Sevari looked the new woman up and down. She didn't seem the fighting type so her sword looked like it would be as useful as harsh language. The girl looked to him as if he was the leader, a sheepish grin spread from cheek to cheek. He felt himself start to smirk before he caught himself, him, a leader. "You look the killer. Milkmaids over there need someone to protect them. We're full." He gave her a last once over and nodded over to Zaveed's group. Sevari was a killer who would stab a man for a look, a rumor and sometimes nothing but a little annoyance but he didn't want to get this girl killed. Something about her. He looked back to his party and nodded. This lot on the other hand knew what they were about, the colorful one called it art, the Dunmer called it nothing because he only heard enough words to count on one hand come out of his mouth and the Cyrod with the stick up his arse could call it whatever he wanted as long as he didn't die while trying to look as authoritative as possible in the middle of the fight. He looked the killing type though, so all was well.
"To our horses, then." Sevari nodded to the door and the party took their leave, the Jarl not having the decency for a sendoff. Sevari closed and opened his hands, trembling fingers and sweating palms. Skooma, sugar, either would be good right now, he thought. He noticed he was staring and blinked a few times, squeezing his fist tight enough to make the leather of his gloves creak. Suffian had always had a way with making it seem like he knew a man for years by only spending a few minutes with him. If he was to be the one these men looked to for the time being, he figured he may as well say something. "We've got a ride ahead of us. You," he pointed to the Cyrod that Juin seemed to take such a liking to, "What's your name? Can't actually be Morning Blade, makes as much sense as an Argonian named Knight-of-Colors. What in the hells is with everyone and their titles? Don't suppose you've even got a title, Juin."
"I do indeed. A proper one, in fact you should heed the Prince of Darkness," Juin replied with a wink before hoisting himself atop his horse. "But go on, Morning Blade. Share your name and a bit about what borne your title."
A sudden gust of wind blew upon them as Paints swung up onto his steed, a chill reminder of the cold and dangerous journey that lay ahead. Paints countered it with a gust of his own, a warm gale of laughter. "All this time we had royalty among us, and we didn't even know! Perhaps I should have been more courteous. My apologies, dear Prince." His flashed a toothy grin while he slipped his hood over his feathers. "You'll have to forgive Sevari's impertinence, my liege, he's obviously angry that no one has yet granted him his own interesting name." He flicked a teasing tongue at the Khajiit. "Envy doesn't suit you, 'Sevari the title-less.'"
Viryn, the Morning Blade, followed along to the horses. He climbed up with ease onto his own steed, not needing any assistance even if he did seem to be aging. "Morning Blade is a title that was given to me by my peers." He spoke in a calm manner, ignoring the Khajit's tongue. "My real name is Viryn Moslpus, I served in the Imperial Legion when I was just a lad. I served in only a few battles during the Great War." That was all he would speak about. He would not go into details with someone who didn't serve, especially a silver-tongued Khajit.
"Too few details, my child. Your prince demands deh-tails!" Juin boomed in a voice animated and long forgotten. The dunmer felt a chill, nay, a lightness in his breast. He'd sounded like a boy soldier just then. Not young in age, but still in heart again if even for the briefest of moments. He slumped back into his seat atop the horse and braced against the bone-chilling winds.
"Envy? Oh, I envy those who don't have to sell themselves to a Snow Elf bitch and then to a Jarl to live sometimes. But to envy a man called the Prince of Darkness? You need a better title Juin." Sevari smirked,"Knife-for-Hire. Sev'Ahmet, it's what it means in Yoku, the Redguard language. Khajiit do not have family names, but my profession is my title is the name my brothers and I were given in the fashion of the Man races." Sevari said, flicking a coin to the stableboy before urging his horse on, the others in tow. It had begun to snow as Sevari pulled his cloak's hood over his hat. The hat Suffian had brought back from a job. No doubt it was from a dead man, but he cut the holes for his ears and tossed it to the fresh unblooded Khajiit and he'd taken it like a pauper takes a loaf of bread from a king.
"This is the most Sevari has heard you speak, Juin. At least to me, you and Paints seem to get along well enough. You seem to like Viryn, though. You two know each other from somewhere?" He asked. "I won't force you to tell me, though. Not until after we finish killing whoever we need to. You get to know a man before the killing is done and you find yourself needlessly sad when he doesn't step out the other side with you." Sevari shifted in his saddle and rolled his shoulders. "A knight, a prince and a soldier." He mused. "I know Viryn the Morning Blade was a soldier once. 'Fought in a few battles during the Great War' he says. That leaves the prince and the knight." Sevari spat into the snow, a habit he'd picked up somewhere beyond where his memories could take him.
"Knight-of-Colors," Sevari chuckled, "Knife-for-Hire doesn't seem to be able to hold a stick to his highnessPrince of Darkness or Morning Blade, but I've never seen a knight like you. In High Rock, we have two kinds of knights. Those who kill for oaths and lords and those kill for gold and anyone. I stopped asking myself which one was the better man after some time..." Sevari spat and a low grunt at the memory of one he'd met while locked up in Daggerfall resurfaced, him and his hot breath, him not being able to breathe, hand over his mouth, helplessness, weakness, fear, "Maybe you're just another man who puts on armor and kills others with his sword. They kill, I kill, you kill. However which way you look at it, we're not so different, we're none of us better than the other. But which one are you, Knight-of-Colors? Oaths or gold? I have a shred of respect and liking towards you for doing me this kindness," He held his hand out and wriggled the fingers of his once mangled hand, the hole in the glove still there like and staring like an empty eye socket, "I'd hate to lose it knowing you think lowly of me because I don't call the way I spill men's blood art. At least Juin has the decency to just kill men and be done with it. I think." He looked back and smiled, "Can we all agree to just kill like honest men?"
Juin eyed Sevari carefully. The khajit seemed friendly enough, and today especially loose, but was this a ploy? There was little offer on the cold road to an unknown cave. Perhaps he simply wanted a bit of pleasant conversation before the end, or maybe to deter any untrusted blades to pierce his back. So be it.
"A better title? You act as if they're crafted on a moment's whim," the dunmer replied, his voice serious and even. Juin then guided his steed closer to Sevari's and leaned slightly toward. "Perhaps I've ignored you, Sevari. Allow me to share with you something, then. Viryn's time soldiering was as a commander. The commander of my commander, in fact. I do not so much like him as I know his background with a blade. Better than with some of the others, aye?"
"Hmmm, Knife-for-Hire, Knife-for-Hire..." Paints rolled the words around in his mouth, as if judging their texture. His smile didn't waver: despite their grim destination, the prospect of leaving Winterhold behind had apparently lifted a burden from his companions' shoulders. He'd never heard Juin sound so young and cheerful, and even the usually dour Khajiit seemed to be opening up to the rest of the group. "Not the most inventive of names, but it's refreshing in its simplicity, I suppose."
He gestured dismissively at Sevari's injured hand. "A kindness perhaps, but also a matter of principle. Gold means little to me; I am subject only to my own oaths, and my oaths are clear. 'Help the needy,' they say, and so I helped." He began counting off on his fingers. "Just as I am sworn to 'protect the innocent and the meek,' to 'uphold righteousness' and 'destroy evil, wherever it may lurk.'" He stared down at the three outstretched fingers for a quiet moment before he shrugged, smiled, and returned his hand to the reins. "And many more, besides. It is simply my duty. And make no mistake, Knife, I do not begrudge you your motivations. Once, I too held a mercenary's life. I fought for gold, for companionship...I fought because I was skilled at killing, and assumed that was all that mattered." He shrugged again, his smile shrinking a bit. "I was lost then, until I found my purpose."
And then he remembered, like a bolt of lightning across his mind, like a veil being torn by a knife to release the light beneath. He remembered a piece of a dream, a sudden moment of clarity from some murky and forgotten place within his memory. He saw a dog, old and grayed, and he heard it speak. "To fight without reason is to waste one's time, and one's life. Do you understand?"
And he remembered another dream, the one from the night before, a single image of a Breton sitting high in the orchard's canopy, his voice sad and sweet as it drifted down to him like a breeze through the leaves. "You made your choice."
And then it was gone, the remembrance slipping through his claws like sand through a sieve, leaving only a vague and unsettling chill to hang in the vacated space. Paints shuddered slightly and pulled his cloak tighter around his frame. No time for dreams. He found his smile again. "We all have our paths to walk, some more grisly than others. It is not my place to judge. Whatever your motivations, you are here at my side, and our work is honest, and just. That is enough for me."
Juin split off for a moment to speak quietly with Sevari, leaving Paints to frown in annoyance. Well, now I just feel left out. "My liege," he called out to the Dunmer with a mirthful grin, "pray-tell, why do you find yourself among such peasantry today? Did you take this job for gold? Oaths? Perhaps it was simply a flight of royal fancy?"
"Peasants and royals, are we so different?" Juin challenged, tasting the naivety inherent to the words. "We kill for money, paid to abide by another's will, or we kill for duty, charged to abide by another's vision of right or wrong. I am here because I am like Sevari. I too envy a man who need not abide by Jarls or distinguished ambassadors -- only better becoming such a man helps others along the way."
The dunmer took again a normal distance. He noted the Morning Blade's quiet demeanor, and continued, "Fought in a few battles, aye Viryn? What does a soldier's mind say about our situation here? How would you suggest we take on this mysterious foe-cave?"
When Paints started explaining where he lay on the scale of morality, Sevari nodded to each of his points. All of them his own oaths and the oaths were to himself and his beliefs. He respected that more than Paints could ever know or Sevari would ever tell. Let it be known in Sevari's actions when he stands at the backs of the others, it's the only reassurance a man like Sevari needed. When Paints told him he killed because he was good at it, Sevari understood all too well. I fought because I was skilled at killing, Aren't we all, I was lost then,I found myself in my work, until I found my purpose, I have one... don't I? He thought. He swallowed with fast-fleeting uncertainty and worked up some spit to leave behind him, a parting gift to Winterhold should he die. Fucking sugar, at least a drink, something. His mind wandered back, until Paints found a purpose, as self-righteous as it sounded to Sevari, at least he wasn't subject to the whims of others.
Sevari snorted, and for all of his righteous causes fought for, he rides with me, as rich and as poor as me.What is the difference then? After a caravan sacking, when he looked at the dead, there was no difference between the ones who protected the weak and who raped and killed. They all looked the same, just dead. And even here, riding to a cave to make more dead men, they all looked the same. Men who wore armor and carried swords for killing. Sevari had always known that life was a game of chess, or cards, even. The winner was the one who kept the stoniest of faces and even when you get dealt a shit hand, the right way of carrying yourself left everyone broke and you the king among dirty-faced paupers. It was Fa'azri who at least said one thing he came to agree with, History is filled with dead good men. Good men with consciences, good men with oaths, good men cut down with nothing to offer but mercy. Mercy and cowardice are two words for the same thing, shit on it. No one was giving their gold to the good men, not here, not in High Rock, nowhere. If it's one thing Suffian said that stuck, if you want a thing, you take it, the greatest man is the one who snatches the most. It'd be a damn sight better if the world worked differently, but that's the way it is. Even so, as his own hands quaked with the need for sugar, as his own ends were fueled by nothing but gold, his tangent felt more as if he was poking his own self back onto the path rather than putting Paints' morality in its place.
"Cut from the same cloth, us all. Wanting to live above the petty squabbles, or at least away from them. Juin has the right of it but you, Paints, you seem to have found peace in your purpose. One of us finding it better to help the weak by killing the strong for nothing but a smile and thanks." Sevari said, wondering now if killing for gold was any more or any less purposeful, "Not as if it's a bad thing. A man's got to have a code and you live by your own. I respect that. The gold is the only reason I'm here, though." It wasn't a lie, just a truth led by the nape. It was gold, or the lack thereof, that put him in this place and it was gold that kept him in it. The prospect of a knife in the back from a Thalmor agent had something to do with it, he'll admit, but gold is as nice a reason as any. "Make no mistake, we've all fought together and come out the other side. You may feel different, but I trust them that I almost die with."
Viryn listened as they all spoke. Oaths, gold, blood, honor, and Viryn could respect their own reason for taking up a blade and killing others. He was not like them, at first anyways. He originally enlisted into the Military because his Homeland was being attacked, his kin were dying. They were being invaded, and all he could do was sit in Skingrad and listen to the news, until he enlisted. Taking someone's life no longer crept into the dreams of the Morning Blade, no dreams came anymore. The details of his life were his own, only shared among friends and no one here was a friend of his. They were here for Gold, but Viryn offered his help because the Empire requested it of him. He asked for no pay, no titles or lands, only the satisfaction that he could preserve the safety of Cyrodiil. He fought to protect his Family and his Country.
On to something else, about what they should be doing when they come to the cave and what may be in there. He had no clue, but these lands were full of monstrosities. His horse moved in sync with the groups, he was pondering on how to answer Juin's question about the cave and the foe. He kept his mouth shut from telling Juin and the rest the obvious answer of handling whatever was in the cave carefully, and patiently."Well. We need to go in there and be cautious. We don't know what we are dealing with. It might not even be in this cave, or the other one for that matter. It could of moved, farther or closer away."
To find peace. Juin admired Paints, and Sevari too for embracing what he observed in the argonian. Truly this Knight of Colours felt at peace with their nature and that inner-calm was power.
"Ever insightful, Sevari. A bard in this life or a past one surely," Juin added before Viryn offered his piece.
Juin remembered the allegories of seasoned officers as they detailed battle plans. Without knowledge of the area, or the enemy, was that a fair expectation?
The dunmer chimed in, "We've encountered those creatures before. Perhaps our best tactics will be feeding off our experience of them thus far."
"I can't sing for shit and I've never touched an instrument in my life. But don't get it confused, friend, I respect Paints for his code. My code's still to be the one who lives. I stab a few men, so be it." Sevari grinned his wolf's grin, "Far as you lot are concerned, you've passed beyond the list of people I might have to stab and on to people I wouldn't like to see get stabbed. Not if I could help it. Just don't stab me and we'll have none but sunshine and rainbows between us, eh?"
When Juin mentioned the things in the cave, he suppressed a shudder, "Fucking things were hard to put down." Sevari grimaced, shaking his head with a low growl, the memory of pain and fragility he felt with his split hand. But they bled, so that was that, and in the end they died. "Hunt what you fear, my friends. Hunt what you fear. We'll worry about what-ifs and maybes if we find nothing there. I don't know how the Legion works but I've carried out work like this before. I'm sure the lot of you find it odd no one's trying to collect a bounty on the children. Usually, I'd say we're dealing with sick fucks and we cut a cross over their bellies and pull their guts out in front of them but we all know what we saw in those caves couple days ago. Stick close, each man watches the other's back and we'll all go home."
Peace, aye. Then why do I still dream? Paints tossed the thought away, a careless sentiment to the wind, a truth too distracting. He turned to the company of happier thoughts instead. "Aye, we've made out pretty well, for a band of misfits and mercenaries! Twice now we've been set upon by those that bear ill will, and twice now we've been victorious, with none to thank but our own skills and the camaraderie we've forged. Motivations, histories...they make little difference, I suppose, as long as we can trust one another." He grinned, nudged his horse closer to Juin and slapped an overly-familiar hand onto his shoulder. "So far, you all have done admirably on that front. Such honor! Perhaps you should consider becoming knights yourselves, yes?"
With another laugh and a shake of his head he drifted back to the center of the group. "You're obviously a man of few words, Viryn, so I assume you'll heed mine wisely: we've fought evil once before, something...unfathomable, abominable...whatever we find in this cave, we cannot hesitate.
"Oh, and all this talk of stabbing?" His mouth curled in disgust. "I see why you've earned your name, Knife. But perhaps we can lighten the mood a bit, yes? You say you can't sing, but I'm sure you're just being modest." He gestured grandly to the group as a whole. "Come now, it's the best way to pass the time, and we've got just enough people for a proper round! What say you, friends?"
Without waiting for an answer, he began to whistle the first bar of an old traveling song, one he could only assume the others would recognize. He even dipped into the first few verses, his voice as raspy and biting as the wind.
"From high within the mountains/
where the stream does fountain forth/
I will wait with all my fine clothes/
For what it's worth, what it's worth,
And from deep within the caverns/
from the bowels of the earth/
I will echo all my love then/
for what it's worth, what it's worth"
He dipped a shoulder towards Juin, ever smiling. "Come on now, tell me you've got the melody! Or does the Prince find himself without a voice?"
"You'll just have to get me drunk first." Sevari said, trying at a spot of humor to break up all his dour talk. That was the one thing Suffian had said about him when he came back from Daggerfall, You're too serious, you're not you. Sevari had to agree with him, Daggerfall made him prioritize things, leave some things behind and take on some new things. This wasn't Daggerfall or anywhere in High Rock though, it wouldn't do any harm to at least try to be a bit more like Suffian. Or more like himself before Daggerfall. "Think the only thing missing now is the mead. Maybe a wench or two for each of us. While we're at it with the dreaming, we shit gold and I'm crowned High King of High Rock." Sevari said with a smile when Paints started singing. "Fuckin' speaking of which..." He fished his flask of whiskey from his saddlebag and held it up, only enough for himself. His stomach growled at that moment and he rolled his eyes, jamming the flask back in his saddlebag. "Another morning spent killing more than eating. Just once, I'd like a damn meal." He brought a piece of dried meat out and tore into it, "A real meal."
And just like that, as jaunty as ever, as brooding as ever, as young-again as ever, as hungry as ever, four riders left town with snow drifting down between them, a song around them and some dark work ahead of them. Another day, Sevari reckoned.
