Aria Windfoot's Story

Sinderion sat immediately across the table from Drayk, expending a great deal of effort to remain as impassive as possible. A muscle in his jaw jumped as he clenched it, and he consciously made himself relax, smoothing out the tawny features of his face. His eyes- an unusual robin’s egg blue that suited neither his personality nor his lineage- never left the paper in his compatriot’s hand.

Presently, he was propped on the table by his elbows, arms folded across one another in an attempt to convey nonchalance, or at least less anxiety than he was truly feeling, but the way his feet curled around the legs of the chair for stability was a dead giveaway to his discomfiture. It was not every day that one’s life flipped completely upside down; indeed, prior to this morning it had happened but once in his life. That had been a change for the better, an opportunity to claw his way out of the hole into which he’d fallen, though that was perhaps an unfortunate choice of idiom.

This, he could not help but feel, was the opposite kind of upheaval.

Still, there must yet be a reasonable explanation, something they were overlooking or simply did not have the evidence to see. Sinderion had been under the tutelage of the Mentor for eleven years, and never once in this time span had he known the man to do anything without a solid plan, set three or more phases in advance, and thought through as thoroughly as possible. In all likelihood, Sinder would outlive the one who had saved him, without ever attaining that kind of wisdom. But that in itself was an unpleasant thought on at least two levels, and he banished it from his mind.

What bothered him the most was that, despite this, and despite the advantages provided by senses well beyond the norm for man, mer, or beast race, he could say no more about what had occurred than anyone else. By the time he’d begun his search of the grounds, the Mentor’s scent had been obscured just as surely as any trace he might have left behind, save the one solid piece of understanding they possessed: the note. This was peculiar on its own for too many reasons to enumerate, and it would be pointless to list them aloud anyway, for the others surely understood why he was troubled by it.

His worse half spurned his present state of intellectualization and demanded action, something which the rest of him could not wholly disagree with. Their lives were disturbed, a massive change in the pattern of their existences for which the only viable solution was reversal- they needed the Mentor back, as soon as possible. Even so… who was he? And what caused the need for such haste that the context of these three statements could not be explained?

At last, Sinderion tore his gaze from the parchment, unsatisfied but willing to admit to himself that for now, it would be keeping its secrets from him, however much he wished it were otherwise. His vision flickered from one member of his strange little family to the next, taking in expressions, words, body language. He was not as skilled at interpreting such things as Adrienne, but he knew most of them well enough to pick up on a few quirks of habit and idiosyncrasies of action. Dysfunctional was an understatement, but like everything else, the Mentor had managed to make it work. The altmer could only hope that the tenuous bonds of broken souls slowly mending themselves would hold in his absence for long enough to bring back his presence, whatever that meant.

Whatever that took.

Drayk was visibly upset, but he was also proposing what seemed to Sinderion to be a reasonable course of action. Slowly, the elf nodded. Under most circumstances, he would have left it at that; a small declaration of assent- no fanfare, no dramatics. This situation, he thought, deserved something a bit more than the merest agreement.

“I do not understand what has occurred, but I would not wager that it will be as simple as finding him there. If it starts in Markarth, it will likely end elsewhere. All the same, that seems the best thing to do at the moment.” It was not a particularly optimistic thought, but then that wasn’t what he thought most of them needed. Being honest with them about what he thought this would involve would hopefully allow them to do the same with each other, and prepare them all as much as was possible for a longer venture than one to a city in the south.

He did not know how long it would take to find the Mentor, and he could only hope that they would all be there at the end of it, as little worse for wear as possible.

Sinderion never slept well on nights with a full moon.

His particular strain of lycanthropy wasn’t dependent on the lunar cycle, but there was no denying that the temptation was hardest to resist when the silvery orb in the night sky was at its brightest. It called to the beast in his blood like it called the tides, pulling those urges and primal thought processes from where they had receded in the back of his mind to the very forefront, making the fight against them something conscious, immediate unlike it was on any other day in a month.

Sometimes, when it was particularly bad, he and the Mentor would spend the space from dusk to dawn in the library, talking in hushed voices about forests and lives and things usually left in the dark, or else books and projects and the challenges of mercenary work. Tonight, however, he would be coping on his own, and upon reaching his quarters, Sinderion loosed a rare sigh. His room almost remembered a monk’s cell, bare of anything save a bookshelf, a rug, and a mat upon which to sleep.

Since that was unlikely, Sinderion chose instead to prepare his belongings for the next day and then settled in the center of the rug, folding his lengthy legs beneath him and settling his forearms on his knees, back perfectly straight. Regulating his breathing, he allowed his surface-level thoughts to ebb away ad he’d been taught long ago, and with it, the song in his beast-blood died to a gentle hum, a bit louder than usual but still bearable. This entire situation was undesirable, but it would be managed.

He pondered his friend S’Baad’s words for a moment. Indeed, the likelihood of a trap was high, and yet… what other choice did they have. If they were to spring its jaws, at least they would be doing so intentionally and not completely unawares. After a while, these thoughts, too left him, and Sinderion was alone in his mind at last. It was a strange dual feeling, as though he were both profoundly empty and completely fulfilled at the same time. The first time he’d described that to the Mentor, as a mere boy of seventeen, the man had smiled at him, and he recalled it clearly even now because it had been the first time in years that he’d ever felt as though he'd done something right.

His breath hitched, but he smoothed it over and began anew. Such was the process; new thoughts would always try to intrude, as the mind was active by nature.

When dawn threaded the first tendrils of sunlight through his window, Sinderion opened his eyes and stood smoothly, taking up his things without another word. Downstairs, Adrienne had made everyone something to eat, and he partook generously. Restful meditation may be, but it was no substitute for actual sleep, and he needed to prevent his energy from flagging.

As it turned out, he need not have bothered. Their ride was uneventful, and he spent a good portion of it at the back of the formation, slumped forward on his horse and sleeping. His heightened senses would wake him if anything approached from the rear, and the others would do so if they were attacked from the front of flanks. If it was possible to look dignified sleeping in such a fashion, Sinderion did, but it was also a little silly. Not that he minded much; he had never been overly concerned with how he appeared to others. Trying to keep them safe from you tended to have that effect.

He woke a few hours from Markarth and blinked slowly, taking in his surroundings. Drayk was talking up ahead, and Sinderion could just make out the words due to acute hearing, but the words were obviously not meant for him, so he did not pay them much mind. Catching Aria’s eye, one corner of his mouth quirked up briefly, which was about as close to a reassuring smile as someone like Sinderion could manage.

To S’Baad, he said “Unusual, that we encountered no bandits.” None of the holds had a guard force large enough to make regular raids on the countryside, but maybe one of the armies had camped nearby and broken up the local resistance. “No Forsworn, either.” His brows furrowed, but they were approaching Markarth now, and Adrienne was speaking. He tuned into the sound of her voice easily, and nodded when she suggested that she talk to the guards. It couldn’t hurt to forewarn them that the Sellswords were entering the area. Of course, there was also a degree of danger to her alone if they did not much fancy the notion, but she knew how to look after herself.

Sinderion was impressed. He for one knew that he would not have been able to talk down the guards as Adrienne had. He supposed it must be easy to forget the young woman’s negotiation skills when she so infrequently spoke. It probably helped that of all of them, the small Breton was perhaps the least intimidating. He was too tall, Vanryth too scarred, S’Baad too… Khajit (a singularly unfortunate truth in Skyrim). Aria’s body language was vaguely wild even now, though she masked it well, and there was something akin to a smolder in Drayk’s eyes still, at least to his perception. There was just something about all of them that wasn’t quite ordinary no matter how they strove to appear otherwise, and he supposed that Adrienne alone was able to disguise it completely.

He swung off his horse at the stables and contemplated his options, eyes drifting over his weapons. It would be better to take all of them in, lest he find himself needing to defend himself or his comrades with only the worst option at hand. He took his blades from their places lashed to his saddle and affixed one to each hip. The bow and quiver weighed comfortably in his back. He was only lightly-armored on the best of days, but left behind his gauntlets and greaves, swapping these out for ordinary boots and gloves. It was as close to ‘nonthreatening’ as he could manage. At least he’d look the part of a hunter more than a soldier.

Trailing after the others, he kept wary eyes trained on the people passing them by. He disliked crowds immensely, and would go to great lengths to avoid touching anyone. At one point, the press of the crowd on a narrow stone walkway was such that he literally had to contort to avoid brushing a woman who wasn’t paying attention to her path. Releasing a controlled breath, he surreptitiously checked on his allies. No problems yet; this was good.

I believe in you. And they’d have to believe in themselves. Sparing the stone-hewn architecture a glance, he mused that it truly was a tragedy that the dwemer were gone from the world, though many of their cultural practices were less-than-favorable.

The group came upon a tavern, then, built less into the stone than the rest of the buildings but still unarguably a part of the cityscape. The Silverblood Inn. Something in that name caused the barest tendril of discomfort to slither down Sinderion’s spine. Scenting the air, he decided that there was not much, if any, silver in the immediate proximity and relaxed, a minor slackening of tense musculature so slight it was almost imperceptible. Only those who knew him best would be able to recognize it.

Drayk was the first to speak, and Sinder nodded his consent. “If we do not make the attempt, we shall never know.” With that, he approached the door and pushed, venturing inside and propping the portal open with his foot for the easy access of the others.

The interior of the place was about what you would expect from such an establishment: dark wooden floors, dingy whitewashed walls, a counter with the inn’s keeper behind it, polishing glasses and metal tankards until they approximated cleanliness. The patrons, too, were the usual fare: mostly travellers, regulars, and the odd bard here and there. Sinder had considered being a bard once; even learned how to play the flute. A thought a long way from today, in a past so distant it was almost hazy now.

There was a fire in the hearth, and Sinder’s eyes found Adrienne first, then darted to Drayk. He was certain she would understand, perceptive as she was, and of all of them, she was perhaps the softest touch. It wasn’t as though he expected Dom to go berserk at the first sign of a flame, but it never hurt to look out for each other. He personally was going to do his utmost to assure that nobody tried to paw at Aria and that Van didn't get too deep into his cups, which were the other most notable trigger-points in a situation like this, assuming nobody attempted to give S’Baad trouble for simply being what he was. Their best behavior was necessary here, and the more precautions he could take, the better.

The press of the Forsworn was growing greater, but Sinderion could not help the feeling that they would soon be coming in through that door as well, one way or another. Slinging his bow back over his shoulder, he drew his mismatched blades and leapt lightly into the fray in the wake of Adrienne's atronach. Trusting that and her bound battleaxe the take care of his back, he went about relieving the pressure on their sole defender as best he could. If he had his guess- and it seemed he did- Van would be quick to join him here. Nodding to the dunmer, the altmer indicated that he would go left.

Following the path of the fel axe, Sinder moved quickly and quietly, his longer sword finding purchase in the troublesome Briarheart's side. Sensing movement behind him, he spun his dagger so that it was in a reverse grip and plunged it backward. The give of furs followed by flesh informed him that he'd hit his target, but the pain that bloomed over his upper back indicated that she was not yet dead, and in possession of a rather heavy mace. Pulling both blades loose, Sinder pivoted lightly on the stair, distracting with a bit of showy dagger-work before his sword thrust up and back, entering beneath the woman's chin and severing her spinal cord.

He straightened with a wince. His shoulderblades were not broken, but the mace had dug several furrows into his light armor and then his skin. It was nothing he couldn't cope with, but he'd have to avoid repeat hits to the area until either he or preferably Drayk could see to it. At least the numbers were thinning on this side; between himself, Van, and Adrienne's conjurations, they's hopefully be dead before anyone could figure a way in through that iced-over door.

A look towards Sinder revealed that the two had similiar ideas in mind. While Van had issued his challenge, Sinder went ahead and threw himself into the thick of battle. Lagging behind, but pressing forward nonetheless, the dunmer took the right. Due to his belated advance, a couple of Forsworn found themselves trapped between Vanryth and Sinderion. He would have to rectify that for them.

He came down hard and heavy with the longsword, biting into the stout wood of an axe instead of the soft flesh of a Forsworn. Van grunted and struck with his shortsword, which was promptly blocked by the flat of the axe blade. Now thoroughly irritated, Van grunted and shoved with both blades, looking to put distance between him and the Forsworn, but the warrior wasn't having it. He shifted his axe out to the side, sending Van stumbling forward. Too close to be effective, the Forsworn followed up with next best thing. He jerked his axe back and the wood struck Van in the jaw.

He saw a sudden light, then a blur, before ending in a haze of red. The strike hurt, and he could taste the blood on the inside of his cheek. Van growled-- signalling that the Forsworn had invoked the troubled dunmer's wrath. Van's longsword reared back and the pommel slammed into the bridge of the foe's nose. That was it. The blow carried the Forsworn down a couple of stairs, giving Van the room to strike. His shortsword bit deep into his chest, and Van grinned. It felt good to kill again.

His companions having utilized their skills effectively, the pressure was taken off Drayk. Adrienne's frost atronach was wreaking havoc among the Forsworn on the level below, and Vanryth's magic was taking its toll, as well as Sinderion's impressive close quarters capabilities. Van looked about to join the fray. Drayk checked that the Forsworn he had dumped to the side was dead, before preparing to move in behind the two elves that had thrown themselves into the fight. He'd be able to effectively guard their blind sides, and heal them whenever necessary.

Drayk didn't get the chance, however, as the ice-secured door behind them exploded, along with a good part of the wall around it, sending chunks of ice and stone flying about the room. The ground shook slightly as another frost atronach entered the fray, this one not nearly so friendly towards the Sellswords. It was a good two feet bigger than Adrienne's, one of its arms molded into the shape of a massive club, the other a pointed spear of sorts. Shards of ice swirled around it in a miniature storm, and a light blue light seemed to glow within its chest.

It turned to attack the nearest enemy it could find, which happened to be Adrienne and Drayk. Springing into action, Drayk pushed Adrienne behind him just as the atronach stabbed out with its spear arm, the point of the arm shattering on Drayk's shield, blunting it somewhat. The ice storm surrounding it slashed at him, against which his shield was no defense, and he could quickly feel multiple stinging cuts opening up. It then smash horizontally at him with its club arm, this attack having much more brute force than the stab. The strength of the atronach's arm took Drayk off his feet and send him skidding across the floor to the other side of the room. He scrambled to his feet, getting his shield back into its place just in time to catch another arrow from the archers across the bridge, who had a window to fire through once again. Their warriors were not yet coming across the bridge, however, apparantly still wishing to pin them in, and whittle away at them with magic and arrows. Drayk had to admit, it was working, even if they'd suffered losses at the hands of Sinderion's arrows and blades, and Vanryth and Adrienne's magic.

"Van, light this thing up!" Drayk shouted. They needed to deal with this quickly, and fire was the best way to do that. He knew what he was asking, and how much this would bother him. A few years ago, he would have simply ignited the thing himself, but not anymore. He couldn't turn back to that.

A call from above revealed a frost atronach and Drayk yelling to light it. Van took his hand off of the blade still enbedded in the chest of the Forsworn and then ignited in a firebolt spell. A half a second's charge and he pushed his hand forward sending the ball of fire directly towards the atronach. Being thorough, Van lit up with another before he felt his magicka drained once more.

When the opposing Frost Atronach crashed through the iced-over door, Adrienne's eyes went wide, and she scrambled backwards, aided by Drayk's move to position himself in front of her. The intitial intrusion had sent her to the ground, perilously close to falling on her own sword, and the situation only seemed to grow worse by the minute. Time, time, they needed more time! There were still foes below, and with Van diverted to throw fire at the atronach, Sinder was the only one dealing with them. Drayk appeared to be attepmting to cover both the enemy atronach and the door, which was probably splitting him too many ways.

Thinking fast, Adrienne directed her own atronach to stand in the doorway, effectively making a large ice-shield against arrows and the like for the moment. The poor thing probably wouldn't last too long, though, and she couldn't cout on it to be enough. Her bound battleaxe was finally returned to Oblivion as well, but on the plus side, her magicka had had some time to recover, bolstered by the enchantment on her robes. What they needed right now were some large-area measures, something that would give Sinder a fair chance against what was below and Drayk and Van a shot at what was above.

Biting her lip, she decided now was as good a time as any to give something new a shot. Moving away from the pitched fight against the Atronach, she tried to gauge the distance from herself to each of her friends. Satisfied that it would probaly encompass all of them, Adrienne sheathed her sword. This would need both hands. Ihaling as steadily as she could, she called upon the spell the Mentor had been teaching her when he disappeared. Please let it work this time... The spell, named Call to Arms, was perhaps the single most difficult one in her repertoire, but if it worked, it would be worth the magicka drain.

Painstakingly slowly, the blue-white magic gathed, first at the girl's feet and then spiralling outwards, hopefully far enough to reach the others, scatterd as they were. If it hit them or not, she could not say, but she immediately elt the haracteristic surge of adrenaline under her skin that meant it had hit her successfully. Setting her jaw stubbornly, she drew her sword again and approached the artonach, fully intent on helping Drayk distract it until Van could summon another firebolt or something of a similar nature. She'd once had fire spells herself, but hadn't tried using them in years. With a quick shuffle forward, she struck at the Atronach's side, chipping away a piece of ice but otherwise apparently not affecting it much at all. As long as she could stay away from its massive arms, it didn't really matter.

And still there were more. With the majority of the group now trying to deal with the massive magical construct on the top floor, Sinderion was left to do what he could amongst the Forsworn in the lower sections of the tower. 'Lower' here being not by much, as he was still on the first decending staricase and not likely to make it further by himself. Still, the stairs wound a bit, and he kept himself around the closest thing to a blind corner he could, taking advantage of his superior hearing and ability to keep concealed, alowing the Forsworn to come to him and be surprised by whatever attack he would launch. It was no advantageous choke-point, but it would do.

Since Van had helped him clear the first group, he waited on the second wave, a few seconds of restorative magic reducing the wounds in his back to dully-throbbing bruises. He knew only enough of healing to keep himself from dying, really; he was not the kind who could make large wounds disappear as though they were never there.

The pinderous thudding of armored footfalls alerted him to incoming enemies, and he cut off the spell, drawing his long knife and crouching, at the ready. The first man to come around the curve was incrdibly unlucky, Sinder's blade traced in crimon across his throat before he could even notice the Altmer's presence. The fact that their ally's body fell into them did alter the other four, though, and Sinder wasted no time, moving while they were still tripping over it. The first person to get clear was a slight woman with a flame spell in one hand and a short dagger in the other. Pressing forward to prevent her from getting the appropriate distance, Sinderion placed his knife between his teeth and caught her spell-hand, wrenching it upwards even as the gout of fire started up. Her dagger-hand was the next to move, and he earned himself a cut to the abdomen in the time it took to bury his sword in hers. Deftly, he twisted them both so that her sputtering spell caught one of the other Forsworn before it- and she- died.

This body, too, was thrown as a means of delay, but the third was ready for it, jumping over the corpse and landing lightly on his feet. Sinder met his incoming swing with the steel of his bloody sword, taking hold of his second blade again with his free hand. His attempted stab met a solid metal shield and skittered sideways, twisting his wrist and bruising his knuckles on the unyielding surface. With a frustrated exhale, Sinder broke the stalemate of blades and danced to the side. When his back hit the wall of the stairwell, he braced himself and kicked out with both feet, again catching the man's shield, but this time with enough force to cause a stagger.

Just in time, for the last Forsworn had freed himself of the entanglements of dead limbs and swung his axe. Sinderion backpedaled frantically, tripping over the stair behind him, which ironically saved him, the ae whistling by just past the tip of his nose. He hit the stairs hard, knocking the wind out of him, but forced himself to roll, again lashing out at shield-man with his feet, hoping to trip him as well. Someone with that much armor would stay down a lot longer than Sinder did, and he'd be falling down the stairs, besides. Adrienne's spell hit just then, and he could have praised the Eight for the girl's timing.

Still, the one with the axe was proving difficult. Gritting his teeth, Sinder caught sight of one of his allies out of the corner of his eye. "Aria!" He called sharply. "Shoot the one with the axe!" If you don't, I might not have an arm in a few seconds. The thought, like just about everything else about him, was suffused with an almost unnatural calm, but that didn't mean he wanted to part with his limb.