The Elder Scrolls: Resurgence of the Frost - IC

[Poeta Perdido]

The Dunmer held tight as monstrous waves pummeled the hull. He stood beside the others without his tunic or armour with only a short scarf wrapped about his neck. Heavy clouds and rain stifled the rain, their path cutting the sea lit only by the moon above. A spray of sea foam and mist soaked him instantly. He peered back over the rudder of the ship, strangely convinced he might catch the mischievous assailant, but found only a small wave in the distance. The Dunmer slumped against the rail and exhaled as the Altmer, Gelberon appeared beside him. When he looked to the Gelberon, he found a mer in awe. The Dunmer glanced back to the horizon, but saw a wall of grey. His mouth fell agape.

"Wave!" Gelberon announced in a long shout. The Altmer grabbed the Dunmer by the shoulder, forcing them both down behind the rail. He looked to the Dunmer with a presumptuous eye natural to his people and drew close. "I trust you swim, iye Dark Elf?"

A sharp crack like that of a whip rang out. Sizzling next, like hundreds of arrows raining down onto the sea, and very soon after Juin found himself breathless. As a hand of the sea grasping above the ship's edge, so did the wave coil up and onto the hiding Dunmer and Altmer. Gelberon held tight to the rail, but Juin lost himself to the force of the wave. Arms spread, he clawed about, fingers desperate to find purchase. His burned from the salt and he saw little more than a grey haze. Another wave hit, rocking the ship, and sending the Dunmer rolling. On his belly, Juin instinctively grabbed the dagger from his belt. In a thoughtless motion he drove the blade into the wood and held with both hands. He held as the ship rocked, waves crashed, and a short while after. When finally he arose, the Dunmer met eyes with Gelberon. He sheathed his blade without word and returned to the rest of the crew holding down the ropes as the winds continued their assault. He spotted Sevari breathing heavily, chest exposed and flush from hard work. The Khajit shook his head, "We're still alive."

* * *​

"No, no," Juin said, shaking his head vigorously. He sat across from Vylewen on deck with only his trousers, boots, and scarf on as before. "Dunmer do not worship them. We see the evil in their hearts quite clearly, but acknowledge the role it plays. Saint Vivec taught the notion of balance in the world. What is good without bad to define it? What is precious life without those to offer struggle and challenge? We do not worship those of the House of Troubles, but we recognize their worth." He looked about the ship and the strange fog surrounding them. Unsettling was too weak a word, he found his hands drawn toward his gear. "I'll admit, it's harder to see now and again."

Greylock announced another ship drifting amidst the eerie haze. Sharp eyes attempting to cut through, to find some clarity, but the captain saw little until Vylewen stood. The Dunmer heard the collective gasp as he readied himself and his weapons. A quick glance revealed a path of thinned fog. Interesting that her power should work so much, he thought, or is it so little? Then came the smell.

They pulled the mysterious ship close with metal hooks and wasted no time. Volunteers and sailors alike boarded, weapons ready and armour light. The Dunmer decided against anything more than a pauldron and boots. He recognized the metallic, intoxicating aroma in the air as soon as the fog parted. Stepping aboard the mystery vessel only reinforced this thought. No crew, but pieces. He looked over bits of chest and back, more often large portions of arm or leg scattered about, and blood everywhere. Below deck was no better. They spent a moment to collect septims thrown about, but the smell of death was heavy there. "Paints, Juin, let's accompany our lady back outside. We'll check the captain's quarters while we're there." No more words necessary. The volunteers continued until they came upon a door unlike the others. A carpenter's care focused here, and it was quite clear they stood at the door of the Captain's Quarters. "Do you know how to detect life?"

Juin shot a glance to the Knight of Colours immediately. A knowing look was shared, but no advice in the silence. The Argonian seemed concerned, but was it for the Dunmer's secret or what a beast might do to protect its own life? An accusation in a simple look. It was enough to draw the Dunmer's eye down to the sword in his hand. A ghastly, bone pommel and hilt that seemed to burn in his hand. Juin bit his bottom lip and met eyes with Vylewen as a pale light surrounded her faint skin. He thought he felt something pass over him, but focused on the lady. Finally, they locked eyes. Juin tilted his head and lowered his sword with a silent prayer in his mind. "I sense nothing. It's safe," the Snow Elf returned her attention to Sevari. "Maybe."

Sevari made short work of the door and led the way. A brash move, and how fitting that one might emerge too. A wild Altmer leapt from inside the room and onto Vylewen. The Dunmer leapt back, prepared to stab at the threat, but in the struggle he made out words. Besides, the initial shock on the pale Mer's face had faded into focus. This was conversation. Strange and ferral and short conversation. The wild captain stepped back, sat, and took in his own wounds, and like that, withered. As if the reminder was enough to cast out the spirit. As if a child fiddling with puppetry, in a way, but the thought broke to the sound of Sevari's voice. Aside from the questionably dead captain they'd found no others so well preserved. And yet, barrels of wine, bags of grain and other food seemed untouched. Like the ambush before, Juin thought the strange sight a warning and a chance to rearm.

"Why don't we help ourselves while we can, eh?"

"Let not a drop be wasted," Juin replied, voice distant. He turned and looked back toward the stairs leading below. "Allow me a moment to satisfy my curiosity first, though. I'll rejoin you shortly."

With that, the Dunmer stepped out from the Captain's Quarters and descended below deck once more. Light was low, but manageable. He sheathed his shortsword in exchange for his dagger in case someone, or something, escaped his Khajit comrades' eyes. Suddenly his bare chest felt more than a little vulnerable. The thought of a figure from the shadows plunging a blade into him seemed quite real. No leather to absorb the blow, no steel to blunt the bite. The way the sailors danced about shirtless on deck no longer seemed a freeing thought. In fact, Juin felt a fool for admiring them. He felt doubly foolish skulking about in the shadows below with little more than a pauldron and boots.

Juin explored in a crouch, weary of corners, eyes attentive. He placed his free hand on a wooden beam as he peaked around a nearby corner, dagger raised and ready. Yet, the room was free of guards or lurking assailants so far as he could tell. The Dunmer stood and slowly sheathed his knife. Ahead of him lay a door slightly ajar and a tanning rack at its side. There appeared to be a sign near the door, but the language foreign. As he neared he came upon a carefully laid sheet of a golden hue. His fingers ran across the surface of the sheet as he attempted to make sense of the sign. Turning the symbols in his thoughts, in the back of his mind, he wondered about the sheet. Supple and malleable like good leather, but gold. Juin took the same hand and curiously cupped his chin. His mind abandoned the sign, but faced another puzzle. Paints felt drawn to powerful and rich colours. Fabric offers little protection though, so what of a golden leather? He rubbed the smooth, hairless skin beside his nose. The idea seemed perfect, but what was it leather? Something felt especially smooth and oddly familiar. His hand returned to the sheet until his eyes widened.
​

- - -​

Juinarto sat amongst the other soldiers surrounding a small fire. His body felt stiff waiting so long after days of marching and battle. Night had fallen already, and though each of them stared into the darkness all around, none made out any sign of their scouts' return. A few hours of no signs or signals. The men grew restless and agitated. Camp would not be set without the order, yet, for whatever reason, their officer left along with the scouts. Morthal to the east was only salt in the wound.

"The pompous bastards. Lucky we're soldiers, them, otherwise I might show'em what disrespect earns'em. Might still if the esteemed Knife Ear don't return soon. Who else?" said one soldier, a Cyrodiil lad only one year into his service. Juinarto paid him little attention.

"Soon? Feckin' nightfall, I'm tired, and only yesterday did I cut down six Stormcocks who'd gladly 'ave wiped out those Morthal shits. Bout ready to demand my fee. Juinarto, did you not take an arrow in defense of them only yesterday? Cut down a good numbuh too, aye? An' you too, Simeon, showed them terrorists a true Redguard sword work," came another, more seasoned of the lot. Worse, Juinarto considered him a friend. His soft words wooed any who'd listen, it seemed, as even the Dunmer had to admit a warm bed sounded quite appealing. "What say you? They reject their Imperial protectors an' treat us like street trash? Say, I suspect Morthal a Stormcock base. An' you, Juin?"

The Dunmer took a deep drink from his mug and eyed the crowd. About a dozen of them sat around the modest hearth on stumps and stones mostly. Their armour needed mending from two days of open combat, but surely good enough for a small siege in the night. What worried him was the fervour, though. Of the dozen, only two Nords sat among them, and even them southerners hailing from Falkreath and the burned Helgen. Otherwise, these were men and women with no more love for the lands than they were given. Tired, jestful talk actually might turn to bloodshed. Or so Juinarto feared.

"Fools, them Morthal bastards. But is a warm bed worth the court martial and hanging we'd surely receive? Say we roll our way into the hold. A proper night raid, kill the guards at the gates with arrows first and strike fast before the next patrol smells blood on the wind. Then we catch some street peddler. Then we catch a whore. What then?" Juin glanced to each one of them, sure to meet eyes. "Ah, yes, we kill them! No warnings after all. So we've killed the guard, I'd say maybe half dozen by now, and two street-folk for good measure. Wager more guard have arrived by then. Don't know about you lot, but I'm rather tired, so I suppose one of us may fall in the fight. I reckon our greenhorne from Cyrodiil myself. But we kill them too, the guard. And a few more merchants who've heard metal ring by now. We strike them all down, I suppose, and mosey our way into the nearest inn? They rejected us before, they die too then, yeah? By night's end we lay in our stolen beds in the blood of innocents with our names on some Brotherhood death list and our superiors hungry to hang us first. Is this what you say? Do these knife ears serve me well?"

The Cyrodiil lad stood immediately where the others grunted or returned attention to their rations and drink. No, the young soldier showed his age as he drew his gladius and gave a wicked smile. He seemed proud of himself, but Juinarto was simply astonished.

"I don't take lip from your kind, elf. You'd stop us? A Stormcloak among us, then!" announced the lad as he rounded the fire and leveled his blade toward the Dunmer.

All the others shook their heads and stepped back. The Redguard and Juinarto's foolish friend met eyes with the Dunmer, but he shook his head and drew his own weapon in response. The Dunmer raised into a low crouch with his gladius pointed back toward the greenhorne. Both donned their boiled leathers with little mind to their legs and biceps. Neither wore helmets either, and from he'd seen of the youth in war, the opening would not be missed. Juinarto sidestepped away from the fire, stumps, and stones. He did so until his back faced the darkness surrounding and the young soldier's faced the others. Yet, the younger paid seemed to pay it no mind. Too busy feining strikes with his crooked smile. Finally, the boy swung full force, his blade arcing toward the Dunmer's left rib. Juinarto leapt back and parried, then as soon as his feet met the ground, he shot his left boot straight into the lad's gut. The boy suffered the blow too long and invited a final strike. In a proper war, maybe, but Juinarto held back the temptation. The young Imperial regained his composure shortly. Wasting no time, he charged for the Dunmer, and mere feet away, jumped high with his gladius raised over head. Once again, a flashy move. Juinarto brought up his own sword with both hands and absorbed the strike. This time, the Dunmer drove a shoulder into the boy, pushing him back, and inadvertently crushing his nose with his own head. Blood streamed down the Imperial's face, his wild and sinister smile worsened by the shocking red, but he did not relent. The youth persisted with a flurry of uncontrolled strikes. Juinarto dodged what he could and blocked the rest. They were weak attacks, thoughtless, all until the boy drove his blade straight toward the Dunmer's neck. The elf moved to dodge, but too slow, felt the cold steel slice his cheek. Worse, the look on the boy's face seemed that of an appetite far from sated. Juinarto charged ahead with his enemy's gladius still beside him and swept his sword across the lad's legs. The steel caught the boiled leather boot, pulling the leg back, and sending the Imperial down onto his chest. He hoped the sudden shock might sober the youth's mind. Might deliver a moment of reason, but the Dunmer knew enough now to step back in case his expectations were too great. Indeed, as his boot crunched against the brush, the boy rolled onto his back and threw a hand of dirt and pebble. A small cloud raised, but only a little debris made it so far as the Dunmer's eyes. Next, the youth began to swing all about as if keeping a mob of demons at bay. Juinarto merely watched from some feet away. Watched long enough for the boy to tire, though his cruel expression did not relent. As the pointless strikes weakened and slowed, the Dunmer saw an opening and struck. Juinarto sprinted toward the Imperial lad and in that very motion drove his boot into his stomach with full force. The boy coughed hard and deep. His grip loosed on the gladius, but the Dunmer kicked it from his hand all the same. Finally, Juinarto crouched low next to the Imperial.

"Because you are new, I will leave you with this lesson. You are an outsider in Nordic lands, fighting against an assembly of Nords. By virtue of being Imperial, you are hated. Yet fortune smiles, as you have comrades of many creeds who'd gladly support you in this foreign place. Make enemies amongst these comrades and you are sure to die. Your petty resentments mean nothing to me, s'wit. Here, you are like me."

The Imperial held his side with one arm, but feebly reached for Juinarto's cheek with the second. His smile seemed to glow a menacing red in the light of the fire, and he gave a throaty retort, "I ... I will skin you alive, Elf."

Juinarto allowed the boy to touch his cheek. He felt the dirt caked on his hand, moistened by sweat and blood, and waited as the Imperial's fingers made small circles about the Dunmeri tattoos. "With what?" the Dunmer finally replied, grabbing the hand firmly and placing it beneath his boot. He pressed until he felt unnatural movement. "Did you feel that pop? I imagine it'd be quite painful to skin me after this. Now, s'wit, your other hand." Juinarto met the young Imperial's eyes coldly.
​

- - - ​

Juinarto stepped away from the tanning rack with a hardened heart. He could do little more than continue, and perhaps he'd find the ones resonsible as an added treat. He continued toward the door beneath the Altmeri sign and nudged the door, already ajar, open in full. The room was small and stunk of stale air, blood, and stool. He need not search for the source either, as an Altmer corpse, surrounded in a gellified and dark pool lay prominently splayed before him. Juin crouched beside the body a moment. Careful not to dirty himself, he plucked from the mess a silver dagger three-quarters of his forearm in length. He could make out bits of sinew and meat on the blade. The Dunmer took in the sight a moment before rising. Beside the corpse sat a desk covered in parchments and spilled ink. A few notes appeared unspoiled. He grabbed one that seemed a list in the same unfamiliar language as before. There was a book and purse as well, but the dimlit room and horrid stench was getting the better of him. He took only the list and returned to the larger space with the tanning rack. Only then did he notice the crates stacked about. Juin glanced to the list once more, noting a few bits lined out with corrections drought close beside. Inventory, maybe. Or bits more horrid acts against Merkind. He indulged his curiosity by prying open two crates using his dagger like a pry bar in light of his latest find. Darkness hid most within, but a careful hand revealed weapons of all sorts, older than any he'd seen before. Juin grabbed a particularly ornate and thin longsword. The weapon felt light and flexible. He knew neither Gelina nor Markain well, but perhaps one of the two would favour a blade so quick. If nothing else, the sword, the list, and so on would serve as examples for the rest of them. Arms nearly filled, Juinarto made his way back toward the top deck. Along the way he came upon a small table he'd paid no mind to before. His eyes lit up at the sight of the dried leaves and pipes.​

"Surely I've a little more room for you," the Dunmer whispered to himself, eying the small treat in a Sea of Ghosts.

​

 

[Robeatics]

Gelina bowed her head and gave Greylock that little smile, like a shared secret. She wasn't sure how to feel about him, knowing too well all the horror stories bards like to pass around about sailors like him. But he didn't seem to have barnacles growing on his fingernails, and the lack of a brig meant there could be no ghosts inhabiting it.

The sailors broke into a shanty she could've sworn she'd heard before--perhaps Papa had shared it with her long ago. She couldn't sing along, but she smiled and watched the sailors as they set to work. She knew a multitude of songs: traveler's chants, drinking shanties from a thousand taverns, children's rhymes and Dibellan refrains. Few, she felt, would impress the sailors well enough. She darted her eyes over to Sevari, who was regarding her without turning his head. She toyed with her fingers.

"So, you've stayed all this time. Think you've earned a bit of my respect for being willing to follow us. Trust comes later, though." They shared a smile, before she shrugged and glanced down at her hands. They'd moved to picking at one of the buckles on a bandolier.

"Fair enough." She turned to him, a simpering glint in her eyes. "I hope I don't disappoint."

--

She'd followed the volunteers' examples and stripped away her gear ahead of the storm, clad in pants, footwraps and a loose undershirt. She darted across the ship like a bird in a tavern at first, lost unless someone barked an order her way. Bile lurched in her stomach with every pulled rope or climb to the lookout post, but she was faring better than when she was a child. Only once before the storm did she stumble to the edge of the ship and spew the evening rations. But her stomach could only behave for so long.

The wood of the deck rushed up to meet Gelina like a thrown punch, making the world spin without any regard for up or down. Her belly rocked with the next wave, and she could only scramble to her knees and fling her head over the side of the ship halfway through vomiting. The world flashed by in slow-moving glimpses as she desperately clung to the railing, rain battering her face and seeping into her clothes like an ice wraith. Useless! Useless! She could flip, dodge and balance on the tip of a sword, but she couldn't handle a rocking ship? Shame bubble up through the nausea.

It felt like her mind and body had reached a saturation point, a numbness to the storm's tantrum only broken by bouts of dry-heaving. Someone dug their hands into her armpits, hoisted her up and over to the mast. The rocking was awful all over the ship, but in the center it was more bearable. She steadied against the mast, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand. They're steering the ship, pulling the ropes. She toddled forward and desperately grabbed for a rope, just behind Paints, and heaved with her entire body, digging her heels into the waterlogged deck. As the ship turned, she rolled with it, fighting the urge to spit bile all over Paints' back. The temptation to dive into the ocean and swim the rest of the way grew ever stronger.

--

Gelina spread out in the sun and stayed there in the long quiet after the storm. The warmth of its rays dried her clothing bit by bit, saving her the agony of boarding a ship in soggy smallclothes. Pink appeared on her face and arms before long, but something about the burn made her feel more alive, that she hadn't died and gone to a strange afterlife in the midst of the storm.

Without complaint, but a bit gingerly, she dressed in her armor and hopped aboard the ship with the others. It was a nicer ship than theirs, in her opinion, though she kept mainly to the deck, only going below if requested to help haul a chest or barrel. The tight confines of belowdeck made the swerving of the ship worse, not to mention the, well, tight confines of belowdeck. Breathing became a little harder in the many windowless, inescapable rooms, and every little creak of wood or footstep of someone nearby made the warmth in her chest turn icy. The familiar stench of blood and sinew haunted every room, making her sicker with herself every minute. She was sure to wipe her mouth of drool before she explored above deck.

There was a struggle on the main deck, shouting and thumping. Gelina leaped from the quarterdeck in a smooth motion, rolling with the landing. Just as she made it to her feet, the man atop Vylewen sat up, paused, and died. She'd drawn her sword, and readied it in the direction of the dead man. "Wh--what happened to him? By Arkay." A hard pallor gripped her face as she made her way to Sevari's side. The two of them, Sevari and Vylewen, didn't seem much happier with the added treasures. She wasn't very happy, either. No song-worthy battles fought, no ancient puzzles solved, just an old ship and a long-dead man.

Not that she sought glory or riches, those priorities belonged to her siblings. The disappointment was contagious, and she sheathed her sword slowly. She glanced between the body, the gore, the blood, the meat, and Sevari. "This couldn't be the work of Daedra, could it?" She spoke in a hushed tone, unsure of how well her accusation would sit with Greylock and his crew. Nothing made sense to her. This was so far removed from every story Papa or Androla told her, about the brave peasant or devout pilgrim who defeated a great evil with the power of something or other--sometimes faith, always courage. She found courage in her comrades, but also wounds. Weak points, some she dwelled upon into the night. How could someone hurt so much and still be a hero? Were they heroes at all?

Well, you certainly aren't.

 

[O|NoSoul]

"This couldn't be the work of Daedra, could it?" Gelina asked in a hushed tone.

Sevari shook his head and frowned. He knew depravity like this, and he knew he never had demons holding him by the shoulders during his darkest deeds, "I don't know," he said, "but you don't need daedra whispering in your ear to do things like this."

Sevari watched the crew milling about the deck, picking at the viscera and making hushed conversation. Captain Greylock busied himself with the rest of his crew, scuttling the war galley of all its contents that could fit on the longships. The smell of old blood and rot, the sight of the dark, dark streaks of dried blood tracing the last moments of crew and captors alike drew memories from him. A memory of a young town named Grennsmark. It's where he earned his name and where he swore that was the last time he'd abandon anyone important to him, and swore to stick by his brothers even if it was the death of him. An oath he didn't know if he had the strength to keep these days.

He rose, feeling all the walking and the work of the past week in his knees as he did it. He didn't want to sit there, idle. He didn't know what he wanted, really, except to be left alone for a few precious moments. He made his way to the captain's quarters, past the broken door and into the chair at the desk, where he let himself fall into. He stayed there, looking about the room, dim light casting shaking shadows across the wall with every flicker of the lamp's flame. It was almost peaceful, save for the stench of death, a sickeningly ripe medley of blood, spilled gut juices and shit. The same smell of Grennsmark before they left it burning. It felt good back then, to just be able to burn away what you didn't like and ride away from it. Maybe not smiling, maybe not the better man for it, but numb. His brow furrowed and he finally noticed a letter on the desk so plainly displayed. It was a wonder he hadn't noticed it before then, but he snatched it up. It was in Altmeris. He knew only some of the words, but he could make out a name. Teralfar.

* * *
​

There he was, sitting in his saddle on those same crossroads. They say men talked with the Princes at crossroads, cavorted with devils. The two elves with him made him feel like he was. He urged his horse the few clopping steps towards them, the Elf from the day before had accompanied him but it didn't make him feel any more comfortable. The Elf he didn't recognize pulled off his hood and smiled the way an old friend does, something Sevari found unsettling. That put Sevari at no more ease than if the Elf had pulled a blade and he let his hand drift closer to his knife. He spoke, "Sevari, Knife-for-Hire." The Knife-Ear gave a nod like he was hearing the name of his new prized horse, "Knife. My name is Teralfar."

* * *
​

He crumpled the letter in a white-knuckled fist, throwing it over his shoulder, the very sight of the name made him sick. Sick and angry, and he lay a hand on his stomach, his head starting to feel like it was spinning. He felt wrong, but it passed after a few moments. He was in no mood to be reminded of the one who held his leash like a master did his dog. He got up from the chair and made his way outside to find Paints confronting Vylewen. It was about time. He stepped up beside Paints, the lady in her blue dress eyeing them hard as they were her. She was cornered now, alone among them and secrets made for poor friends when the odds were against you. He nodded, agreeing with Paints, "You owe us answers, and this time, it isn't just one lowly fucking beast-folk asking." He said.

He saw the corner of her lip twist up in contempt, angry at being called out, finally. She shook her head and poured her spiced wine over the gunwale. "Fine." She said, "If I told you all of it back in that city of stone you call Windhelm, I doubt you would ever have wanted to follow me. But you've seen what I have now, what the Nords call Grendel, the soulless husks in the caves…" She trailed off.

"The fucking Snow Elf trying to kill us in those caves back in Winterhold. The white little goblins gibbering at me while they tried to stick me on the end of their spears like a fucking animal." He stepped closer, but regained himself. He wouldn't get answers by losing his temper, "Answers."

"Answers," she nodded, "Those things you've seen, you've fought, they started out here on the Ghost Sea. Men turn to depravity out here, just as Greylock told you, but it's more than piracy and superstition. It's worse. They aren't doing it for gold or supplies. They're just doing it for the sake of dominating lesser things, of killing, burning, violence for violence's sake. If you think you've faced odds to make heroes of old shake in their boots by fighting in caves and backwaters, you haven't seen a settlement after the Blackblight."

"Why? How did it get to touch the shores of Tamriel? And why are your kin skulking around in caves taking children?" He felt hot, his fingers itched for a blade, near tangled and twisted as they struggled against him and tried to reach for the bone-handle of his long-knife.

"That's a question for the White Prince, but some say it's a punishment, the Blackblight." She said, her voice wavered at the mention of him, "But those white goblins were once my people. The Betrayal, we call it, when the Dwemer forced us into servitude for a hundred-hundred years before they disappeared. I know not what became of them, but perhaps the White Prince and his folk seek to turn them against Tamriel."

"Right, I'll be sure to ask the White Prince next I see him. I just have to wonder when in the Princes' fucking Planes that will be." He said, anger boiling his blood.

"Sooner than you think." She said, frowning.

Sevari snorted, letting himself fall onto a box and sat there. His head fell into his hands, utterly fed up with being Teralfar's dog, fed up with fighting Snow Elves, fighting things that were only men skin-deep. He was tired. A man can only take so much, and ten years of blood and buried friends is a lot to take. "When we make it back to Tamriel, I'm taking the gold promised to me and leaving. I'm not taking another job until the day I die."

"Do that, Khajiit, you might find the sun stops rising just for you." She said.

"It just fucking might." Sevari muttered.

She stood, clutching her pewter cup hard, "I sailed here, I walked through the snow with nothing but my dead friend's cloak to keep me warm and this is the loyalty I get from the people? Don't you have heroes anymore? Do you have your oaths, your morals, your codes? It seems like he is the only one who does." She said, pointing at Paints, "He just might be worthy enough to have been a Knight-Paladin of Trinimac if he'd been born with pointed ears and a white mane instead of scales and feathers. The rest of you, though… What the hell are you? If you were sellswords, then you have your gold with more waiting for you. If you're looking for glory, there's no higher glory than helping me save my people, the last of our kind. What is it that you want that you just have not gotten from me or your Empire? I can plead with you all I want but I still find you wanting. Even sir knight furrows his brow and glares at my presence."

There were a thousand answers to that question. Gold? A hundred of the finest and most flexible Sisters of Dibella? None of the ones Sevari thought up felt right. "Loyalty?" Pawn. Pawn to Lord Bennet, pawn to Vincent de Courmier, pawn to Teralfar. "You speak of loyalty like it's something you're owed, little girl. I've spilled more blood than you could hold in a hundred of your dainty glasses in your ivory fucking towers in the name of loyalty." He felt his fingers writhe, inch towards his blade. He couldn't tell her he was loyal enough to his brothers to follow Teralfar and now to go to the edge of the world for them. Or, maybe he was just a pawn and he didn't like that notion very much. "You gave me gold, I'll be earning glory, sure. I'll kill your enemies, I'll guard you while you sleep, but I'm no fucking dog, I'll never be some poncey Knight-Fucker of this or that shit, eager to lick your ass and just waiting for the word. I'm not going to die nameless out here for you. Leave that to the legion. Leave that to whoever owns the bits and pieces of flesh on this deck." Leave that to Jay, he thought. A good lad, but dead all the same and for what? For a fucking satchel. There it was. Another comrade in the dirt. He had a lot of them.

He didn't want to die like Jay, he didn't want to be like Zaveed, so steadfast if only so he wouldn't die at the hands of the Thalmor if he didn't do his job. But he had brothers to think about, brothers that Teralfar could find too easily. A girl too. He could feel his heart thumping, he couldn't breathe deep enough, it felt. He sprung up, almost running to the gunwale and he heaved the rations he'd eaten in Dawnstar back out and into the sea. All at once, his body felt the same way as it did when he was marching, cold, trembling, weak. He remembered seeing skooma-eaters off the stuff for too long. It looked a lot like he did the past few days, throwing up at the whaler's shack at Winterhold, sleepless nights with tired minutes of shut-eye on the march, and now. Started with not sleeping, the shakes, now this. He gulped, a sailor coming over to check on him.

The man reached out but Sevari curled a fist around his wrist, as strong a grip as he could muster, which wasn't, "Sea sick." He muttered to him, letting him go.

"Right." The sailor said, backing away. Sevari just rubbed at his temples, taking inventory of all the shit he was waist-deep in but not bothering to try to remember when he first stepped into it. Didn't matter now.

"Shit."

* * *
​

The bodies were lined up in a neat row, four of them. There were two small blankets covering two small bodies. Their sheets were draped over them at least, so they didn't have to look at them anymore. All the difference that made. The heat from the flaming cottage hit him and burned some of the wetness of his eyes away, making him rub at them and turn his back on it. So, these were good things, great things? Being part of something bigger felt the same as not. Too much like it. "This is what the Justiciars do?"

"Yes," Ferelen said, "To those who hold Talos higher than peace."

"Do you ever wonder if it's just an excuse? Something to tell yourself for comfort when you lay your head down." Sevari prodded with a smirk, "Maybe you just like to burn."

"No, you are wrong. I am a noble servant of the Dominion. You are but a dog with a handler, Khajiit." The Elf said, shaking his head with a smile and leaving him standing there. Like a damn dog. If burning a cottage and killing a family for having a different God was worthy of a scribe's parchment, Sevari didn't know what kind of world he lived in. There weren't many kinds of depravity that could match the kind energized by righteous causes. A whole family dead and the only reason being he had the wrong opinion and Sevari and his lot had steel. He packed some sugar down between his gums and took one last look, shaking his head, and left.

* * *
​

For an eternity, he'd spent every waking moment in quivering agony between the times he'd found himself bent over the gunwale watching the soup he'd had drift away. His bones ached and he couldn't make a fist for the life of himself, no strength left in him and he knew if anyone conspired to kill him, they'd surely be able to now. All he had now were short blinks of consciousness. He cracked his eyes open to the sky and cursed himself, the brightness of it all stabbed into his skull and threatened to tear apart his head. He went to rise and prop himself against the gunwale but each way he turned his head made it feel like he spun it around rather than slowly turned it an inch. He gagged and swallowed something back down, something that might have embarrassed other men not in his predicament but he'd abandoned dignity with consciousness a long while ago. A staring Breton sat next to him on his knees, a waterskin in his hands. "Water." He said in Bretonnic, a tongue he thought the lad would know.

He repeated himself two more times, the lad only seeming more confused each time before he looked around himself. He was surrounded by swarthy men, pulling ropes, tying lines, laughing, scuttling from here to there on errands. There was another Khajiit, a dangerous look in his eye, two axes on his belt. A Dunmer in black leather stood cloaked on his lonesome and an Argonian held tight to a line while another helped. He felt he should know them, but their names eluded him. The wind blew the smell of salt his way and he put a hand over his mouth, grimacing and holding back the contents of himself from spewing out on the deck. He looked around him and a grey-head who looked familiar knelt beside him, "You know where y'are, lad?"

"Wayrest?" Had to be, Sorosi was taking care of him these past few days. Right?

The grey-head just put a hand on his stomach and laughed heartily, his grating laughter cutting deep into Sevari's head, making him wince and that stopped the laughter. The smile in his voice was still there as he said, "You're in the Ghost Sea, boy. We're far and away from Wayrest or Dawnstar now. Reckon I ne'er seen a case o' the sea sickness bad as yours though." Sevari looked at him and he had a knowing smile on him. He knew it wasn't seasickness.

"Right," Sevari said, much more stern, "Sea sickness."

"You seemed to be doing alright with it days ago though, wonder what that might've been." The grin grew wider on the man- Greylock, Captain Greylock's face now. A face he wanted to shove a dagger in or hack open with an axe. That fucking grin.

"Don't dig too deep, you old fuck." Sevari said, "You dig too deep you might get buried."

"I catch your meaning, lad. Didn't mean to offend, I know what yer feelin's all, trust me." He said, showing his hands before getting up, "Get some food in ya, get some water back in there, you can get back to haulin' them lines, son. Best way to get away for a bit, work is. Work never made me a worse person." And there was a smile from Greylock then before he left, and he looked different. Like a father reassuring a fallen son, and Sevari felt a little different at that.

He swallowed glass, it seemed, "Water." He croaked, harshly, this time in Cyrodiilic and the boy handed him the waterskin. He snatched it away and drank deep, long pulls from it until he couldn't anymore, until he felt like he'd be sick over the deck but the feeling passed once he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He looked sidelong at the boy now. "What?" he near spat.

The Breton lad cleared his throat and muttered out, "That's my waterskin."

"Oh." Sevari said, handing it back. The two sat in silence for a bit before the boy, a couple years younger than him, made to leave. Sevari put a still weak hand on his shoulder, "Wait," the boy looked at him and sat back down, crossed legs, "How long have I been gone?"

"Gone?" He asked, "Oh, six days. We've been out on the ocean for six days since you…well, just kept sleeping for a while. We left land a week ago and have only the water for miles. I can't say I'm used to it." He said.

"Mm." His mouth a little less dry but he felt a little pang of sadness to know he wasn't in Wayrest with Sorosi by his side. He would be though, after all this. If he made it back. "So, you've been attending to my needs for six days?"

The boy laughed, "Well, more like I fed you with a spoon and gave you water so I could watch you throw it back up over the side of the boat-"

"Ship!"

"-Ship, over the side of the ship. Some of us said you wouldn't live out the week, others said you would. We had bets." He said with a smile.

"And what did you bet on? And you best be careful with your answer." He said, no trace of a smile.

"Uh, well, I said you'd live. Earned myself this!" He said nervously, holding up a fat sack of coins and someone behind him groaned at seeing it. Must've been a loser.

"Glad you were right." Sevari said, rolling over onto his back. Real glad.

"So am I." He smiled, jingling his coins, "Oh, and be ready, we spotted land some time ago. Off the, um, larboard side." He pointed over the gunwale. Sevari threw a hand on the gunwale and hauled himself up with gritted teeth, spotting the land they were talking about. It was hard to see from here, but there must have been something on it if they were taking the time to make landfall. The island stretched on the length of his long-knife's blade even all the way out here. A mass of black in the distance, clouds hanging over it and mist along its banks. The trees nothing but a hazy suggestion off in the distance.

* * *​

Sevari leaned on his messer like a cane, watching the docks of the settlement drift nearer as their ship came on. His breath steamed in the northern air and the sailors had all donned their wool coats and hats with the chill. The settlement they were stopping at was one Vylewen said was beautiful and bustling, but as it drew closer it only gave the same impression as Reachman country at night. The docks were unattended and the only ones there to attend their arrival were the crows lingering about the quays, some perched on boats bobbing up and down. Wary whispers came from the crew, some uttering curses, others prayers. The town and the beaches stretching off to either side of it were devoid of snow, a surprising thing this far north.

"Beck is my name," the lad from before said.

"I didn't ask." Sevari muttered, eyes not straying from the empty town looming closer. The boy stayed quiet after that. Just as well, the last thing Sevari needed was to get to know the lad. You get to know someone and the only thing that comes of it is you get that much more hurt when you're burying them. "I hope you don't harbor any illusions that it'll be all glory, now that you're with us." Sevari said, mind going back to a young man he once knew, younger than Beck at the time, "You ever even been in a scrap?"

"No." He said, quiet. "I didn't know it was a needed skill to be able to serve."

"It is when you ride with us. Until you're ready for the days that every time you close your eyes to sleep, you hear the rasp of a blade freeing itself from a sheath and realizing it was only your head, you don't know anything about riding with a band like this. Greylock and the heroes in your books all lied to you." He said. Giving him the reality of it was the best for him. "After this is all said and done, Beck, go back to your home and never pick up those weapons of yours again. Or you might find me looking back at you from the opposite lines one day. Truth be told, I don't want that." He narrowed his eyes and looked at him finally, "Neither do you."

Beck frowned, not seeming happy with the fact no one else held his views. The fact was everyone grew out of them already. "Just wanted to be a good man."

"It's no lie, Beck. Going out and finding adventure, signing on with a sellsword crew or a fighting band, or the legion, you'll become a man. Killing didn't make anyone a good one though." Sevari said, frowning, and turned his focus back on to the docks and the town beyond.

"Tie off that line, let's get secured here and we scavenge what we need." Greylock's gravelly voice came, hardly reassuring to Sevari in this gloom. "There'll be no scuttlebutt about ghosts or other such. We go in, take what we need, we come out and leave. Simple, lads."

"This place was alive when I left." Vylewen said, stepping up to him. Unlike her attire on the Dominion brigantine, she was dressed appropriately this time. A proper simple tunic and trousers. Where she found a place to change without drawing the hungry gazes of every sailor on the ship, he didn't know, but as long as she wasn't being accosted, he didn't care. "How do you fare?"

Her curiosity was a surprise, if not something he didn't wholly trust, "Fine. I'll be back at it, give me a day or two." As the crew hauled their lines and brought their ship closer to bump with the dock, Sevari leapt over onto the wooden planks over the water. Vylewen held out her hand, daintily and almost expectantly. Sevari only looked at it and a corner of his mouth twisted up in contempt. As he rolled his eyes, she only chuckled and stepped onto the docks on her own, placing a hand on a shortsword of Falmer make hanging from her belt. Still in good condition after being dug up and kept on that ship. Elves knew how to make blades, he guessed.

Once the three ships were tied off on the docks, they assigned men to their posts to stay back and guard the ships. To none of their surprise, every volunteer was put on the scavenging party, along with the legion. The volunteers assembled, Sevari spoke, "Remember our conversation in Winterhold." He looked at Juin and Paints. Sticking by Vylewen wasn't all he meant by that. An unsaid but understood firm suggestion to not indulge any urges to engage in an impromptu sparring session with real blades. "You don't let the legion boys do anything stupid, not to you, not to themselves. Don't kill them, don't talk to them, keep your distance. Look after yourselves and be watchful. If you find anyone acts strange, you know what to do," and he patted the big messer, flat of the blade on his shoulder and pommel in his palm, resting there, "Stick together. If we split up, stay with the usual man. Juin, Paints, me and Vylewen. Markain with the others, just so each group has at least someone that can use some magic if sharp edges isn't enough to discourage the bastards."

The bugler boy put his bugle to his lips on one of the other docks across from theirs and Maricus cuffed him on the head and said something that was lost to the distance. More than likely something about being quiet, Sevari smiled. For once, someone shut up that fucking bugle. Maricus waved his arm forward extra suggestively and Sevari raised his arm and nodded. "We'd better go. Quick-like, in and out. Quiet as the air." The words made him feel like he was riding with his band again, except these were better people, mostly. With that they walked towards the gates to the city proper.

A couple of legion lads shouldered the big doors open, grunting all along the way with the heavy wood doors. The walls were made from a pale stone Sevari had not a single guess as to what its name was, but it lent the city a ghostly beautiful look. Pale, like its people. Inside, the buildings looked much like the docks, abandoned and empty. Around them was the main square, or one of a few squares, it was anyone's guess. It was a big expanse of nothing, a marketplace, stalls erected about the border of the yard with signs that could have read anything. The way it stretched on for several meters, surrounded on all sides put him in mind of what he'd heard of the Imperial Arena, a place where men were payed to fight and others payed to watch. The thought made Sevari frown, looking from here to there, window to window as they traversed the space. Fruit stands were unattended, meat sat at stalls with flies buzzing about. "No fresh meat then, lads." A legionnaire whined.

"Quiet in the ranks, Maximus. House to house, search for important things, food and the like. I catch you with jewelry, you lose a finger for each item. That goes for the lot of you." Maricus growled low, keeping his voice quiet and looking about the buildings, not trusting the silence to be honest. Sevari nodded in a different direction as the legion split away. They swept through the buildings diligently, not leaving an inch uncovered. Every drawer and cupboard, lockbox and chest opened and emptied if it was important. Sevari had already stuffed a couple strips of dried meat into his travel bag, along with four bottles of mead he wrapped individually in cut out pieces of clothes so they wouldn't clink. He wasn't worried about the others knowing, it was what might be skulking around hearing that worried him. They went deeper into the city, building by building and finally, when Sevari's pack was full enough with dried meat, bread and mead, he decided it was time to turn back.

He stepped outside and watched the lot of them file out onto the street. He should have found the lack of attack refreshing, maybe, but he only found it eerie. It was then he heard from deeper within the settlement, the shrill cry of the bugle grating along that distance to their ears. The volunteers looked to each other as if for answers, realizing no one had any, they decided to go deeper. It wasn't long until they found them, nor was it hard. A trail of bodies, one here, take a few strides, turn a corner, there was another. It continued like that for a bit until they came to the legionnaires huddled in an alley, a thing that looked like the Grendel lay on the floor, only made out of what looked to be three people and a dog instead of ten, like last time. Maricus lay on the ground, being tended to by a glow-handed healer, a nasty gash along his stomach slowly knitting itself back together. "It came out of a window, gave us a right fucking fright and a hard fucking fight, it did." A dunmer legionnaire drawled in his thick Solstheim accent.

"Maricus won't be up for an hour, maybe. Better carry him back, and now. No telling-" A Breton sailor cut off as a bell in one of the squares rang out. They looked to eachother, legion and volunteers before silently agreeing. The legion healers hefted Maricus and ran with them as best they could. Sevari kept a good pace, throwing glances behind him to make sure they were still following. The bell was incessantly ringing out even still. It didn't help Sevari concentrate and they stood in an alley, unsure of where to go. Vylewen placed a hand on his shoulder and closed her eyes, the pair of her eyes starting glow and the air around them shimmering again. She squeezed his arm and pulled him with her. As they ran, the sounds of gibbering mouths and bounding steps could be heard coming from all around. It only made Sevari run faster. They rounded a final corner and came out from the alleys and into the square, a Grendel looking made up of the parts of three men, a woman and a bull stood grotesquely among blank-eyed, black-veined Snow Elves. Its rippling, glistening bare muscle made more disturbing only by the bull's head jutting from the center of its chest, no head atop a neck on it. One inhumanly thick arm, broken arm-bone talons holding a dead Snow Elf by the leg, two twig-thin arms jutting uselessly from its shoulder and back. One leg stood thick as a young tree, the other looking lame and fused with an arm, fingernails scraping along the cobblestones as the fingers on the fused hand writhed and twisted, several meters away across the square from them.

The bull's head opened its mouth and its tongue lolled out, a gurgling sigh escaping before the dozen enthralled Snow Elves burst into a sprint. Two came at Sevari and Vylewen, one with only one eye and another without a shirt, and would've been quite the distraction if she was still the woman she used to be and not the monster she was now. Sevari swung his messer in a great red arc, cleaving through the chest of the Woman-Thrall- sending her stumbling to the ground- and into the armpit of One-Eye, severing his reaching arm. He ripped the blade free with a squelching of flesh, raised it and sent it down through One-Eye's head with the sound like the splitting of a log. Woman-Thrall got to her feet, white bones showing in her chest between mangled breasts. Sevari ended her quick, cutting through the front of her face and she fell, smacking her head on the cobblestones. A few more were coming in from the streets around the square, still coming as Vylewen burned them a path through the horde, and the volunteers and legionnaires cut their way through with her. The limping Grendel tried its best to keep up, braining one legionnaire with a backhand from its treasure-chest size fist, bursting his skull apart.

The ships were in view now, but what was bad was the fighting had already begun at the docks, their way blocked now by another Grendel, propped up on four legs made from arms, a torso coming from the front of it like a mockery of a centaur from the storybooks and right arm holding the leg of a table and the other a butcher's cleaver. "Protect me." Vylewen said, "and don't die."

"No shit." He grunted. "What in the Princes' hells are you doing?"

"You'll see if you can protect me long enough." She said, closing her eyes and breathing steadily, her palms towards the ground.

They stood together in a mass, legion and volunteer, a Grendel to their front with its blackblighted Snow Elves and another Grendel to their rear, blocking their way to the docks standing just front of the gate. This time, Sevari had no ravine with rushing water to jump into. This time, it was a choice between killing and dying. This time, he had no choice but to let his heart beat that steady rhythm, let his arms and legs move to the same dance and mind tune to the quickness that brought death. All this so he wouldn't die nameless this far north. He stepped forward with a fighting roar and swung his messer in a wide arc to keep the thralls from him and Vylewen. One swing took a chunk of one's head off, split another's face down to its chest. He roared, arcing his blade through a thrall's ear and out the other side, through its temple. Its falling body only revealed more behind it. They were starting to get too closer for his long blade, so he sheathed it, drawing his long-knife and getting behind the line of tower-shields the legion was forming around Vylewen, still with her eyes closed and in deep concentration.

 

[Poeta Perdido]

Ascending onto the upper deck paid Juinarto little in excitement or curiosity. The Dunmer shuffled toward the Captain's Quarters with his findings to step into a room of tension. Quietly, he laid joined the sailors barely outside the quarters, close enough to hear, far enough to remain uninvolved. The intensity of Sevari reminded him of the soldier faced Vaylin. The old dunmer let his men run loose, but as soon as mystery threatened those under his charge, his laissez faire nature turned rigid and harsh. Fiercely loyalty on behalf of those who gave him their own. He materialized his demands through blunt speech and approach, unsatisfied with the vague, uncaring in the face of discomfort. Juin eyed the Khajit as he cornered Lady Snow, as his finger trembled toward the hilt of his blade. How long would they play this game?

Vylewen clearly knew how to spin a web. A proper politician, guarding her breast by offering bits of flesh here and there to guide her opponent. Given a sword, the Dunmer suspected she would make as good a warrior as she did a puppeteer. And yet, Sevari came with another approach. His hardheadedness and apparent struggle to stave off killing her had an effect. Juin eyed the Khajit as he uncovered words of power. They heard White Prince once before, perhaps, but this Blackblight seemed something held close. The Dunmer listened until his discoveries dispersed amongst the crew and he remained, leaned against a crate, with a wooden pipe and a bit of dried tobacco. Summoning what inkling of of fire magic he could, he lit the tobacco and took a long draw. He let the effects of the smoke sink in, feeling his mind already begin to calm. Juin let his eyes drift into the haze clung to the sea surrounding the vessels. Let his eyes attempt to pierce what they surely could not as his mind sought meaning in the absence. Another land, another enemy, and another disease. The Dunmer drew another breath as he glanced back toward Lady Snow and the Khajit. He cringed, his eye quick enough to catch the last bit of mess dripping from Sevari's lip.

By nightfall rumours spread. The Dunmer sat alongside Gelberon as the ship continued through the foggy, moonlit night. A chill settled in the air and Juinarto could not help but wrap himself tight in his cloak. Besides the cold or the abandoned ship or the skin, something felt amiss. This Blackblight and White Prince speak addled his mind. He'd meant to speak to Sevari, to work through the curiosities, but the Khajit had succumb to the death rattle of the sugar. His mother called it the Sugar Sleep.

"Your friend, the Khajit," the Altmer said, glancing about into the dark fog with a smug grin. "Softer than he let on, aye? Reckon beast-folk always are."

Juin looked to Gelberon through the side of his eye, and in a low voice, "Strong men fall to the Sugar Sleep. Indeed, some die."

"If it is sugar, it is his own fault. Would you have me pity an addict?"

"Addict? You hardly know him, who are you to speak such rot? Khajit are unique and handle Moon Sugar far better the same way Nords stomach ale better than Bosmer. Tell me, Altmer Sailor, has your body never felt the temptation of Skooma? Or Balmora Blue? Tobacco, perhaps?" The Dunmer pursed his lips as Gelberon suddenly felt the urge to eye the floorboards. "I thought not. Now, what say you we leave our judgments behind and enjoy a smoke? We are Mer -- we must set an example."

"Right, judgments aside then," the Altmer packed the wooden pipe's bowl with a generous helping of tobacco. "How is it you know so much about sugar? You dabble?"

"My mother. I mean, no, she did not partake, well I think not anyway," Juin paused a moment, watching as Gelberon lit and drew from the pipe. "My mother was an alchemist. In Solstheim, shortly after the mines dried up, there was little to trade with the merchants. She found Skooma, Balmora Blue, and other concoctions to haze the mind still very much in demand. When we came to Skyrim the work had to be far more secret. She'd travel out to sell her wares. I had the chance to come as guard and I learned quite a lot. My healing potions leave much to be desired, but gods know I can craft Skooma good enough to make you a rival to the madgod himself." The Dunmer took hold of the pipe and nodded to the sailor. "And you? You've dabbled?"

Gelberon bobbed his head side to side with an expression as if having bitten a lemon. A strange look, nearly enough to make Juin choke on the smoke. Finally, the Altmer replied in a drawn voice, "Well... A bit, yeah. Met a Nord some time ago who liked liked herself a little sugar. Not refined, but she'd sprinkle a bit in her drink or even on her tobacco. Beautiful. She offered once, couldn't say no. Not to her."

"Worth it?"

"For a while. Good few nights too. Bad idea on board a ship so small. Any ship really. The talk got to her and she dipped heavier into the stuff. One day she'd gone a-port high as a kite... Arrested for picking a fight or some such. Killed a man, apparently. Haven't touched sugar since."

The Dunmer sat quietly as the story sunk in. Words, even in his own mind, tasted too empty or too bitter to let slip. Not that the Altmer seemed to mind either as he drew deeply on the pipe and watched the silver smoke drift slowly toward the moon. They watched the strange patterns a while. Now and again pointing out great beasts or supposed Aldmeri heroes as they appeared set against the stars. Only after Greylock made his rounds about the vessel did the two disperse. Gelberon to his post a little while longer, and Juin to his bunk where he meant to experiment with this sprinkling of sugar as the story detailed.

* * *
​

Day broke and by the time they upon the docks of the settlement the edges still blurred. Juinarto felt a dull buzz behind his eyes as he tightened the straps about his ribs and finished readying his armour. Regular feeding produced a feeling not so different, or perhaps his inexperience numbed him to the subtleties, regardless, as he tightened his sword to his belt he did so keenly aware of the world beyond. The air was still. Little snow, surprisingly, and something besides the chill in the air seemed to bite at him in a way. He glanced to Vylewen as the ship tied off. Her expression offered little comfort.

Rotting meat and empty streets offered little in the way of welcome. The Dunmer was among the first to draw his sword, he paid little mind to Maricus' long side-looks, responding only to Sevari, and even with a small bow of the head. While they filed through the town streets the feeling only grew. Stillness grew to dead, theories of evacuation or resettlement to decay. He struggled to push the thoughts away, but as they entered each home, emptying dressers, cubbards, and trunks all stuffed full with supplies, he'd no reasoning but sinister. In his gut, the Dunmer knew the occupants dead or taken by this apparent Blacklight. He liberated generous portions of salted meats and bread with little in way of remorse. Shortly after stuffing his pack, spotting Sevari doing the same too, they returned to the street.

The shrill tune of the bugle came as they prepared for the next building. Like that, the group rounded the corner to find a road full of bodies scattered about. Bright streaks of red followed each corpse along with a speckling about their heads or arms, or what was once their heads or arms rather, and soon the story became quite clear. Juinarto neared the Knight of Colours as they approached an alley from which the sound of grunts echoed. He met eyes with the Argonian and waved a finger between the two of them. Truthfully, the Dunmer accepted that a creature might seem great, like the one fought in Winterhold, but he held doubts. If he were wrong, he knew no warrior he'd rather fight beside. He prayed the thought wasted.

"It came out of a window, gave us a right fucking fright and a hard fucking fight, it did," came a dunmer soldier, nodding a head toward the strange corpse further along the way. Juinarto glanced ahead to find the creature, an amalgam of what appeared to be a number of men and perhaps a beast of some sort. When a bell began to chime too, the Dunmer realized his hope for a calm introduction to the land was foolish.

"Dammit."

The healers hoisted an injured Maricus up as they whole group took to a quizzical run. Winding alleys and a bell that seemed to ring from every way, including the one they came, offered little in the way of guidance. Finally, the group paused and Lady Snow cast yet another spell. As her eyes took on a familiar glow the group took to a run once more, navigating the alley corridors with greater confidence despite the ominous clattering echoing from all around. The Dunmer glanced about, catching empty alleys as they passed, and nothing visible from behind. He only realized the meaning as they emerged into the open square across the way from another mix-matched beast. Pieced together from Man and Beast with dark eyed husks of Snow Elves standing at its side, the group paused a moment, as if to register the horrid sight. The strained, demonic war-cry the Grendel loosed explained all as the horde descended upon them.

Juinarto stayed near the painted Argonian a few meters left from Lady Snow and Sevari. The Dunmer swung his bone handled shortsword through the jaw of an approaching husk, glancing to his side to catch Paints and Sevari cutting down the initial fodder much in the same. He'd no idea how close to the docks they were, and remembered little of the settlement to find a proper defense. Instead, Juin reached to his belt and drew the elvish dagger he'd picked up from the Altmer vessel and met the assault. Two more black eyed Snow Elves ran themselves through upon his blade, their necks slit quickly, drenching their tunics in the blighted blood. Juin kicked the corpses off his blade as more neared, thankful of his comrades wide arcing strikes. Freeing his blade, the Dunmer spotted three more running toward him with arms raised as if to grab. Juin ducked low with the hardest strike he could muster with one arm and rolled aside from their path. Two of three fell forward, legs gashed open wide at the shins, while the third toppled over the Dunmer, who remained in a low crouch. The third's face slammed against the cobblestone with a hearty crack. Merciless, the Dunmer stood and promptly smashed its head with the heel of his boot. The final two crawled toward him, their feet twitching, and fell to a couple strikes of the short blade. He took a deep breath and returned an eye to the square. Ahead of them the more of the blighted elves spilled in through the alleyways, but worse of all, the Grendel no longer seemed content with idely watching. Its uneven pace might prove easy to avoid in an open field, but Juin grimaced as the accursed creature shuffled upon a soldier, distracted by the blighted all around, and struck him with the back of its bloated fist. The soldier's head burst in a mist of red, speckling Juin and others around them in bits of skull and greymatter.

"Protect me, and don't die!" Lady Snow called out. A quick glance revealed a path of blackened stone and scorched corpses behind her. Juin could see the docks and their vessels, as well as their fight reflected there as well. He caught the ever-confident voice of Vylewen once more and returned an eye to the battle at hand. Either she had a plan or merely wished to die a little later. Regardless, he was happy to oblige.

"Paints, I have your right," the Dunmer announced, ducking a shoulder so that a blighted rolled over him and onto the ground. He turned a moment, prodding through the thing's nose with the tip of short blade, before returning his attention ahead. "How do you feel about Legion shields?" Another came upon him, this one savvy enough to catch his right arm mid-swing. The thing made to bite before the Dunmer drove the knife in his left through its ear with a stoney pop. Once more, Juin kicked the thing back, causing the next lot of blighted bastards to stagger their assault. "Shields! Shields, now, Paints!" Juinarto exclaimed, loosing one last strike before ducking below one of the legion shields.

"Porcupine, men!" the Dunmer shouted, memories of a past battle carrying his voice. "Stab on one, bash on two! Stab on one, bash on two!"

 

[Robeatics]

Gelina struggled to keep impartial through Sevari and Vylewen's hostility. Her fingertips tingled like shards of glass as she twisted them into the edges of her cloak, listening intently despite her concentrated effort to not appear as such. She nudged a decapitated ear around the deck with her toe for a few moments, until Vylewen flew into her scolding about how disappointing they were as heroes. She glanced up from under her brow, a distant look in her eyes. It turned apologetic, and she stopped fidgeting quickly. Her child self would leap at the prospect of saving an entire race of people thought long-dead, at venturing through sprawling, secret cities. She'd have fought every horde, scale every obstacle, in the name of heroics, in the name of her parents. But now fighting for anything but herself felt wrong, felt like a greater lie than the ones she told to survive.

Sevari ran to the side of the ship, heaving over the gunwale. At least she wasn't the only volunteer with a weakness to the sea. She welcomed the distraction that gave, and made her way over to check on him.

--

Sevari got sicker as the days went by, reaching a climax around the fourth or fifth day, when all he did was sleep fitfully and spit out any food or water given. His fur was slick with sweat whenever Gelina climbed down from the crow's nest to check on him and Beck, his doe-eyed nurse. She sat beside Beck often, having nothing better to do. He wasn't a seasoned sailor like the others, and he spoke of simple, distracting things; his hopes for the voyage, updates on Sevari's sea sickness, questions about Gelina or the volunteers. She shared a few songs with him and Sevari, a few tricks from her performing days, but divulged little else. The other sailors took a liking to when she juggled knives, or when she tried to teach Beck a bit of swordplay and kept knocking the lad on his ass. Something about him was untouchable, untarnished. She couldn't bring herself to seek out his seams like she did the others.

She was sure to slip a good dose of medicine in Sevari's soup every time Beck could get him to swallow it down; nothing fancy, only some of the herbs she'd bought in Dawnstar and a dash of stamina potion. It did wonders to assuage her own sea sickness, but it only seemed to wake Sevari every so often, where he'd mumble, maybe gag, and go back to sleep.

The light of candles sat like supernovas in the edges of her vision, blurry figures coming and going to blot out the blinding light in flashes. She thought she felt the bristle of Papa's beard as he kissed her slick forehead, whispered encouragements in her ear. Heat built up in her stomach, her chest, like an open wound, and would not be assuaged no matter how much water the healer forced down her throat. Blood pooled on the table and dripped, a rhythm she could perceive against the chaos all around. Eventually nothing existed but the burning pain.

--

The closer their ship came to the island docks, the tighter her heart clenched in her chest. She doubted human feet had set upon the shore in millennia. Something about it felt too common, especially with the way Greylock strolled across the deck and spoke as he always did.

"Tie off that line, let's get secured here and we scavenge what we need." Gelina prodded privately at a few splinters on the deck with her toe. Scavenger. You've been worse. "There'll be no scuttlebutt about ghosts or other such. We go in, take what we need, we come out and leave. Simple, lads."

Sevari was faring much better. Gelina avoided him when he finally awoke, worried that Beck had told him about the medicine and Sevari would scold her for coddling. She watched him pounce off the ship and tie it up, following suit shortly after. She reached to help Vylewen off the ship, but shrunk away quickly and wandered instead for the beach when she stepped down on her own. Gelina never spent much time with the Snow Elf, intimidated by the sheer weight of her presence. Every time she looked Vylewen's way, a dagger of exhilaration shot up through her stomach and left her dizzy. How could she speak to a woman like Vylewen? What conversation could they possibly have? If only Papa was here. He could share all the tales about the Snow Elves, make her laugh with the more outlandish of them. Unless she doesn't like jokes. Gelina glanced over her shoulder and nearly made eye contact with Vylewen, but quickly turned away, entranced by an invisible bird passing by.

She had no qualms about being away from Vylewen, Paints, Juin or Sevari. Every last one of them made her chest clench up with anxiety, all for different, terrible reasons. Holding on to Juin and Paints' secret felt like keeping a hot coal in her pocket, and it burned brighter every day she had to be near them. She wanted to talk to them like she did the others, with her compliments and her smiles, but all she could see was Juin's red eyes and gaunt face, and the sword Paints kept on his belt.

"We'd better go. Quick-like, in and out. Quiet as the air." Gelina was glad to move, keeping close to her assigned group as they positioned themselves at the gates. She breathed in deeply and gripped her amulet as the doors were muscled open, revealing the treasures they guarded. The buildings and walls shared a pale stone that made the air itself sit thick and significant, like a palace or Divine sanctuary. The past week had been the most surreal in months, with flesh monstrosities, Khajiit escapades, Snow Elves, vampires, roiling storms on the open ocean. None of it could compare. She didn't want to forget the sight of those alabaster spires disappearing into the mist.

The gate fed into a grand square, full of stalls and stands without looking cramped or cluttered. It seemed almost like the stalls were erected with a careful consideration for aesthetics, a sharp contrast to the cities of men, where unused space was seen as a waste. Inspired to view the city from a better angle, she scaled a nearby lamppost and perched atop the narrow head, eventually rising into a standing position. Some buildings were too tall to see beyond, but she could make out a few other squares and landmarks. She made an easy jump to the wall of a building ringing the square, slinking into an open window. Some of the rooms in the building saddened her, seeing childrens' dolls strewn on the floor or cold pots of stew above long-dead fires. She could only wonder at what could clear out an entire city without so much as a flipped table or spilled cup.

Not wanting to stray too far, she stowed what potions and rations she could find--but on her way out, with one foot on the windowsill, she cast a glance over her shoulder at a hand mirror on the hearth. It was a simple thing of plainly carved wood and glass, no bigger than her hand. Surely Marcius won't consider it a transgression worth punishing. And someday she might just show her family, prove to Papa that she could be what he'd hoped. It fit well in a pouch on the inside of her pack, a more innocent secret than the ones she was used to.

She hopped down to street level to a throng of Legionnaires picking through a food stall. Just as she approached, however, the trill of the bugle brought them all at attention. She followed the trail of bodies, hot on the volunteer's heels, and skid to a halt at the sight of Marcius and his band, bloodied and battered. Another Grendel, dead this time, and her heart fell. She didn't know what she expected when the gates opened, when the city was so still, so dead. Always death, fighting, hunting. It left a sour taste on her tongue, but she swallowed it back and followed her companions diligently.

The gibbering from all directions was maddening. Her jaw clenched and she bared her teeth as she ran ahead of the others and drew her sword--she'd need a hand free for climbing or casting. She'd picked through the new weapons after the other volunteers had taken what they wanted already, and found a new dagger and blade. Her main sword was shorter and lighter than it was before, complimenting her style, but it still felt odd in her hand. Her parents and Tonfir's training always involved heavy, common swords. But she would adjust quickly--no teacher could replace the experience of battle.

When they rounded back into the square, a horde greeted them. The force only grew the further she ran into the square, surrounding the volunteers like maggots to a corpse. A cluster of monstrosities charged at Zaveed and she pushed them back with a cone of flame, but their tenacity was mindless, hungering. She leapt to Zaveed's side, managing glimpses of a bull-headed Grendel while she cleaved through the stomach of a scorched Snow Elf woman. The Grendel was suddenly much too close--a splatter of blood heralded its arrival, adorning Gelina's hair and face with blood and bits of skull.

A dead man's blood dripped into her mouth, bringing back memories that fueled her movements with a sudden fire. She drew her free hand back like a raised talon and swung down, rocketing a fireball straight for the Grendel's center and main head. Already her magicka was waning, forcing her to dodge around the Grendel and draw her dagger to fend off the screeching tide. They were running, all of them in a tight pack, cutting a way through the horde with Vylewen and the volunteers spearheading. The gates served as a bottleneck for the horde, giving them a little more room to get to the docks, but there was no guarantee any of them would escape. Suddenly they were fighting a battle on two fronts, angry Grendels on either side. She stayed outside the Legionnaire's shields as long as she could, but the twisted Snow Elves grew too numerous. She planted a foot on the head of one of them, springing up and flipping backwards inside the circle of shields. She stumbled into a landing just behind the Legionnaires, and cut away at the legs or heads of the Snow Elves they struggled with.

"Protect me, and don't die!" Vylewen's words weren't much of a rallying cry for the storybooks, but it filled her with purpose.

She fell into the rhythm Juin was shouting, encouraging the soldiers to do the same. If she were to die, it would be a death she worked hard for. "Lord Akatosh!" She cried hoarsely, to herself if anyone. "Guide us!" She pierced a Snow Elf in the thigh and ripped her blade away like an axe from a tree. "Ghh! Lady Vylewen--" Her heart exploded with a new agony, one bone-chillingly familiar. She stumbled back until she crashed into Paints, falling back like she'd been stabbed. Nothing came out of her desperate search for entry wounds on her chest--no blood, no deep cuts. She gasped for air and crawled to her feet, barely able to breathe, let alone apologize for stupidity in such a crucial moment.

Weakness! You'll be taken and it'll be well deserved! She clutched the gorget of her curiass, sweat pooling under her armor, and shot flame in wide arcs past the Legionnaire's shields for however many seconds she could.

 

[Dervish]

Whatever had been discovered on the ship had obviously been something of a tipping point for Sevari, and Zaveed grimaced inwardly as he rounded on Vylenwen, demanding answers. While Zaveed himself was not pleased about being kept in the dark, he also didn't want to jeopardize his entire mission by Sevari's insistence of knowing every little detail. The dead were being brought back to life, and they were fighting untold horrors. That was all that really mattered, when it came down to it; the lady elf had made it abundantly clear that revealing to the world that the snow elves had survived all these years was out of pure desperation because of something so far out of their control and capability that they needed to reach out and, likely painfully, ask for help.

However, the conversation proved to be fruitful and interesting. Zaveed had suspected Sevari, Paints, and Juin had encountered the savage falmer in the caves, but what in Oblivion was a "blackblight"? Zaveed smiled tersely at Sevari's promise that he'd never work for anyone again if he returned. Your retirement will be short-lived if that's your plan. Everyone answers to someone else, there's no escaping it. he thought, staring at the longship and the activity happening there with the crew who had either elected to stay behind or were preparing the ship for departure. Vylenwen's indignation about where the "heroes" had disappeared forced Zaveed to stifle a bark of a laugh. Heroes! As if such a thing existed; All of those ripe bastards from the pages of history had selfish intentions, and nobody remembered their vile qualities, just the thing that made them famous. It was all too easy to look at, say, the Hero of Kvatch and tell yourself that he was a flawless Imperial of a man who shat virtue and pissed nobility who overcame Mehrunes fucking Dagon himself to save the world at the cost of the Septim dynasty, but nobody gave a shit that he was found in a jail cell. You don't end up in jail unless you've done something the guards find particularly shitty, and rumours abound if the Hero was secretly a member of the Thieves Guild, or the Dark Brotherhood, or any other countless stories of misguided stupidity that may or may not have been true.

Nobody was perfect or pure of heart, not even heroes. What the damned snow elf was expecting marching into a city, demanding soldiers and volunteers and ended up with people who demanded to get paid for was anyone's guess, but nobody signs up for a suicide mission without some powerful incentive. The Legionnaires had a worse gig; they were ordered to join in the fun and weren't earning more than their weekly stipend for their troubles. No wonder why the Legionnaries seemed positively dark and pissed off at their lot in life. He rather hoped they waited until they reached their destination. After all, it was rather hard to do what one sets out to do when those with the power to get you where you're going mutiny, and there was strength in numbers. The khajiit preferred not to face the nameless horrors with what few volunteers remained.

Sevari, however, was starting to turn himself into a liability and apparently had found a conscious in that cave, or up his ass, and the more belligerent he became, the more Zaveed wished to strike him across the face and yell at him to come to his senses. Instead, Zaveed turned from the rather fascinating and irritable conversation and began to scale his way down to the longship. He'd had enough of the rotten carcasses and tense assholes who were on decidedly short tempers. One of the sailors offered him a wineskin when he reached the deck, a Redguard with an immaculately trimmed beard, and Zaveed took it gratefully, drinking deeply before handing it back and half leaning, half sitting against the gunwale. "At least you have your priorities straight." Zaveed observed.

"We all do what we must to keep our heads, my friend." The sailor said with a grin, having a drink of his own.

"Don't I fucking know it." Zaveed remarked dryly, stepping away to help prepare the ship for departure.

~~~

Not long after, the crew had set sail and Zaveed had taken lookout duty on the bow for deadly obscructions that might be hidden just beneath the surface, or in ice's case, fragmented ice sheets and chunks of ice bergs sometimes flipped, showing a smooth, blackened side to the surface what was damn easy to miss unless one were attentive. The Redguard from earlier had joined him, resting his elbow against the immaculately carved wood. "Your friend is quite sick. Not a sailor, I take it? Not like you, anyways."

"No, I always suspected he was rather unenthusiastic about water in general." Zaveed smiled, eyes locked ahead. "What is your name, my friend? Calling you Redguard just seems scathing."

"Hamal. Don't ask for a family name because I rid myself of that long ago. If you met my father, you'd understand. How about you? Do your parents know how much of a disappointment you are?" he said, his tone suggesting it was a playful jest.

"Probably think I died years ago." Zaveed said. "Although, I suspect if I ever met them again, they'd be most unimpressed with how I made out. I did not turn out to be a proper little khajiit, not in the least." He grinned, putting on his best Southeast Pelletine accent. "This one is sorry, mother and father, he enjoys coin and women too much to become a selfless community drone." He chuckled quietly, reverting to his normal tone of voice. "The more I hear about Elsweyr's culture, the more I despise it. Although, I dare say the heat would be preferable to this infernal cold."

"Ha! It's why I left Sentinel, my friend. My father wanted me to be a part of the Sheikh's royal guard. Waiting on the whims of some fat out of touch bastard who probably never had to use his sword as anything more substantial than an ass scratcher never sat well with me. The captain here happened by Sentinel, was looking for some crew to sign on, and here I am. Never looked back, but I do remember home's climate fondly. The North has a strange beauty, though. I had never thought ice to be so beautiful, and the sky at night…" Hamal smiled as he stared off ahead. Zaveed offered a solididary nod. As much as he hated the North, it was indeed wondrous to behold. Feeling, however, was another matter. It was no wonder why the Nords were, by and large, an impossibly powerful and hearty lot. The weak simply didn't survive up here. It was a trait worthy of respect.

"I never caught your name." Hamal said after a spell.

"You missed the others cursing my name since we set sail? Zaveed of Senchal. A pleasure." He said, actually meaning the words. Hamal was very pleasant as far as company went.

"So you don't know your parents, but you know where you're from?"

"Something like that."

"You never thought to go back?"

"Wasn't my choice, I'm afraid. You know as well as I what the captain says goes. I was too busy trying to stay alive to really make demands." The khajiit observed, noticing the coastline up ahead approaching. Hamal's body language suggested he, too, too notice.

"Truth, my friend. And it would appear our destination lays ahead. I wish I could say I was excited, to see the remnants of a long-dead culture and their architecture, but after what we've seen on that Thalmor vessel…" Hamal shook his head before turning around to bellow that land was spotted. Zaveed remained ahead, eyes fixed on the approaching landmass with a feeling of apprehension. He made to spit overboard but he had found his throat had clamped up. Every stop thus far had been a nightmare in waiting. This likely wasn't to turn out differently. "The things I do for freedom." He muttered, reflecting that most people enjoyed their sovereignty without having to have earned it. He fucking hated each and every one of them.

~~~

The port was immaculately beautiful in the ways that high elves preferred, and it wasn't hard to see how the snow elves were very closely related to the altmer and why the Thalmor took an acute interest in contacting them. Zaveed's coat waved lazily in the wind, and he pulled the black muffler over his face to warm his lungs as they approached, the khajiit standing on the upward slope of the bow and grasping the figurehead as the longship came into dock, axe in hand. He didn't wait for the ship to settle and he stepped off the ship as it moved alongside the dock, gracefully catching his footing with a few quick strides and continuing to walk towards the town. The others disembarked shortly after and they walked in together, the pale spires and immaculate stonework of the buildings reminding Zaveed more of a mausoleum than a city.

The entire place was wrong; there were no people, and while others made their attempts to raid for supplies, Zaveed trusted nothing about the place, keeping in the streets, his ears pulled back and eyes narrowed as he scanned every corner and roof top for signs of threats. In his experience, a village was only abandoned if the population had left on their own accord, or something drove them out like a plague. However, what they faced was considerably more horrific. The corsair decided he didn't feel like getting butchered by some hidden thrall inside of one of the immaculate homes that lined the streets, and a market that looked far too stately to have been used for its intended purpose. However, signs of habitation existed that was universal for all sentient races, and that made the experience even more eerie. Everything was left as it was when somebody was standing there last. Whatever came through happened suddenly, and Zaveed no longer felt safe in his own skin. Whatever took the snow elves could just as easily effect any of the crew.

He was keeping an eye on his partners, Markain, Gelinda, and Ja'Kiefer as they moved through, grabbing what supplies they could carry when the bugle sounded. The group hurried off to the source, and Zaveed knew it wasn't going to be a good discovery.

"This is one of the times where I wish I wasn't right all the time." Zaveed said shortly after, staring at the fallen Grendel. It was substantially smaller than what he fought a few days prior, but that did not make the sight any less grotesque and Zaveed's knee involuntarily started throbbing from where the big one had kicked him. He hissed at the creature, stepping away from it. The legion commander, Marcius, was alive but decidedly in worse shape than he was when he got off the ship. Zaveed was glad he wasn't keen on exploring, precisely because of shit like this. The retreat was sounded, and Zaveed was entirely too glad of it. At least, until the thralls showed up.

"Now we know where all the people went." Zaveed remarked viciously, freeing his second axe from its hoop as he kept pace with the others, snarling at the dead-faced ghouls. The fact they looked like people, save for the pale eyes and the blackened veins, didn't help matters. People he could kill. These things proved decidedly more difficult. As they rounded a corner, heading towards the ships, another one of the smaller Grendels had cut off their approach, a bull's head being a prominent feature. Zaveed shouted at the abomination angrily, his heart pounding in anticipation of a fight and fear of becoming whatever the fuck that thing was.

"One of you was too many, you fucking cur! We'll gut you like the bigger bastard!" He snarled, taking notice of the charging thralls. It was turning into another one of these days where absolutely nothing joyful was to be found as they struggled not to be overwhelmed by shit they could not possibly comprehend. The first thrall fell easily enough, an axe cleaving through most of its head, while the second struggled for a few moments as the spike at the top of the shaft was driven into its eye socket, forcing Zaveed to kick the thrall free. When Sevari broke ranks to harvest the ranks of the ensnared, Zaveed charged alongside his fellow khajiit, letting out a bellowing, feral war cry that intimidated the living – not so much with the might-as-well-be dead. He covered Sevari's back, making sure he wasn't encircled, swinging his axes with a violent determination that this fight mattered more than any other. Limbs severed easily, and as the bodies were dismembered by savage blow after savage blow, Zaveed began to laugh, losing himself in the moment. A combination of bloodlust and fear had brought out a deep seated laughter, born from a determination to not die without a smile on his lips and a song in his throat, to inspire his crew to murder the fucking bastards with revelry and ferocity. Black blood flew everywhere, thick like an oil, and nothing could reach Zaveed. A blur of motion fell beside him, and he turned to see Gelinda had sprung into the fight, protecting him from a flanker. The trio fought alongside each other, keeping the momentum going as the Legionnaire was felled gruesomely by the hammer-fisted Grendel, and for a fleeting moment, Zaveed thought they might be able to pull through. They had to.

When the call for them to fall back to the Legion's shields was called, Zaveed walked back reluctantly, still fighting the oddly quiet thralls, not wishing to hide behind metal and wood, like some kind of package waiting to be ripped open to get at the goods inside. Still, he complied, feeling trapped knowing it was well his best chance at survival. When Gelinda collapsed beside him, Zaveed rushed to her side, avoiding the torrents of flame emitting from her hand. She was having trouble breathing, but he could see no visible wound. He threw her arm over his shoulder and helped support her. "We have to keep moving, friend. You can breathe when we aren't at risk of being torn apart." He said, not able to do much else behind the backs of the Legionnaries. "I will get you back to the ship, but do me a favour and try not to collapse on me…" he let out a nervous chuckle, remembering their shared night in Winterhold. "Well, at least not now. It would be wildly inappropriate."

 

[Wittiford R. Eference]

He wasn't a friend of yours, was he?


Markain leaned toward the nearest Legionnaire, metal braced against metal braced against metal as the lot amassed a barrier around the lying bitch. For as much as he'd have liked to gut her himself, Markain knew she was his only one who could translate the Snow Elves' secrets. He'd have her by the throat soon enough, for now he'd have to keep her breathing.

The Legionnaire seemed confused, an odd time to offer condolences to be sure, as Markain gestured to the now headless hapless hack sprawled amidst the swarm of blightbearers. Through gritted the teeth, the soldier made to speak but was cut off as light filtered from Markain's fingertips.

It was rhetorical.

As the Grendel drew nearer and the mass threatened to crash against the phalanx, the dead man stirred. Clunky and unnatural, the headless bastard lept to his feet, a sudden jolt that startled the nearest creatures if not a few of the guards. Swordarm flailing about, feet dragging along the ground and his weapon swung violently amidst the creatures, Markain's marionette served a simple yet effective distraction, causing some to double back and killing others outright. From its position near the rear of the horde, Markain made large slashing arcs through the rear flank, blighters gnawing ferociously to no effect though the extra weight clinging to his prize made the telekinesis spell harder and harder to maintain until finally he was forced to sever the link entirely.

There was a momentary reprieve as he slunk back into the wall of steel, drained but satisfied at his progress, no matter how many ill glares he received from the guards ensnaring him. His magicka depleted, Markain leveled his staff alongside the others' weapons, the ample reach managed to keep a few creatures at bay though without any sort of sharp point, Markain resigned himself to jabbing the beasts into range of the shorter swords and axes whirling from the steel amoeba.

Whatever you're doing Vyelewen, do it now! If Greylock dies defending the docks we're fucked. His frustration was apparent, the illusion of charm long since gone, reverence for the great white elf lost in her lies and condescension. There were no heroes here. Markain was a liar, a cheat, a blasphemer, he was a vile man but he was no fool. She'd come to learn that in time.

 

[O|NoSoul]

That smell of copper was in the air, smell of blood and taste of it, like metal. The sickly sweet of meat drying out in the sun, and the not so sweet smell of people cut open and laid out for the world. Pus and shit and rot. All around was the sound of blades thumping into flesh, the cries and yells of men, the mindless gibbering and wails of the thralls. Sevari caught a grasping hand at the wrist, bringing his blade down and chopping off a chunk of the thrall's head, blade softly pinging as it chopped through bone, handle jolting in his hand. He felt hot blood speckle his face like a soft rain before he kicked the dead elf away, body dropping heavy to the ground. Sevari stepped back beside Vylewen, heaving in shuddering breaths. Every time he took a breath in, pain jolted through his chest, hit too hard with a smith's hammer, he'd have to get it looked at. The pain in his bones from the skooma didn't help any. Pain sometimes made him ravenous, this just made him miserable. He looked around him, saw Zaveed hack a thrall's head down to his nose. Paints put that scimitar to work, slicing a man's chest open, not just a pretty piece of steel after all, and even from where he was standing Sevari could hear the elf's face break under his buckler. Somewhere in this big mess he could hear Juin's voice bellowing out orders, saw Gelina twirling about and then slicing a thrall's guts out. "Are you fucking done yet?" He yelled over the cacophony of steel and shouts that was battle to Vylewen, eyes closed and head up like she was appreciating a breeze through a calm forest, not a twitch of worry on that pretty face of hers.

No answer. He rolled his eyes. He heard a scream and saw Beck stumble back, trip over a dead elf with one very much alive on top of him, fear painted all over his face while his attacker made it look like a tedious chore to be done, killing Beck. He heard the thump of a good punch in Beck's face and the lad went still, holding his hands up as if to say I'm done, I'm done like it was all just a fight over spilled ale and not a bloody damn battle. It reminded him of Stennvar and Steinn's fight in the circle over a game of cards, before Sevari knifed Steinn right through his neck, leaving him confused and gurgling, blood running over his hand. His lip curled up, and he bared his teeth in a snarl making his way to Beck, not happy with that memory and knowing he wouldn't be happy if the memory of this fight had Beck dying in it. He dug his claws into the thrall's scalp, grabbing a fistful of silken white hair and stuck his knife sinking through the flesh of the thrall's neck like butter, chopping his throat out with a good push. Beck's shirt and face was covered in black blood. "Up, fool." And Beck scurried away, not muttering a thanks. Not like Stennvar, but that was a good thing. At least Beck could scurry away. Unlike that day, though, all around him there was still the killing work to be done and not a cheap wench in sight. Shame. Only thing that could match a good fight was a good fuck and he doubted the woman that just took him to the ground with surprising strength was overcome with lust at the sight of his scarred face. "Fuck off!" he snarled in her face, rolling on top of her bringing the knife in his boot out. Seemed his luck with the women hadn't changed much.

He pressed it down towards her chest, trying to struggle against her damned strong arms. He'd never met a woman this strong, except for that Orc girl that ran with his outfit for a while. She was a nice one, shame what happened though. He heaved in a breath, wincing as his side jolted through with lightning bolts of pain as he pressed down. Slowly the blade sank, lower and lower and he let go a deep, hacking laugh, skull's grin, like the old days. Bad part was, he wasn't sure he didn't like it, like that feeling of anger, fury burning bright and pure purpose guiding him. He almost wished she was sentient enough to plead with him just so he could say 'fuck you.' He said it anyway and the blade sank in. In all the damned excitement, he forgot these weren't people and hearts may as well be shit to them. Her hand hit him square in the ear and he jerked back, wrenching the knife out and putting it through her eye. He made sure to take this one back and he cleaned the blade, putting it back in his boot and grasping up his bone-handle chopper. "For the love of all the Gods doing fuck all above, tell me you-" but he was cut off when a burst of glowing air exploded from her like nothing he'd ever seen. He almost thought it fake before he remembered he'd just been killing dead people back to death. Almost as sudden as they'd come from the alleyways and streets, they ran back to them like rats caught in the barn. Even the Grendels took a few steps back, Lame Leg buckling and toppling it on its arse like a felled tree.

"What the fuck did you do?" He muttered under his breath.

"I save you and even then you interrogate me, Khajiit." She said, "To the ships!"

In a great mass of running, frightful warriors, they retreated back to their ships. Sevari didn't mind running, never did really. He left the fearlessness to the dead. He was one of the first to jump back on the ship, gritting his teeth and clutching his side as his boots met the deck. "Go!" He yelled at Greylock.

The seasoned captain, finally looking at least a bit concerned for once, spit out his cigar in a yell, "No fuckin' shit, Cat!" and the sailors kicked off the dock and didn't bother with the rope, just chopping it with an axe, leaving the fucking place behind them. Sevari sat against the gunwale, pressing his left hand on his hurt side and realized how hard he was gripping the handle of his long-knife. He peeled his fingers away and squeezed at his other arm with his right hand, didn't want anyone to see them shaking, and this time not from the skooma shakes. He was breathing hard, heart thumping in his chest. He was scraping the bottom of the barrel by the time Vylewen pulled her trick and he was right thankful he was back on the ships. He didn't even have the heart to curse at the thralls that came back to watch them go like forlorn wives. Beck walked up beside him, dropping to his arse. "I was scared."

"So were we all." Sevari said, not a hint of a lie.

"I froze, I couldn't even fight back." He said, the shame thick in his words.

"It happens, Beck." He didn't need the weight of other peoples' doubts weighing him down. He already felt mighty heavy on his lonesome. Beck looked down at his hands and they didn't talk again for a while. All Sevari did was drink water and sleep.

* * *
​

The coastline was nothing but the faintest grey suggestion of land, with the even lighter and fainter rumors of hills stretching and rippling back, back and beyond what the mist was willing to show. Sure enough, it was another island, four or five times as big as the last one they were almost killed at and that wasn't a great start of things, far as first impressions went. Sevari slapped the eyeglass shut and handed it back to Zaveed, who stepped up to the prow for his own look. A week and a half of sailing after the great debacle and Vylewen had said they'd made it. Greylock looked at his map, made to try to see where they were but Vylewen just smiled with the knowing of something no one else knew. "Shouldn't bother with that anymore, Captain."

Greylock looked down, then back at her and then back at his map before folding it back up and scratching at his forehead, the feeling of being in uncharted Nirn niggling at him and it showed, "Right y'are, then." He had his hands on his hips as he walked to the prow, muttering all the way, "Off the damn maps."

"Are we really 'off the damn maps?" Sevari asked, handing her his waterskin. She took it and took a long pull from it before handing it back.

"Yes we are. I know the look of my own city and this is it, Auriel's Harborage. Unless you know better, Master Sevari?"

"Point taken." Sevari said, humorlessly. He didn't know how to feel now that his goal was so close. All he had to do was show what was in the satchel to the monarch and everything would unfold from there. He looked around at Gelina, who he'd warmed up to after spending days on end on a longship with her, remembered the look on her face when instead of hurting her or yelling at her, he told he respected her. Looked at Juin, for all his aloofness, he'd come to know him as a good companion and he started to notice his faint smiles more as the days went on. And Paints, a steadfast ally with a good code. Perhaps he was the best man on this boat, Paints, but he knew better. Every man's got some evil in him, of course, that's not what makes a man evil. As much as he liked these men and woman better than his own brothers, they weren't his blood, and that's what was on the line. Might be his brothers were right evil bastards, but they were his brothers, his family. There's a form has to be followed in these things. He looked to Zaveed, probably having the same thoughts about having the goal so close. The time comes it needs doing, he'd stand by him, that's how things with comrades are supposed to go.

"What are you thinking about?" Sevari unfurled his brow and dropped the frown he just noticed wearing. He cleared his throat.

"Just trying to come to terms with being so close to the goal. Auriel's Harborage. Think my brothers would kill to see this." And no sooner get to looting it, no doubt. He spat off the side of the boat, "They have an appreciation for the fine things." Or the taking of them.

"Brothers, eh?" She looked sad at that, just the smallest look of it before she went back and smiled, "I've got one. Had one, I guess."

"What happened to him?" Sevari asked, taking a swig from his waterskin and working the water around his mouth, spitting it out over the gunwale and then taking a drink.

"He died." She said, quietly.

"Oh." Sevari searched for something to say, "I'm sorry about that."

"You're more sorry than I am, then. He did it to himself and there's only so much you can do when a young man like him is set on something. Harsh, but the truth." She said.

"Never got on too well with my brothers." Sevari said, eyes getting distant.

"It's always rough. You look at them and wonder what you could have done better. If you'd have just done something different, maybe they'd have turned out differently. Almost like your own children. If you were better then they'd be better, the notion is." Vylewen mused. "It's not until we're grey and gnarled we know that life's not as simple as that."

Sevari didn't tell her how true that was, how deep it bit him. He just looked away frowning, "More or less."

Vylewen nodded, eyes still on the island, "More or less."

"I think I should apologize." Sevari muttered, playing with the stopper of his waterskin.

"Do you?"

"I do. I meant what I said, that I'm not going to be your dog. I shouldn't be your enemy though, I've learned over the years that the thing that keeps an outfit together is trust. Trust and respect. You might not be owed loyalty but for the things you've done, you're owed some respect." Sevari took a pull off his waterskin and worked it around his mouth, spitting it over the side, "What I'm saying is I'm sorry for being a thorn in your ass. Trying to be better, lately. So, we respect each other, we trust each other and we'll get along."

"Well, it looks like I've found a hero." Vylewen chuckled.

"If only." Sevari muttered, "It's a sad fact when you pull your nose out of the storybooks you find there's no heroes to rescue the princesses and slay the dragons. Well, except for the one," Sevari conceded, "But he's long gone, disappeared. So, all you're left with is me," he smiled and then nodded behind him to Zaveed and the rest, "and them."

"Guess I'll have to work with what I have, then."

"All you really can do in life." Sevari nodded and they sat in silence for a while. Vylewen opened her mouth to speak but maybe thought better of it, until she tried it again.

"You know, they say if you go looking for nothing but the worst in men you're sure to find it. All your talk about there being no more heroes."

"Might be true, my lady," Sevari said and he sucked at his teeth, "There's just something to be said about how readily apparent the bad always is."

"Maybe, but there's good too. I wouldn't be here if you and your lot were all bad. I daresay you wouldn't be here either." She smiled at him and he chuckled a bitter chuckle, wanting to tell her just the reason he was here. The real reason. Wasn't to save her, but it was to save three of the most rotten shits in Tamriel.

"You don't know the half of it."

"Maybe I don't, but I'm still holding to that notion, that you and your lot aren't all bad. I'm a bit of a… what's your word for it?"

"An ass?"

"The other one, I'm sure." She said, rolling her eyes. "Optimist." Snapping her fingers.

"That explains a lot." Sevari muttered.

* * *
​

If anyone was impressed by the towering spires and high white walls of the last settlement, with its immaculate stone and beautiful craftsmanship, masonry and carpentry, Auriel's Harborage was the beauty of the settlement ten-fold, if only for the Snow Elves at the docks were cheering and not mindlessly gibbering, little girls and boys were throwing rose petals and not knives or rocks. The longships tied off on the quays and no one praised the Gods above as much as Sevari to be on solid land once more. Even on the ground, he was still expecting it to start rocking with the waves and caught himself feeling like it was at times. They followed Vylewen through the streets, crowds held back by guards wearing the most ornate armor he'd ever seen, looking on while they and his lot were getting covered in more and more rose petals. A woman reached out to touch Sevari on the shoulder, another reached out with a shell necklace and he took it. He'd never known anything like this. Was this how heroes were greeted?

He looked at all the cheering faces, reaching hands and didn't know what to think. One part of him said to keep his hand on his knife, another part of him said he'd be safe. He didn't know which to listen to and only swallowed and shook his head. Vylewen clapped him on the shoulder, her happiness to be home showing on her face as she did the same to the others. It was a long walk through Auriel's Harborage, a walk framed on both sides by white stone houses, grey stone streets, pale faces and happy ones, at that. Dandies with flowers in their pale hair strummed lutes and harps and sang sweet melodies, women danced through the streets and men lifted tankards in salute from the doors of taverns as they passed. Finally, they got to the steps of the castle gates and passed through, the cheering crowds a thing of the past behind them. The relative quiet was odd after all the racket. Sevari stood with his fellow volunteers, gawking around at it all, still not believing he was miles and miles away from the edge of the map. The gates to the castle proper were lined with guards and two heralds lifted their trumpets and blasted out a regal tune. The guards filed to the sides as the doors opened and revealed an elder mer surrounded by nobles. The King, Sevari guessed by his heavy gold crown, ruby the size of his thumb in the center of it.

The lot of them stepped away from the king and he threw his cloak aside with his welcoming arms and spoke in his best Nordic, "I am King Erinur, fourth of my name, and I welcome you to Auriel's Harborage. We are a humble commune," Sevari took a moment to look around at all the blinding white beauty of it all that just screamed humble and bludgeoned him with humility, "We are more than happy, more than you could ever know, to have my daughter return with heroes and aid in these trying times. Now, please, welcome yourselves in, there are baths and a feast waiting."

At that, Sevari put a hand on his stomach. Sailor's rations, salty meat and water, dried meat and water, after all that, some real food was just waiting for him. And a bath. His nose had gotten used to the smell of sweaty bodies pushed in together, of his own road-stink and that of the others. How long had it been, even, since he had a proper bath? He couldn't believe it. Had to keep himself from running into the palace halls. They went in, Maricus and his men staying outside. Vylewen led them through the halls, pointing to different rooms and telling them their uses. "The kitchens here," she said at one and he saw Ja'Kiefer's eyes not leave it until they were well past it, "This is the library," she said at another, and he spied Markain's eyes light up at that, the first real show of anything other than a frown he'd seen since they'd left Winterhold.

Finally, they stopped in front of the baths. "There's a lot of them, all separated by walls for privacy. Go ahead, we'll be waiting. Just ask any of the handmaidens if you can't remember your way back to the dining hall." Sevari nodded and smiled while a celebration the likes of which was happening outside the palace was going on in his head at the thought of warm water through his fur. They all waited for Vylewen's footsteps to disappear beyond the hallways before they rushed inside, shedding clothes. Sevari went to his bath, leaving his maille on the floor next to his boots and socks, and those next to his trousers and underwear. He saw the bath, a large square big enough to fit three but just for him alone. It was cut into the ground, crystalline water wafting up steam and the smell of the perfumes mixed in. He could have cried. He dipped a toe in, then a foot in, and a leg, easing himself in and enjoying every minute of it. Slow as snails in winter, he put himself in the water to the neck, feeling his aches and soreness wash away. He breathed in, hearing some of them laugh in glee while others smiled in silence. This was good. This was very good, and for the first time in a while without the sugar, he felt happy.

For now, there was no blackblight, there weren't any thralls, there wasn't even Teralfar or the satchel. It was just him, no worries, no obligations, nothing. He smiled, and found himself chuckling, then growing into a laugh, "I fucking love this." His voice echoing across the baths. He felt his aches go away, felt the pain in his muscles leave him, but he knew there was work to be done still. A satchel to be given over. He thought of Paints, Juin, Gelina. Thought of how close they'd grown. It wasn't much but it was something, and then he thought of how he was going to betray them. He could count the friends he'd had on a single hand and he'd done right by even fewer. But he pushed it away, smiling, nothing mattered. He was happy now, or for now, but he didn't want to think too far ahead.

All that mattered was that it was nice now.

* * *​

Sevari had almost fallen asleep twice in the bath and he was one of the last to leave. They were given clothes the likes of which Sevari had never felt before, only seen on nobles and poncey aristocrats. He stretched out his arms, appreciating the way the fabric caressed his fur as he moved in it, not feeling the familiar dirt of hhis old clothes. One of the handmaids bent down to pick up his hat but he snatched it out of her hand, wiggling a finger in her face before tucking it in his belt. The volunteers stood around in a circle, appreciating each other and perhaps appreciating the way being clean felt, a feeling a good number of them hadn't felt in a week or even longer. Sevari knew he had to have been ripe before the baths, but no one said anything because they were too. That was travelling though. An elder looking handmaid stepped up and bowed her head like she was regarding nobles, "M'lords, your armor and clothes will be cleaned and polished. I must say that on some of your clothes, the blood may not come out," and she looked at Sevari and Zaveed, "Do try to, erm, keep from the stuff while you are here. Thank you for coming to our aid, m'lords."

Sevari looked around, the volunteers eyeing each other, all equally dumbstruck by the turn of events this all was. At one moment they were hard-bitten and dusty travelers, now they looked like aristocrats, being waited on by Snow Elf handmaids and getting ready to attend a feast in a palace in a land that wasn't even on Tamrielic maps. Odd, to say the least. Sevari cleared his throat, "Should we go?"

A couple nodded and they began their walk through the halls. Once in a while, one had to ask for directions and at one point, they ended up walking into the kitchens, another point Sevari sent some handmaids scattering when he accidentally walked into their baths. He couldn't meet the volunteers in the eye as Zaveed chuckled at his blunder. It was too long a wait by the time the guards threw open the doors to the dining hall, revealing a long table with Snow Elf nobles in attendance, King Erinur and Princess Vylewen sitting at the head of the table. Vylewen beckoned them to sit with a smile. Before them was a multicolored galaxy of foods- boar, pork, chicken, beef, lamb, ham, berries, quail, apple pies, and more than Sevari cared to just stand and count while he was hungry. Sevari took a seat and waited patiently while the rest of them found seats. Zaveed took a place across from him next to a young and pretty Snow Elf noble, giving him an unwanted reminder of the mission just by his mere presence. As King Erinur raised his cup in a toast, Vylewen did the same and repeated what he said in good Cyrodiilic, a language the volunteers spoke. "To the living, for the dead have heard it all before. To the friends, for the enemies don't matter. May the roof over our heads never cave in and we friends under it never fall out!"

The assembled nobles took sips from their wine while Sevari forwent it all and dumped it all at once down his throat. He smiled and nodded towards a Snow Elf who eyed him, who only shook his head with an amused smile. Probably enjoying the company of people he's never seen. Walking cats and lizards, oh my! How quaint! The guests all sat at their places and the feast commenced. Sevari placed heaps of food on his plate and shoveled forkfuls of meat, beans and vegetables into his maw. He'd never tasted a lot of the things he was now and he'd lost himself in it, lost himself in a full belly and good food. He looked up from his food to see some of the volunteers doing the same before they regained themselves and sat up straight. There weren't many manners when it came to food out on the road or traveling, but this was neither. Had to remind himself of that and he swallowed down food, scrubbed at his teeth with his tongue and cleared his throat. He smiled sheepishly before continuing at a much slower pace.

The dinner continued on with pleasant conversation, and Sevari had little in common with the nobles, leastways knew how to talk to them in their tongue. Instead, he latched on to the company of a Snow Elf noble girl who he'd caught staring at his scars on his face. He was about to give her a mean scowl like he usually did to scare off nosey tavern wenches, but reminded himself where he was and who she was. He realized how foreign the concept of a scar must be to these people, especially being nobles. Doing the work that could give you a scar didn't seem as lucrative a career this far north and away from the wars and violence of Tamriel, and even moreso for these ladies-in-waiting and poncey lords. He continued eating before she approached him well after the dinner, when the dinner guests were roaming about the room, wine in their glasses and handmaids flitting about with chocolates and other finger desserts, a din of conversation about the room.

"So, why do you come to here?" She spoke in a heavy accent in Cyrodiilic. Vylo, she said her name was at the dinner table.

"To help." he lied, and that didn't sit well, "Kill your monsters, guard your princess."

"I see. So, you…" She touched her face, fingers brushing the spot where Sevari's scars were, just under his eye. The scars that steadily crept up until they would've taken his eye. Would have, but didn't. "You, um…"

"Yes." He grumbled, already knowing what she was going to say.

"Did you earn it from fighting the monsters?" She asked.

"You could say that." Wasn't much of a fight, remembering it all back then. "What about you? What is it that you do?"

"My father is lord of Farlight, miles from here, up North where the snow never melts and the sun rarely sets." She said, "I practice archery, and court manners." Not much else, he guessed. He wondered what living like that would be like, not a care in the world, no long marches or sleeping in the saddle. No one trying to kill you, no sleeping on the ground and dreaming about your friends sleeping in it.

"Mm." Sevari grunted, taking a sip of his wine. He wanted to get Zaveed, get a look at what was in the satchel finally, but he was busying himself with some Snow Elf girls. Vylo must have caught him looking as she smoothed her skirt, Sevari watching as his eyes shifted to look sidelong at her preening.

"Did you come to here only for the killing of monsters?" She asked, looking to the side and chewing at her lip, fingers clasped in front of her. She started rocking back and forth, heel to toe, nervous, before Sevari took a sip of his wine and almost choked on it as he realized what she was saying. He looked left to right, looking around for Paints or Juin. He didn't know why, not like he could ask, 'Hello, friend, could you fuck this noble for me and forever anger her father in my stead?'

"No," he croaked, regained himself and repeated himself in a more dignified manner, "No, my lady." What the hell was he saying? Sorosi was waiting for him… maybe… well, he doubted it, really. She probably thought him long dead. He may as well be to her. He frowned, took another sip of his wine, told himself he was trying to be a better man. A better man. He looked into her ice-blue eyes, saw Vylo's full lips, full of sensuality, her sharp elven features. Her soft skin. Saw the way she looked at him, the way it made him feel, like he hadn't felt in a long, long time. A better man, a better man, a better man- she reached out and touched his arm, something any girl hadn't done in a long, long time.

"We should see eachother in the halls some time, and then…" She cleared her throat, looked away and then looked at him with those eyes. Sevari swallowed, he was trying to be a better man, sure, but he was still just a man in the end. He nodded without saying anything and she smiled, took her hand from his arm and twirled in her skirts away from him to her friends, throwing her handkerchief up to float gently down to Sevari's waiting hand. Her favor. He stood there, feeling equal parts excited and disgusted. He forwent all the manners and dumped the remainder of his wine down his throat, shaking his head and looking for another person to conversate with before maybe meeting the girl in the hall or maybe not. Maybe someone would say something to persuade him not to. Maybe not.

 

[Dervish]

So, this was Auriel's Habourage.

Zaveed regarded the approaching coast with tepid interest, and after a week and a half at sea with no further unpleasant encounters with whatever unspeakable horrors seemed to be synonymous with "snow elf" seeming to be taking a well-earned vacation from terrifying three ships of hapless mortals, Zaveed was actually looking forward to making landfall. Long ships, despite their names, weren't nearly long enough to find much in the way of privacy, and the past couple of days had seen a reduction in the food rations. The rations were, of course, well-managed, but a vessel of this size could only carry so much cargo, and he'd seen quite enough of men shitting over the gunwale or in buckets for quite a while- himself included. It didn't help that those who were prone to sea sickness were having an absolutely miserable existence for the entire voyage, and between cases of explosive shits from over-ripe rations and vomiting from the motion sickness, Zaveed had indeed seen enough bodily fluids for some time.

Still, his heart was racing. His salvation was at hand, and no one suspected a damn thing about his unwitting allegiance. All he had to do was request an audience with the King, or Queen, or who-the-fuck-ever, and present to them… what, exactly? Zaveed collapsed the spyglass, handing it off to Hamal, who had replaced Sevari at the bow. He had purposely neglected to peer at the contents of the satchel, partially to prevent the rare chance the contents would give him cold feet, or make him act suspiciously enough to draw unwanted attention. By fundamentally telling himself and everyone else it was simply the personal effects of a dead altmer that he was entrusted to see to his family, the dirty truth, and it would be dirty, was concealed. Now, without fear of being mauled by flesh-creatures, he could decide what to do next. He glanced casually back at Sevari for a moment before resuming his vigil. Something had shifted in his partner, and it might be a bad thing. Sevari was becoming sentimental, attached to everyone else. Zaveed knew of his brothers and how they were the carrot Teralfar dangled in front of him tauntingly, but these people were… what? Friends, companions? What were they to the sugar-lipped thug? The corsair decided that he would decide what exactly was in the satchel first and decide what Sevari needed to know. He wouldn't let sentimentality endanger his mission, not when he was this damn close to seeing it through.

When the ships had docked, Zaveed felt like he was transported to another world, not trusting what he saw. Numerous snow elves heralded their arrival, cheering for the Legionnaires, the volunteers… basically anyone who came to their aid, but most of all their beloved Vylenwen, who had returned from a doomed expedition with salvation. It was strange, and oddly elating. Zaveed felt his heart pounding, the first time in his life he ever had crowds of people cheering for him, looking at him with love and reverence. He quite loved it, and was caught in a trance, reaching out to the outstretched hands, touching skin far fairer than his coarse pads, the snow elves likely as curious about him as he was about them. Even the buildings were breathtaking; a silver contrast to altmer gold, the altmer speaking to sophistication and passion, and the snow elves to serene order and beauty. It all seemed impossible, this settlement so far away from the mainland, yet so ancient and thriving. It occurred to Zaveed that he was one of the very few people who would ever see this wondrous city, and it clasped at his breast as something momentous and important. He sincerely hoped that whatever was in the satchel wasn't something that was meant to harm these people. Zaveed was hardly a cultured man, but he respected strength and a refusal to die. The snow elves had that in spades… and they were the only people who didn't immediately cast him as a villain upon arrival.

The castle was an appropriately regal location, and Zaveed had never set foot anywhere where royalty dwelt before. He had always mockingly referred to nobility and royalty as pampered prudes and dandies, but there was a real power here. As the heavy-set and ornate doors closed behind the party, the silence was almost reverent, the king's will felt absolute in his towering halls. So lost in wonder, Zaveed jumped when the sudden blast of heraldry erupted up ahead, bringing his attention forward to the King, a man who looked every bit of his title, and not frail like one would expect. It was the wonders of being of a race that had a one thousand year life span. Zaveed paused, reflecting that he didn't actually know if that was how long snow elves lived for. It was all too easy to compare them to the altmer.

Shortly after, the party was dismissed and lead into the inner halls, where the smell of freshly cooked meals made Zaveed's stomach growl, although he reminded himself to pace himself – eating too richly after surviving off of meager sailing diet was horrendous to one's bowels. The sight of the baths was mesmerizing, and like a moth to a flame, Zaveed hurried to an unclaimed tub and quickly stripped down, not unlike his drunken encounters with a woman, and he set himself into the waters slowly, wincing at first as the sudden heat licking against his frost-hounded flesh for the past several weeks stung at the sudden contrast. Before long, he was submerged and it started to feel wondrous. He eventually submerged himself beneath the surface, holding his breath. As he felt his aches and soreness eroding with the inviting warmth, and cleanliness permeating his doubtless filthy form, with his eyes closed, it was almost enough to imagine he was back in the South, where palm trees dominated and the sun was strong enough to bake the land. For a brief moment, submerged in the bath, he felt like he could have been home.

This is why I must do what I must do. I refuse to let this icy land be my tomb.

Having dried off and found a renewal he had long forgotten, Zaveed dressed himself in the offered formal wear, made of some rich fabric like velvet or some such, as far as he could tell, a red tunic and black trousers with matching ankle-high black boots, polished to a mirror finish. Zaveed admired himself on a bit of polished surface, noticing how properly the clothing fit him. Remind me again why we never stole clothing from rich merchants, this is simply luxurious beyond words. he thought with a grin, amazed at the proper fit. Whoever these handmaidens were, they were able to estimate his exact dimensions just from a glance. That was an incredible talent. The elder handmaiden's remarks towards Sevari and Zaveed made the latter pause in puzzlement before realization set in, prompting a hearty laugh after the woman stepped out. "Oh, that's rich. Even off the fucking map everyone assumes all khajiit are skooma addicts. Sevari, we should try to convince everyone here that Elsweyr is a lawless wasteland of emasculated sugar-zombies and that our fellow exiles and ourselves are the only survivors. Might make for a good story." He grinned, waving his hand wide, inviting Sevari to see a scene that wasn't there. "Imagine, the harrowing tale of when you and I were trapped in the Mane's palace, his last loyal guards, right as the ravenous hordes are breaking down the front gates, wishing to tear apart our great and noble leader to get as his legendary hidden stores of sugar…" He slapped Sevari on the shoulder before stopping in front of Paints, nodding approvingly. "Dual tones suit you much more than the clusterfuck against eyesight you usually wear… and Gelinda! My, you look positively ravishing. If I had not known any better, I would have suspected you of being a proper lady, not a hardened monster slayer." He said with a wink.

When Sevari suggested they go to the feast, Zaveed's stomach found no room to protest. Soon, the procession of finely garbed adventurers were walked in single file into the dining room, where several noble-looking individuals, and some officer-looking types, sat with warm smiles for the new arrivals. Zaveed found a spot across from Sevari, next to a rather fetching young-lass who, being an elf, might have been decades his senior. He joined in the toast, raising his goblet high before gently sipping from the cup, mimicking even the most practiced nobles. Likely to every volunteer's, and Vylenwen's surprise, Zaveed was quite well-mannered and it seemed as if he had formal training for proper dining etiquette. He deftly took small, manageable portion sizes, mostly meat, and arranged his utensils just so before beginning the feast. He smiled as some of his comrades were particularly ravenous. You will all regret that later when you don't know where the privy is. he thought mirthfully.

"What amuses you, sir khajiit?" the lass beside him inquired her voice not impolite.

"My companions and I have been eating dried and cured rations for several weeks now. This is the first proper meal any of us have had in some time. I simply find it amusing how a few weeks in travel can make one completely forget themselves and the company they keep." He said, nodding towards King Erinur, who made eye contact with Zaveed, who smiled apologetically before offering a deep, polite nod of the head. He was rewarded with a warm smile, and the khajiit turned to his dinner companion. "I have no doubts of His Majesty's bountiful hospitality and acceptance, but there is something to be said of first impressions." He said, not adding that he had an ulterior motive – an audience with said King in the near future.
The lady smiled faintly at Zaveed. "Very curious. You must excuse my saying so, but I was always raised under the impression that beast-races were somehow less… sophisticated than elves, or even men."

"Beastly, semi-feral folk with poor impulse control and manipulative tendencies you mean?" Zaveed replied with a grin. "Please, don't look embarrassed. Khajiit have quite an unfortunate reputation outside of the homelands of Pelletine and Anequina, simply because most of the khajiit found outside of those kingdoms are exiles, cultural outcasts. People who simply could not or chose not to follow social customs and expectations. As a result, people outside of Pelletine and Anequina often meet the worst of my people, and it colours us all in proximity, I'm afraid."

"And you are an exile, then." The elf observed.

"Very astute." Zaveed lifted the goblet in a small salute before taking a drink. "I'm a simple man who simply craves adventure and the coin that comes with it. May I have the honour of your name, my dear?" he asked politely.

That earned him a wider smile. "Auriela. Three guesses where mother was inspired for that name."

"It is a lovely name befitting of you, if you do not mind me saying so, regardless of origin. There's worse things than to be named after a god. It is my pleasure to introduce myself, Zaveed of Senchal, to Lady Auriela." Zaveed said, carefully carving the quail into bite-sized squares, despite his stomach's protests for him to embrace his inner barbarism like Sevari.

"Senchal… that is far in the South, is it not?" Auriela asked, genuinely curious.

Zaveed nodded. "About as far South as South goes, unless you consider Pyandonea, where the sea elves rule. They haven't been seen since the-"

"Third Era." Auriela smiled. "I might have read a history book or two that's been brought back in recent times… but you, you've seen the world, have you not?" there was no concealing the excitement from her voice.

Zaveed grinned, leaning closer. "I've seen wonders you could not imagine, my fair lady. Trees so large that they are higher than clouds and one hundred men could not put their arms around. Mountains so tall that it is said you can see all four corners of Tamriel from the summit. Lands of volcanic ash," he said mysteriously, glancing over at Juin, who despite his usual stoic and gaunt appearance, seemed to be somewhat enjoying himself. "Jungles so thick and vast that the uninitiated would lose themselves forever if they dared leave the trails. I have seen sea creatures so massive that they must have been the legendary beasts, I have seen heard of elk as far as the eye can see… and yet, all of it pales to the wonder that I see before me."

That had her blushing. He looked around conspiratorially before leaning back towards Auriela. "Now, this probably isn't proper feast conversation, but I've seen and done battle with a sload. And lived to tell the tale. Would you like to hear about it?"

"I've read all about the wretched creatures, but… they still survive?" she asked, voice filled with wonder.

"I'm afraid so, terrible, cruel things sloads are. My crew and I were sailing in the Abecean Sea, and we saw all the signs of a typhoon forming, directly towards Alinor, where we were to dock and offload our goods. Now, the captain decides our best course of action would be to sail directly West, and try to bypass the worst of the winds, which were already making such horrible waves that docking would have been impossible anywhere, and setting anchor promised to be certain death, so we took our chances at the open sea." He paused for effect. "Where our course took us, well… let's just say we would have been better off risking the hurricane. After hours of battling fierce waves and winds that threatened to rip the sails from the mast and rend flesh from bone, our ship ran aground on coral…" he continued, pulling not only Auriela but a couple of the neighbouring individuals into the tale. He offered them all an intense gaze, becoming more animated as he went deeper into his tale.

 

[Poeta Perdido]

Not three dozen men stood bloodied and brazen against near a hundred mindless foes. Soulless eyes and black blood oozed from the unnatural horde. Black like coals in a hearth. A flame roared in the hearts of the few, soldiers and volunteers alike, as the wildness of war had its way with them. Strange laughs loosed. Cruel strikes cast and the wounded left to die under a cold sun. The black clad Dunmer began with a commanding count until his voice degraded into a gurgling roar. Demented twitter and unintelligible cries set against the slick whistle of steel entering flesh.

Juinarto awoke with a quiet mind and a smile. His body twitched then at once returned to a purely abstract state beneath the scented waters of the bath. He seemed to melt from the neck down. Could there be a feeling any better? The Dunmer sunk the whole of himself into the warmth, restraining images of blood in his mind's eye. Breathless and naked amidst a world of heat and a muffled voice. A mousy spirit, growing in volume, yet calm and even.

"Oh!" the manservant squeaked as Juin stood from out the water. "My apologies, Sir Chimer. I, uh," his voice stuttered.

Passable stutter turned to a lengthy quiet. A sadist in the truest fashion, the Dunmer set a hand on his hip and casually struck a pose. Proudly, Juin chuckled, "You had a message? Perhaps a question..?" Freshly bathed and smelling faintly of northern flowers, he could not help but wink.

The slender Snow Elf lowered his head, body now visibly rigid. "I meant no offense. I came to inform you --"

"Please," Juin replied, his voice equal parts soft and stern. "Ask your question first. Surely we've the time."

"Ah, thank you. I admire your boldness. I suppose many ask about the, uh, scars."

As suddenly as the word left the Snow Elf's lips, Juinarto put on a wide smile. His eyes fell to the water, then aside to the Altmer tobacco pipe resting on the bath's edge. A thin layer of glistening char atop the bowl whispered a quiet and soothing call. The feeling something he expected the Snow Elf might deliver by other means. Juin grabbed the pipe and snapped a bit of flame to light the ground tobacco. A pensive inhale, a moment to prepare his mask.

Juin left the bath and began to dress in the fine robes beside the bed. Pipe still smoking in hand, he maneuvered his way into his trousers and explained, "Monsters live in the south. Beasts, all around. Some great in size, others great in the way they hide amongst men and mer." He watched his hand emerge from the long, flowing sleeve of his white tunic. The hand raised with his palm facing the manservant. "Like that, they appear from the fog." His fingers bent and slowly coiled. "And they take. And you fight." As his fist balled, his arm trembled. Juin's face soured and a pained expression appeared. "Not so many survive. I was lucky." He opened his eyes only enough to make out the blurred embarrassment across the way.

The Snow Elf recoiled where he stood. His lips pursed, his pale hands tense as his mouth made to form so many unheard apologies. Only when the manservant made to leave did Juin let the mask fall.

"Your message."

"I," the Snow Elf gasped, then cleared his throat. "I meant to inform you the feast is prepared to begin."

The Dunmer left the baths and found his way to the dining hall without another word. He took in the nobles sat intermixed amongst the volunteers as well as the heavenly white walls towering around them. Though tapestries adorned some walls, what he'd seen of the palace so far was nothing less than a celebration of white. He caught a glimpse of his own eggshell clothes as he made to eat, and wondered if any amongst the historic race saw his darkened flesh as an affront. The manservant from before had called him Chimer before. Perhaps a knowing reference to times before the curse, or simply an attempt at a race unknown to him. Juin ate quietly all the same. Whatever prejudices the Snow Elves did or did not hold mattered little in light of his affliction. He would enjoy the luxuries of nobility while he could, quieting any urge for companionship with a bit of tobacco, and if he could manage some privacy, a bit sugar sprinkled atop.

 

[Mosis Tosis]

On that first day out of Dawnstar, aboard the listing corpse-filled ship, Paints felt his anger mellow into fatigue as Sevari began to heave the contents of his stomach overboard. The weather was calm, the seas still; everyone on the deck could hear the distant cascading patter of vomit onto the water below. They'd been in the middle of a heated discussion, an argument in truth, but the angry words atop all their tongues soured into nothingness as the acrid scent of bile came wafting from the gunwale. Paints tossed a frustrated glance between the sickened Khajiit and Vylenwen before moving to the former with a sigh. When he offered a helping hand, Sevari simply brushed it aside without a word and stumbled back to the longship. And that was that. Suddenly it seemed that everyone realized where they were, standing amidst puddles of tar-like blood. They all made haste back to their ships, the idea of sharing spiced wine feeling foreign and inappropriate. They set off northwards again, leaving an intermittent trail of vomit in their wake.

The second day brought fairer weather, but no fairer complexion for Sevari. He retched more than he drank, and his eyes had a heavy glaze upon them as if he was only half-awake. Paints could only watch from afar, wrestling with his own doubts. He knew little about sea voyaging, but he was sure that typically sea-sickness was neither so prolonged nor so severe. Even more perplexing was the fact that the Khajiit had seemed healthy enough during the first day of sailing, despite the foul weather. Why would the sickness strike him now, when skies were clear? But Paints could hear the way the crew talked of Sevari, spreading speculation in low and mocking voices. He did his best to block them all out with a grimace. The Khajiit was his partner, and they'd stood back to back when Oblivion itself had threatened to swallow them whole. If nothing else, the cat deserved the benefit of the doubt. Aye then. Sea-sickness.

That night he dreamed of many things, of dying dogs and snarling shadows. The terrible visions wisped away into nothing upon waking, but they left something behind: a dull, throbbing ache in his side. There was a scar there, along the left side of his stomach, a wide and jagged ridge of mottled flesh that grinned wickedly white against a background of green scales. It was old, a relic of his days in the arena, and normally it didn't bother him. Now, however, it was itchy and hot to the touch. A bad omen, perhaps. Worse still, Sevari was at the gunwale again, puking a thin and watery fluid into the waves. Paints watched him from a distance, grimacing while he ran a gentle claw against the scar on his side.

The wound was still fresh and festering, a mess of pus and blood and dirt caked into the lines between his scales. The bandage was filthy; Paints wondered how many times it had been changed in the time he had been sleeping, and whether he shouldn't be changing it himself at that very moment instead of following Drander out of the barracks and into the arena stands. The day's matches had already been completed, the audience absent now as the afternoon cooled into a pleasant summer evening. Drander led him down to the ringside, indicating two relatively clean seats. The Dunmer took a seat without hesitation, but Paints remained on his feet, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. After so many years, after all the times he'd dreamed of killing the elf, it was strange to finally see him again in the flesh. He looked...younger, surprisingly, less ragged. His beard was neatly trimmed, lending itself nicely to a handsome face upon which deep-creased lines had apparently become more shallow. He'd long ago ditched the ratty cloak and bleached leather that Paints was familiar with, replacing them with fine cloth and burnished steel. He looked a changed man. Paints knew better.

"You know who I am." It wasn't a question.

"Aye," Drander responded with a roll of his shoulders as he leaned back in his seat, relaxed. "I must admit, I didn't at first. Who could have expected you? A lizard, dressed in colors, claiming to be a knight even as he carved his way up the ranks, all while calling for my death? It's like something out of a legend!" A dry chuckle, then. "Of course, I had my suspicions, but I couldn't be sure. Not until now, at least." The elf's eyes flicked his way. "There's no mistaking a face like yours. Yes, I know who you are." A moment of silence passed before Paints found he could stand no longer. He collapsed into a nearby chair, choking back a hiss of pain.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. Drander kept his eyes on the sands below, tracking the progress of the cleaning men as they circled the pit and wiped blood and grime from the walls. Paints' gaze never left the elf to his side. One claw was clenched around the hilt of his scimitar, tight enough to shatter stone. The other was pressed firmly up against his side, futilely willing the wound there to stop throbbing. Finally, Drander turned to him and spoke, his voice infuriatingly casual. "I do not wish you any harm."

"That's unfortunate," Paints hissed in reply, his jaw clenching. His blood was pumping louder than he could imagine, and hotter than any fire. Whether the cause was anger or pain, he couldn't say. "The feeling isn't mutual."

Drander's expression never shifted. "I do not know what grievance you have-"

"Horseshit!" Paints cut in with a snarl that morphed into a wince as the gash in his side widened. "You know exactly what you did! You're already a lowly piece of shit, would you be a liar as well?"

The elf didn't seem particularily surprised or perturbed by his outburst. Slowly, his eyes swept back to the pit. "Aye, the old man. An unfortunate mistake, and one I regret to this very day."

"I'll show you the meaning of regret."

The threat only made Drander nod sagely, as if some great wisdom had been conferred. "Hmm. Do you ever wonder how I came to be here? Why you had to fight your way through so many low-tier, half-bit pit dogs just to reach me?"

"If you think I care-"

"You should care. That's what I'm trying to tell you." The Dunmer settled back in his chair. "After the...incident...at Irongate, I had to flee. The crowd was enraged, unsurprisingly. They truly loved that old drunk. I hardly had time to return to my room and gather some provisions before the mob had descended upon my door. I could hear them shouting as they rammed the door, heard their threats through the splinters. They wanted my head on a stake."

The hate in Paints' eyes never wavered for a second. "You deserved that, and more."

"Perhaps, perhaps not," Drander conceded with a small shrug. "Either way, the Gods did not seem to think I did. I found an unlocked window and squirmed my way out. I couldn't risk the roads, not with the entire town on my heels. I had to set out into the swamps." He gestured limply towards Paints. "Foolish child of Black Marsh, do you have any idea what sort of horrors lurk in the waters of your homeland?"

"Yes." His reply was immediate, as solid as steel. "I do."

Drander studied the Argonian with a new-found interest. "Yes," he muttered finally, "you do. I can see that. The swamp changes people, forces them to adapt or die. I do not know what trials you faced, and I do not care. My trial, however, was withdrawal. Did you know I partook in skooma, back when I fought at Irongate?"

The corner of Paints' mouth curled upwards. "Everyone there knew you were a worthless addict."

"Yes, just as that man you loved so much was a worthless drunk. We all had our vices. That's why we were stuck in that gods-forsaken place." He shrugged again, continued. "In my haste to escape, I hadn't managed to grab any of my skooma. I went stumbling out into the marsh without it. I lost the townsfolk quickly enough, but only because I lost myself. I wandered for hours, and then on through the night, until I was about to collapse. And that was when the shakes hit me." The elf lifted a hand, made it tremble as demonstration. "Subtle at first, just a few disobedient muscles. Then exhaustion. A nausea that could not be placated. An itching across my skin, like a thousand tiny needles. More than once I tore my clothes off, half-crazed and searching for bloodsucks. I wouldn't last, not like that. So I climbed, up into a tree with wide boughs, a place where I could hide behind thick curtains of moss. I found a nest of branches that would not drop me, and then I slept."

His voice was distant, awe-tinged. "Days, I slept. I don't know how long exactly. I was hardly alive, only waking to heave my guts out into the water below. The scent of it attracted...things, terrible splashing things that would gather between the roots and stare up at me with hungry eyes. More than once something climbed the bark and tried to feast upon me. I was as weak as a child, barely able to lift my knife, but I defended myself all the same. All while my body turned against itself, tore my insides apart..." He paused, rolled up one of his sleeves, and presented his forearm to Paints. The skin there was blotchy and pocked, faded red divots atop tight muscles. "I tried to keep myself covered, but once I feel unconcious before I could cover my arm. The bloodflies got to it, nearly ate it entirely before the pain managed to rouse me."

Paints studied the scars for a moment before pressing. "Do you expect me to feel sorry for you?"

"No," Drander replied calmly, covering his arm with his sleeve. "I survived. I don't know how long I withered in the branches of that tree, but one day I woke with the dawn and found that instead of nasuea, I felt...hunger. I fell into the water, but my strength had returned enough for me to keep myself afloat. And then I started to swim. Nine days, it took me, but eventually I found true solid land again. And by then, skooma was the last thing on my mind."

Paints didn't say anything. Didn't need to. Drander could read his face quite clearly. "Unimpressed, I know. But I tell you all of this for a reason. I have been hunted by an angry mob, and I have escaped. I have braved the ill-will of the gods and the horrors of the swamps, and I have survived. I have been betrayed by my own body as it burnt and twisted my innards in an attempt to kill me, and I have overcome. I have faced more terrible things than you can ever imagine." He leaned closer then, voice dropping. "You are an orphaned boy, playing at being a warrior. You are young, stupid, and headstrong, and it has gotten you this far. But you will go no further. And though I took the time today to try to talk you out of this, to try to save your life...if you choose to meet me in the Arena, I will not hesitate to put an end to this little game of yours."

Paints was shaken out of his memory by a sudden shout. At the gunwale, Sevari was half-way over the side, dangling loosely by the collar of his shirt as a young sailor boy struggled to pull him back onto the deck. "Someone help! He just fell asleep while he was at the rail, I can't-"

It only took a few seconds for Paints to cross the deck, curl an arm around Sevari's midsection, and haul him back to safety. He's so light. Weighs less than a wet cat, as they say. The Khajiit didn't offer any thanks after Paints laid him back down on the deckboards, didn't even seem to know he'd been in danger. His eyelids fluttered once, twice, his glassy stare focused only on the sky above. "Suffian...?" He coughed up a question, and then was gone again, fallen back into a deep sleep.

Paints knelt besides him for a while, pressing glowing hands against his friend's stomach. "I don't know if this will help, Knife. I do not know if there's any magic can cure what afflicts you. But maybe when you wake up...you'll find that you've become a stronger man, yes? A freer man." He offered a crooked smile that went unseen. "I very much look forward to meeting the new you."

==========
​

The rest of the voyage was calm. Relaxing, even. Paints found peace in the gentle motions of the ship, and in the constant slap of waves against the hull. The sailors were never shy when directing him towards lines to be towed and rigging to be secured, and Paints was always eager to help. He liked the work, in truth. There was something calming about how simple it was, a beauty in the repetition of the tasks and the pleasant soreness they left in his muscles. He liked watching the work, too, and often when no help was needed he'd settle near the aft and watch the sailors go about their business. He admired them in a way, for the life they led. No oaths to follow, no nightmares to battle, no questions of morality to wrestle with on sleepless nights. It was just them, and the sea, and the song in their throats. Watching them swagger across the deck, torsos unclothed despite the biting northern winds, Paints couldn't help but smile and imagine that his life was that simple too.

Otherwise he spent his days lounging about. Sometimes he'd sit cross-legged next to the ever-sleeping Sevari and share stories of valor with the young sailor that was taking care of him (Paints soon found that his name was Beck). Regaling the boy with tales set in Southern summers brought a certain measure of warmth to that icy, slate-grey expanse of ocean, and for that it was welcomed. The woman, Gelina, came around sometimes as well, though she always seemed to keep a respectable distance. Whatever charm she laid upon the other men of the expedition, she seemed reluctant to try it with Paints. Honestly, that was just fine with him. One day he saw her juggling, and with a laugh he'd swept up a few dried apples from the larder and gone to join her. She'd been reluctant to show him any new tricks, but at least he'd managed to wring a few (maybe) genuine smiles out of her with his antics. More than once Paints would seek out Zaveed and badger him about ships and their maintenance, or to corral him into another shanty. The Khajiit was nearly always smiling now, truly at home upon the waves. That sight too brought some measure of calm to Paints. Even the grumpy mage they'd picked up in Winterhold couldn't sour Paints' spirits, despite the furrowed glares he'd toss in the Argonian's direction whenever the latter interrupted his quiet musings.

It was a good six days, some of the best since his expedition had started. And yet, it couldn't last. On the sixth day, they neared an island, and as it grew nearer and larger, Paints felt that hard-earned peace slowly bubbling in his gut, shifting slowly into dread.
​

==========
​

The bell was distant, a few blocks east at least, but it might as well have been clanging right next to Paints' head. The ringing echoed painfully, set a cadence to his thoughts.. One thought, really. Black-blight, black-blight, black-blight...The words followed the rhythm of that damned bell, and the rhythm of his feet as he ran, not daring to look behind him. Black. Black is for swamps, and for absence, and for the space between the stars. It was not a color he wore, nor one he ever planned to.

His group finally emerged from the winding streets, meeting up with others in a wide plaza. More blighted creatures, of course, and twisted abominations of ruined flesh that were new to Paints but somehow unsurprising. He had a few seconds to brace himself, just long enough to offer a quick prayer (Gods preserve us) and give his scimitar a practice flourish. This was the first time he'd be testing the new blade's metal, as well as its mettle. Not necessarily ideal circumstances for a debut, but he'd have to make do. "How do you feel about Legion shields?" The elf was at his shoulder, readying his own sword-arm.

For the first time in a week and a half, Paints flashed him a genuine smile, forgetting completely about the tensions between them. "Bit too big, a bit too square. But strangely, in this instant I'm suddenly starting to see their appeal." And then there was no more time for talk.

His new blade was quick. Did it not strike as hard as glass? Did the edge not cut so deep? It did not matter. The blighted came from all sides, and Paints met them all with steel. The first one to get close was a woman, her blank eyes wide and innocent even as she arced a shortsword toward his midsection. He took her head off of her shoulders with a clean swipe, and from then on made a conscious decision not to take notice of their faces as he dispatched them. A second, and then a third blighted elf, and then more beyond, until the length of his blade was coated in sickly black blood and he was called back into the fold by Juin.

"Shields! Shields, now, Paints!" The Dunmer's voice had an unmistakable solidity to it, an authority that didn't waver even as death closed in around them. Paints found that reliability comforting, but not nearly as much as the heavy legion shields that encircled them, creating a fence of iron and wood. The entirety of the battleground was chaos now, all of it raging against their makeshift shelter in a manner that brought back fresh memories of the great northern storm that had nearly sunk them six days prior. Vaguely, Paints saw it all, flashes of insight between his blows, glimpses into the maelstrom every other second when the shields parted and he could dare to make a strike. He saw Sevari, and Zaveed, coated with more blood than fur. He saw a dead man walking, pinwheeling mindlessly through the throng as Markain gestured behind him, like a puppetmaster pulling strings. He saw things that made his heart drop, not because they were horrible (he'd had his fair share of horror) but because they were wrought by the hands of his companions. And all sides, darkness presses in, he thought suddenly, feeling overwhelmingly constrained within that shielded circle.

A hand on his shoulder, a steadying grip. "Your right, Paints!" A shorsword arced, covered his flank as a wight slipped through a gap between shields. Paints gave a nod to Juin, the only thanks he could muster. Perhaps not all sides, then. He chased the rest of his thoughts away, and lost himself to the fight.

 

[Robeatics]

She wanted to play along with Zaveed's quips, she truly did, but all she could do was cry out, kick up dirt, and bear random muscle spasms. Her measly attempt at spellcasting gave little more than a few scorched Snow Elves and a pronounced mental fatigue. Then she was in pain and couldn't form coherent thought beyond run. And run she did. Blinded by the flash of light, hobbling along with the help of Zaveed, forcing herself to sprint through the pain and the horrors of what it could mean.

She crashed to the deck of the ship a total mess, panting raggedly, clutching her armor, desperate to strip it all away and cast herself into the sea before she destroyed everything. Under the eyes of a few sailors and volunteers, she dug her fingernails into the deck, eyes wide in clear terror. No. Her hands remained unchanged, her armor felt no tighter, she was safe, she was cured. The agony subsided only when it realized it could no longer twist her bones and sinew, force her to give in to her true nature. She collapsed onto her side and fought to even out her breathing.


It took a while until her body relaxed enough to let her climb to the peak of the mast. She sat there in the biting wind for hours each day, keeping from Zaveed and the others. She dodged their questions with an ashamed look and a bowed head. "I've never been surrounded like that before" and "I just panicked" were favorites. It explained her avoidance.

Her days brightened as they neared their destination. She clambered down from her post every so often, if only to chat with Beck and act like things were normal. But a new caution followed her every step. She'd become too careless too quickly, and it would cost her everything if she didn't tread lightly around the other volunteers. She began to speak with Vylewen, only on small things: magic, Auriel's Harborage, the journey and what was expected. Every moment they spoke were those with Gelina's eyes downturned, her lips curled upward nervously.

--

Hundreds met them at the docks and in the city, hailing them as heroes, singing, throwing petals, some shoving babies forward to be kissed. A drove of children scurried up beside her, instantly putting her on guard, but she conceded to their presence enough to let them cover her in flowers and prod at the scars on her face. After a few moments, however, she slipped between Paints and Juin, shielding herself from the crowd with a shaken look in her eye.

She wandered through the castle halls with the others, but hardly paid attention to the shuffling of her shoes on the pristine floors. Everywhere they trod left a trail of dust and dirt, and, ashamed, she paused to peel off her filthy shoes and bear the chill of the marble. It wasn't for long, as they were led to the bathing room. Her eyes widened at the size of the tubs entirely for them--carved into the stone, and indoors! She'd been in noble's lairs before, but never in the private rooms. No wonder they look so soft and clean all the time. She sucked in a warm breath of air, and steam swirled about her face in response.

The others were quick to slip into their own baths, but she hesitated just before her own partition, half-stripped out of her armor and clothing. Maids attempted to usher her forward, and the water was more inviting than a tavern full of drunken shieldmaidens, but still she took her time undressing, a dazed expression on her face. Is this well-deserved?

"Quit squirming! I thought you'd want to take a bath! Ugh, Tonfir, get her legs."

"I really don't need this, I-I'm not worth the effort, please!" Gelina had little room to argue, as dark hands gripped her by the ankles and heaved her into the icy basin of water. Her hands scrabbled to find the edge of the tub once her wrists were released, as if she could drown in a matter of seconds, and found that the moment she surfaced, even colder water was dumped over her head and raked its claws all down her spine.

"This would've been warm if you'd just gone with it," Tonfir intoned beside the tub, setting her hands on her knees. "Dibella asks her followers to embrace and maintain their beauty. You want to stay here, don't you?"

Later, when she was alone and the water's warmth made her thoughts distant and tranquil, she daydreamed. Tonfir's face came to mind: her dark eyes and broad nose, the plush of her hair when it wasn't forced down by a rag or sweat. Gelina's heart ached at the memories of pressing her fingers into it, like it was infinitely more delicate than the woman it belonged to. She turned her head to rest her cheek against the edge of the bath, and Papa's favorite song echoed in her ears. She tried to picture the night he taught it to her, tapping the rhythm on his drum, singing with his heavy voice. She still couldn't picture his face--were his eyes blue or gray? How did he smile and how did he walk?--the gaps in her memory were small, but they were enough. The urge to weep pressed into her chest suddenly, tightened up her throat, made it hard to breathe without whimpering. She sat up, curled in and bit a few knuckles on her right hand, digging into the skin enough to bleed. Water trickled from her hair, down her forehead, and hid the tears, but couldn't make her clean.

--

A handmaiden crouched at the edge of the basin, painstakingly combing and braiding Gelina's hair after it'd been washed with the most expensive soaps she'd ever seen. The maid was young, as far as she could tell, and offered too many compliments than she could bear. The girl seemed unnerved by the amount of scarring such a small woman as Gelina brandished: they covered the soles of her feet and scattered across her lower body, small cuts from brambles, rougher wounds from fights with wolves, elk and sabre cats. Some portions of her skin were darker, and rough like leather; unmistakable, harsh burns. The girl tried to focus on Gelina's face, but the scars there drew her eye just the same. Gelina didn't blame the maid for trying to distract herself with flattery.

"Y-your hair, it is beautiful. I am honored to wash it."

Gelina dragged a few fingers through the surface of the steaming water, wishing she'd stop having her hair tugged all about. "Thank you, but you don't need to do this, really." She tried to give the girl a reassuring smile, but couldn't twist around to show her with her hair held captive. She was very vulnerable, she realized. It would be easy for any number of her companions to be assassinated, silently, a single wall away, or for the girl to unsheathe a hidden dagger and--

"Milady," an older maid stepped into the partition, wielding a bundle of towels. "The feast nears."

--

Gelina's face itched something terrible. The elves, in an attempt to make her look more womanly and presentable, had caked her scars with some sort of flesh-colored pigment, making her skin feel too thick and restrictive. Not to discount the restrictiveness of her outfit, of course; she could only smile shyly at Zaveed's compliment, resisting the temptation to drag him off somewhere if only to rid herself of the endless skirts she had to drag around. The pigment could not save the skin below her neck, nor cover the horrendous bitemark, and so the maids clothed her well above her collarbone. As a child, she'd have felt like a princess, but now she felt trapped. There was no way she could climb or fight anything effectively.

The feast itself came as small comfort. There was food and her companions were all within sight, but she was shoved between two Snow Elf nobles and expected to do things other than inhale meat and wine.

"So," the Snow Elf to her right said in Nordic, seconds after she was seated. He had the face of a bard, and wore an orange tunic that puffed out and made him look thirty pounds heavier. "How does such a delicate flower travel among so many sailors and soldiers?" Gelina peeled her eyes away from a heaping plate of sausages placed on the table, for a moment forgetting that anything beyond that existed. She helplessly glanced in Paints' and Zaveed's directions, hoping their charisma would fly across the table and slap her in the face.


The Snow Elf on her left cut in. "Athtil! Your attempts at flattery are as shoddy as your attempts to introduce yourself." Her hand was lifted to the other man's lips, and he gave her a smooth smile. "Zartil Dendras, milady. Pay no mind to my brother, he's already gone through four goblets."

That she could work with. She smirked shyly, nodding. "It's alright. I'm just overwhelmed by so many incredible figures…"

--

The rest of the feast saw Athtil, Zartil and others watch Gelina slowly consume enough food to fill an Orc warrior--first it was a hearty bowl of stew, then three legs of chicken, plucked carefully from the bottom of the platter; then it was two full-sized sausages, snuck onto her plate between conversations, and finally a sweetroll or two. Rather than reacting with disgust--which might have earned her a quiet meal and approval from her companions--the Snow Elves were thoroughly intrigued. Zartil, encouraged by the many goblets he was emptying, pushed more food onto her plate and made merry. Thankfully, the dancing and celebration started up just before she could vomit all over Athtil's puffy tunic, and she took the opportunity to sneak away and put her head between her knees in a more isolated hallway. Look at you. Such a good dog, entertaining the people.

After a while, maybe only a few minutes, she straightened up, washed her face of the thick makeup, and rejoined the party.

 

[O|NoSoul]

Sevari snatched another tiny pastry off of the silver platter of a passing handmaid, as well as another glass of wine from another, placing his empty one in the newly empty spot. Quick as a cat, his hands hadn't gotten this much practice since his days as a cutpurse. He remembered how much he loved that, the gold in his hands being hard-won, but bloodless. Things change, though, by little degrees. He swallowed down the wine and popped the little thing of bread and chocolate into his mouth. He hadn't tasted chocolate so sweet, made sweeter by the hints of salt, all brought together by the flaky crust of the breading. He was no chef, but he knew good food when he ate it. It brought him back to the kitchens of his Lordship's home, fresh bread, hot out of the oven with butter. The most tender steaks, lamb, iced milk, sweetcakes and much more besides. He found himself smiling, lost in memories when he bumped shoulders with Gelina, almost sending the poor girl to her arse. He reached out a hand, something purely out of reflex, as she managed to keep to her feet just fine. Even so, Sevari muttered out an apology. Not content with leaving things that awkwardly, he cleared his throat, wanting to find someone to conversate with to get his mind off of Vylo. He gestured to a corner of the room occupied by none other than the recluse Markain. He wasn't too much of a conversationalist, Markain, but he'd have Gelina as a buffer.

"We should talk- er, get to know each other. We've been sharing the same boat for a week and more and barely said more than five words to the other. I don't think it fitting for traveling companions to go on as such. You said you were from High Rock, no?" He guided her away from the crowds and to the edges of the room, a place where Sevari felt less choked, at least.

"My father told me stories of High Rock. Wretched place. Men who smile in your face and stab you in the back. Honor for sale. Bastards the lot of them." Wine is good. Spiced wine is better. Vintage spiced wine in a chilling landscape served by mysterious and beautiful elven women was Markain's new drink of choice, his loose lips an unfortunate side effect. "Er, no offence Sevari."

Gelina offered a smile, brow furrowing sheepishly. She swirled the goblet of wine she held and watched the red spin. "Ah, I couldn't agree either way. I was born on the road out of Daggerfall, and I grew up on the road as well. My family and I were acrobats, as I'm sure you've figured already. We weaved through Skyrim, Hammerfell, Valenwood, Cyrodiil…" Her smile faded only minutely before she could cover it with a short laugh and subject change."But I shouldn't talk about myself too much. Where are you from, Markain? Oh, if you don't mind me asking."

"None taken. It made me the man I am today. At least they aren't laying siege to each other every other week like the old days." Sevari shrugged."And I grew up on the road, mostly. My childhood covered every road from Bruma to Daggerfall and my exploits brought all around High Rock, and now Skyrim." He looked around himself at the large hall, ceiling impossibly high and chandeliers of the most intricate and ornate make dangled from it, providing the light in the hall, "Funny thing me of all people get to see this. A scholar like you, sure, but I'm just here because I can swing a blade and get paid for it. Oh, and where are you from? You have an awfully deep opinion of High Rock, one you don't encounter too much unless you've spent a lot of time at court. I studied under Hilaire, the court mage in Sharnhelm, it's where I learned the meagre collection of spells I know. Where were you before the College?"

Markain followed Sevari's eyes up toward the arching ceilings, up toward the glittering crystals dancing overhead, up and almost backwards unto his arse. A product of reflex, Gelina laid a steadying hand beneath his wiry arm, careful not to spill her drink but keen enough to leave an appreciating squeeze to his silk laden bicep. She saw his drink was nearly empty and eyed the room beyond for another tray of goblets.

A mumbled thanks was drowned in the last of Markain's wine as he regained his footing. "Markarth. Before that only Da knows. He said we came east for a better life, something stable. Maybe I'm not from High Rock at all, maybe Da and I are just pale orcs!" Markain chuckled to himself, a half-truth disguised as absurdity. He wasn't lying persay, his father had never mentioned being a Reachman but Markain had long since concluded that had to have been the reason for their exodus.

"Would have explained why we went to Markarth. Why Da made me a smith. Mined my own ore and everything." Markain gave Gelina a small grin as he failed miserably at hiding the fact he was now flexing his bicep in her cupped hand. "They don't teach you how to swing a staff like I do at the College, that's for damn sure."

As if to punctuate his point, Markain lifted his glass once more to his lips only to be greeted by a cruel lack of wine. With a slight shake of his head, he refocused on Sevari. "You deserve to be here as much as anyone. This place, this palace, it's all for show. Da always said a fool lets his gold clink. Keep it hidden, out of sight. Not like this place."

Markain smiled at the Khajiit. "No doubt you're familiar with the sentiment?" Still grinning, Markain set his glass upon the nearest table and lifted his hand, iron rings piled atop each finger. "S'why I carry iron when I travel. A trick Da taught me." Opening and closing his hand, the dull iron turned to brimming silver, each ornately decorated.

Markain's smile fell suddenly. "Sorry. Wine makes me talk." Returning to his usual scowl, Markain rested his silver rings on Gelina's comforting arm.

She slipped away like a cat not wanted to be petted, giving him a sheepish look. "It's good to hear you talk…h-here, let me get drinks." Setting her drink down, she dodged around a passing servant, plucking two full goblets from the Snow Elf's tray. She offered one to Markain, the other apparently for when Sevari emptied his.

The way she seemed to sway with every motion betrayed her own drunkenness--she hadn't planned on eating and imbibing quite so much, but when servants came by every minute offering some new and exciting taste, she couldn't refuse. The boldness in her eye seemed to be wavering suddenly. "I don't know how much longer I could've lasted in that crowd. This is all so amazing, but I suppose my nervousness around so many people remains, even with Snow Elves." She plucked at the lace on her many skirts absently, eyeing the blur of pale hair and silk beyond their little corner. How bizarre.

"Solid advice. Your father was a smart man. Always had it the man with the fattest purse needs the biggest sword. Seen a lot of fools parted with their money in my time. And that's some trick, I'll tell you. Don't think Hilaire taught me that one." Sevari swirled the last remaining drops of wine in his glass, "I can't say I knew my father. I used to know what he looked like, but his face now escapes me, even. I'm not sorry about it, leastways got a tighter bond with my brothers coming up." And there is no end to the grief over that. How many towns have we burned now? How many people have we killed?

"So," Sevari said, looking into his wine glass and trying to shrug off seeing Markain obviously flexing into Gelina's gentle hand and the woman going along with it, which reminded him of Vylo's arm on his and then he downed his wine, wondering just how much wine it would take for him to find an excuse to leave, go back to the ships and row himself all the way home and away from frisky Snow Elf noble girls, Teralfar's satchel and conflicts of moral integrity. He shook his head, feeling at least a small bit drunk, "It is good, really. This whole time I thought you were only capable of frowns and grunts. It'd be a shame if there was two of us doing that."

He nodded to Gelina, "I sometimes find crowds suffocating. Especially these ones, I can't tell if they're interested by me, or just the novelty of a big talking cat. I can only imagine what Paints is going through. Or Ja'Kiefer for that matter." He eyed Zaveed, currently pulling more and more men and women into his tale, making gestures that could've been falling or swimming, "The fur rug seems to have soaked up enough wine and pulled in a fair few listeners. I've only met a man as charismatic as Zaveed once, and I had the pleasure of calling him my brother. The other two brothers, well, mm…" He took the wine glass offered to him by Gelina, plucking it from her hand and nodding a thanks, both for the simple offering of good alcohol and for the much appreciated offering up of the only thing that calmed his nerves as he thought more and more about Vylo and more and more about the satchel, "Anyways, how's building relations with our gracious hosts going? I've," managed to be seduced and roped into sharing a bed with one, single-handedly fucked myself on that, guess I won't be needing Vylo for that, "been having a boring time about it."

Gelina shrugged and peered down into her wine. "Well, the nobles seem astounded by my ability to gorge myself on their food." She scanned the room, her eyebrows raised almost hopefully. "Do you think they have any of those little sausages left? I have no idea the purpose of making them so small, but I think they're delicious enough to drive a Companion to tears." She chuckled, sipping on her goblet. It was nearly empty, but it was the fourth of its kind that night, and she didn't want to vomit any more than she had to.

The brothers she'd acquainted herself with earlier appeared among the crowd, passing through with drinks and a gaggle of admirers. Ah. So they're popular. She subtly tucked herself behind the figures of Markain and Sevari. "There's the gentlemen I sat with. The Snow Elves are too kind, even to commoners like me…though, heh, they might just see us as novelties, like you said." She toyed with the goblet in her hands, suddenly nervous. "Oh, have you seen Juin anywhere? I…wonder what the Snow Elves think of him. I-I could go look for him, just to be sure he isn't drowning in nobles…!" She was no expert on vampires, but she knew the drive, the hunger. If she wasn't cured, the number of soft, pale, exposed necks--you'd be upon them before the guards could unsheathe their blades. She swallowed down the rest of her wine. There would be no saving him if he had a lapse in judgement.

"Can't say I much blame you," Sevari chuckled and took a gulp of his wine, "Gorged some, myself. And you'd be surprised how much being a commoner is less of a pain in the ass in a court when you're friends with one of the nobles who think they shit gold and piss Nibenay wine. I'd know."

Sevari narrowed his eyes at her as she slipped behind him and Markain. She'd started acting strange recently. She asked about Juin, stuttered a bit, and that was never something he liked. He put on a friendly smile beside himself, "No, I'll go check on our dunmer. Think you can handle babysitting a drunk if you could handle pouring medicine into a sleeping man's soup when he isn't awake." He winked, knowing for sure she didn't think he knew. Beck had told him while they were resting one day's end. With that, he left their company, trusting Gelina with Markain. A little. His mood was slightly soured when he saw Vylo meet eyes with him before she smiled and beckoned him to her with a lithe finger. His heart set off at a sprint and he downed his wine. Something he had to do before he went after Juin. Or not. Maybe not had to, maybe wanted to. Either way, he couldn't turn her down, could he? He set off after her, not sure if he was becoming a better man anymore, or could ever be one. Sure he was being a man, at least.

 

[Poeta Perdido]

Last time, on Resurgence of the Frost!

Our heroes, welcomed by the royal Snow Elves of Auriel's Harbourage, enjoyed pampering and food unlike any on the journey. Zaveed played the bard, a role to which he is much accustomed, and entertained Snow Elf and volunteer alike at the Falmer King's feast. Meanwhile, Juin continues to struggle with his infernal need for blood by coping with the aid of Moon Sugar. Dejected after a misunderstanding with a Snow Elf manservant, Juin finds himself in the feast hall with his attention on the Khajit-Bard. And so our story resumes...

Decadence lie spread across the long table before the Falmer King. Luxury adorned all, between the fine, sparkling garments and the glistening cutlery made of finer quality than some weapons. Amidst all the finery, however, sat the volunteers mixed about nobility. Each enjoyed the feast in their own way. Some stuffed themselves to capacity, while others ate and spoke with careful measure. Still, one took another path altogether.

Zaveed wove words of wisdom, wonderment, and woe. Tales of the Khajit land Elsweyr captured the trust of his audience first. The first curiosity addressed, he quickly ventured into stories of daring and of old, feared beasts. Juin smiled a few seats away as the would-be bard threw a few references to Solstheim along the way too. As much a storyteller as a warrior, he cut paths between the southern lands to battles against sea and sload. The Dunmer, so often mocked for his gloom, found himself recoiling when prompted. All within earshot did the same, as well. Like children, each reacted as prompted, and not from fear or magick, but from well crafted speech. A skill unlike other, Juin thought.

When the festivities subsided and the feast drew to a close, the Dunmer approached Zaveed. The Khajit looked good from the merriment. Juin too felt rejuvenated, and perhaps emboldened by his full belly and fine clothing, he bowed to his comrade with a word, "Truly, truly, these ears have been denied such sweet words for too long. I thought I might step out for a smoke. Would the good poet like to join me?"

Zaveed waved a hand, as if clearing the air. "Please, no need for formalities with me. There's plenty enough people here who would expect you to bow to them, I am not one of them. But I will gladly accompany you, as a comrade in arms and companion. It's the least I can do for an attentive audience." Zaveed grinned, gesturing for Juin to walk with him. After a few minutes of venturing the opulent halls, carved out of wonderous white stone and marble by ancient, expert craftsmen, the pair found a pair of double doors that lead out to a sizable balcony that was already occupied by a few of the elves, who offered curious glances to the new comers. The view, however, was spectacular. The vast sea stretched before them, covered in ice flows and gently reflecting the twin moons, which shone brightly like beacons in the sky. Zaveed inhaled deeply, exhaling a cloud of steam. Curiously, the Snow Elves conspicuously did not have the steamed breath of every other species Zaveed had seen. He lead Juin to the banister overlooking the bay, somewhat to find that it too was made of stone instead of metal, or even wood.

"I suppose it's occurred to you that after these many weeks, we've not really had more than a few moments to speak in confidence. It's been somewhat plain that Paints and yourself are at something of odds. I can understand growing sick of someone after traveling so closely for long enough, but this was still early on. Who offended whom?" Zaveed asked, leaning backwards against the railing.

The harbour shined with such beauty that the Dunmer was at once in awe. Somehow feasting his eyes on the faint glow of this city of white calmed him in a way which words failed to describe. He thought he felt the moons' reflection on his face as he pondered his answer.

"What confidence keep in a soldiers' camp?" Juin posed. He let the question hang a moment as he pulled the wooden pipe and tobacco from his bag. "You've no need to worry. Our little spat roused from an unintentional knick in the caves. I suppose poor rations and poor roads fueled the flames too. Nothing a chat couldn't fix." After gently packing the ground flower into the bowl of the pipe, the Dunmer furrowed his brow. Small flame, big flame, his affinity of magick meant little difference between the two. "If I might be frank, the difference in our garb is quite fitting. We see alike, but from opposite sides. I do respect him and believe he does me. What of you? Seems this journey's ripe with material for a bard. So far."

"That would account for it. I see it all the time at sea. Several crew members stuck on a relatively small ship in tight quarters, quarrels break out from time to time. I'm glad it's nothing more severe. With all the shit that's been at our heels, there's little time to make enemies among ourselves." Zaveed replied, watching Juin's operation of preparing his smoke. He never cared for the stuff; inhaling who knows what to get high did not bode well for anyone who enjoyed being swift on their feet and with better endurance than most. "The journey is what it is, I'm just here for money, and I admit curiosity when a long-dead race shows up at your stoop and asks you to come along. And I am no bard, I just have a penchant for entertaining people over drinks so they are compelled to pay for my good evenings." The khajiit grinned conspiratorially. "I'm hardly a man to travel all over for the express purpose of spinning tales, some true, some grossly exaggerated. If people like what you have to say, they trust you more. It was a lesson I taught myself many moons ago."

Biting back a grin, Juin formed a L with his free hand. As his index finger straightened a dim light appeared at the tip. A deep line appeared betwixt his pronounced brow, typical of his kind. Finally, a puff of fire sparked onto the tobacco. "Who else but a bard inspires such blessings?" Juin laughed, drawing on the pipe until the bowl properly lit. "An honest epic, Zaveed. One of our gracious hosts referred to me as Chimer. Changed One. An old name for my people before the gods -- perhaps a judgment to a younger sort of Mer. I know not." He drew a particularly deep breath as a gentle calm massaged his mind. Allowing his eyes to return to the silver waters, the Dunmer loosed the smoke in fluttering, milky wisps. "I suppose we might as well be bards. You saw their faces. Proper storyteller, you, but how much of the world is a mystery to them? And suppose we survive and find ourselves in a decent tavern across the sea? Snow Elves and Grendels and Blackblights and Rainbowed Argonians..." The words trailed off as an unexpected humour emerged.

The look in Zaveed's eye was less than contempt, more than apathy. Juin wasted not the mind reasoning which. With a nod of his head, he extended the pipe toward the Khajit.

Zaveed shook his head to decline the pipe politely. "No, thank you. I do not partake." he explained with an apologetic smile. He returned his gaze out to the bay, watching the waves crash along the coastline. No matter how far from home he was, and how strange these frozen waters were, the sea would always be home to him. It brought a measure of comfort in a very uncertain time.

"A story is a story, but I am glad you found enjoyment out of my tales. I suppose it's better to pretend to be a bard than it is to be a stuffy patron who doesn't try to engage those around him. But yes, I suppose I might have a story or two about this place and our little adventure." Zaveed said, pausing uncomfortably for a moment or two. "Well, perhaps I won't wish to recall it. This still seems like a dream I am waiting to wake up from before the nightmare resumes. I still half expect to see the door behind us burst open at any moment and another one of those fucking Grendels comes through. I would be lying if I said the constant fear of abominations at every turn wasn't beginning to wear away at me, like a rock being accosted by the sea. It stands stalwart for hundreds of years, maybe more, and then eventually it's too much and the sea wins. It always does."

"Some wounds cut so deep, you never quite heal," Juin sighed, letting the smoke melt from his lips. He thought on the painterly words once more and wondered if Zaveed felt the irony in what he'd said. "I've faced monsters before and the fear does not easily subside. That expectation of something very wrong is so great, I expect my child will grow to feel it through me. Talking helps, though. And we may not be brothers, nor may we ever grow so close, but my ear is yours should you need it. Who else but we volunteers could understand?"

Satisfied, the Dunmer pressed a calloused thumb atop the bowl. Once the embers died he replaced the pipe into his bag and looked out onto the waters. Zaveed always seemed equal parts perceptive and charismatic, thus the stories and their uncanny ability to inspire the thought, that's just how I feel. Like a mirror painting what lies behind the skin. Juin hadn't expected such vulnerability. Such brotherhood. The thought sunk in and Juin could not help but turn to Zaveed, smiling, but curious.

"So great a sight, and so great a horror before it. I should wonder if what-ever brought you on this expedition is worth it thus far?"

"The thought is appreciated." Zaveed said, taking his eyes from the comforting moonlit waves to the dunmer companion beside him. The question Juin followed with almost caught the khajiit off guard. He wanted to answer without question, but Juin could never know what was at stake. It was far more than a pocket full of coin that drove Zaveed. After all, coin was easy come, easy go, and there were far safer ways to earn it. Ensuring your throat isn't slit in the middle of the night some time in the future by an expert assassin on the most powerful empire in Tamriel's payroll was something else entirely. "Honestly? No. Curiosity caused me to enlist my services, because how often does one get to accompany an ancient, dead race's ambassador back to her home, where no man has ever been? The cost has been dire, and whatever is causing the darkness that plagues is is still out there, and we may be marked men for our part in it. So no, no amount of curiosity or coin was worth enlisting. But I am a man of principle, and I see my obligations through, despite my misgivings." He smiled, almost sadly. "I'd prefer not to go the way of some of our companions. And you? What do you make of this whole thing?"

Juin nodded as Zaveed spoke. What had the Khajit said that he could disagree with? Soldiers young and old fell, volunteers too. People brave enough to voyage into the unknown to help a race they'd thought long-dead, if ever living at all. And for what? The Dunmer watched as Zaveed paused a moment, expression bittersweet.

"What I make of it? I think we must all be liars or fools. I understood Viryn's motivation -- an old soldier returned to the days of glory. But only his sort could count the fallen and the saved and report such a trial 'worth while'. I saw the battles the Morning Blade commanded, fought in them, followed orders. I left with a changed man, too," Juin paused, feeling the words catching in his throat. Suddenly, his eyes felt hot. "I came to assure my life was more than blood." He pursed his lips with the words. "The mere mention... I think I'm in the mood for another bath. Who knows when we'll come upon another palace, aye?"

Zaveed let loose a rueful laugh. "I think if anyone said they still felt this venture was worthwhile is probably just that, a liar or a fool, although I suspect anyone who felt strongly about it at the beginning is either dead or jaded at this point. My condolences about Viryn, I barely knew the man but you had history with him. Losing a friend never gets easier." Zaveed sighed, shaking his head slowly, resting his elbows on the banister and cupping a balls fist with his open hand. "I can't tell you what a life's worth, just that it's really easy to find yourself slain for no discernible reason. Life, best I figure, is simply an exercise of trying to live to see another day. I'll save anything more complicated than that for philosophers. But you might as well enjoy the amenities provided here, while they last. If I've learned anything of value over my life is that you need to embrace the small pleasures, they're what keep us going when times get dire."

"Then I'll take your words and condolences to the baths," the Dunmer smiled and made his back toward the halls. He paused, then turned back to the Khajit. "A good conversation. I should hope to have more on the journey ahead. Who knows? Perhaps good words will end this Blackblight."

Zaveed looked over his shoulder at the departing Juin and offered a single, solidarity nod. "I certainly would hope so. Travel is so droll without words to pass the time. But for now, let's simply enjoy the respite we've been afforded. Farewell, until the morrow." he said, turning back to look at the bay. There was much to be considered in the words that were exchanged, and on top of the rest of what haunted Zaveed's thoughts, he knew sleep would not find him easy this night.

 

[Dervish]

The Plot Thickens...

It was time to come to the end of one mystery.

When Zaveed had returned to his quarters, he had found his armour and equipment laid out across the luxurious bed that was in truth by far the nicest place he'd ever sleep in his life, assuming he could even sleep that night. Juin, Gelinda… both had proven to be welcome distractions for his troubled mind, a welcome sense of familiarity and comfort in an ever strange world that up until a few weeks ago, he had no idea existed. His armour looked pale in the moonlight streaming through the window, a plane of polished glass that carried only the vaguest hint of frost, giving the room an even more ethereal, dream-like quality to it. The room was warm, and there was a hearth with a gentle fire crackling along the one wall with a pair of high-backed velvet-covered seats, giving an emerald green contrast to the rest of the room, which seemed to encompass every known shade of grey.

Sitting next to his axes, now polished to a mirror-like sheen sat the satchel, which had been cleaned and mended. Zaveed's heart raced as he hurried to open it to see if the contents inside had been disturbed.

And how would you possibly know if they were, or if anything was missing? He thought bitterly, cursing himself for not taking the opportunity to look earlier. But when had he had the chance, back in Winterhold? He'd been too preoccupied with Gelinda and didn't want whatever was inside to hound him for the remainder of the voyage. It was as if putting it off kept it from becoming real, the obligation that belonged to another that had been thrust upon him when Jay had perished. It was hard enough to stay alive without worrying if your Thalmor overlords were about to ask you to do something insane.

He grabbed the satchel, and feeling it as if it had an entirely new weight, hurried to one of the high-backed chairs by the fire and sat down heavily, feeling whatever was inside would change everything. A rapping sounded on the hardwood door that gave him a start with a sharp intake of breath.

After composing himself after a second, he called out, "Who is it?"

"Who else but me." Sevari said. When Zaveed opened the door, he shrugged, ran his fingers through his mane. At this point, he didn't care if Zaveed smelled the rum on him. Of course, even if he didn't it was readily apparent in the half-full glass flask, "You're lucky I knocked. You've not thrown the mystery wide without me, have you? Lost it at sea, maybe? Spontaneous fucking combustion? A real wreck of disappointment I'll be."

He sniffled, stepped past Zaveed and wasted no time in groaning as he dropped his arse in the chair, "Wish my room's seats had velvet, just quilted cloth. Reminds me too much of my padded jacket. Fuck Vylewen's father to get this room?" His eyes went about the four corners, taking it in. Finally, they settled on the satchel and he sank into the chair, feeling the weight of yet another revelation pressing down on him for the night. "Friends like these..." He muttered, looking into the crackling orange of the fireplace, thinking of campfires once shared in days he'd walked away from and a few from these days he'd walked into. Still trying to get used to the idea of not being able to meet Juin's eye the same ever again. He held out the flask toward Zaveed and sighed, "Nice night for it, eh? It's like a wound from some peasants' field plough, no? Hardly notice it, but its there, and if you don't do something about it, it'll fester, rot. Get the shivers, fall asleep, never wake up again."

"Smells like you've had quite the evening. I'm surprised you managed to find where I was, given your current disposition." Zaveed remarked, closing the door behind him. He walked with measured strides back to his own seat, if for no other reason than to reassure himself he was nothing like the man who had come into the room, demanding satisfaction through a drunken haze. Still, Zaveed took the flask and took a deep drink. It would be needed, he was certain. Feeling the familiar burn of hard liquor, he handed the flask back to Sevari, joining his gaze into the flames. "I assure you, I have no fucking idea what you're going on about." he said, picking up the satchel and regarding it with no small amount of malevolence. "Should we find out what all the trouble was about? It's been a pain in my ass for too long to keep in the dark any longer. We're as secure as we're ever going to be, and now we're outside of the Legion's grasp."

"Drink some more and you might. Or we'll just babble shit at each other. Been drunker than this, anyways. Don't want to see me then." He sniffed, looked at the flask. He had the feeling that trying to be a better man would have to wait a long while now that he was so close to that satchel. Either way, being a better man is mighty easier when you've got as much money as he had coming in if he came back from this shit. "And fuck off, talking about our satchel. Only really get this philosophical with drink in me. Any which way, let's open up the damned satchel and get one step closer to getting out of each other's hair. Teralfar's palm, at that."

"Quite." Zaveed said, freeing the straps, unmoved since Teralfar handed it to them so many nights ago. He removed the contents, sticking it on a circular end table between the two of the khajiit, and he ran his hand through the hardened leather to make sure he didn't miss anything. Zaveed blinked in surprise when his fingers brushed cool glass and he removed an amulet of some description that looked like a polished black-soul gem as the set piece, hanging in a simple steel cage. "What in ruddy Oblivion is this thing?" he asked, looking at it with curiosity. He felt compelled to slip it on for reasons he couldn't quite put a word to, and immediately himself and Sevari took on an ethereal reddish-pink haze in his eyes. It took him a moment to realize what it was. "This is some kind of life detect amulet. I've never used them before... but Teralfar included it for some reason. Maybe the reason's somewhere in this pile of paper."

"Just might." At that, he grasped up the first of the papers. It was bound together like a book with knots of twine. The binding wasn't what caught his eye though. He snagged a word here and there at first- blood, Praetorian, sacrifice. He furrowed his brow and started from the top. It was a report from some bastard named Praetorian Fectus. It read how he'd tracked a woman who "wasn't susceptible" to Anvil. The more he read, the more he decided he didn't like Fectus. He'd stalked the girl around Anvil before he brought her up on fake charges of horse thievery and the fencing of stolen goods. The town guard handed her over to him and he'd taken her not to the Imperial dungeons, but to somewhere he called his "laboratory." It only got more and more gruesome from there, and he could only struggle past the point where he hung her unconscious upside down and put the scalpel to her jugular before he shoved the paper not at all gently towards Zaveed, "Read this shit."

Zaveed took the offered papers and straightened them out, deciding they needed to look somewhat tended to if they were going to present them to a King. He knew from Sevari's reaction he wasn't about to enjoy what he was about to read, but it still put a chill down his spine. "What the fuck is all this? Was this all sanctioned by someone in the Empire? This seems like some kind of cult shit." he looked over at his companion and grabbed another sheet at random, rapidly scanning it, shaking his head. "These Praetorians, they sound like they were supposed to have authority similar to the Penitus Oculatus. There's a bunch of city names, all across the empire. They were testing something with the people they arrested... sacrificed." he corrected himself, gritting his teeth as he turned the page and came across a line of text that prompted him to take the amulet from around his neck and place it on the table beside him. "It is good dinner was some time ago because this shit is disgusting." he said, anger creeping into his voice. "The Praetorians were looking for people with certain traits and, I don't even know how to fucking put it into words. Those black soul gem shards are one of the by-products. They... only react when in the presence of someone who's immune? The fuck does that mean? From what?"

"Not susceptible? Immune? Some fucking murderer's diary here, what the fuck is all this?" He could hear Teralfar's voice in his ears, feel the breath on the back of his neck almost, 'Part of great things, good things. You need not ask questions, only do. A knife doesn't ponder what it cuts.' He took another swig, replacing one burning in his throat for another. "By the fucking dead below." He swallowed sourly, taking the shard of black between thumb and forefinger, twisting it this way and that in the glinting light of the fireplace, "This is someone's life, then? The Praetorians bottled people's souls up. All this time, I thought I was a right black bastard. The Empire, though? I could've expected this from Teralfar's lot."

His hand swept across it all, "The Imperial Seal and signature too. I'll be fucked. Here I was thinking at least the Empire is alright compared to what I've seen of the Thalmor." He dropped the black shard back onto the table and regarded it with a face like he'd dropped a piece of shit there. "No one's hands are clean in this, I know, but... Shit."

"And here." Zaveed set another piece of paper down, facing towards Sevari. Scrawled at the bottom of an authorization decree was the sprawling signature of Emperor Felix Mede. Zaveed stood and headed towards a bottle of wine that had been left out for him. With a swift motion, his claw removed the cork and it was in the fire. There would be no need to save the bottle for another night. He crouched in front of the flames, bottled nestled in hands. "I think I understand why Teralfar told us not to open the satchel until we were at our destination. Do you think you could have kept a straight face the entire time, looking at those Imperial dogs?" he asked bitterly. "Teralfar knew both of us valued our freedoms above all else, so even if we fucking hate the Thalmor, we'd do what they asked because of this. There can't just be that... filth. What's he hoping we accomplish, other than sabotaging the negotiations?"

"Maybe it's some petty game. They want to show their newest little wide-eyed child of an Emperor that he won't find any friends in all the corners of the world. Even corners far as this one. Make even the Emperor's endeavors nothing but dirt and shit." He took a swig, this was a fine way to end his night after that conversation with Juin, "We're in the middle of it and Teralfar's dangling our freedom out in front of us like carrots to mules. I knew Teralfar was down to some real dark work, but I didn't know it was all this." He took a swig and spit a tiny stream of it into the fire hissing, "Sickening. I'd say we should hold the fucker down and I could chop his throat out, but there's a hundred just like him out there. Anything we'd do is leaves on the water, far as Teralfar is concerned."

"For once, Teralfar isn't someone I could blame for this. This may very well be some game, but we need to see it through. We present this to the King, let him understand who he's about to share the bed with. But that leaves us unaffiliated... ah." Zaveed drank from the bottle. "Our best bet is to openly declare ourselves ambassadors of the Thalmor. He won't believe a couple sellswords found all of this crap and came all this way to present it to him. We declare ourselves emissaries of the Thalmor, say that it was a gesture of goodwill, and we get to go home the easy way."

"Right, with binds on our wrists and Maricus's legion boys' boots on our necks if this all goes to shit." He shrugged, "I put this leash on, I can do this risky pile of shit jobs to get it off. Just as good we realize who payed for our trip here and who owns the boats if Vylewen's father does the mental gymnastics of thinking two lowly beastfolk are trying to make him a pawn just like us."

"So, what then? We keep this to ourselves and pretend all is well in the world?" Zaveed replied sarcastically, looking back at Sevari. "Even if we did that and somehow got back without anything foul befalling us, we still have this shit in our hands and I'm sure as shit not letting it go quietly away. This Empire that we agreed to work for wanted to enslave our very souls, Sevari. I'm not about do do them any favours, and if telling these snow elves about the ragged band of cunts they seek to align with the truth means risking an angry king, so be it. I'd rather die here quickly than spend the rest of my life wondering when the assassin's coming for me or rotting in some Imperial prison," he gestured angrily at the pile of papers. "Especially if that's the kind of shit they're doing to people!"

"You're right. But we're no Tiber Septims and at least he had an army at his back. We've got what? A knife-ear ready to cut ties at the slightest whiff of failure?" He threw his arms out to the side, "The Volunteers? How do you think Juin will look at us when he finds out we're working with the people he used to fight against? Paints will want to gallantly lop our fucking heads off for working with the people that did the Night of Green Fire. You going to fuck some trust into Gelina? Don't think the rest of our companions are going to be as delighted to know they're in the middle of this shit with two bright-red targets working for who they think are the bad guys. Rightfully damned so, I might add. Best we can hope for is we keep this quiet until we get to Tamriel and then take our volunteer pay, kiss Teralfar gratefully on his big Thalmor gold-skinned cock and fuck off somewhere far from Cyrodiil."

He unsheathed his bone-handle chopper and set it on the table, blade sharpened and oiled meticulously, edge glinting in the firelight, "This is the closest friend I have in all this now." He pointed at Zaveed's axes, "Hope you can figure a way to bed your axes. We can take our feud with the Praetorians home and live in shit, fight in shit until we die like shit and rot to shit. Doesn't look much different stepping on Teralfar's toes."

"Fuck them. You put too much sentimentality into people who signed up for coin. What, are you friends with them? You expected them to, what? Switch loyalties to us because we're so nice? No, Sevari." Zaveed rose to his full height and stepped towards the other khajiit, pointing a finger at him. "You and I knew that we would be alone going into this. If you really didn't care what Teralfar could do to you or your brothers, you wouldn't have signed up for this gods forsaken expedition knowing very well you could die. But you're here now, and if you're going to shit the bed like the coward you keep trying to tell me you are, then I'll finish this fucking mission myself and hope Teralfar knows what the fuck he's doing.

"It's been all I've been able to fucking do to keep you from losing your shit this entire trip, what with your crippling addictions and lack of self-control. I have no love of the Thalmor, or the Empire, or anyone but my fucking self, Sevari. And I intend to live, and I can't do that if I have to live with the knowledge that Teralfar won't leave loose ends. Besides," he drank from the bottle again, and the level was visibly lowered by the time he resumed his speech. "You really mean to say you don't care what the Empire planned to do? Or that fighting the Praetorians would solve anything? I'd rather the contents of that satchel be somebody else's problem, preferably somebody else with enough influence to actually fucking do something with it."

"Alright." Sevari said in his quiet voice. He picked up his big knife, regarded it for a second before slipping it back in its sheath. Maybe it was his only true friend here after all was said and done. He doubted his brothers would sprout wings and fly here any time soon and Zaveed said it himself. "You heard what I heard tonight you'd drink yourself to a stupor and curl up dead. I thought I'd left blackmail and shady satchels in High Rock and banditry in Tamriel. I stepped onto the docks the same fucker stepped onto High Rock soil looking for coin, no matter how bloody, I know that now. You want me to the bastard I was just so you can love yourself a few more days, I'll be the darkest bastard that ever was and do the work needs doing. All I'm saying is we're stuck between a rock and a hard place and this Snow Elf king can't do fuck all about anything past the end of his cock far as Tamriel is concerned. We're the ones who're holding the shovels, let's dig our way out then."

He sniffed, took a swig of his flask and looked at the drips that were left, his voice cold as winter, even and dry as the tundra's dirt, "We take the satchel to the King. What happens after that happens. I'll do things your way, the old way, the way where we do the work no matter how dark it is. For you, for me, for my brothers." He drained the last of the rum, "There it is, then. No cock waggling about friends and volunteers, no crying about consequences, just living until the next day and fucking the rest, eh? This what you wanted to hear, Corsair?" An old grin split his face. Wolf's grin. Could be the drink, could be the lack of sleep, could be how a reminder of his weakness for the sugar hurt him something fierce, could be he was fucking tired of building himself up a moral high ground when everyone else realized it was better not to even bother with the shit. He'd never end up a disappointment to anyone else because of the sugar, no matter what. Truth be told, he almost scared himself with how it made him feel to be that man again, that heartless, cold, unfeeling bastard. At least for a moment. Maybe longer, if needed.

"So, what did you hear?" Zaveed asked, returning to his own seat, drapping his leg over the arm facing Sevari. "But yes, that's the extent of it. Be the cold, ruthless bastard we both know you can be and we'll both get what we want in the end. If there's one thing I'll say about the Thalmor, they pay nicely when they're happy." He grinned at his companion, extending the wine bottle over, holding it by the neck. "Life is much simpler when things are just black and white. On one side, it's what you need, on the other, it's everyone else. If you try to help every bastard who comes along, you fuck yourself in the end. All I know is I was given the only desirable end state by a man I rather not care about, and it involved you and Jay. One of you remains, and so you're the only ally I can depend on. So long as we're in this together, I stand with you, whatever comes." Zaveed sighed, returning his gaze to the comforting warmth of the fire. "You know, I never asked about your brothers before. They mean that much to you, to risk everything?"

"Life was always easier when the only thing I had to worry about was managing a band of bastards that finds fun in burning a man's house down after hanging his family. I'll give you that," he said, eager to change the subject from his conversation with Juin, and he took the bottle, sniffing the mouth of it and still not being able to tell one wine from the other, just that it was one of many ways of getting drunk, "It's always easier when the entire world's on the opposite side. Any which way you swing your sword is the right one then."

He took one last look at the satchel and pile of papers still strewn about the table, shook his head and looked at the fire. Zaveed asked about his brothers and he had to think about it. "Three of the most rotten shits in Tamriel. Family is family though, there's a form to be followed in these things, no?" He shrugged, taking one last swig and handing it back, "I shiver to think what would have happened if the responsibility of this grand adventure had been handed off to any one of my three brothers. Jivami would have crushed someone's head in his hands if they said anything remotely insulting, Fa'azri would have had his way with Vylewen one of these nights, killed Maricus and had the lot of them under his heel. Suffian would've fucked half this city by now. What keeps me up at night is not being there to keep tabs on the old band. I used to be Fa'azri's man to make sure everyone stayed in line. Two dozen of those pricks'd stab a beggar for his last two coins, that's who I'm nobly risking my neck for."


"I suppose, I can't even remember if I had a family. The only thing I remember was my mother screaming my name when I was taken away. I might have had brothers? I don't recall, it was so long ago and so much has happened since then." he clutched the offered bottle, resting the base on his thigh. "Maybe that's why Teralfar picked you and not them, you have a degree of dependence that keeps your family together... and an ability to see a bigger picture. I'm sure they're making out fine, even the most rotten shits figure out how to keep it together when push comes to shove. But I understand, I do. I might not have the same blood ties you do, but my old crew I was willing to fight and die for because they'd do the same for me. Nearly did a few times, sticking my neck out for them. Now they're all fucking dead and here I am without a ship, without a crew, and trying to figure things out as I went along. Had Teralfar tried to recruit me when I was still with them, I would have told him to go fuck himself and have a nice day. I was that sure that by sticking with my lot, we'd face the world together. Turns out the world's a bit bigger than any man, and I'm the only one left to remember that hard lesson."

"Life's full of hard lessons waiting for you to break your teeth on. And I like to think I have a bit of decency compared to my brothers. It's what's kept me alive all this time. That, and a fair bit of stubborn luck." Sevari nodded along. He remembered that degree of loyalty. Less a family, more a pack, but the bond that keeps you together is being killers all. His old mentor always said a man rejoices in the work that suits him best. The knife on his hip was a big hint at what suited him. "And my condolences to your crew. I know my band looks nothing like it used to. Lost a lot of brothers along the way, some I know the world's that bit better with their passing, some not. They all leave empty spaces though. All dead though? How did you manage that?"

Faces danced in the flames before him, belonging to those who had shaped him into who he was today. It was easy to see where a lot of spirituality stemmed from something as simple as gazing into the flames. "In truth, it was stupid luck I survived. Our ship was caught by a much larger Imperial ship, three masts against two... not much you can do, especially when navigating icey waters close to the coast. We were boarded, grappling hooks, archers raining arrows down so we couldn't cut ourselves free. I got in a skirmish near the gunwale, got backed into a corner, in truth. Some bastard, didn't even see his face, charged me with his shield and over I went. Frozen water isn't fun, I'll tell you that much. I pretty much went into shock and my muscles must have fought to keep me alive, because I sure as shit wasn't doing anything consciously. Next thing I knew, I awoke by a fire with two members of the Thieves Guild who happened across me. I was direly sick for days, fighting off the cold death. When I was well enough, I searched the coast for any signs of survivors. Nothing. Found a few bodies, but they weren't lucky. Some got dragged off by predators, most I imagine are still down with the ship." he said, slipping into quiet contemplation.

After a spell, he spoke again. "You know, I'm still not sure how to feel about it all. One one hand, it's the closest thing to a family I had that I lost that day. On the other, they forced me into their service as a child and I became their instrument out of fear. Now they're gone, I'm my own man, with nothing to prove to anyone. All I want is to return to something familiar. The way I see it, Teralfar's a way to do that. My need to do this goes beyond just surviving. I want to live, too."

"Ah, I always steered well clear of bigger Imperial forces. My lot could hold together in a raid or a skirmish. Give them a battle and you'll never see a more ruthless lot when they're trying to get out of dying." He shrugged, "Sellswords for you. Motivated by the plunder. I was never forced into this life, it just warmed up to me. Believe it or not, I had my start of this shit living as a courtier in the court of Shornhelm under Count Darren. One of the philosophers I used to read said one thing I agreed with, 'give me evil men for friends, them I understand.' My two septims on it? No matter what the bastards did to you before you were captain, you were the captain and not any of them. They licked your boots at the end of the day. Even now, they're dead, you're not. Sounds harsh, but I know some of the dirt I threw over some comrades I knew hurt me less than if I was burying someone else."

He took the wine bottle and swigged out of it, "We'll dig our way out of this. The King can listen to us and we get a free ride back to Windhelm on a falmer ship, get our money and our freedom. Maybe I'll even sod off to High Rock and hire myself out as a nightblade to some noble. I miss that life, easier than selling my sword and living in shit. Or I could join a proper Free Company and not be a fucking outlaw. You can find yourself another ship and another crew and do what Corsairs do."

"You say that like we had a choice. On the open seas, if they have your scent, you can be chased for days and still lose out in the end. The wind doesn't pick favourites." Zaveed crooked his head. "You were employed by a count? I find that somewhat hard to believe, that you had anything to do with nobility. And me, captain? Hardly. Captain was the biggest fucking orc I've ever seen. Wasn't the kind of man you challenged. I was just a regular deckhand who was happy enough getting my share with dreams of one day having my own ship. But trust me," Zaveed said, face darkening. "There were some on my crew I'm glad are dead. None of us were good men, but some of us were monsters. I won't forget that. I can't forget that.

"I don't think I'll ask to return to Windhelm. I'm tired of the ice and snow. Maybe I'll go to High Rock, where it's more temperate and accommodating of people like me. If our snow elf friends want to see what the Dominion has on offer, they're heading that way anyways. Besides, you could always join me in my quest for a ship. You might find a pirate's life is agreeable."

"High Rock, eh? Could go to Wayrest, lots of your type there after what happened." He took a pull off the bottle and handed it back, "And I'm not too sure. Shitting and pissing off the side of the longship for two weeks wasn't my style. I prefer a hole in the ground on solid earth. The singing, the feeling of the salty air through my mane as I stood on the prow, those were good. The rocking and swaying and close proximity to everyone? I'd have to get along real well with that lot. I like you well enough, you remind me of my brothers in a good way, but I'd hate to spoil it by spending that time rubbing shoulders on a cramped ship. Find a big enough ship and then send a messenger pigeon my way."

He sighed, eyes snatching a look at the satchel and he found his mind wandering, putting a scene to what he'd read. He shood his head and looked back at the fireplace, "I don't know where I want to go. High Rock, stick with you on a ship until we get there so I can get a real deep appreciation of hygiene and a roof once I'm off. I hear Stros M'kai is chock full of decadence and whores. Think I'd like it there. Could be a better man there with a big fat purse than I ever was running with a band of murderers, arsonists and rapists. Leastways, I won't have to kill anyone if I don't have to. No more satchels either."

"Nords are strange people who enjoy ships that are not suited for long terms at sea. No below deck? No cabin? Preposterous. But you get used to throwing your shit overboard, if you're lucky, you even get your own bucket." Zaveed chuckled, his mind briefly flittering to the heavy discovery on the table beside him. It was worth forgetting for a bit longer, at least. "I want a large ship, something where I'm captain with my own quarters, with windows and walls and a loyal crew I can lead like they deserve, better than I got, at least.

"I hear Stros M'Kai's climate isn't too far off from Elsweyr, too. If I never felt cold again, it would be too soon. Maybe after this, both of us will find a better life, but first we have to deal with this satchel and hope our deal elven king doesn't decide to behead us for being ballsy enough to tell him his new friends are a bunch of shit lords." the corsair said, shuffling enough to start packing the satchel with its contents. He paused in thought for a moment. "What if we told him that Queen Lelyanya of the Aldmeri Dominion extends her dainty little hand in friendship and would like to offer aid to her long lost cousins? Altmer tend to get wet over that racial purity shit, and the Dominion's certainly not friends with the Empire. Maybe it would do us well to give the snow elves some kind of silver lining?"

"Might be best if we do. He might be king of nothing but he still thinks he's a king. Wouldn't like to be left out in the cold like that." His mind flitted to an image of Juin and Paints in a cell, Markain banging at the bars. Maricus and his lot could drown for all he cared, but motivated by money or not, Juin and Paints were something close to friends to him. But his brothers needed him to do this, and slightly more importantly, it would ensure he'd get his freedom. None of those bastards could understand that, and they'd vilify him and Zaveed if they knew who lorded over them, but they just didn't understand. The knife on his hip was his closest friend. Zaveed was alright, but he liked himself more, so he was stuck alone. But he wasn't going to die here, he wasn't going to fail the mission and have him and his brothers be loose ends, bodies found floating by the docks. That ruthless, heartless bastard from years ago would have to come back if him and Zaveed were going to come out of this breathing, "Tomorrow, then? First thing in the morning, after the baths, we take this satchel to the King, to Vylewen. Show them this shit and let them come to the conclusion we want."

"I find the simplest plots work best." Zaveed agreed. "With any luck, our dear King decides we did him a kindness, and maybe he's feeling extra generous and excuses the volunteers for their part in Imperial dealings. Get some sleep, Sevari. A long day awaits."

 

[O|NoSoul]

Hours ago...​

He stepped back, not able to even look at her back, let alone her eyes. She dropped her skirts, their breath rasping in their throats. She giggled and the sound of his belt clinking on the end of his knife's sheath made him sick. It felt right at the time, but now it just felt wrong. He stuffed himself back in his trousers and did the buckle of his belt, sniffing, eyes on the ground like a sullen child. She pulled him into a kiss and unlike the one it started with, this one tasted bitter. He stepped away, going towards the baths, like water could wash it away.

* * *
​

Shame, dread, guilt. The three mingled together and like a mixture in an alchemists lab frothed up in his guts and burned his chest. He took another gulp of wine, pouring another glass for himself. One more fuck up in an entire legion of them, it was a wonder how they all still stung after all this time. He sighed, he was sitting naked under a towel wrapped around his waist in the finest looking chair he'd ever seen, miles away from all his Tamrielic mistakes, surrounded by men and women who'd never heard of him, never heard of Knife-for-Hire, or simply Knife. They saw him as a companion, a volunteer, a man to be trusted by the strength of his back and a bond quenched and hardened in shared sweat and blood. He was given every chance to change, put in all the right places. He'd literally left the past behind him now he was in Auriel's Harborage, a place no one but them had heard of and after coming all that way, there he was at the docks, just waiting. Blackmail, because what the hell else could be in a Thalmor satchel on an Imperial expedition? And adultery, because what else could it be called? He stood and dressed himself.

He was wandering the halls of the guest house, a massive building that made some Daggerfall manors look like squalid hovels. Each room given to the volunteers was a house unto itself almost. His had a small balcony overlooking the farms and fields holding back thick forest that stretched on and on to the pine-furred mountains beyond, painted white with the northern snow. Inside the room, a large bed flanked with nightstands, a bath, a table, mirror and a wardrobe and chest. He spent some time looking out at the wilderness beyond before he tired of his mind wandering to raids, sackings and tavern fights. He left his room, a heel of still warm bread in his hand and he took a bite of it, nodding to a drunken Ja'Kiefer struggling to remember how to work a door's ring. He turned the ring and pushed the door open, the Khajiit nodding his thanks and stumbling in. There, a good deed, now maybe he wouldn't burn forever in the Deadlands. Farther down the hall, he saw a familiar face, the same kind eyes under that troubled brow. He nodded, "I'm finding myself with nothing to do. A word then, friend? Just a talk."

What weariness had sunk in fell away at the appearance of Sevari. The khajit did not seem one to judge, nor one to remain too distant either. Just a talk from some others might be menacing -- from him, quite the opposite. Juin looked over Sevari and smiled.

"A talk it is," Juin nodded, then searched the halls. "I wonder if we might walk about the harbour as we speak? Can't imagine the next time we'll walk the halls of a not-quite long dead culture."

The dunmer lowered his head and outstretched an arm toward what he supposed to be an exit. He thought of the chill night air, wondering if unseen majesty would feel the way the sugar did. Already the subtle buzz was winding down. Not an entirely bad feeling, but the product of a small sprinkling only. What did addicts feel? Would he one day know himself?

Sevari nodded, a small smile on his face. They took their exit out into the cold but Sevari didn't mind it. He wanted to feel everything there was to feel here, after all, Juin's words were true. When would be the next time they'd do anything like this? More than likely never. They walked in silence for a while, and Sevari caught a whiff of something. Sweet, but sickly, like a man whose been eating sugar or skooma. He looked at Juin from the edge of his vision, careful not to make it apparent. He knew he'd gone a long time without the stuff, gone long enough to go into the skooma sleep, his body purging it all and he was lucky it didn't throw up his ghost. Of course, he'd always have cravings, like now. He swallowed, uncomfortable. He repeated in his head, over and over, a better man, a better man...

He wanted to ask him, just casually, wanted to ask him for a taste. His words almost caught in his throat, he wanted to say why the fuck's a man like you doing that? Wanted to grab him by the shoulders, wanted to scream at him, wanted to be angry. But at what? Did he care that Juin was eating sugar or was it that he was eating sugar in front of him? He cursed himself, frowned off, determined to not let it ruin this view, this experience of being so far away from his past and his problems and safe from the damned monsters. Probably just a trick of the mind, anyway. "It's a nice night for it, eh?" He looked around, the lamp-posts of this place not even settling for humility, stocks of white stone on which crystals of a blue so soft as to be almost white shined light on the grey stone streets. The city slept, a light from a candle in a window every now and then in the white stone houses. The sky was sprinkled with stars and the twin moons huddled together in the cold empty of the void above. Auriel's Harborage was a place seemed only reachable by dreams and wishes, far as he was concerned. But now it was all too real against his flesh.

It felt a little wrong to him, like he didn't deserve this, to be here. To be in a place so untouched by blood and he wanted to tell Vylewen he was sorry for dragging his bloody soles through her threshold. He'd spent his life cultivating an image, baring his teeth fierce against all he perceived as weakness in himself, to become the monster so he could be rid of the pain of being a man. "It's funny, isn't it?" He said, looking out at the harbor, the glistening waves reflecting the moons' light. He felt the air grow colder against his fur, heard the whisper of the waves against the rocky beach. "Men like us in a place like this. Feels good though, being in a place you know's never seen war. In Tamriel it's like that's the order of the day, always on guard. Here though, it's like they haven't got a worry even with the blackblight at their doorstep. Greeting us in the streets with smiling dandies, mothers clutching babes to their breast looking at you with hope, men toasting our arrival. Makes you feel something." He looked at his hands, made fists of them and let them go, muttered, "Makes you want to be better."

"I can see that," the dunmer replied softly, nodding as he pulled his bag to his front to find his tobacco pipe. "I should say, a city black suits me, though." Juin smiled, pointing the pipe toward his dark-skinned cheek to underscore the joke. "A servant called me Chimer before. I hadn't realized before that, but our hosts do come from the same roots as the Altmer. Dunmer too. All war, all scheme," He paused a moment, pinching the dried tobacco and placing it into the wooden bowl. All the rummaging shook the other contents. "I haven't seen the Summerset Isles. I have seen the majestic City of Vivec, though. Perhaps you're right and this is what's possible beyond the bloodshed of our lan--"

Attention set on preparing the pipe, Juin's leg caught. He cursed the fine fabric shoes as double-stepped and stumbled into a proper stance. A proud smile stretched across his face until he heard a soft slap against the road. Little sparkling crystals like so many fallen stars leaked from the fallen canvas pouch. The pride melted away as the dunmer looked to Sevari with lowered eyes.

Sevari listened while they walked, a part of his attention stuck on the night-blackened sea stretching off towards far-away Tamriel. He heard a commotion a bit behind him as Juin fell behind and he turned around, saw that his companion had managed to drop something in the road and walked over to help him. He simply smiled, "Happens to the best of us, I think. Let me help you, friend." He knelt down to take up the pouch and his nose caught the oh so familiar sweet scent of moon sugar and his mouth watered. He swallowed, his head was a melee of urges and he knelt there for a while, looking at the familiar granules. Finally, he opened his mouth to speak and the word rasped out before he cleared his throat and tried again, "I…I didn't know…"

Suddenly the thought crossed his mind, a spread of panic through his veins sent his stomach sinking and bones grow cold. Had Juin swiped this from Winterhold when he'd thrown his moon sugar in the snow? Was he biding his time before ratting him out, would he use it as leverage for something? Did he know of the mission? No, no, of course not. How could he have found the wax balls under the snow? Still, he had to be sure, "Where did you get this from?"

"Well, n'chow," Juin bit his tongue. Where did you get this? Did the source matter more than the use? He knew Sevari too poorly to make assumptions. His question, though. "To hell with it." The dunmer knelt beside his hopefully-still comrade and began to sweep the sugar back into the bag with his hand. "I came upon an old woman in Dawnstar. An alchemist. She was attempting her hand at skooma. She thought me some a guard, or some agent, s'wit. She drew a knife on me. I offered her help," the dunmer met eyes with Sevari. He saw a troubled look in the khajit's eye. Nothing less than honesty would do. "Yi alma taught me the how in my youth. I taught the woman, and after sampling a bit, she gladly gave me a portion of sugar."

The dunmer did not hide the pain. The hour was too late, the situation too personal, Juin simply could not -- or would not lie. He picked a small stone he'd carelessly swept into the bag and let his eyes sink into the shimmering crystals.

"Never tried it before now. Never thought I would. But I understand the appeal, that smooth way it makes you glide through the world. My mind clears. Monsters shrink," Juin whispered to Sevari, or perhaps to the bag between them. "Do you know the feeling?"

"I do." Sevari said, not embellishing the facts. He didn't know which one he was agreeing with, shrinking monsters or the weightlessness and bliss. Both, maybe, "I didn't sleep for six days because the waves didn't agree with me as some have it. A lot of others know the truth of it. And that's why it's dangerous, skooma, sugar. My kind handles the sugar well enough but there's a reason we don't eat it every day." He looked down at the grains in his hand and then looked at Juin before looking back at it. His heart started beating faster like when Vylo put her hand on his arm or lifted her skirts for him. His mind drifted back to a hundred past nights spent on the stuff and he realized he was staring and holding his breath. He let himself breathe and he blinked, "I'm not your father and I've no right to tell you what to do. Sugar makes the problems go away for a few, but give it time and it'll become a problem all its own and you'll find the problems you were trying to get away from are still there staring at you, waiting for you."

Sevari frowned, brushed the grains of sugar off on his shirt. Time was, he'd have packed it down between his gums and flicked Juin a gold piece. But he remembered that after all the sugar binges, waking up, the problems were still there. Some would just get bigger until he'd push them away or run away, take the easy way out. Blackblight wasn't going to get fixed by a night on the sugar, his brothers weren't going to end up any better for it and neither was he. Never did and he even fell helpless for six days. He managed a smile, albeit forced and he found it a little harder to look at Juin. Although he knew every man had problems like wolves at his door it didn't do them any good to plug their ears and try to carry on like they weren't there. "Like I said may as well be years ago in Windhelm, in that cornerclub, we all got things that pain us to remember. Your sugar, it's not my business, not going to tell anyone- shed too much blood together to piss it all away on this- but you can't say I didn't say anything. I left all mine buried under feet of snow in Winterhold and lay more helpless than a babe for six days to sweat and vomit it out. Can't have too much pride when you're heaving over the side and another man has to pull your trousers down and lean your ass over the side so you don't shit yourself." He curled a lip and snorted something, spitting it out to the side, "I've seen men dead after a single day of the sleep, whole life worth less in the end than what I just hocked up. Let that sink in, Juin, next time the monsters need some shrinking. Just because you put on the blindfold doesn't mean the world isn't there anymore."

And wasn't that the truth. All the waxing philosophy and they still had to go home to war ravaged Tamriel at the end of all this. Peaceful city, still had two Thalmor spies in it. Men who didn't know Knife, all the good it did them. Still had to sneak behind their backs with a satchel. The two sat in silence that was far too heavy for Sevari's liking. All the effort put into saving the view despite the sugar all wasted. Said something about life, didn't that, spend your whole life building a roof over your head and it only takes one bastard with a torch to bring it down. He shook his head, Juin was still the same Juin, still a friend. Maybe even a brother of sorts. "Right, well." He searched for something, anything, "You said the sugar holds the monsters at bay a little, makes them seem a little less than they are. I'm here, I think a sellsword band and our pack of volunteers don't have much of a difference and it's always good to talk things over. Knew a man who kept things bottled up, didn't turn out well." His hand went out to the harbor beyond, down the sloping road and he nodded to Juin, a little gesture to say that no bridges were burned, "Haven't even made it to the harbor yet."

Indeed, the harbour lay ahead and at no great distance either. The dunmer recognized the gesture, a touch kinder than tolerance and leagues beyond apathety. If nothing else that alone helped. Juin grabbed the canvas pouch and stood with Sevari. Simply, and in a quiet voice, he replied, "To the harbour then."

A couple weeks and an accursed sea lay between Juinarto and his last confession. He had siblings who knew not of his affliction, yet, an argonian and a khajit he'd known a barely a month stood among his most trusted? Without a mentor to offer logic he could only follow his heart. Hopefully, the darkness had not tainted that too.

Juin held the pouch in hand as they approached the harbour. White stone rails separated a walking path along the edge, except where the piers of wood and less impressive stone reached out to meet vessels. Moonlight shined brightly so close to the water and the feeling of darkness weighing down dissipated as they approached the stone rail. The dunmer, in awe of the radiant reflections on the sea, made his way for the edge instantly. He set the pouch down on the rail and hoisted himself atop the edge. A frightful sight to his companion, perhaps, but he'd no mind for such thoughts. No, Juin was taken by the sight. Consumed by the unsullied vision.

"You spoke of Auriel's Harbour as untainted. Are you familiar with teh meaning of the word Dunmer?" Juin fell quiet, eyes peering into the moons for a moment. "In my language, it means Cursed Ones. I saw the towering white walls and the droves of white faces. Faces like mine, yet not like mine. I felt... Very aware." His lips pursed. Somehow, every word seemed too weak. Too vague. He sat upon the rail, letting his feet sway off the edge in the cool breeze. "My people are strong, dutiful folk. I hold no shame for my roots. I simply tire of feeling tainted." A wave, stronger than the rest, crashed against the stone wall facing the sea. Juin felt a chilling the foamy tip of the splash soak through his shoe. He watched as the water receded as he continued. "Near the end of Skyrim's Civil War I found myself patrolling Hjaalmarch by order of the Morning Blade. We went searching for Stormcloaks. We found vampires," Juin removed his scarf. The gnarled scars all about his neck glistened in the light of the moons. "Not my first bout with vampires, but this one was damning. I awoke tainted. Years of controlling the hunger, of sacrificing my humanity to sate it... The sugar helped."

They walked some more and found themselves in the harbor finally. Sevari nodded along as Juin talked, listening to his tale. He'd never known the word Dunmer meant cursed ones, and here he'd been using it all his life. He never knew that it effected Juin that much, to be among people who saw him and his kind as such. Now, referring to Auriel's Harborage as unsullied seemed a little insensitive to him, even if his companion seemed to catch his meaning. When he'd started telling him about his scouting mission, he looked to Juin, picking out the same troubled look on his face most people had when the words were fighting them all the way out. When he removed his scarf he saw Juin's scars on his neck and only after Juin shared his last piece did he connect it all. His body went cold and his hand shot to his knife, not making any attempt to hide the action. He felt altogether trapped and helpless, without his armor, alone, with only a knife for company. He was rooted to the spot, not knowing whether to make the first move or run away pissing. He stayed like that for a while, hand on his knife and his legs bent, ready for violence. But, curiously, Juin didn't do anything.

He curiously looked the same as always, behaved the same as always, he didn't even make any sudden moves beyond turning to face him. If he didn't know better, he'd say Juin wasn't going to bite his throat out. Or maybe he would, so he brought the knife out, edge sharpened meticulously and shining with the moons' light, and he spoke, voice unsure, "By the fucking Gods, Juin… What… I… I never fucking knew. None of us did…" Juin didn't even look like what he'd heard vampires to be, winged monsters with the faces of bats and hunger of animals, ravenous, mindless creatures, "What in the hells… Juin…" He waited for Juin to pounce, to turn into a cloud of bats and rip him to pieces, anything. Nothing happened. The Dunmer was his friend, he thought, but he was a vampire, but he didn't look like a monster…

"Was this why you and Paints fought?" He swallowed, "Does Paints even know? By the fucking dead below, Juin… that Prince of Darkness shit back in Winterhold… now this, you're a fucking monster? Whose blood have you been taking?" He was babbling now, trying to stall for time or just flapping his gums to try to keep from pissing himself. "I… I… Damn it, Juin, why shouldn't I kill you? How do I know you're not lying and biding your time before drain the lot of us? Paints, is Paints your fucking thrall? Why else wouldn't he kill you?"

He took a few steps back, ready to kill a monster, unwilling to kill a friend. Was he even his friend? Had any of the feelings of camaraderie been real, or was it his vampire magicks? He bared his teeth and growled, "Damn it! Damn it, damn it, damn it! I thought we were companions. Friends, even." He looked at his knife, tried to work himself up to lunging but all he managed to do was shuffle forwards. Pitiful. He swallowed sour spit, backing away. "Why shouldn't I kill you, Juin?"

Such words. Juin might have recoiled had he not been seated. He kept his ass firmly planted against the rail with his hands laid flat on the stone. The dunmer paid little mind to carrying a weapon despite the tension he felt in the city. Perhaps a bit of charcoal might pierce flesh before shattering, but the entire notion seemed silly. He needed no knife for this. He hoped.

"You offer an ear, then draw your knife. You are surprised I thought to keep this secret?" Juin let his words hang a moment. "I did not choose this. I would never choose this. Listen well, Sevari, for these are words I have shared with no one." The dunmer looked to Sevari with sorrowful, though stern eyes. "Yi alma taught me of sugar and skooma, yes? We ventured from our home to sell her latest batch. We came upon a sinister place... a foul, horrid place. Monsters did this," Juin pointed a finger to the scars coiling about his neck. "Monsters fed on us. Called us cattle. When yi alma grew weak, they threw her into a dirt court with starved rats and mudcrabs and others like us. She'd taken the taint. She'd grown wild. Hungry. She killed everything they put against her," Juin's eyes faced Sevari, but a glaze cast over them. The hardness in his look disappeared. "I was thrown in the pit last. She -- It, did not know me. It attacked me, tearing at my flesh until... I was chained up after. Days passed before an old dunmer soldier rescued me. Nursed me back to health, gave me a choice to join the Legion or go alone. You honestly think I chose to survive the ambush? You think I'd go about making others thralls?"

"I don't know what to think, Juin. I offered my ear to a friend, thinking you'd share a war story. I've lost friends, companions to everything from a spear's point to wound-rot. That I can understand, that I know, I've heard and can tell a dozen of those stories." He swallowed, the look on Juin's face putting shame in him, drawing a knife on a friend. It was still a fact he had trouble putting it back though, "This, though. Juin… The sugar and this." His eyes darted to his knife and back to Juin, then slowly, he put it back in its sheath. It felt wrong to do so, knowing now what he knew, but he did it. A good man trusts friends, no?

"How can you keep it a secret? How do you keep from," he shrugged, uncomfortable talking about this as if it was an odd lump on a mate's cock after a stay at a brothel and not damned vampirism, "from rotting from the inside? I was always told that you'd- that vampires would rot inside out after a week without blood." Then the unthinkable crossed his mind. He'd spent six days unconscious and helpless on the same boat as Juin… could he have… "Juin… you didn't… while I slept?"

The dunmer's eyes narrowed. Rotting from the inside? "Gods no! Besides, you'd of turned by now. Truth be told, I've never had khajit." Juin slowly reached into his satchel and pulled out a vial of dark liquid. "I found solutions. Don't know about the... rotting. The mind blurs though. Perhaps."

A small moment of quiet came once more. Sevari no longer looked so aggressive and the dunmer's body no longer felt warm. Juin returned the vial, replacing it for the already filled tobacco pipe. He paid a quick eye to the bowl and flicked his fingers. Embers sparked the dried leaves easier than before, catching as he drew three quick breaths. A silver-white smoke wisped from his mouth in a thin blanket flowing with the sharp contour of his face.

Satisfied, Juin reached the pipe toward Sevari with the pipe. His eyes held on the glistening harbour. A tense admission, but a successful one. Somehow the truth came easier this time. He only prayed honesty would not be his end.

Sevari took the offered pipe, his mind wondering on the possibilities of becoming a vampire by sharing a pipe with one but he shook his head from it. Damn fool notion. Still, how would he deal with his friend now knowing that the dunmer was a vampire? Maybe not a monster…yet. Furthermore, how would this vampire, let alone the rest of his crew act if they knew who he and Zaveed were working for? Could they understand he was doing this for his brothers? He was doing this so he wouldn't end up a loose end and disappear off the face of Nirn after stepping off the boat? Maybe, maybe not, and he wouldn't be smiling afterward either, big bag of gold and his freedom though he might have. It still stung that it'd be the end of any notion of camaraderie with this lot. "Juin," He said before taking a draw and letting a thick tendril of smoke snake up and out of his mouth to be carried away on an errant breeze, "Before I head in for the night… d'you think a man can change?"

"I would say so. Though, maybe not always of his own volition," the dunmer replied in a distant voice. He looked as if ready to speak further, but silently ran his hand along the stone rail until he found the canvas bag. As a cat might, Juin nudged the bag off the edge. "Perhaps good company ensures good changes. If so, I suspect we'll grow better soon enough."

Sevari nodded, handing the pipe back, "Just might."

He turned and walked off and it ashamed him that where Juin's presence was a surety at his back, it was now the prickling of a knifepoint every step of the way. Trying to be a better man, but he was still a man. With friends like these…

 

[Dervish]

It's time you earned your keep, boy.

Sleep had come swiftly, giving his mind plenty of time to reach the deep sleep where dreams take root, suffocating reality in a haze of memories and broken images that do not make sense without context, without understand what is trying to be said. For Zaveed, however, this dream had come in the form of a memory, vivid as the day he endured it, as if challenging him to face a definitive moment of his past once more.

~~~

He stood there with the others, waiting to board one of the many row boats. Pickings were scant upon the seas, and the loss of several crew members to illness the prior month was the beginning of the sowing of seeds of mutiny and discontent. With no prizes to line their pockets, and the rationed food getting scanter and less rich, the men demanded that Captain Brugash deliver, or they would find someone who could.

The axe that had been thrust into his hands was impossibly heavy, even though he knew he had sharpened this one dozens of times, giving the old, pitted iron a longer life than it would have endured without care. It was still pitted, and the grinding job uneven in spots, but the leading edge was sharp enough to cleave leather without effort, and the hardwood handle from some tree the young khajiit had no idea what species it belonged to was relatively new; the varnish was still largely intact and the leather wrap that gave the axe a solid grip had yet to peel or fray. The captain still stood beside the khajiit, as if his presence was encouraging. If anything, it was all the more terrifying. The orc's will was absolute, and no one questioned it.

This was what Zaveed wanted, wasn't it? A chance to prove his was more than just a child, capable of contributing more than just menial chores? Hadn't he earned the right to serve like any of the others, to show how far he'd come? It was close to eight years, by his estimation, since he was brought aboard. Eight years, and this was all he knew. The path forward was always clear, perform and please the captain, the crew. Make himself worth the rations they gave him just to keep him alive. This was his opportunity to prove he was more than just a cabin boy. He would be a warrior, a pirate like the best of them. He understood the only way forward was at the end of a blade.

But why was he so scared? Twelve summers old and he was a man, wasn't he? This was the culmination of his coming of age. Do this and he would not be a child, but a free man. He would build a reputation, become legendary. He had an earlier start than nearly every man on the ship, most of whom were men when they were brought aboard. Why had he been so young when he was pressed into service? He had heard others explain it that his father owed them a debt that he couldn't pay, or to force him into compliance by taking an invaluable hostage. Others explained it that the captain wanted to train new crew as young as possible so their loyalty would be assured. Zaveed wasn't sure of any of that, all he knew was if he wanted to eat, or be clothed, he would need to make his masters happy. And so he did, and this was the end of that long road, where he'd break free of the shackles and become his own man. The realization of what gripped him came suddenly, drawing his breath like a sudden brisk cold.
He wasn't afraid that he might die. He was afraid that he might fail.

The khajiit gripped his weapon tighter, and felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Find anything that looks valuable. I trust you know what that is."

He nodded. He knew all too well what the crew needed, but he also knew what they wanted. Medicines and food were good and all, but you could not buy yourself pleasure with anything but glimmering gold. He would find whatever he could that was valuable, and maybe at the end, he would keep some of it.

"Good. Next boat, you're on. Do me proud, my boy." A gentle shove at his back, feeling like a hammer due to the size of the hand it belonged to, caused Zaveed to stumble forward before catching his footing on the rocking deck. Even his legs didn't want him to go. He was helped aboard one of the several row boats being lowered into the water, not far from shore at all, and Zaveed could see the townspeople and guards who had taken up arms waiting for the corsairs to arrive. It would be a blood bath, but the crew seemed ready for it, eager, even. Archers sat in the middle benches, free of rowing duty. With 14 men a boat, and 8 with oars, the row boats were capable of moving deceptively fast speeds, and in these shallow waters, the wind was not able to create troubling waves. Zaveed was seated down on the bench, in front of his boat's archer. The four boats, now in the water, bobbed easily enough. The bosmer behind Zaveed laughed, standing far before he needed to. "Take a look at their faces, kid. That's what fear looks like. A man looks at you like that, and you know he's not sure he'll survive the encounter. If you believe in yourself, there isn't a bastard in Tamriel who won't fall before you."

"But they're argonians, how can you tell with them?" Zaveed asked, worried.

The bosmer's grin was unwavering. "You know, kid, I could never tell with them."

The boats rowed, the crew straining in exertion as they powered through the waters towards the shore. Other than the front oarsman calling the pace, the boat was silent. In front of Zaveed, an Imperial man called Lucky rose to his feet, an overlarge shield strapped to his muscular arm, and he stepped forward to the bow, armoured kneepads bracing against the wood as he anticipated arrows. Two other shields were mounted just behind the rowers for additional protection. Things were tense until a loud thunk broke the silence, an arrow having struck the shield.
"Murian, they're in range!" Lucky shouted. The bosmer stood, both legs bracing against two different benches, the forward one only inches away from Zaveed. It was only know the young khajiit noticed the well-worn notches in the wood where Murian's feet had done this countless times before. The bosmer reached over his shoulder and produced and arrow from his quiver, and with the quickest draw Zaveed had ever seen, loosed an arrow towards the shore. He couldn't see past Lucky or the other two shields, so he did not know the result of the arrow, nor the three that followed it. "Only three out of four, I'm having an off day it would seem." The bosmer lamented, tapping Zaveed on the shoulder with the bow to get his attention. "The beachhead is going to be a bit chaotic, so you best be squeezing through it. Let the others do the fighting, you just go pillage something useful. And hey, Zaveed. I know this isn't easy for you, I've known you for quite a while now and how hard your upbringing's been with this crew, but know you aren't alone out there. You have us, and we have you. A family." Murian smiled at the khajiit before something caught his eye. Another quick draw and a grin told Zaveed all he needed to know. "At this rate, Hogar's going to be losing our bet. Tell you what, since drinks are going to be on him, you and I are going to get properly drunk after this."

"If I make it back." Zaveed replied gloomily.

"You will. And remember what I said about fear? Don't let it eat you, because that's how you get hurt. Besides, nobody dies their first raid. The gods smile on you, friend!" Another arrow, and this time Zaveed heard the scream.
Moments later, the boat smashed into the sands below, effectively beaching itself in the shallows. Even after high tide, they were still close to the docks; close enough to engage in battle. A chorus of cries filled the air, and the crew of the boat was on their feets, weapons at the ready as they leapt into action. Murian winked at Zaveed as he limberly leapt upon the dock, a cutlass in hand. Even Lucky was in the fray, using his shield more effectively as a weapon than many men could swing a mace. Looking over, Dar'Narra had leapt off of his boat , driving his spear into the chest of a defender who had been waiting for him. He could hear the other khajiit's howling, almost feral laughter as he moved from man to man, engaging four men at a time with seeming ease. He was easily the fiercest fighter Zaveed had ever known; and the most blood thirsty.

Leaping into the shallows, the water about his waist and his axe held above the water, Zaveed trudged towards the shore, his heart threatening to pound of out his chest. As he crested the water and stepped upon the shore, a vague voice in the back of Zaveed's mind told him that this was the first time he stepped foot on Black Marsh. He saw some of the sprinters leaving the battle, having broken the lines or left the melee for the fighters and took off into town, looking for targets. Zaveed was surprised how easily his legs took him this time, and the sounds of the fighting died down behind him.

Now was the tricky part, figuring out which house or building was worth breaking into. Wasted time was not something one tolerated in a raid, as the corsairs had to hit the shore fast and furiously, take what they could and make it back to sea before the local militia garrison could be mobilized. The young khajiit raced through the streets, which could only be called that in the loosest since, since there wasn't even so much as cobblestone to guide the way, just hardened dirt and loosely aligned buildings, a mixture of what had to have been century-old Imperial dwellings and the more rustic structures the argonians had since erected. Soon, he came across an Imperial structure that looked more well-maintained than most of the others. It would have to suffice.

The door, predictably, didn't yield when he tried to open the latch, and so he produced a lock pick from his bandoleer, hoping it wasn't unlike the chests and locks he had practiced with innumerable times on The Iron Reaper. As he wiggled the pins, some of which were unpleasantly stiff, a shadow suddenly lorded over him. Reacting more than thinking, Zaveed tumbled to the side and very nearly avoided being cleaved by a fierce-looking battle axe, held by an equally fierce looking argonian sporting emerald and amber-coloured scales. A small part of Zaveed's still conscious thoughts broke through, not panic like he'd feared he'd feel when facing death, but a simple observation.

Act before the axe comes back up.

Zaveed swung his own axe in turn, hardly a controlled blow. To his surprise, it connected. Even more surprising was it was a fatal blow to the argonian's neck, the pitted and worn axe biting through the argonian's juglar and catching on his spine in a ragged, gastly wound. The argonian clutched ineffectually at the iron biting into his neck and collapsed to a knee, pulling the axe free of Zaveed's grasp. Their eyes met for one fleeting, agonizing moment, and the argonian slumped forward, the last vestiges of his life having left. Zaveed stared at the body for what felt like eternity, taking no note of the blood that covered him, and he stammered out an apology to the argonian, despite the fact it would have been him who lay dead and bleeding in the streets if he had been just a bit more unlucky – and slow. He stumbled to his feet, anything to get away from the body, and returned to the lock pick, still jammed in the door. Despite his shaking hands and unbearably violent pulse, the lock clicked after only a few more tries and the khajiit could not open the door right away.

I just killed a man. It was something he was having a hard time coming to terms with, the reality having not quite set in yet. It was one thing to see others kill, as he had countless times before, and he knew full well the consequences his actions would have, but killing a man was something else entirely from killing a rat or some other pest, no matter how justified. He gathered himself, pulling on the grip of his axe, and it freed itself with a sickening gurgle. He chanced one last look at the dead argonian, and repeated to himself that it was his life over this stranger who had tried to murder a boy. The coward had prowled the streets instead of joining his brothers on the beach, and this is what it got him. It wasn't much of a reassurance, but it was enough for Zaveed to stop dwelling on it for the time being as he burst into the house to claim his prize.

Mercifully, the house wasn't occupied as he went from room to room, eventually grabbing a large pillow case and stuffing it with as much silverware, spices, potions, and other valuables he could get his hands on. In truth, there was far more than he could possibly carry, and he had to prioritize what he was grabbing. He topped the bag off by dumping a jewelry boxes' contents into the opening before tying it off and heading towards the door.

Back in the streets, Zaveed hurried back towards the docks, not even glancing at the body by the entrance as it occurred to him his crew might be leaving that very moment. He saw a few others in the street, mostly onlookers staring out of windows, and on one occasion a fellow raider, but he remained unaccosted as he finally broke towards the docks, a surge of relief flooding through him as many of the crew were still on the docks, dealing with the aftermath of the melee. Most of the crew had run into the town to plunder, and a considerable handful had fallen in battle. Zaveed returned to his boat, which was dragged up on the shore, and he tossed the bag in between benches before collapsing against the side, exhaustion suddenly apparent. Murian, having been checking the bodies for arrows, looked up and took notice of the khajiit with a grin, the lithe bosmer walking over before taking a seat next to Zaveed on the boat. He glanced back at the bag and offered a nod of approval.

"See? What did I tell you? Nobody dies on their first raid." Slapping Zaveed playfully on the shoulder, the bosmer clambered aboard the boat, deftly untying the bag Zaveed had dragged back with him. As he rifled through the contents, he nodded approvingly. "Even if this weren't your first time, this is actually a pretty respectable haul. You have a promising future yet if this is how you get your foot in the door." Murian said, returning to his seat next to Zaveed. He took notice of the blood splatter covering the khajiit. "Did you do it? Kill someone, I mean." He asked.

"It was him or me." Zaveed said, clutching his trousers to keep his hands from shaking. "I had no choice, I didn't want to."

"It gets easier, with time." The bosmer said softly, placing a reassuring hand on Zaveed's shoulder. "After you do it once or twice more, you will simply feel like that's the way the world works. Good men, bad men, we all do it at some point or another. Besides, the only people who probably never been in a fight for their lives probably never left their comfortable high-walled cities, never knowing freedom other than their pretty cages. It's best you learn young, when you still have a life ahead of you. You'll find there's plenty of times, like today, where life won't give you a choice, and it's best to know what to do."

"I guess. It still feels wrong." Zaveed said, looking down at the waves breaking upon the shore. "I guess that means I'm a part of the crew now." He changed tact, hoping to focus on the good that came out of the situation, a validation of sorts.

Murian grinned. "If I know the captain, and I do, there's a ring waiting for you when we get back to the ship, welcoming you to the family. And a pretty little dagger all your own, for claiming your first life. You feel guilty now, Zaveed, and everything might feel like its wrong now, and you'll sometimes run into situations that makes you wonder if you're doing the right thing, but just remember, you're doing your duty. Stay true to that, and you'll never be steered wrong."

~~~

Zaveed awoke with a jolt, disoriented. He lay prone, staring at the ceiling. The dream had come so vividly, a memory from long ago. It had been so long ago, a lifetime it seemed. Why had his mind brought that particular memory to the forefront? Was it guilt, uncertainty, or even fear? He began tracing his finger along the sapphire ring, recalling the ceremony when it had been placed on his finger. Murian's words lingered, as if instructing him one final time on what he should do. In a few short hours, he would be completing this mission that would buy his freedom. Despite everything else, there was his duty. As long as he didn't lose sight of that, it would never steer him wrong.
Then why did he feel so damn guilty?

 

[O|NoSoul]

D'you think a man can change? The question, the notion, the memory of it flitted about him with a hundred-hundred others like flies around a bloated corpse. Sevari ran his hand through the water of his bath. He'd been so long in the water that it wasn't hot anymore. You want me to be a right black bastard? Zaveed's smile, just like Fa'azri's, and just as convincing. He felt acceptance in his smile, felt something, anyways. Something that wasn't shame or any of that shit. Sevari sighed, mulled the question of men changing their ways over, and then the answer- I would say so. Though, maybe not always of his own volition. And wasn't that the truth of it? Hopes, dreams, wants, all leaves on the water. A quick rapping at the door sent him jolting out of all his sad musings and he looked at the door like it was Teralfar himself standing there. "What?" Came his voice, all anger. He blew it out and tried at it again, a bit nicer this time, "Yes?"

"You've been in a while, sir. Are you alright?" A mousey voice came from the other side, Handmaid's.

"I'm not old enough to fall down and break myself, am I?" He said, lip curling in contempt, "Not at the age to shit myself dead or make my heart stop by sneezing, eh?"

"No, sir." The voice said again, all careful, hurt. Made him a little shamed to be so mean to whoever it was, just meaning to help if something was wrong. He frowned like he'd tasted something bitter and growled at himself. Angry at being angry, seemed his whole life was a circle and here it was coming around again with the satchel full of blackmail.

"Right, well… I'm fine." He cleared his throat, got out of the big square of stone and water cut into the floor itself. "Thanks, though."

"Of course. Is there anything else, sir?" The voice asked. He looked at the empty glass flask on the corner table.

"Got another flask with you?" He asked, all quiet and sheepish.

"I do." She said, "We've had to set aside a private stock of wine and rum for you and the other Khajiit. Your friend, he drinks more than any other we've had to accommodate."

"I'm sure. Bring another flask in. I've a mind to give him a run for his gold." He said, though no smile in his voice.

"Of course." And she let herself in, flask already in hand. They were getting to know him now, he guessed. She held it out to him, "Your flask, sir."

"My great and many thanks." He took it and nodded to her, lifting it in a quick toast before biting the cork out, spitting it into the bath and took a long pull from it. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and offered the flask, curious if she would take it.

"I'm not allowed, sir." Her eyes were on the floor, hands over one another on the front of her modest grey servant skirts. As disappointing an answer to his curiosity it was, it was just as expected.

"Suit yourself." He sat in the chair in the corner of the room looking at the door. She stood there as Sevari drank, stood there long enough to pick at him. He found her eyes darted to the ground as his went to meet them. "What is it?"

"Nothing." Sounded like it was hard to say even that. And that definitely meant it was far and away from being nothing.

"If it was nothing, you'd have scurried off like a good little servant. What is it?" His eyes narrowed.

"It's just," she started to wring her hands, nervous, "You're not what I thought heroes looked like."

"Still waiting for some other ships to come and some elves in golden armor with flowing manes and the pointiest ears you've ever seen step off?" She shrugged and looked somewhat distressed there was nothing to curl up behind where she was standing, "You'll be waiting yourself dead then. Go on, scurry off before Ja'Kiefer wonders where his wine is."

She nodded and turned for the door. Before she got it closed, she pushed it open again, remembering something as she blurted, "Also, I was told by Lady Vylo that she would very much like to see you again at your earliest convenience."

Sevari nodded and took another swig as the servant girl left. The notion of being a better man didn't live long. The notion of being a live one, a free one, that's ever constant no matter who you ask. Even rats gnaw at their cages. His mentor always said a man delighted in the work that suits him best and the knife stared back at him from the table, made it real clear what suited him. He took one last drink before he got up and dressed himself, readied himself for what needed doing and readied himself for all the things possible that could happen after. He took one last look at the baths he'd scrubbed the road stink out in just yesterday and some old words came to him, Suffian's words- Once your hands are bloody, it's not so easy to get them clean again. Maybe that really was true. He had a real knack for getting bloody, everything considered. Working on the docks was shit pay, Susanna was dead, Sorosi was a prospect gone cold long ago and Teralfar was breathing on the back of his neck. Should've taken Sorosi and lived a different life without banditry. Should've run away with Susanna somewhere far away from skooma pushers.

His mind flashed to the girl from Winterhold who owed him a life away from everyone who thought her a monster because of him. That was a good deed, no? A shame there wasn't anyone around to give him their horse and send him on his merry way. As always, he was his own worst enemy. Nothing he wasn't used to. Maybe this wasn't a time to become a better man, but after he'd gotten away, after he'd gotten his money, then maybe. Paints and Juin and the others might not know how big of a ruthless shit he used to be, but after this business with the satchel, they'd know how much of a lying shit he's ready and willing to be. Not much of a choice though, being it's between him and his brothers or them. He sniffed and closed the door, checked all his knives were in the right place. He set off to meet up with Zaveed and his face dropped to a slab of frown like old times, trouble hunting him down through the storm of his days. If trouble came, he'd do what he always did- whatever needed doing to stay above the ground, no matter how bloody. He knew Zaveed and he knew with men like him he'd never want for trouble and blood.

Trouble. It's always coming one way or another.

* * *​

His footsteps echoed through the empty halls, sometimes accompanied by the scurrying of the maids and courtiers going off to their own business. It left him to his thoughts and memories, remembering friends lost, men he'd killed. Choices made and chances lost, everything that dogs a man through his days no matter how long and far he's run away from them. He remembered that day that changed everything for him, the day they'd burned Grennsmark and he'd earned his name, earned the acceptance and admiration of a man he never wanted it from. But beneath it all, the day he decided it was better to stick with his brothers, to stick with the winners, to stay alive, no matter how bloody it got him. Something he needed now, and who else better to remind him of the task at hand than the Khajiit sitting on the bench in front of the door to the King's throneroom. Both of them were dressed in their finery they were given but both of them still were themselves underneath the silken garments. One a corsair with a smile like a wolf and sharp with his charm, wielded a man's trust like a blade, the other a thug with a face hard enough to knock chunks off the wall, every bit of him set and ready for violence without looking it. "Zaveed." He said, nodding. "Time for it, then."

The corsair rose from the bench, satchel shouldered like the heavy burden it was. "A long time coming." He agreed, adjusting the strap, looking his companion over. "My, Sevari, you very nearly look presentable. At least they won't confuse you for a vagrant." looking towards the heavy ash door, stained to a black liquour, he shook his head slowly as a pair of guards approached, hands resting non-threateningly over the pommels of their swords. "I would not want to be Quastor Maricus after we speak with King Erinur. Shall we?"

The two khajiit had arranged the audience with King Erinur after seeking out an orderly, informing him that they had information of dire importance and had been told to wait outside of the throne room until summoned. Now their escort was there, both khajiit fell in step with the snow elf guards, through the ash portal and into the high-pillared throne room, the ceiling so high it might as well extended to the heavens, magical lights affixed to stunning crystal chandeleers, giving the impression of rather vibrant stars. Unlike how most things in the palace was a shade of white or grey, the floor was a finely polished black marbel, reflecting ghostly images back at those who walk across the floor. Led before the King, who sat wearing practical but beautifully embroidered robes and a white-gold crown with peaks like sharpened ice, the Kinging's steward heralded their arrival. "My leige, it pleases me to introduce Sevari and Zaveed, no family names or titles. They claim to have important information that might affect relations with the Empire."

Both khajiit took a knee before King Erinur beckoned them to rise. "I presume what you have to tell me is something that would be at odds with your companions, and it remains to be seen if it is a brave thing or something craven. What do you have to tell me?" the King spoke through the stewart, who acted as translator for the exchange.

"We will do more than tell you of the treachery that you face, your grace. We come with the heavy burden of proof that we have carried with us since the expedition departed from Windhelm." Zaveed said, his voice high with authority and conviction. Unshouldering the satchel, he held the package in both hands and offered it to the stewart. "Inside is evidence of the late Emperor Felix Mede's plot to enslave the very souls of every man, woman, and child in Tamriel, ensnaring them all to his will. He passed on before he could put his plot into motion, but it remains unclear if he had passed on his will and testament to his son, the now Emperor Tactus Mede. Had he succeeded in unleashing this spell of unimaginable scope and power upon the world, any who bared witness to the auroras would have fallen under his influence... yourselves included, if the spell extended far enough."

The King took his moment before responding, his brow lowering under the weight of the words his Steward spoke to him. He pointed to Sevari and his bones went cold, fingers twitching towards one of his hidden knives and his eyes flitted to count the guards in the room before the Steward spoke in his stead, "The King asks what proof you have of this and why he should trust two Betmer sellswords."

He swallowed, took his own moment before speaking, "Look to the dates on the reports of the Praetorians. Some of their experiments are dated and stamped by the Praetorian Prefect long after Felix's death date."

The Steward checked the parchment over and his lips drew tight. He looked to Sevari and nodded, turning to Erinur and saying something in the Snow Elf language. Sevari looked to Zaveed, looking for anything to tell him this was going smoothly but only finding a face as flat and untelling as the floor he stood on. The King spoke again and the Steward turned to the two Khajiit, "The King asks who it is that you present this information in the name of."

Sevari opened his mouth to say Teralfar, but shut it quick. He tried again, "Queen Lelyanya of the Aldmeri Dominion. She wants a reunification with her wayward cousins."

"You are diplomats under the guise of sellswords coming here on the backs of this Empire of slavers and soul-trapping wizards you claim Princess Vylewen has sought an alliance from and have brought to our very doorstep?" The Steward spoke out of turn, a look of disbelief on his face and Erinur slapped the armrest of his throne, making the guards on the dais flinch. He forced something through his gritted teeth and the Steward bowed his head, speaking in a soft tone. Erinur said something in return and Sevari looked sidelong at Zaveed, wondering if he wasn't feeling like the satchel wasn't going as smoothly as they'd hoped. Finally, the Steward turned back to them, "The King would appreciate the drawing back of any pithy formality and traipsing so you may tell him what it is you are really here for and whose direction you are really under. Tell it to him plainly, please."

"While it is true we are not directly agents of Queen Lelyanya as you have sumissed, our handler is a high-ranking Thalmor spymaster who reports directly to the Queen's court." Zaveed replied, deciding honesty was probably going to be the best policy. "We were requested... no, ordered to join this expedition under the guise of simple sellswords to further the Aldmeri Dominion's agenda, using the Empire's own resources to reach you in an expedient manner. After all, things had moved quickly when Princess Vylenwyn arrived at the gates of Windhelm, and given the current state of relations between the Empire and the Dominion, it would have been impossible to send Thalmor ambassadors without Imperial interferance.

"In short, our handler felt it entirely necessary to throw our lives at your mercy just to get you this information and to inform you that by seeking help from the Imperials, you are putting yourselves at the mercy of a deranged and manipulative Empire that will not have your best interests in mind, especially if they believe you to be vulnerable." Zaveed said, bowing his head slightly, having expected some kind of resistance about this whole exchange, but it was starting to occur to him that King Erinur might not even believe them. "The Thalmor simply wish for the opportunity to prove their good faith with their close cousins and offer whatever services are necessary to help preserve a common Aldmeri heritage, especially in the face of the aggression and deceptions of man. We are not their Ambassadors, but we have been asked to open the gate to begin dialog between your grace and Queen Lelyanya."

The Steward took his time translating all that Zaveed said, his own voice stopping a few seconds after Zaveed's. The King considered what all was said and then drew his lips tight, furrowing his brow. "You tell me that my daughter is a... a traitor, that she is misguided, that she was lied to and made a fool of? You tell a King that he has made a fool of himself by taking one path instead of another?" The King's own deep voice rumbled in Nordic, his long fingers rubbing his eyebrows. The Steward simply bowed his head. "My knowledge of your changing languages is not enough and my ears aren't what they used to be in my old age. Perhaps you're a fever dream and I've only wandered to the place I go to shit instead of my throneroom? Tell me in terms a frail old grey elf could understand."

"My companion has the right of it and unless your Steward is translating lies that I can't understand, your daughter's been lied to." Sevari said, bowing his head, "My companion and I are spies among the Imperial volunteers. Spies loyal to the Dominion with the purpose of turning you away from the Empire and towards the Dominion, your cousin-elves."

"It is as I have translated, my Ki-" Erinur stood, shushing his Steward with a raised hand. He looked Sevari in the eye before turning his gaze to Zaveed.

"What is a King to do now, learning that his daughter has endangered all of my realm and given outsiders the knowledge of where we lay our heads to sleep at night? All my peoples outside of these old walls are circled by the blackblight like babes to wolves, circling the firelight." He stepped down from the dais until he was in front of Sevari and Zaveed, standing an imposing two heads taller than both of them, "Should I put chains on the lot of them and send you back to your man with my blessing and my acceptance of this Queen's hand, a Queen of a Dominion I have never heard of? Against an Empire I have never heard of until now?"

He stepped forward and he was almost touching noses with Zaveed, his voice booming, "Or," and he stepped towards Sevari, struggling not to flinch, "Am I to give my full blessing to my daughter, who is of my blood and not a strange pair of sellsword spies, and throw you in my dungeons until you are like my people who were betrayed like the last of those who sought refuge from one enemy with another, hissing promises of safety? Hm?"

It was hard not to recoil against the volume and authority in which the King spoke, his refined elven accent buried under the coarse and abrasive old Nord dialect. "What you do with us is entirely to your judgement, your grace, and we came to you with this knowing full well we would be fully at your mercy. But understand, my companion and I would never presume to insult you nor the Princess by insinuating that either of you, or any of your people, are fools or traitors. She came to look for help with what knowledge she had of our lands, and what we have presented to you isn't even known by the vast majority of Imperials, and it came as an utter shock to the both of us when we discovered the contents of the satchel." Zaveed said, trying his best not to lean back to distance himself from the King's face. Holding his ground and convictions against the man's accusations would be their best chance of winning him over.

"Princess Vylenwyn is brave beyond measure, and in the weeks Sevari and I have journeyed with her, we have discovered a passionate and intelligent woman who left us no doubt of the wisdom of your people. It is remarkable how much she knew of Tamriel, even the isolation you all have endured away from the mainland, and how would she have known of the Emperor's planned treachery when it is likely even the Imperial Council was clueless to his intentions? Likewise, the Imperial Legionnaires and sellswords that accompanied her showed great valour and courage in the face of terror, and we have seen firsthand what the Blackblight is capable of. What the Princess did was brave beyond compare, and it could not have been a light decision to finally break your isolation to save your people.

"We simply needed to tell you what you would be dealing with if you sought out the Empire's help, and if they were planning something that sinister, what else would you need to concern yourselves with, especially in the face of this Blackblight? Neither of us would be willing to risk our lives and throw ourselves at the mercy of a King beyond where our maps lay after surviving an incomparibly perilous journey if we were not convinced that our cause is just. The snow elves should be free to decide who best represents their interests, but you should make that decision based on as much information as possible. What do the Thalmor intend? I cannot speak for them, not in truth, but they ended the Void Nights and saved our species, and the Kingdoms of Pelletine and Annequina have thrived free of Imperial rule as a client state of the Aldmeri Dominion. And we are but simple khajiit, not the close descendants of the Aldmer. I am inclined to believe they would prefer to approach you as equals of a common heritage." He continued, silently pleading for the King to step back to give him space.

Erinur stood for a few seconds, his steely gaze drifting from Sevari to Zaveed like a slow pendulum of a clock. Each time the King's eyes went to Sevari's, he wanted to shrink into himself, to run out of the room, anything to be out of his gaze until it left him. Finally, the King turned around and walked back to the dais and to his throne, age setting its hand upon his shoulders again as he slumped back into his chair, gingerly. "This is true, that we had no knowledge of what my daughter's appearance would sow. My unease lies in your presence, or what your presence brings. It... It is..." he rolled his hand, searching for the words before simply slipping back into Falmeris and the Steward nodded.

"The King feels the man behind your wishes for him and his people to become a pawn. That he holds no real care for we Snow Elves beyond our refusal of Imperial ties." The King spoke again, still in Falmeris and his Steward nodded, "He is not wary of the Imperials you bring, nor even of the Imperials that the Imperials you bring speak to after your return to Tamriel. He is fearful of the knowledge of his people reaching those Imperials that carry out the experiments, fearful that they will find this realm of ours just like you have, and perform the same experiments upon us."

"We're the messengers. Nothing more." Sevari said.

"Indeed, Betmer. Each man and mer wakes up every morning with the will to live one more day put there by the Gods. I am a merciful King, but under that, I am a fair man. Ignorance to the world and its politics may very well be our doom if the Blackblight is not. I try to be a fair man." He nodded at his musing, biting his lower lip and furrowing his brow before speaking again, "But to my people, to any king's people, a king is more than a man. He is an ideal, a steadfast and stoic guardian, a beacon. How am I to be a beacon if I am holding at bay with one arm the blackblight and with the other an Empire? Or simply the men who wish others harm within it?"

"We cannot speak of the intentions of the Thalmor," Zaveed admitted, "But in those documents are the names of several prominent Praetorians directly involved with this experiment. Seeing as the Thalmor Justicars have free reign of Imperial territory since the signing of the White-Gold Concordat and have spent decades hunting down Talos worshippers, I would not think it unreasonable to believe they wouldn't be seeking out these Praetorians, given what they planned would have greatly affected the Aldmeri Dominion. No one wants to be controlled, especially not by such insideous means. Is it not worth considering that the Thalmor would be an invaluable source of information relating to what is happening on the mainland?

"Your grace, Auriel's Harbourage will remain safe for as long as it remains a mystery to reach, and you have some time to consider your course of actions, but the world knows you exist now, so would it not be in your interest to take the initiative and send ambassadors to see what the Thalmor have to say? The way I see it, you have a clear amount of leverage over the Dominion and can lay out exactly which terms you wish to see honoured. If you are worried about your survival from this Blackblight, and I believe you are from having sought out help, there are worse friends than the Altmer. They did survive the Oblivion Crisis better than most, after all."

Sevari swallowed audibly and his nervousness made him nervous. He wondered how Zaveed could hold his voice so level in the face of all of this while he was practically shitting. But with each time he responded well, he felt a certain iron in him surface, as if he was the one speaking. Zaveed was his only ally in this room, the only one he could trust in this whole damned island kingdom, he was glad for it, for what that was worth. He watched as the King nodded along as his Steward translated all that was said, the steel ebbing and the dread pushing back in. What would happen now? What was Erinur thinking? Finally, the King spoke after taking his moment. He was patient, Sevari respected that, "Maybe these Thalmor are hunting the Praetorians, maybe Queen Lelyanya holds my best intentions at heart as does your master," Sevari felt himself wince, his lip curl at the word 'master', "Maybe. This leaves a lot of maybe's for me to consider, Betmer. You will respect my decision to consider this in your absence. You have presented and defended your case admirably, but your lives do not hang so in the balance as mine and my peoples'." Sevari wanted to correct him, but he wondered how fair a man Erinur would be if a commoner thought it his place to do so. Not very, he decided.

"Of course, your grace. We leave you with this knowledge and we leave ourselves at your mercy." Sevari bowed his best, summoning what little he could of the court manners he was once taught by his tutors in High Rock. It was to be said that it was mere months he spent in service to Sharnhelm's court before he left their service, and perhaps it showed in the dodgy bow.

"Indeed you do." Erinur said, his voice low and dark, and Sevari shuddered to think which statement he was agreeing to.

Sevari looked to Zaveed and they both turned on their heels for the door. He was trying his hardest to mask the nervous shakes behind his steely frown and hard eyes as they were escorted to the door by Erinur's guards and back out into the hallway. A right black bastard he promised to be, but it still was to be said that the right black bastard was stood up against a King in his own court. Alone in the hallway, the two of them stood in silence. "What now?"

"Now... we wait and see what verdict the King comes to." Zaveed said, exhaling slowly and losing the erect posture he had held in audience. Walking towards the bench he had been seated at earlier, Zaveed slumped down, hands folded in his lap as he stared aimlessly at the ceiling. "Regardless of what happens, we fulfilled our obligation. To be honest, it's an immeasurable relief to finally have that done and over with. I profess I don't enjoy the prospect of languishing in a dungeon, or worse, but I've long accepted I could die on any given day with the life I live. Compared to what horrors we've seen, a quick, clean execution would be a much preferred way to go, do you not agree?" he asked sincerely. "How do you think it went?"

"Well..." Sevari said, flexing his hand in a pointless effort to steady it. He settled for folding his arms. "You're a morbid bastard. Honestly, I always hoped I'd die of old age. My heart giving out as I ploughed into my beautiful and young wife. Or my beautiful and young wench I'd payed good coin for. But hoping for something often has the opposite effect, eh?"

He shook his head, sitting down and hunching over his crossed arms, "I think it went as well as we could make it, if I have to be honest. I hope it went well enough for us not to have to make a mad dash for the docks and the ships, if I have to be hopeful. I prefer to do my gallows humor at the gallows. Until I'm there, until we're there," he forced a smile on his face that may have looked more like an uneasy and nervy wince, "let's keep hoping for being fucked to death by a troupe of Dibellans. Or at the least in our sleep. Something boring. I didn't wake up from the skooma sleep to die at the block. I hope."

He pulled a flask from a hiding place on his person and uncorked it, taking a swig, "A drink to accomplishing our mission, at least?"

A wide grin crossed Zaveed's face as he took the flask, drinking deeply before handing it back. "As if I need an occasion to drink." he chuckled, resuming his staring vigil at the ceiling. "Believe you me, I'd live forever if I got the chance, but even I know when I'm living on borrowed time. If we get back to the mainland, you best believe I'm going to be reclaiming everything I love in life, and more. I won't live under the thumb of any man, I will take what is mine and not ask, give no quarter and expect none in turn. The way I see things, there's no sense in fretting about what happens here. Either we're leaving, or we aren't. I'd rather not get my hopes dashed, but it's nice to not have to worry about Teralfar and friends any longer."

The Corsair chuckled, a handsome smile crossing his countenance. "You know, there really isn't a difference between addressing a powerful King and a tavern drunk who wants to dash your brains over the countertop, other than respectful language. Did I ever tell you the story about when my crew and I ransacked a Hlaalu palace? We knew it was too risky to try our usual shit, so we found the fanciest garb imaginable, took some of the plunder from our hold, and bullshitted our way inside, saying we were coming at the behest of some Imperial Count or another, I don't even fucking remember who we said it was, and basically bullshitted our way into the palace, and you learn how to think really quickly on your feet and mimmick fancy lord-speak when talking to some guy who thinks he's important because he has an older than shit family name." he looked over at Sevari. "I had to keep their Lord busy and entertained for at least a couple hours with two of my mates because I was one of the best talkers, but we needed an Imperial face to make things look official, for obvious reasons. Meanwhile, some of our best thieves were working their magic and cleaned the place out, all without anyone noticing." he smiled at the memory, formed what felt like a hundred years ago. "I know I probably shouldn't tell that story out loud, even if we have the hall to ourselves, but the point is, it's terribly amusing that an instance of utter bullshit in one noble court was the best preparation I had for telling the stark truth to a King in another."

"Each day should be a new lesson." Sevari smiled, shaking his head and trying to picture Zaveed and twenty other swarthy pirates traipsing around a court trying not to curse like a sailor in the presence of ladies-in-waiting, "I do have to disagree about the talking to a King versus a tavern drunk. With a tavern drunk, there's always the option to hit him. I guess that's the difference between piracy and banditry though. More forethought. Most of mine and my brothers' misadventures just involved a lot whooping, hollering and then burning. Still, nothing made me ready for what happened in there. Being at the complete mercy of a man is something you can never act hard at I've found." He winced with the memory of Grennsmark's dungeons but drank and put on a smile, "Of course, there was the time my brother Suffian snuck into the Battleborns' house and had us chased out of Whiterun. A fun tale."

Sevari took another swig and passed it back to Zaveed as the two of them stood and began to make their way back to the guest's wing of the palace. They swapped tales for what seemed like a few hours, drank what seemed like only a few flasks and shared some laughs. All the while, he had a very bad feeling lurking behind him the whole time, making every laugh a little less, every smile a little narrower.

~~~​

Hours later, when the volunteers were gathered together for breakfast in one of the smaller dining areas close to the guest accomodations, Vylenwen and several guards burst into the room, fury evident on her fair face. The first course of meals were already on the table, and they were being pecked at indelicately by the volunteers, most of whom were unlikely expecting Vylenwen and a retainer of stone-faced guards to be interrupting. For Zaveed and Sevari, it fit tidly in the expected perimeters of expectations for the day. "Do you realize what you've done?" Her voice thundered, accusation hanging heavy. Zaveed didn't even look over at the enraged elf, suspecting there wasn't going to be much in the way of reason.

"Of course, just what was necessary. Technically, we met our obligations by seeing you back, but don't worry; we aren't expecting payment for our services. Transportation back will suffice, I assure you." Zaveed replied, boorishly, ignoring the looks from his companions. He was in no rush to have to spell out what exactly Vylenwen was talking about.

"You made me look incompetent in front of my father. You may have very well doomed the allegiance I tried to cement to save my people, and you may have very well have destroyed any trust my people could have had for oursiders." She raged, her eyes boring in on Zaveed.

The khajiit pushed his chair back somewhat and turned to face her. "Not my concern, nor any of these fine people here. Perhaps if you did not want people bringing unflattering information about an Empire helmed by a madman joining your little expedition, you should have done something other than allowed any sellsword to put his name to parchment. What was done was just; would you rather your people go into an alliance knowing what you do now? Maybe you should have travelled a bit further, and in another direction."

Although her voice was quiet, he could hear it waver, and he saw her trying to hold back rage from boiling over, "How dare you." She crossed the space between where she was standing and the opposite end of the long table, where Sevari and Zaveed were sitting. Her eyes went back and forth between their faces, Sevari's eyes not lifting from his plate as he chewed the morsel of meat slow as slow. "How. Dare. You. You may have held a deep distrust of me from the beginning, you may have been able to scream your faces blue on the road, but these are my halls. You've sabotaged all I've worked for, my retinue being lost to the journey and every one of your own lost were for nothing now. Were you all in on this?"

"Only us two." Said Sevari, level, forking a piece of egg into his mouth and chewing. He swallowed, "None but us."

"Only you two, then?" She chewed her bottom lip, nodding slowly, "So, only two of you to the dungeons, then?"

"Only did what I had to." Sevari said, looking at Zaveed before looking back down to his plate.

"And shit on all the rest, no? Your mission is the only one that matters, then? Eh? My people were depending on this whether they knew it or not, now all they'll know of the outside is soul-snatching wizard emperors." She swallowed, trying to collect herself, "I suppose your Queen Lelyanya shits gold and pisses the Gods' mercy? I wasn't born yesterday, I wanted no part of your politics, only a way out for my people."

"And you think I wanted this? To be some knife-ear's pawn-"

"Shit on what you want! My father trusts no one and now his isolationism may only grow worse. Queen Lelyanya offers her hand out." She mocked. "I'll offer you two the fucking dungeons while the rest of this lot may help me try to salvage what I can of my plans."

"Been in a dungeon once. Don't think I'd like to go back." For the first time, Sevari's eyes lifted from his plate and met Vylewen's. His eyes narrowed with hers, pair of the hardest eye-narrowers since the girl from Winterhold, he found. Her guards were posted by the door clad in falmer steel and holding the same thing sharpened. Either way, they could kill him, but only then could they get him into a dungeon.

"So much for it, then. And what do you have to say for yourself?" She looked at Zaveed.

"For someone so highborn with a lot of words, I'm just hearing a lot of 'me, me, me'. Ever stop to think that maybe your father had the right idea keeping your people isolated and stopping you from acting rashly was probably wise? No, I wouldn't think so. I also don't give a single shit what Queen Lelyanya thinks; never met the woman, hope I never do. We all have problems, Princess," Zaveed sneered condencendingly. "But I'm not about to apologize for passing off information in exchange for not having to go to bed each night wondering when an assassin is going to slip my throat, and knowing what I do now, I would have gladly done it without the selfish pretense. So throw us in the dungeons, we'll happily wait until your father passes a verdict. My conscious is clear and my soul is my own; it wouldn't have been if our dear Emperor Felix got away with his insidous plot." He stood up, keeping himself composed far better than the rage building inside him would have suggested. "These people aren't your pawns, Vylenwen. Maybe when Sevari and I sit in confinement, you can labourously explain to them why this exchange took place and what exactly was in the contents of the satchel. In the mean time, kindly go fuck yourself and leave these people out of whatever half-plotted schemes you have up your sleeves. All you care about are your people; don't pretend you give one shit about any of the volunteers or Legionnaires who fought and died for you."

"Where in the Princes' Planes do you get off telling me about pawns and schemes." She smiled smugly, turning to Sevari, "You, both of you, are the two most self-important, evil shit bastards I have ever had the nauseating displeasure to have trusted." She said.

"Should've done your fucking research, then." Sevari said, spearing a piece of sausage and placing it in his mouth, "Even a cheap dock whore gives a man's cock a once-over before putting it up herself."

"You whoreson. Stand, both of you." She waved them up but neither moved.

"Don't think I'll do that." He bent the fork in his hands and looked at her, calm, despite it the steel rasping from sheaths at the other side of the room.

She looked down at the bent fork in his hands and frowned, "You'll find it a little harder to break those guards."

"We'll see." The room grew tense, thick with building violence. The guards shifted uncomfortably but Sevari stayed stone-still. Just when everything seemed ready to get bloody, Sevari placed down the dented fork and the sharp food-knife on the table and stood slowly. "We'll see."

The guards surged forth but Sevari did nothing but give his wolf's grin to Vylewen's frowning visage, filled with hate. He could see it clear as day, "Think it's smart to leave me alone and out of sight?"

"Take them." She nodded to the door. Once Sevari and Zaveed were gone and things had quieted down somewhat, the volunteers were uncomfortably whispering among themselves, some looking at the door, some at Vylewen. "I'm sorry to ruin your breakfast. Your friends were using this expedition to further a Thalmor spy's agenda." She cleared her throat, uncomfortably, "I'll leave you to mull this over. My father has ordered the rest of you to muster in the throne room for a morning address." She left the room at that, her guards clanking after in their plate leaving them in a pregnant silence after they'd gone.

 

[Poeta Perdido]

The dunmer sat quietly in the 'little' dining hall. Amazing that with so much splendor and decandence a place might still be referred to as little. Yet, admittedly, the hall was a little less decorated than that of the feast. He saw fewer royal banners still hung on the glistening, white walls and the cutlery, though fine, appeared less rich than before. Juin cared not about either. Instead, his mind lingered on the night before. He thought of his admission and the seemingly collected way Sevari left. Either he was growing more comfortable, or when next he shared his secret he should ensure a tobacco pipe is near.

And then came Lady Snow. The argument came fast and without regard for manners. By the time Juin recognized what was happening, Sevari was challenging the guards with an eerie, "We'll see. We'll see." He nearly stood too when pale-armoured guards seized his khajit comrades. Instead, the dunmer watched a while and considered the meaning of their words. Zaveed called the Emperor mad. He mentioned some 'insidious plot' that might have seized his soul. Had they not spoken several hours before, Juin might've thought the khajit mad. Still, Sevari too seemed to agree. Stood fast as these wild words flew. Juin thought on the words and of the disturbing mention of the Dominion's queen.

Juin sipped his coffee. Sevari may feel no allegiance toward kings or queens, but could he? Was it possible the Emperor to which he'd sworn his life could mean such great evil to justify breaking an oath? No less, for a couple khajit he'd only met weeks ago. Not that he'd met the Emperor. Not that he should expect to either. Not as a soldier of the Legion and much less likely as a vampiric dunmer just returned from Falmer lands. Juin let the bitter drink rest on his tongue. Hours before Sevari asked if a man could change. Now, comrades in chains, Juin wondered. Am I the same the same man I was when I made that oath?

~~~
​

Three days passed since escaping Redwater Den. The grizzled saviour, a dunmer by name of Vaylin, rested on a mossy stone. His still-bloodied steel plate lay spread on the grass before his young rescue. Vaylin watched as the boy wet a cloth and scrubbed at the dark red stains. Uncertain of the how, the boy scrubbed in wide circles, then side to side, and finally grunted and looked to the sky.

Despite a few grey hairs, Vaylin remembered the frustrations of a child well. The boy seemed perfectly normal. All the stories he'd heard of super-natural creatures dictated the boy should be different, changed. Great, gnarling bites like those of a dog tearing into meat wrapped around the boy's throat quite clearly. A couple of the wounds bled another day until Vaylin managed to best them. The cruel beasts in that unholy den were vampires, undoubted, and yet this youth remained mortal still. Great luck, if morbid.

"Put a little muscle into it, muhrjul," Vaylin instructed as he stood behind the young dunmer. "Proper steel glistens. You won't see that without a little grit."

Grunting loudly, the boy turned to Vaylin and spat, "Does clean steel protect better?"

"Lorkor!" Vaylin retorted, quickly standing and slapping the boy atop his head with two fingers. He took a breath, the boy recoiling as he returned to the work. Suddenly, his heart panged with remorse at the sight of the child. "In fact, clean steel does protect better. I am Vaylin Sul, a soldier of the Imperial Legion. My better is known as the Morning Blade and he insists on clean steel. Anything less, and, well," Vaylin slid a finger across his throat with an exaggerated cringe. Watching from the side of his eye, the boy smiled a little.

"Serjo Sul, do you know where we are? Where Windhelm is?"

Furrowing a brow, Vaylin scanned the place. Days ago, simply escaping the rest of the unholy ghouls was the whole of his concern. They had left the den at the break of dawn and only then did he see the many bites on the boy. A day of sunlight later they found themselves in that very clearing. He thought it best to wait a while, should the boy turn, but never thought to name the place. The glade was wide and surrounded by trees with little clearings all about. Visibility and seclusion were more than enough for Vaylin. If the boy was a bit weak, at least he'd the mind to ask.

The older dunmer nodded after a moment and replied, "South of Shor's Stone. Some call this place the Autumnshade Clearing, I believe. By foot we're quite far from Windhelm. I'd say five or six days, at least. You won't be making that trip in your condition. The weather is kind for now, but you already shiver. Further north the cold, more bitter the chill."

Quiet, the youth continued scrubbing at the steel. His elbow bent high and already the dark muck grew faint. "To Shor's Stone then?"

Vaylin eyed the child. A young adult, perhaps, but what boy tormented as he would not wish to return home? He glanced to the steel plate and nodded, "Much cleaner. Fine work. Pack the bedroll and we'll continue to north. Shor's Stone is a small place good for farming, maybe a few supplies. We'll go south for now. Riften is there and horses too. Easier then to return you home."

A little ways south and the two came upon a road. They walked a while until an older nord came to pass, eyes clearly fixed on the young dunmer. He made to mock the child, only to find hulking steel soldier by the boy's side ready to draw. Vaylin knew not how much the boy understood, but he knew the scars would attract attention. Some might laugh, some might mock, and still, some might surmise some meaning from the wounds. The dunmer removed the black and grey striped scarf from his neck and handed it to the boy with a smile.

By nightfall they made camp half a day north of Riften. Why the trip took longer than expected was clear from the bruises on the boy's wrists and ankles. When Vaylin thought to push, as he might his soldiers, he remembered the den and the bites and those purple bruises. He sat on the edge of their little camp, thoughtful, while the boy slept. He wondered if the boy's continued mortality a blessing or a curse. Perhaps the vampires kept prisoners as some sadistic plot. Or to feed. The thoughts interrupted though at the sound of low chuckling and a musky stench. Vaylin stood at once. Crouched low, he glanced to his plate and blade near the sleeping boy. Before he could reach either the dark silhouettes of men appeared on the opposite edge of the camp. The shadows froze. Vaylin eyed them, tensing himself, until the shadows sprung. Two men bound in leather charged into the light of the fire with long blades drawn. The dunmer rolled forward, springing up inches from one of the men. Vaylin shot a fist upward, slamming the man's jaw. He saw blood run from the man's mouth and a bit of tongue hanging between his lips. Vaylin then brought a knee into the man's gut, toppling him, and immediately grabbing for the fallen blade. The second assailant struck then. A slow and heavy blade whistled as it swung high of Vaylin's top-knot. Without a hesitation, the dunmer threw himself behind a swing of the lifted iron. Heavy as it was, the sword cut halfway into the man's gut. Once more Vaylin stole his enemy's blade. He knew of no ambushes led by a duo. Vaylin crept toward the boy with the long sword held ready. Nearing the tent, he saw an empty bedroll and blankets cast aside. Suddenly, there was a snap. Vaylin spun on a heel, the heavy blade swinging with him until the little figure came into view. Sparks flew as the boy fell against the grass.

"N'chow! Stay low, there's bandits about!" the dunmer ordered in a low, gravelly voice.

"There aren't. We killed them," the boy cried. He held Vaylin's short sword in hand. The blade glistened with fresh blood.

"So it seems," Vaylin eyed the boy a little while. The dunmer looked to the horizon, only barely lighter than the deep black above. "We collect our things and make for Riften. By the time we arrive the shops should be open. We'll get a room, then get you some new clothes and a blade. Even by horse, the road is long and we're better with two arms. Clearly."

The boy stood and began preparations. As he rolled the bedding, he asked, "What will you do if I stay Windhelm?"

"Back to the Legion. I was on leave, on my way to Riften when I happened upon you. What do you mean, 'if'? You asked about me about Windhelm."

"The Legion is good to you. Else you wouldn't stay, right? Windhelm isn't so good."

Vaylin began to pack the tent beside the boy. He watched, and submitted to the questions. "Good as any. I've a bed to sleep in, food to eat, and a fair wage too. Make no mistake a soldier's life isn't easy. The sword and plate are for more than protection. You go to battle foes you've nothing of, or worse know as friends, and all for the ambitions of rich royals. I've known many to die in their first battle. Me. The Morning Blade. We're fortunate to survive so long. Still sound better than Windhelm?"

"I can't go back there, Serjo Sul. I wasn't taken to the den accidently," the boy bit his lip. "You think me some hadlu. I'm not. Might be young, but I've suffered! Why shouldn't I get strong like you and join the Legion too?"

Laughing, the dunmer tied the folded tents and bedrolls with leather straps. "Migrated from Solstheim, didn't you? It's hla'jul, the word for child. I do not 'think you some rug'." Vaylin punched the boy lightly on the shoulder. He hadn't laughed so candidly in some time. "No reason you shouldn't. Just need to know you understand the commitment. I know not what brought you to that infernal place and I need not know. If you mean to join the Legion and grow strong, well, I respect that. Very much... And I'm willing to train you. Give you a taste of the life before any oaths are sworn. The nearest Imperial camp is in Helgen west of here. We can rest in Riften awhile and go there by horse." Solemnly, the dunmer met eyes with the youth. "What say you, Juin?"

~~~
​

Juin sat over an empty cup. The memory came clear as day and he could not help but grimace. He looked to Paints sat beside him, then quietly whispered, "I am no rug. Are you?"​

 

[Mosis Tosis]

The air was full of salt and ice, and it was the sweetest thing that the Argonian had ever tasted. He stood at the bow, barechested in the lashing northern winds, his knuckles tight on a lagging line. His muscles rippled when he pulled, and the sails billowed as if in response. Everything was so simple, so blessedly right, and the Argonian sang his contentment to the storm winds, all smiling and soreness.

"Paints."

A Breton in the swell, standing upon a breaking wave as if it was solid ground. His hair was all red curls, blowing impossibly gentlely in the gale, and his smile was sad. "Paints," he said again, cocking his head to one side. "What are you doing?" And the Argonian reeled back at the name, because he recognized it as his own. The Breton settled leisurely upon the gunwale and continued. "I never knew you had seafaring aspirations. I thought you wanted to work in an orchard?"

Paints scowled, trying to focus on the rope in his hand. He continued to pull it, but it had lost all of its tension, all of its solidity. "A fantasy is a fantasy. Does it matter which ones I keep?"

"No, I suppose not. But I'd always thought that orchard job was a goal rather than some wistful dream."

"It can never be a reality. Not the orchard, not this. I'll never pick apples, or helm a ship, or paint for gold. It's not who I am, Trig." A tone like fragile ice, with uncertainty running in a quick current beneath.

The Breton shook his head, still smiling. "Are we still doing that bullshit? After everything that's happened?"

"I help people. I...I'm good at it." Paints couldn't meet his eyes. "It's what I'm meant to do."

"Uh-huh." Obviously unconvinced, Trig snapped his fingers. The boat suddenly dove beneath the waves. When the water cleared, Paints found himself on the streets of Auriel's Harborage, with a cheering throng all about him. The air was a flurry of rose petals, all gathering in the folds of his fabrics and catching in his feathers. "So, all of this was just business then?" Trig was beside him, gesturing widely to the surrounding crowd. "It doesn't drive you?"

"Of course it does." Paints spun in a slow circle, brushing petals off his shoulders. The adoration was ringing loudly in his ears, and even now in this memory, it made him smile. He fought the temptation to raise a hand to wave back at his admirers. "I love it. There's not better feeling than this...the feeling that I'm...useful. The feeling that I'm wanted. That-"

"That you're special?"

A sheepish grin was Paints only answer. "Does that make me a bad person? Is it pathetic how I cling to fame, how I can't survive without all this attention? Is it wrong to be so addicted to the idea of being a hero?"

"I don't know. Is it?" And suddenly, with another snap of Trig's fingers, the scene changed again, and the two of them were in a steaming bath. The warm water lapped at Paints' scales, eased away the pain in his muscles. HE relaxed against the stone side of the tub with an echoing sigh. Across from him, Trig sat fully-clothed, dipping his legs into the bath and idly kicking droplets onto him. "Is that why you left? Why you went to the Arena? Because you needed to be a hero?"

Paints closed his eyes, twisted them shut, tried to block out the curious look Trig was directing at him. "I thought I had to do it. I was so, so certain that it was what I was meant to do. That the Gods themselves were giving me a chance to use my skills. Redemption, revenge...glory, fame. It all seemed so obvious, so black and white." His eyelids flicked open, but his gaze was fixed at the whorls of steam rising above him rather than on Trig. "But now...now I'm starting to think I made a really terrible mistake."

"Your dream with Castus?"

Paints didn't bother asking how Trig knew about that. Instead he just nodded, slowly. "I killed him. Ran him through with my blade, right through the hole that Drander had left in him." A bit of steam was condensing in his eyes; he blinked hard, rubbed the wetness away with a quick hand. "Because he was saying things I didn't want to hear. Things that might be true. He wasn't my father, not really. And for all my idolization of him, really he was just a drunk old bastard. So what does that make me?"

When he glanced back down at Trig, the Breton was sitting across from him at a wide banquet table. Heaps of food were piled high on silver platters, but the sight and smell of it all made Paints' stomach turn. The eager, smiling faces of his Falmer dinner companions did little to ease him either. "I always wanted to tell you that Castus was an asshole," Trig confessed as he poured himself a tall cup of spiced wine. " I could tell, even just from your awe-struck stories about him. But who was I to try to kill your love for the man?" A quick sip at the wine resulted in a pleased sigh. "So. Things aren't quite as simple as you thought. And now you can't even be sure if you're a good person, if your claim to knighthood is just as hollow as you'd always feared."

"I'm a fraud," Paints conceeded in a low tone, his claws fidgeting at the edge of one of his colors. "I always knew it, deep down. Always acting from such a moral high ground, when really I'm no better than any of the others." He glanced around the table, between the invasive questions of the falmer sitting around him, till he could count each member of his party. "Pirates, cutthroats, mercenaries...monsters. And me, the liar. I think that makes me the worst of all of them."

Trig just smiled again, and tilted his head towards Juin, who sat nearby, chatting with a fair Elf. "And yet, even monsters seem capable of redemption." He laughed, an echoing, distant chuckle. "Not black and white anymore, remember?"

The colors were blurring in everything, like running water paints. The dream was falling apart. Paints stood from a dissolving chair, suddenly panicked. "Wait! Trig! I...I need to know." He took a breath to steady himself. "Are you dead?"

Trig cocked an eyebrow. "Do you think I'm dead?"

"I...I don't know. I don't know about anything that happened to you after I left. And sometimes I think that these dreams mean that you died, got killed because I wasn't there to have your back, and now...now this is my punishment. Like your spirit has come back to haunt me every night." Paints didn't realize until he'd said it how stupid that sentence sounded.

Trig just laughed, his body begin to fade into nothingness. "Maybe, maybe not. Too focused on the past, Paints, so much so that you can't see the path ahead. Focus on what matters now."

"Wait!" Darkness was springing up from every corner, swallowing every detail. Paints took a step towards where Trig was disappearing. "Is there any chance for that orchard? For apples in summer, and a simple life?" But the Breton was gone, and only shadows remained. They leapt at him with vicious, gnawing teeth, chanting and screaming, black blight, black blight, black-

==========
​

Paints woke in a tangle of sheets, fighting off invisible dangers for several minutes before he managed to calm himself. Then, for a long while, he simply laid there and stared at the ceiling. Finally, he stood and set about gathering his clothes. Well then. Time to focus on the now.​