advice, remember that your actions represent the Empire, and act professionally. Do this and I will flex my power to ensure that your reward exceeds the amount initially agreed upon."

Drevin only offered another nod in response, rolling his eyes a bit as he returned to his scotch. Jay's nod was garnished with a smile, and he affirmed his dedication to the cause by finishing his tankard of mead and moving to grab another. Paints fixed the ambassador with a toothy smile, one claw raised in a fist to his chest as a mock salute. "Aye, my lord. The loyalest and most dedicated subordinates are we. I swear to you on my honor as a knight, I will get you, and our elven charge, to our destination without harm." His salute turned into an impromptu toast, and soon more mead was being thrown down his gullet. He waved away Allectus' concerns with one impatient claw when he had finished. "And as for professionalism, you have no cause to fear, I assure you."

Allecuts swept another gaze around the table, somehow looking both disappointed and unsurprised at their responses. Finally he stood, his bodyguard moving to his back immediately. "Other matters call for my attention, I must retire," he stated curtly, bowing slightly. "I look forward to seeing you all at dawn, assemble at the stables and together we shall write history." And then he turned and marched away without a glance back, his back straight and unyielding as his bodyguard cleared a path to the door.

After that, the night truly became hazy. Later, Paints would recall small bits, scraps of conversation or pieces of laughter and light. Drevin and Jay were good drinking companions, the former surprisingly willing to put up with his drunken antics and the latter seemingly enjoying himself as he tried to match them. They talked for what seemed like hours, and drank more than he thought he could stomach, until the crowd had begun to thin sometime in the early morning. Not long after the bards had cased their lutes and drums and left, Drevin made his exit, smirking as he and Camilla, the Imperial woman that had graciously surrendered their table to them (and then returned a short while later, looking for companionship) exchanged sly glances and slipped away towards Drevin's room.

The other Imperial that had joined them, a thin, blond-haired beauty named Justine, seemed to have similar ideas...and that either she had much more exotic tastes than her friend, or her intoxication had made her brave and willing to try something new. She flashed Paints a coy smile as she reached under the table and ran a gentle hand up the inside of his thigh. That certainly was sobering. That probably works on most men, he thought, returning her smile even as he reached down and clasped her hand in one of his claws. A pity I am not most men.

"Justine, my dear," he said, smiling sweet and sincere as he dragged her hand up into sight, "you have met my friend Jay, yes? A dashing fellow, very full of heroics...and mead. I'm sure the two of you would like to talk-" he turned, meaning to gesture towards the elf, but stopped short when he was greeted by the sight of an empty street. Jay had apparently slipped away while he wasn't paying attention, off to get more mead or to mingle with someone in the dwindling crowd. Paints thought to himself, Perhaps he went looking for someone to warm his bed,scowling internally, and he thought the situation here was hopeless. If the damned fool had been only a little bit more patient, he'd have realized that I was trying to set this buxom young lass straight into his lap. Still smiling, he stood, pulling Justine to her feet as well. "Shall we go for a walk, my lady?" Well, there goes my easy solution.

Outside, the air was cold in the way that only a true Skyrim night could be. It sent a chill through Paints as soon as he passed through the door, the last warmth of the alcohol in him being sapped away as he continued to sober. Perhaps it would've been easier simply to cut things off back in the tavern. Certainly would have been less annoying. Still, that would have been rude, and besides the fact that this innocent lass didn't deserve to be so easily and cruelly dismissed, it would've cast a very unfavorable pall over his reputation. He did have a part to play, after all.

"Ah, I don't think I could ever get used to this cold," Justine said, shivering as she pressed herself against his side. "I do hope what they say about your kind isn't true...that you're always cold to the touch?" She smiled up at him, her hand straying again in a downwards direction. "I'd hate to have cold sheets tonight..."

Paints chuckled, gently clasping her hand again and bringing it up to chest height. "You shouldn't believe every rumor you hear, my lady." Though I do wish you had heard, and believed, some specific rumors about me before tonight. It would have made this all much easier.

The Imperial giggled drunkenly before continuing. "Are we walking somewhere? I'm staying with my cousin here during the festival...but he's always out enjoying himself...and if he is at home, I'm sure he'll be passed out. He won't notice a little bit of noise between two people..."

Paints smiled sadly, one claw reaching out to place itself delicately on her shoulder. And now, the night's true performance. "My dear," he began, sighing deeply, "I fear I may have misled you with my actions tonight, and for that I apologize with every ounce of sincerity in my heart. I'm afraid I have made a fool of myself, and put you in a most uncomfortable position."

Justine looked up at him blankly, obviously not comprehending. "I don't-"

"I have made you trespass upon your own honor, and for that I hope you can forgive me. You see, I cannot accompany you tonight." He shook his head sorrowfully, his brow furrowed deeply. Careful now, don't oversell it.

The Imperial still wasn't quite sure what was going on. "Why-"

Paints cut her off, hoping his impatience (it was damn cold out there) would come off as hasty concern. "The problem lies with me, I assure you. You see, I am sworn...to another. We are separated now: by distance, and by fate, and by things too horrible to mention, but she is my one true love, and I am sworn to her." He made himself appear resolute. "And a knight never breaks his vows.

"I am haunted by my desire for her, in every hour of every day. I was foolish, to think I could distract myself with drink, and with a smile as lovely as yours. But here, looking up at the stars-" he glanced upwards, gesturing grandly towards the heavens, "I'm struck with the thought that perhaps, wherever she is now, she too looks up at those same stars, and thinks of me. And I realize that distraction is impossible. My love waits for me, and so I will wait for her, with bated breath and arms that ache for lack of embrace. Such is the burden I bear, and I hope I have not committed a crime so heinous upon you that you would not begrudge a poor star-crossed lover his vain attempts at finding solace."

He closed his eyes for a long moment then, sighing, the perfect picture of remorse and guilt. Truly, he was just curious. Would that really work? Was it too sappy, too overwrought? He was afraid that, in his drunkenenss, he'd laid it on a bit too thick. He always did take a turn for the dramatic (well, moreso than usual, anyway) when he'd been in his cups.

But when he opened his eyes, he saw the tears gathering in Justine's. "Oh, knight. You have nothing to apologize for." Paints allowed himself a small smile, passing it off as relief. Drunken woman: they were always taken by the tortured-romantic angle.

They talked for another brief moment in the cold, before Justine moved from his side. "Find my companion," he advised her as she paused in the doorway to the inn, "the elf named Jay. Handsome lad, smart and charming. A lady so bright as yourself will have much to talk about with him, I'm sure of it." And then she was gone, and the problem was truly resolved.

He sighed, a true sigh this time that clouded white and wispy around his muzzle. It had been a tedious affair, but not one he was completely unfamiliar with. Just a slave to the story, he thought to himself again. And whatever stories Justine is going to go spreading about me tomorrow, I'd rather they be good ones. Hopeless, love-struck hero...always a crowd pleaser. He stayed there for a few moments longer, watching the stars swing in great slow arcs above his head, feeling the cold creep up his legs and into his chest. He swayed slightly, still half-drunk, and he thought about things. He thought about the quest ahead, gave some thought to their destination, and to the meaning of the whole thing. He thought about his new companions, stoic Devin, stiff Allectus and Jay, the elf that was probably twice his age and yet somehow seemed even younger than he was. He thought about the stories he'd told, and the tale he'd spun to the hapless young lady. He allowed himself to wonder, for just a brief second, what it would be like if that story was true. And for a moment, he swore he could hear laughter from far away, and the taste of oranges on his tongue.

He stood there in the cold, colorless night for longer than he meant to. And then he turned around, returned to the warmth and the color and the noise of the inn, and he went to bed.

 

[Voltair]

Jei-Tah watched with little interest as the Dunmer froze up when he attempted to recall a past battle. The argonian rolled his eyes and took another drink of wine while the elf recovered. If his companions were any indication of the rest of the volunteers, this convoy wouldn't be able to protect a wagon full of hay let alone the first snow elf to be seen in centuries. A loud mouthed, boaster. A drug addict. And now a discharged soldier who practically lost his lunch just thinking about past bloodshed. To be fair, the two khajiit looked scrappy enough, as khajiit usually were. But scrappy wouldn't be enough if a force of any meaningful size or training decided to intercept them. And considering the importance of their cargo, that was a very distinct possibility. Well, everybody has to die sometime.

Despite his reservations about the dunmer's abilities as a soldier, there was something about the man that made Jei-Tah's scales itch. His reptilian senses were detecting an odd scent. The air about the dunmer tasted... stale, in a manner that was both familiar and unique at the same time. Just as he planned to do with everybody else at this table, he'd keep an eye out for anything suspicious. The elf seemed mostly harmless though. Certainly less so than the sugar addict, who likely wouldn't think twice before sticking a man for a single septim to put towards his vice.

Another sip of his fruity beverage rolled across Jei-Tah's tongue, who could feel the effects of the night's delicacies quite obviously now. His shoulders felt relief as the liquor eased the tension in his corded muscles, and there was a pleasant tingle at the nape of his neck. Not interested in having to stumble back to his room, the argonian decided to call it a night. He pushed his cup aside and stood without a word, before stepping away from the table. He didn't know any of them well enough to offer any good wishes, so he didn't. Not to mention he hadn't desired their company anyway. Now he remembered why he'd chosen to live outside the city.

 

[O|NoSoul]

"We all mortals have things that pain us to remember." Sevari said, nodding at the Dunmer. When the big Argonian rose and lumbered away with no small hint of drunkenness, Sevari smiled.

"How long do you think he goes without someone finding his anger insufferable and pushing him off the next scenic overlook, hm?" Sevari chuckled and drank again, pushing his cup forward and pouring himself another cup. "As for Sevari's introduction, This One is a taker of goods and lives. I hold no shame for it, for it is me. I have spent equal time protecting men from the assassin's knife and being the assassin. If my brother had disputes that needed settling inside or outside a dueling square I was the one to settle it. From what I know of Zaveed, many merchant's ships hate him for reasons he will not give, isn't that so?" He smiled.

He looked to Maryon and she rose her eyebrows. Sevari knew what that meant and he stood with her in his arms until he put her feet to the floor and wrapped his arm around her waist, not forgetting what Zaveed said. He'd known the Khajiit for a few weeks before the expedition doing less than honest work for less than honest elves and he wasn't lying when he said he could flatter girls out of their clothes.

"Since Charisma seems to have left us for the night, Sevari will too. He has prior engagements. Sevari wishes you a good night's rest. I'm glad neither of us ended up dead." Sevari flashed a smile at Zaveed. That condescending whoreson just wouldn't let Sevari rest about his tastes for sugar. He gave the Dunmer a shallow bow and turned to leave the cornerclub, back to Candlehearth, where his room was.

 

[Dervish]

Well, that was enough to sober even the most inhibited man in the tavern. Juinairo harboured some serious demons, and it made Zaveed wonder why such a soft, troubled dunmer would bother signing up for an exhibition if for no other reason than to add to the catalog of his living nightmares? He'd seen such darkness take others before, but the world was not kind to them. You either suffered in silence or you joined those you never stopped mourning sooner than you expect.

The argonian, whom Zaveed had still not caught the name of, was the first to lose his taste for the drink and he rose from the table and departed without a word, perhaps not trusting his own tongue either out of some form of mercy or to prevent a fight. Zaveed wasted no time pulling the lizard's tankard across the table towards him and spilling the content into his own glass while Sevari reassured the dunmer he wasn't alone dealing with the memories of the damned.

"How long do you think he goes without someone finding his anger insufferable and pushing him off the next scenic overlook, hm?"

"Probably never. He doesn't seem to be the one to gripe." Zaveed pointed out, swishing his mixed tankard together and drinking. "I'd be more worried about when he decides he's finally heard enough and walking from a table isn't a readily available option."

Zaveed listened to Sevari's tale, in truth, one he'd heard a few times already. He rolled his eyes at the hired thug's insistence at implying Zaveed to piracy, the idiot. They were both supposed to keep a low profile and not draw undue attention to themselves much for the same reason the hulking argonian didn't start a fight with either of them; they were not to risk their position on the expedition, and while Sevari was drunkenly telling anyone who would listen he was probably a wanted felon, he was trying to imply Zaveed as the sea raider he was, likely to try to provoke him. Zaveed secretly wished for a patron who overheard Sevari would slip a dagger between his ribs to tie up the mystery how the bumbling idiot managed to stay alive so long without any form of digression. Sevari was a base creature who had no ambition behind who he'd fuck and where his next sugar fix was coming from, and unless Teralfar knew something Zaveed didn't, Sevari was a liability and was likely to fuck everything over because he didn't know how to keep his Gods-forsaken trap shut. The corsair smiled behind a tankard as he imagined shoving the wood and iron capsule between his jaw and smashing it downwards to break it. Unlike Sevari, however, Zaveed knew the value of restraint. He wouldn't even try to make an example of him on their journey.

Probably.

"Of course many merchant ships hate me, because I was always faster to deliver what was in demand than the other crews could provide. A few greased palms here and there also ensured that whoever we sold to would refuse other crews we happened to dislike, but you seem rather keen to try to out me as some brigand. Perhaps Sevari just assumed that all khajiit are low scum like him who cannot figure out how to earn an honest living without constantly needing his fix. A shame, really." Zaveed set the tankard down away from him, as if to make a point he was not beholden and dependent on the substance within. He nodded to Sevari as he departed with Maryon on his arm. He sighed, looking over at Juin. "I'm afraid you caught the tale end of such esteemed company. But fear not, I am certain we will have plenty of time to enjoy each other's company in the days to come." He reached into a pouch on his bandoleer and placed a couple Septims in front of the dunmer. "A drink, on me, as a token of my apology for parting company so soon." Zaveed rose, offered the dunmer a nod and returned to the counter. Melisi walked towards him, polishing a goblet with a rag. "I noticed Maryon left with the other khajiit." She pointed out.

Zaveed sat, resting an elbow on the counter to prop his head up with a fist. "It was of her own choice, she seemed rather fond of him, although I suspect she has a fetish for broken playthings. He won't bring harm to her, they both seem to be interested in scratching an itch." He said.

"Ah." Melisi said, her voice suggesting either resigned acceptance or somber relief. She was clearly still concerned for her friend, but knew that she was headstrong and wouldn't learn until a poor fate befell her. Perhaps not even then. "It seems your audience has departed for the night. I suppose you don't have a place to stay the night." She smiled.

"And suppose I followed you home. I always wanted to see where the Nerevarine lived." He grinned.

Melisi returned a sultry smile. "Well, we'll see how patient you are. I don't get off shift for another hour." She said. "But I admit, you had me at breakfast."

"In that case, better pour me another cup and I'll allure you with my finer points." He said with a wink. It would seem that the main attraction of his evening was yet to come.

 

[O|NoSoul]

The Following Morn...​

The grey skies and cold hung over the party as they waited by the stables. Their commencement was given by throngs of citizens giving extra rations, farewells and hopeful goodbyes. A small caravan of supply carts awaited them at the end of Windhelm's bridge. Standing in front of it all was Military Governor Caius Bronnus, arms akimbo and flanked by Jarl Brunwulf Free-Winter and an official from the Imperial Diplomatic Council, scrolls tucked under his arm. Standing out amongst them was the fair and delicate features of Vylewen, daughter to the Snow Elf king and their chosen emissary. She stood with them, her eyes reflecting the cold with wisdom and strength beyond her years. As she looked on, Caius was the first to speak.

"I'd like to take this time to remind you all that you represent the Empire and his Imperial Majesty, the Emperor Tactus Mede. I sincerely hope I don't have to say more to let the gravity of your situation sink in." He waved the bookish official forward, where the man held out scrolls in a number matching the volunteers of the expedition. "After these are signed, you are not only bound to the roster of the expedition, but you are also legally binding yourselves to the Empire. Any criminal act carried out by yourselves will be counted against you as treason. The punishment for treason against the Empire is death. I trust your honor and wish you Godspeed in this mission."

After the scrolls were signed and handed over, the party was given time to stand around, kick dirt and spit while their horses were assigned to them, each were given a badge of office to stuff away in their packs and Allectus was taken aside by Caius Bronnus. The Military Governor was familiar with Allectus and his family. The man had a need to be important that could be read as ambition and the old General that was Caius found himself again looking at what young officers in the Legion who had their commisions paid for by a rich family and blue blood was made of. Despite Caius's sensibilities and old biases, he sensed something good in the Emissary. A need to prove himself, and sometimes that's all men need to become great.

"The Empire has seen it fit to choose you to be the Imperial Emissary to the Snow Elves. A few men are familiar with your family and your father is a welcome face in Imperial court. Don't do anything that would muddy up your first chance of climbing the ladder. There is an enormous weight upon your shoulders." Caius gave a pause and looked Allectus over in his attire. He sniffed and continued, "You've probably already been briefed by Imperial officials before leaving Cyrodiil but it's safe to go through these types of things again. You are to cross the ice-bridge to the Snow Elves' island and bestow upon them the gifts we've sent along with you. Lots of gold, lots of food, lots of potions. The real treasure you carry with you is a document that is in your saddlebags. Over time, you must gain the trust of their leader and have him sign that parchment. It gives us their loyalty, makes them our protectorate and promises that we will spill blood on their behalf. Most important of all, it gives Emperor Tactus Mede a shining accomplishment and legitimacy to his rule and the place of the Empire in Tamriel. You are the man securing the future of the Empire. Do not ruin this. So much more than yourself hangs in the balance." Caius Bronnus shook Allectus's hand and walked back to his place with Free-Winter.

Vylewen stepped forward to stand before the party before they embarked on what was so much bigger than themselves. She observed each, her eyes not telling any of the one's they passed over whether she approved of them or not. She nodded, finally, and spoke, "You people, belonging to races of which I have never seen before my days spent here will be of great help to my people. I can truly say that I feel safe amongst you and appreciate how warm an embrace I have felt since coming through the gates of Windhelm. It is a dire time, and from my understanding of the world as it is today, so different than what it once was, it is a dire time for not only my people, but all the peoples of Tamriel. You hold not only an Empire on your shoulders, but an entire people's. My people, the last of their kind. Such a kindness done for us will never be forgotten."

The party finally mounted up and set off on the road to their destination. Words were sparse, but knowing glances were shared between Sevari, Zaveed and Jay. A mission was undertaken and would be carried out. While the importance of the legitimacy of the Empire and Tactus Mede was put upon the shoulders of Allectus, the tools of the Thalmor plot hovered under him, silent but sure. It was a few miles down the road and into the wilds that the two Hold Guards escorting the party's caravan through Eastmarch stopped the party on the road. It was a growing uneasiness, and while the winter months never had the warmth to let critters run through its woods, there was a silence that held much more than the absence of squirrels or doe.

One of the Guards caught up to the other in a clatter of hooves, "Do you reckon its frostbite spiders? They wander freely in winter."

The other simply shook his helmet and held a hand up. A faint whistling and then the sound of clay pots breaking on the stone pavement of the road, setting ablaze the path back. Chivalry held that a man should only attack another when his opponent had too drawn his steel. Chivalry was always abandoned in war, men too preoccupied with winning than keeping their honor and it was an honorless thing that the two guardsmen were run through with arrows from beyond the trees.

Windhelm
Teralfar

The hearth was one of dingy squalor, well out of the way of anything that anyone visiting Windhelm would have thought to attend to. Nestled in the Grey Quarter, and down some backstreet with almost no foot traffic, it was the last place one would have expected to find a Thalmor spymaster, and Teralfar preferred it this way. Although many of his colleages professed a true master of the craft hid in plain sight, pretending to be one with the local population, Teralfar subscribed to the theory that it was better to be a whisper, a myth. Someone that nobody could identify. It was easy enough to slip away from the rest of the Dominion crew of Magnus' Jewel shortly after docking, and it had only taken a handful of coin to ensure the loyalty of the house owner. After all, what Teralfer had gifted the man and his ailing wife was more than he'd see in a year, and by altmer standards, it was an extremely paltry sum. Loyalty was easy to secure from the downtrotten; all you had to do was treat them like they were people.

Before him were his three charges, the altmer the odd-man out amongst the two khajiit criminals. Teralfar held no illusions that Sevari or Zaveed would hesitate to sell him out if they could get away with it, Oydiswen was an altmer of small, but none-the-less notable stature, the son of a renown emissary. All three had their loyalty purchased for some sum or another, mostly that they were all well aware of the unpleasantries that awaited them if they crossed the Thalmor. It was simply more pleasant to be rewarded for a job well done than to spend what remained of their short lives looking over their shoulders for the Justicar that would bestow upon them endless suffering. All in all, it was a mutually beneficial arrangement that would provide a great boon for Thalmor interests for years to come in return for a comparably modest reward.

The only difficult decision of the day lay on the table between the three agents and Teralfar, who sat with his hands crossed on the table, the satchel that would make or break this operation. He had to decide which of the three men he trusted, not only in character, but to do the deed. Oydiswen would be the logical choice, but did he have the fortitude for it? Would he balk when the time came? Ultimately, it didn't matter; the three would have to act in concert when the time came, and both khajiit didn't harbour much in the way for reservation when it came to staying their blades if it meant getting a job done. He shoved the satchel to Oydiswen.

"I choose you to carry this parcel because you have an emissary's disposition and are quite capable of earning the trust and affection of those around you the few times you do draw attention to yourself. You are also not the ostentatious and ruthless sort like these two. If damage were to be incurred to the package, then it would fall to you three to become rather creative to achieve the intended result." His crossed hands flatted to a point that dipped across the table. "What you will endeaver to accomplish will change everything. Wheels will be set into motion that you cannot possibly understand at this juncture, but I assure you that you will see the fruits of labour very soon. Of course, that means you have to return alive, and I do not often get to say this will all sincerity because let's be honest, the Dominion often does not have pure intentions, but what you must do is amongst the most morally justified actions undertaken on behalf of not only the Aldmeri Dominion, but all of Tamriel. What will come to light may shake you to the core, and not for the reasons you expect. Keep it safe, and only inspect the contents when you are in a position to act. Now," he rose from the table, glancing out the thick, poorly forged glass window that was only just translucent from dirt and grime. "It is about time you try to locate and mingle with the others in the expedition. They must not suspect your involvement with this sensitive task. Everything depends on it."

 

[Voltair]

The fur of Jei-Tah's clothing rustled in the chill breeze as he checked once more that his belongings were secure. The weight of his longsword and greatsword resting comfortably at his hip and across his back respectively. The bearded hand axe tucked into his belt, which also held up his coin purse, flask, and various other bags of supplies. The orsinium breast plate and bracers fit snugly over the thick fur shirt and mail hauberk, and the fur cloak covered everything with room to spare. He realized that he probably cut a rather barbaric figure, doubly so considering the notoriety of the Forsworn. He didn't care though, his clothing was warmer and offered better concealment than the typical dyed, cotton garb worn by everybody else. Not that he eschewed knit clothing, he just wore his beneath the furs.

Certain that everything was in order, the argonian took some time to observe the other members of the convoy. There were plenty of humans of course, most of which wore Imperial armor or Windhelm's colors. He spotted the khajiit and dunmer from last night as well. His gaze was halted by the sight of one of the few other argonians amidst the group. Jei-Tah's appearance paled in comparison to the rainbow this fool had adorned himself with. It seemed that Mohawk would be safe from the first arrow, as the colorful argonian could likely be seen from the border of the nearest Hold.

Jei-Tah's musings were interrupted by the approach of the snow elf, Vylewyn, was it? He inspected the woman as she did all of them, his own hard, unfaltering gaze meeting hers when it reached him. Just another elf, he thought. At least from the outside, there was nothing special about her, and so it was likely there was nothing special about her race as a whole. And yet every government would be tripping over themselves to garner their favor. Whatever the Empire or any other faction hoped to gain wasn't his concern. These elves requested aid, and so he would provide it in whatever way he could. Right now that meant signing on with the Imperials.

Vylewyn's speech went mostly unheard by the argonian, it was likely just the typical political flattery that was always uttered at these sort of things. Until the members of the convoy proved themselves, the elf owed them nothing, and any kind words were largely meaningless. But at long last they were climbing their horses and setting off.

---

Jei-Tah, like some of the others, could feel that something wasn't quite right as the party traveled, and the feeling became more pronounced as they moved deeper into the frozen hills. Having lived in these mountains for several decades, he'd grown familiar with the sounds of the wild. And as a hunter, he knew what it sounded like when the forest could detect when something was being stalked.
He scanned the trees from his position in the middle of the convoy, looking for any sign of potential threats. But if they were there, then they knew what they were doing and remained undetected even to his practiced eyes.

The line crawled to a halt as the guard on point signaled a stop, drawing Jei-Tah's attention forward. It was then that the ambush commenced. Jei-Tah's head jerked around as shattering clay sounded sharply behind him, followed closely by the crackle of growing flame blocking the option of retreat.

The argonian already knew what was coming next, even as arrows whipped out of the sky and slew several men outright. He flinched as a barbed shaft pierced his cloak and ricocheted off the sturdy orsinium plate beneath, hidden from the sniper's keen eyes. Not needing any more encouragement, Jei-Tah immediately abandoned his saddle in favor of the ground. Anyone atop a horse was a prime target, and this way he could use the mass of their steeds as cover, though he had to be careful to avoid being trampled by the panicking beasts.

He maneuvered past yelling men and whinnying, flailing horses, gabbing a shield that hung from the flank of one of the animals on his way towards Vylewyn. As he reached her horse, which she was desperately attempting to keep under control as the situation deteriorated, the big argonian reached up and grabbed her by the arm just below the shoulder before unceremoniously yanking her out of the saddle. "You'll catch an arrow up there," he growled in explanation as he pulled her towards one of the supply carts a short distance away, making sure to keep his shield covering one of her flanks while his body protected the other.

Finally reaching the cart, he pushed the elf down against it and barked at her, "Do NOT move unless I tell you to." Then he stood and used the appropriated shield to block any arrows coming from the same side as their cover. He'd been in enough convoys and raids to guess how this would play out. Assuming their attackers were here for Vylewyn -highly probable- then they wouldn't risk using fire directly on the convoy lest they burn everybody to death. Whoever they were, they'd have to break from cover and settle this with steel before they could claim their prize. The members of the convoy just had to stay alive that long, then they might survive. Unless their attackers just wanted to kill everybody. Then they'd just keep shooting and burning till nothing was moving. Hopefully that wasn't the case, but in the mean time he would defend their charge while the Imperials organized their men. Jei-Tah had a moment to reflect as he watched for and intercepted incoming arrows with the shield, their steel heads punching through the boards. Barely three miles out and we've already lost men. That's gotta be some kind of record.

 

[O|NoSoul]

Sevari woke with the new sun hidden behind stone walls. He woke with a new mind as well, one that was his own, clear and clever and not given over to the foolishness that was last night. That was the ecstasy of sugar and its afterglow, turning men to messes until either they tired of it or it killed them. A familiar hardness about him now, head tuned to the quickness that brought death and watched for it instead of sending his mouth agabber. Something shifted in his sheets and for a moment he thought to grab for his dagger. The one thing that stopped him was that he remembered who was beneath the mound of sheets. He rose to his feet and found himself naked. He chuckled low at that and replaced his clothing, a task which sent him around the room grasping up clothing. He swallowed when he found that his hat was missing. Where could it have gone?

The Dunmer- Maryon- Maryon shifted in the sheets and the furs uncovered his hat, which he grasped up and put on his head. He stood by his lonesome, being the only one awake in the room. He watched the sheets, knowing that if a familiar Dunmer girl knew he'd slept with this one, that Dunmer girl would have his cock on a pike. That was why he liked Sorosi, she never took his shit and was the only person known to be able to slap him and get away with it. He supposed an excuse for Maryon could be she reminded him of her but in reality Maryon was a far cry from Sorosi. He swallowed his shame and stowed it away where the rest of it was. He reached into his travel pack and felt the wax balls still there and while his hand was in there he pinched a few coins and set them on the dresser.

"I'm not a whore." Came Maryon, sheets falling away from her and she was shameless in her nakedness. Her makeup had smudged from the night before and her hair needed to be done up again but she was still good looking. "Besides, for what its worth, you already paid me in sugar last night. Kind enough to share with me. I have to traipse back to the Cornerclub now, the Nords looking at me in that way they always do. Not like you, meaner. She's not going to be happy with me, either."

"Isn't your Daedra, Boethiah, the one that discards those who are weakened by the opinions of others?" Sevari asked, "And who is 'she'?"

"The owner of the Gnisis. Melisi, she's named. She's always doted over me like a mother but she's learned that I'm not one to dote on. I'm my own, and I make my own choices. Good and bad." Maryon mused, though Sevari was busy with the business of hiding his dagger in his boot and only half listened. "She doesn't like me being around the skooma or the sugar. She saw her own mother chase after it and leave her behind. If there's one person whose opinion means something to me it's hers. I felt her watch me with you last night. I know she was disappointed."

"Neither of you will see Sevari again, for what that is worth. She will not have to be disappointed a second time." Sevari said.

"Do you have anyone like that to you? Someone you don't want to disappoint, someone when they're gone you miss and when they're there you can smile again?" Maryon tried to pry too deep for Sevari's liking. Sevari only sat on the edge of the bed, studying the floor. Sorosi, Fa'azri, Suffian, Jivami…

He wanted to say their names but only managed, "No."

He sat up and left with his things.

* * *
​

On the road, Sevari exchanged nothing with either Oyd or Zaveed. Zaveed's opinions of him could simmer on their lonesome and Sevari would be damned if he said he was sorry for his blabbering the other night. The Pirate could rest knowing there would be no more on the roads. There would be no more privacy until they finally reached their destination, so that meant no more sugar. Sevari only rode easy in the saddle next to a legionnaire who seemed a good lad. The two shared a joke between them when they first mounted and the conversation hadn't stopped. Sevari was a killer but he liked to laugh like any mortal. Their conversation had died down for a spell when Sevari's ears twitched at a sound. And that's when the fire came.

One moment he was riding easy with the legionnaire and the next he found only an empty saddle next to him. He felt wind as something passed close to his head and then recognized the whistling of arrows and the shouts of men rallying for a defense. He dropped from his saddle quick and bolted behind a wagon. He could see farther down, the big lizard protecting the Snow Elf, Vylewen. They might be here for her, he thought, but if Sevari was still running with the road-folk, a fat caravan like this one would be a godsend.

He stowed the thoughts away, reminding himself that it didn't matter who wanted to kill him so long as they were still trying. The legion archers fired into the snow, their sharp eyes picking out movement beyond the bush. Sevari peeked out from behind the wagon and saw it too, white-cloaked men moving from vantage point to vantage point. What looked at first to tree roots or bushes hidden under thick blankets of snow closer to the caravan burst open and white-cloaked men were in among them. These men knew how to set up an ambush and fight in winter then. Sevari charged the first one, howling for blood and stuck his sword in him, the momentum of his charge lifting the man off his feet for an instant before he fell to the ground. Sevari turned to another one, stepping to the side, catching his opponent's blade in his crossguard. He pushed the blade aside using leverage and angled his blade to poke a hole in the man's throat, all over in an instant. Already killed two men today but he never got a chance to have breakfast. Shame.

 

[Mosis Tosis]

His piss was a shimmering golden-brown, a color that spoke to the copious amounts of ale he'd swallowed the night before. Paints smiled in satisfaction as he watched it arc off of the hillside and into the frozen stream-bed below. A fine color, he thought to himself. Probably the best one could expect from piss. A welcome sight, at least, against all this gray. Everything in those cold, dead hills seemed gray, from the muddied snow to the seamless ceiling of clouds that hung cloyingly close to the surrounding mountains. Certainly not very cheerful country. It was quiet, too: now that the main bulk of the party had moved down the road a ways, Paints was left with only with the whispers of a chilling breeze and the spattering of his own piss on the rocks below. In an attempt to spark some semblance of vim to that lonesome hilltop, he cleared his throat and began to sing a melody slow and simple.

"What a life I lead in the Summer/
What a life I lead in the Spring/
What a life I lead when the wind did breeze/
What a life I lead in the Spring..."

His voice was as raspy as any other Argonian's, but it had a rough sort of beauty, a strange lilt that was oddly endearing. 'Like sword-edge and honeysuckle,' he thought, smiling as he remembered. Trig always used to say that. Could never tell if it was meant to be an insult or a complement. It helped that the song was simple, a common peasant's walking tune he'd picked up in his years of travel. The last few words echoed faintly back to him, muffled by snow-bound hills, before the land fell silent again. He frowned. Common in most of Tamriel, he realized, shivering as the chill began to press against his exposed scales, But probably not in Skyrim. I doubt this road hears much song. A pity. He moved into the second verse, a little softer as finished his business and began lacing his trousers up.

"What a life I lead in the Winter/
What a life I lead in the cold/
What a life I lead, when the streams did freeze/
What a life I lead in the cold..."

That verse was at least a bit more fitting. His smile returned as he paced back to his horse and swung himself easily into the saddle. A quick flick of the reins, and she was at an easy cantor. "Aye, Rose," Paints addressed the steed, giving her a steady pat on the neck, "I'm sorry I've dragged you up to this cold little end of the world. After all this is done, we'll head down south again, go somewhere warm. Just wait and see." The courser responded with a small whinny and a shake of her head, as if she understood...and was less than hopeful. She was a good horse, from good stock and impeccably trained. She had spirit, sure, a fire in her legs and in her eyes, but she still allowed Paints his quirks. She'd been painted so many times in the two years that he'd owned her, he wasn't sure all of it would ever completely come off. That particular morning, he'd woken late, and hadn't had the time to paint her properly before he was due at the city gates to embark with the rest of the group. A shame, it would have made for a fine little spectacle for all the citizens that had come to see them off.

He caught up to the rest of the group quickly, falling into line easily next to Drevin. The elf probably considered him little more than a stranger, but the two of them had spent the better part of a night sharing drinks and talk, and as far as Paints was concerned that made them fast-friends. There was a journey ahead of them, one that was sure to be full of strife and drama. It would do him well to make friendships now, before they needed to be tested by fire and steel. To that end, he scanned the rest of the group, searching for a new conversation partner even as he smiled and jested with Drevin (Much to his annoyance, the Elf did not seem much brightened by the fresh air or the memory of a good lay the night before: he was still as cool and serious as ever, seemingly content to ride in silence).

His eye was drawn towards the middle of the caravan, where the snow elf diplomat rode alongside the Imperial ambassador. Vylewen had shown why she had been chosen for the position earlier that morning when she delivered a heartfelt speech of gratitude to the would-be heroes. It had certainly seemed sincere, sufficiently moving and motivating. As far as Paints could tell, she really meant what she said. Not that it mattered. He was here now, eager to see where the road would lead. There was no turning back now. He had half a mind to ride up there and place himself between the two politicians, really get to know this alluring woman in white...but it was a delicate situation, and this was neither the time or the place to satiate his curiosity.

His thoughts lingered back to that morning, before the speech, when Vylewen's had wandered over him, appraising him just as they had all the others. She didn't seem shocked by his appearance, not a hint of confusion or curiosity across her porcelain features. She'd given him the same amount of interest she'd given every other volunteer, and then she'd moved on. I suppose, to a woman who has been sequestered away from the rest of the world for more than a lifetime, we must all seem equally strange. The thought left him feeling vaguely frustrated.

Allectus would also not be a viable conversation partner, that much was clear. Despite his attempts at outreach the preceding night in the tavern, it was obvious now that all of his energies were focused on the task at hand, and at the elf at his side. Just doing his job, but Allectus struck Paints as the kind of man who blurred the lines between "job" and "life" without remorse. It would do little good to go and annoy him...now. He turned his attention to other potential candidates.

Jay was near the front of the pack, looking a bit thicker in his travel clothes but still scrawnier than a windblown sapling. He'd been good company last night, and Paints had the sense that the two of them would continue to get along splendidly. But Paints was looking to meet someone new, and so continued his silent search. His eyes were drawn to the two Khajiit. One seemed a sour sort of cat, even as he conversed good naturedly with one of the official legion escorts. The other looked a bit more approachable at least, even if his bearing in the saddle looked a bit...peculiar. A man not made for travelling on land, Paints realized. I bet he's got some interesting stories to tell.

There was another Dunmer as well, a quiet sort hanging near the back of the caravan. Paints didn't know what to make of him. Seemed friendly enough, even if his posture made it clear that he hadn't exactly warmed up to, or been truly acquainted with, the group as a whole. Might be someone to keep an eye on. Everyone needs someone to rely on, especially in times like these. Other than him, there was only the other Argonian, the silent, hulking one with the intimidating greatsword and the barbaric trappings that had been eyeing him up all morning. He doesn't like what he sees. Seems to be the insufferably serious type. Paints flashed him a winning smile the next time he caught the older lizard looking in his direction. The lucky winner. Out of everyone, you, my grumpy-looking friend, are the most interesting.

Just as he was about to steer his horse in the Argonian's direction, however, there was a sudden crash. The road behind them abruptly erupted into flames. Paints heard the whistle of an arrow as it flew past his head. A second found its target, landing with a thwack and sticking within a bundle of leather and fabric at his left shoulder. Paints jerked in his saddle, struggling to maintain his balance even as his horse reared. He managed to right himself as the courser came back down onto four hooves. He pulled the reigns tight, keeping her steady. The arrow had been lucky and found an exposed joint in his armor. Still, the secondary leather had done its job: the wound wasn't deep, even if the point of the arrow pricked at him everytime he moved his arm.

His right arm moved instinctively for his weapon. His scimitar was nestled in the small of his back; it sung when he pulled it from the scabbard.

What a life I lead.

He pulled back on the reigns. Rose reared again, whinnying fiercely. He made quite the sight then, he was sure. One hand was in the reins, the other holding his glimmering scimitar outstretched. His travelling cloak, fur-lined and stained a deep, rich blue was billowing out grandly, straining as the fires blew a fresh hot wind into his face. His hood had been thrown back; the end of his scarf was trailing, snapping at the air like a pure red flag. Quite a sight, and also quite a target. Another arrow thunked uselessly against his chest plate while another embedded itself into the leather of his saddle horn.

His first thought was to charge the enemy. Swift and heroic, it would be the most natural thing in the world. It was also plain to see that such a stunt would get him killed. The ambush had been well laid: now the enemies were at all sides, and the escort had been so surprised that a true and organized counterattack was impossible. If he charged alone, the arrows would pick him off faster than he could blink. Instead, he turned and urged his horse towards the center of the caravan. He found his charges easily enough. The other Argonian had already tended to the snow elf, dragging her down to safety in a brutish manner that went well with his attire. Allectus was nearby, one hand tangled in the reigns of his panicking horse while the other scrambled for his sword.

Paints reached him within a second, jumping an overturned wagon before he came clattering down alongside the ambassador in a thunderous crash of hooves on cobblestone. He ducked out of his saddle with practiced ease, smiling as he turned to the struggling Imperial. "Need help, Lord Ambassador?" With one swift motion his scimitar lashed out, slicing through the tangled reigns. "You may put your sword away. You won't be needing it." The Imperial just glared at him. Paints wasn't sure if he was grateful or annoyed. He was a capable man, and he had a sword: honor or duty might compel him to fight. Paints could only hope he'd be smart or cowardly enough to simply keep his head down. If the man was going to respond, it didn't matter. Paints turned away from him without another word, raising his buckler as he moved to meet the first wave of ambushers.

They came all in white, out of the snowbanks and the trees. They seemed an army, a million men birthed by that quiet forest. One fight at a time. If it takes a million kills, then that is what I shall do. The first to meet Paints charged him from the underbrush, bearing a long sword that he swung with both hands. Paints caught the blow easily against the surface of his buckler. It was painted as a starburst today, a sigil of gold and purple. The man's steel bounced against it, failing to catch against the steel. With his opponent thrown off balance, Paints had all the time in the world to give his blade a grand flourish before he brought it arcing upwards through the man's unprotected neck. There was a quick flash of blood, a brilliant red.

I think I like my enemies in white, he thought, flourishing his scimitar again as he pivoted to meet the next charging attacker. They make such exquisite canvases.

 

[BKenScout]

Drevin let the sun hit his face through the window in his room at Candlehearth Hall, a small smile reaching his lips as he responsibly sipped at a drink of water. His head was a bit cloudy, but within a few hours, that would wear away. The water certainly helped, but more than that it was a matter of knowing how to control his alochol intake. Drinking was a slow progression for him and he never had so much that his next day left him incapacitated. His feet rested comfortably on the windowsill as he let the cold, fresh air fill the room. A blanket was wrapped about his shoulders as he stared out at the city he'd spent much of his youth in. Funny how different it was from Candlehearth rather than the Grey Quarter, especially today. He hummed the low melody of a lullaby his mother would use when he, or one of his brothers, found a restless night. It was not long before he felt a pair of arms slink around his neck and down over his chest. He would be surprised if it were any but the Imperial woman from the night prior, Camilla, doting on him.

"You're up rather early," He stated matter-of-factly, noticing that she'd been able to get dressed rather easily without him noticing.

"It isn't easy staying asleep when the window's been opened to let the air in, you dolt," She teased, leaning over him tiredly, "But I suppose I'll get more rest later."

He nodded in acknowledgment but didn't say much more; the morning was his time to relax and collect himself before the day. Drevin would sooner end a night preemptively than lose this ritual even once.

"Your tongue seems to tighten once you've sobered up," Camilla observed boldly, her voice low and in his ear.

The dunmer simply shrugged, "I'm not much of a talker - but you'll be hard pressed to find a man who does not speak more loosely when he drinks." Just a few more minutes, he pleaded to himself as he automatically rose from the chair and pulled the window shut, starting to strap his armour on.

"Can't you stay a little longer?" She asked, sitting on the bed, "The convoy doesn't leave for a while yet..."

In another life, maybe... He mused silently to himself before shaking his head, "I have to retrieve my weapons, make some preparations, and then get on my merry way." The words were obviously laced with sarcasm, but they didn't feel like a joke either.

"Bullshit, you just wanna leave me here alone," She said, mocking a pout.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Drevin merely answered her statement, "What we want and what we do are often in opposition, you act as though I have choice in the matter."

Without much of a response, the Imperial woman watched him gear up, finally asking, "How old are you anyway?"

"Eighty-five."

She blinked a few times, almost flinching at the number. "Oh." While it was not uncommon for elves to live so long, having met only a slightly drunken Drevin made his attitude far more youthful than reality suggested. "That... kind of explains why you're so matter-of-fact."

He gave a small laugh at her naïveté and shook his head, "Indeed. Passion and love are for the fledglings," He noted with a dismissive wave of his hands. Even though she was clothed, Camilla started to wrap herself up in blankets at this point.

"Don't speak to me like a child, I didn't expect more out of last night than what I got, I was-"

"You can save it," The dark elf interrupted her, not truly meaning to be rude in his impatience. "You're not facing my judgment, Camilla. Merely your own. If you wanted more from last night, you'd have likely chased a gentleman who wasn't 'going to war,' for lack of a better phrase in my present state, the next day. I don't need to hear an explanation."

The girl's face turned red, even though the cold from outdoors had begun to leave the room. She almost asked him to leave before realizing that she was in his room, and so she rose to her feet, dropped the blankets, and left. While she did not storm out, the air still felt rather tense, as it would to anybody who witnessed such a scene, but Drevin merely continued about his business as he finally donned his cloak and clasped it tightly. He placed some coins on the counter on his way out as a form of gratuity for the innkeepers and departed. The dunmer strolled easily first to the merchants' square as his gaze moved over the goods easily and with more than a little disinterest. Ah, there it was... He ended up by the blacksmith, at something of a general stall and walked away with a basic whittling knife. He placed it in his bag - it could hardly be used as a weapon, and people needed to be able to get this hands on tools, so the laws had to be somewhat lenient. If it was out of easy reach for him, then he knew that the guard would give him little trouble. He figured he would need something to do on the road.

And still the sun hung rather low in the sky as morning crept over Windhelm. Drevin knew that soon the fanfare would arrive and he picked up his walking pace and retrieved his weapons on his way out of the city to the stables. His dagger, sword, and bow were all now in their appropriate places on his figure and to be honest, it was relieving to have them back. Rarely did he feel safe without at least one of them. Speeches were given, though 'apathetic' would be overstating how much the Sarandas elf truly cared to listen, and finally the party set off. He recognized some of the men from the night before and noticed how many he'd not. Some were familiar faces without names and others still were simply Imperial guardsmen. Among their ranks, a few stood out... Particularly a heavily armoured Argonian with a rather expensive looking greatsword and at least a pair of khajiit... The elf shrugged, while it was strange to see the cat-people of Elsweyr here, it was not unthinkable. They liked coin and fame as much as any man he'd met.

The hair on the back of the dunmer's neck stood up as he noticed a horse drawing nearer, relaxing only once he noticed it was Paints. The charismatic Argonian was slightly less tolerable without drink, Drevin noticed, but still he was polite. It wouldn't do to be on bad terms and there were worse acquaintances than this particular argonian. The reptile seemed to grow bored with Drevin's dry, cut-to-the-chase attitude when it came to chit-chat and just as he seemed about to meander away and find a new friend, all hell broke loose. At the sound of the breaking pot, Drevin reacted as nearly everybody else in the caravan did. He pulled the bow from his back, released his horse's reigns, and pulled three arrows from his quiver. He dismounted as soon as he had the chance, preferring to avoid mounted combat as he nocked an arrow with ease. Holding the shafts with his left hand, he simply picked one out and nocked it in the same movement, making for faster access to each one. The dunmer drew the bow, keeping his vision locked down sight as he moved through the ranks of the convoy's men, not wanting to be placed at the frontline for any kind of fighting until necessary.

Arrows flew past the mish-mosh of soldiers and mercenaries as the ambush closed in, finally drawing steel and butting heads. Driven smirked as he held his breath, released an arrow, nocked a fresh one, repeated. A rather young looking Imperial soldier held up a shield to block an incoming attack, only to find that his adversary was lying in the snow, an arrow through his head. However, after expending three shots from his quiver as quickly as he could, Drevin found that the ranks of their convoy and those of the attackers were mingling such that any shot was becoming one at risk of friendly-fire, and so he made a rather hasty retreat to the center of the caravan, where he noticed the large argonian from before, taking the initiative to stand on guard for the Snow Elf charge. Drevin placed his bow on the ground and drew the elegant sword from his hip, his left hand at his side, but actively ready to assist him in any way it could. His approach to the large defender and the center of the caravan was simply his instinct for regrouping himself, switching to his blade, and moving back into battle.

When was the last time he even had a duel? He could barely remember, as most fights were easily avoidable and done without dangerous weaponry. However, survival instinct mixed with previous training is something one never loses, even if they rarely need it. The onslaught of arrows was beginning to die as the opponents opposite the shielded Argonian realized how fruitless their efforts were. Drevin, however, wasted no time charging forward and intercepting them as they revealed themselves with weapons at the ready. Duck, parry, weave, he instructed himself easily as he met the first, slipping beneath a blade, crossing with the second swing in a loud clang of metal and finally slinking around the white-cloaked man. His hand began to glow red as he placed it against the ambusher's shoulder, closing the distance between them entirely. Within moments, his eyes grew wide and Drevin smirked at him as he dropped his blade in fear. The dunmer's palm turned to a fist as he took hold with a tight grip on the man, holding his gaze for only a moment. Kicking his foot behind the 'soldier,' Drevin quickly retracted it, crossing the man's ankle, throwing off his balance, and sending him onto the ground, only to be followed by the elf's gaze. No more than a moment later, a falcata was driven through his chest and pulled out with a small flourish and a toothy grin.

Without missing a beat, the dunmer took a few steps back, ready for the next attacker or two, blade held up, magic now openly swirling about his open left hand. Mephala guide me... He prayed, still concentrating on the fight before him as he hoped the (s)he was watching, every drop of sweat he poured into this was for the Morag Tong and the Daedric Prince - he needed to live, he needed to witness it, he needed to be His/Her Hand should (s)he need it.