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The Representatives

Players in the Game of the Shadow...

0 · 2,646 views · located in Skyrim

a character in “Skyrim: The Mentor & The Sellswords”, as played by AugustArria

Description

The Game of the Shadow

Final Placement
16. The Master (Molag Bal), disqualification.
15. The Light (Meridia), killed by The Bloody Curse (Malacath).
14. The Bloody Curse (Malacath), killed by The Blackfeather (Hircine).
13. The Spymaster (Boethiah), killed by The Stonehammer (Peryite).
12. The Inquisitor (Mehrunes Dagon), killed by The Shade (Nocturnal).
11. The Omen (Vaermina), killed by an agent of The Blackfeather (Hircine).
10. The Webspinner (Mephala), killed by The Pact (Clavicus Vile).
9. The Pact (Clavicus Vile), killed by The Blackfeather (Hircine).
8. The Horizon (Azura), killed by The Drunk (Sanguine).
7. The Feral (Namira), killed by an agent of The Stonehammer (Peryite).
6. The Drunk (Sanguine), killed by The Blackfeather (Hircine).
5. The Bard (Sheogorath), killed by The Blackfeather (Hircine).
4. The Librarian (Hermaeus Mora), disqualification.
3. The Stonehammer (Peryite), killed by an agent of The Blackfeather (Hircine).
2. The Shade (Nocturnal), disqualification.
1. The Blackfeather (Hircine), winner of the Game of the Shadow.



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The Spymaster

Name: Rylin Moroth (possibly an alias)
Race: Dunmer
Representative of: Boethiah
Skills: Speech, Archery, Sneak, Alchemy, Light Armor
Killed By: The Stonehammer, 13th place finish


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The Blackfeather

Name: Maya
Race: Breton
Representative of: Hircine
Skills: Conjuration (necromancy, bound weapons, soul traps), Destruction (lightning), Enchanting, Alchemy, Archery, Speech
Kills: The Bloody Curse, The Omen, The Pact, The Drunk, The Bard, The Stonehammer


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The Shade

Name: Tarquin Aurelius
Race: Imperial
Representative of: Nocturnal
Skills: Sneak, Speech, Illusion
Killed By: None, disqualification, 2nd place finish.
Kills: The Inquisitor


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The Stonehammer

Name: Vodrin Stonehammer
Race: Nord
Representative of: Peryite
Skills: One-Handed, Block, Heavy Armor, Blacksmithing
Killed By: The Blackfeather (via Lynly), 3rd place finish
Kills: The Spymaster, The Feral


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The Bloody Curse

Name: Rikka gra-Tagrin
Race: Orc
Representative of: Malacath
Skills: Two-Handed (Battleaxes), Light Armor, Blacksmithing
Killed By: The Blackfeather, 14th place finish
Killed: The Light


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The Horizon

Name: Invorin Hastati
Race: Dunmer
Representative of: Azura
Skills: Two-Handed (Staves), Foresight
Killed By: The Drunk, 8th place finish


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The Light

Name: Aeneas Aurelius
Race: Imperial
Representative of: Meridia
Skills: One-Handed (Swords)
Killed By: The Bloody Curse, 15th place finish


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The Omen

Name: Silas Rialta
Race: Redguard
Representative of: Vaermina
Skills: Illusion, Alchemy, Two-Handed (Spears), Light Armor, Seafaring
Killed By: The Blackfeather (via Adrienne), 11th place finish


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The Inquisitor

Name: Talmoro Vasuderon
Race: Altmer
Representative of: Mehrunes Dagon
Skills: Destruction, Alteration
Killed By: The Shade, 12th place finish


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The Bard

Name: Beric Merillion
Race: Breton
Representative of: Sheogorath
Skills: One-Handed (Swords), Block, Unarmored, Shouting
Killed By: The Blackfeather, 5th place finish


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The Feral

Name: Ja'karo
Race: Khajiit
Representative of: Namira
Skills: Sneak, Unarmed, Tracking
Killed By: The Stonehammer (via Golztunah), 7th place finish


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The Drunk

Name: Ferra Malric
Race: Nord
Representative of: Sanguine
Skills: Shapeshifting, Two-Handed (Greatswords), Heavy Armor
Killed: The Horizon
Killed By: The Blackfeather, 6th place finish


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The Pact

Name: Ilanna Falodin
Race: Bosmer
Representative of: Clavicus Vile
Skills: Archery, Sneak, Guerilla Warfare
Killed By: The Blackfeather, 9th place finish
Killed: The Webspinner


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The Webspinner

Name: Phaedra Aurelius
Race: Formerly Imperial
Representative of: Mephala
Skills: Form of Mephala
Killed By: The Pact, 10th place finish


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The Librarian

Name: Unknown
Race: Argonian
Representative of: Hermaeus Mora
Skills: Magic of the Library
Killed By: None, disqualification, 4th place finish

So begins...

The Representatives's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero Character Portrait: Adrienne Jastal
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Adrienne at last realized Sinderion's presence beside her, and nodded her thanks to him, stepping away. Unfortunately, she wound up much less stable on her feet than she thought, and one of her legs gave out, sending her down on one knee. As the conversation between Stonehammer and Lynly continued, Adrienne focused on her breathing, using the hand that wasn't clutching her side to fumble around in her belt-pouches. Between the health and magicka potions they'd used up in the last couple of days, she was down to nothing but a stamina draught, but she carried several independently-edible ingredients on her, and she reached for a few leaves, laying one on her tongue and chewing deliberately. The effect was instantaneous, but rather small: her pain subsided to a dull roar, and she could feel a few of her tensed muscles relaxing.

The next was to slow her bleeding, but until she could get access to some bandages, it would still be problematic. She considered tearing strips off her robes and using those, but still more was happening, and she needed to pay attention. Rising to her feet, Adrienne glanced back and forth between the unfamiliar woman and Stonehammer. "You... you know the Shade?" she asked, voice still faint from the shallowness of her breath. Half-addled or not, there was no mistaking the importance of that particular revelation.

The faint sound of Adrienne's voice had turned Drayk's attention away from the conversation, at which point he finally took in her wounded state, and immediately became fraught with alarm. "Adrienne!" he blurted to himself, quickly moving closer to her. He took a moment to take in the extent of her injuries, grimacing as though struck himself when he surveyed the gashes in her abdomen. Wobbling back and forth on his feet, he rubbed his hands together rapidly. "Alright, okay, okay, I can fix this. Damn dragon, of all things. Just hold still."

It took a moment to call healing magic back into his hands, snuffing the flames that had yearned to ignite at his fingertips, but he did so in the end, his palms lighting up with yellow-white light. His right hand he let fall on her shoulder, to steady her in the event she felt the need to fall over or something. His left he gently placed across her midsection, allowing curative magic to flow into her. His magic was cut short quickly, however, when he realized his previous exertions had completely drained him of magicka.

"By the... damn it, anyone got a magicka potion?" Drayk glanced around the group. The one who responded to him was the one he didn't expect to: the woman garbed in feathered robes. "Hey, Fireball. Here. My own brew." She handed him a vial of swirling blue liquid, which he gratefully accepted, popping the small cork and downing it. He shook his head at the taste, but then got straight back to work, his magicka restored enough to continue. "This'll just take a moment..."

The woman, Maya, as Stonehammer had referred to her, sighed lightly before stooping to pick up the vial, which Drayk had dropped after finishing. "To answer your question, doll, I've known the Shade for a while. You could say we're... acquaintances. Friends, even. Though I doubt he would say he has any friends. He's not the type. Even so, he came to visit me at my little coven, and convinced me to drag myself all the way out here to the Reach. Said it would be worth my while. Can't say I'm disappointed so far, apart from the dragon getting away. Seems like the pieces are moving in earnest now, doesn't it Vodrin?"

The Stormcloak half-grunted, half-chuckled. "This Imperial convoy's proof of that. The Spymaster must have located me. It seems she prefers to keep her enemies close. Amusing how all her plans fall apart when she makes the slightest miscalculation."

When the immediate problem of potentially-fatal wounds to an ally had resolved itself with Drayk's intervention, Sinderion allowed himself to relax a bit, glancing down at the shattered weapon in his hands and immediately regretting, as he always did, his temper. It seemed that, even with years of strict self-control, he was not as immune as he had previously believed to mind-numbing rage, and the past couple of days had taught him that lesson with all the harshness of a whip laid across bare shoulders. What he did not understand was that the lesson was far from over.

It is in the nature of analytical minds to analyze, and this is no great surprise. So perhaps Sinder should not have been quite so shocked as he was when he felt, contrary to his expectations, another hot flare of rage. The source, once he gave it a moment's thought, was obvious: the latecoming woman was a witch. The early reference to Hircine he'd caught but chosen to ignore. Daedra worship was not as uncommon as some people liked to believe it was, and though he had a special bitterness towards the Lord of the Hunt, he was not so presumptuous as to believe a god would take any interest in him, and so any anger or assumption of guilt on the part of anyone but the ones who'd changed him was... foolish.

The reference to a 'coven' and the manner in which the woman was dressed were harder to ignore. She smelled like the forest and blood and magic, and that particular combination was not one he regularly encountered. The realization clicked into place, and no sooner had it than his steel sword rang free of his sheath, the now-usless bow discarded to the side. "Witch," he growled, and the extent to which the word was in any comprehensible language was unknown to him. He wasn't speaking from his rational mind, at any rate. The Altmer's pupils dilated, nearly obscuring the blue of his irises, and the nails on his hands hardened, extending by a half-inch or so. It was the sickening feeling of his teeth rearranging in his mouth that he actually noticed, however, and though his instinct demanded that he pounce immediately, the knowledge of what was happening to him was enough to stay the actual motion, for now. Chances were, someone was going to have to intervene.

Vanryth took in everything with his usual silence. He merely watched as the Nord woman talked down the Stonehammer, as the Imperials quickly left them, and as the new arrival made her own way to the group discussion. By the woman's own admission, she had connections with the Shade, and perhaps even the Mentor. The woman had knowledge, of which had been recently scant. Though, he couldn't help but think that this was all too convienent. Though he would never admit it, even if he were able, he would take all of the information with a grain of a salt. A bit of suspicion is healthy, while too much is being paranoid. Truth be told, Vanryth would rather be paranoid than be surprised.

Though the woman was a witch. That made things... Difficult. For Sinder at least. Vanryth turned his one good eye towards the Altmer and watched his body language carefully. The growled monosyallabic word and the ring of naked steel told Van that he would have to take Sinder's mind away from the witch and somewhere else. Perhaps appeal to reason. If something was not done, then the blood that the Nord avoided would be spilled elsewhere. He sheathed his own refurbished blade in his naked sheath and stepped forward in front of Sinder, obscuring his view of the witch and leveling a hard eye on the man. No, now is not the time for the beast Vanryth mentally entreated.

The woman had information they desparately needed, and it would be hard to retrieve such information from a corpse. But how was he to tell that to Sinder without a tongue? Once again, his disability got in the way of expressing himself, and he felt a pang of frustration, though he bottled it up. Cooler head must prevail after all. Instead, Vanryth raised a calloused finger and pointed towards Sinder's eyes and then pointed to his own one good eye. He repeated the process twice more, telling Sinder to focus on him and not the witch. Sinder needed to understand that this woman was important. He only hoped that the intelligent man inside would realize that and quell the beast begging to get out.

They needed the woman. Alive.

Adrienne might have been able to contibute to the discussion if she were not preoccupied with getting her flesh knit back together. She leaned heavily into the hand on her shoulder, breathing steadily through her nose to control the speed of it. The wounds in her side were stubborn, but she did what she could to help the process, warming one hand with a very small amount of fire magic and melting the ice there away so that the flesh could move and re-adhere to itself, leaving only three jagged, pale scars on her abdomen to show for the trouble. The burns were bit trickier, and she was of no assistance there, so she simply relaxed and tried not to impede his progress. The words being exchanged registered, though somewhat dimly, at least until she heard Sinder.

At least, it sounded a bit like him, only... worse. She'd never seen him transform, a testament to the fact that he had much greater self-control than most of the people she'd ever meet. Now, though, that word was so nearly snarled that it frightened her somewhat, more for his sake than her own. She had no idea if whatever he became coud differentiate between friend and foe, and she had no desire to find out either way. As soon as Drayk had managed to soothe away the pain and blistering from her burn wounds, she placed her forehead against his shoulder and murmured a soft thank you registering that he, like she suspected of most of them, smelled of ash. Gathering her fortitude to herself, she pushed herself back upright and faced the situation at hand.

Van appeared to be trying to calm the obviously-angry Sinder, and one look at the other three people in the circle identified why. There was nothing to stir his anger with Lynly or Stonehammer, but the other woman looked very much like Adrienne had always imagined a Glenmoril witch might, a fact that had not really made itself apparent to her before. This was... bad, and that was probably an understatement. It was probably better for all of them if Van distracted Sinder and she prevented the witch from speaking to him, lest she inadvertantly (or perhaps advertantly, who could say?) goaded him into something far worse.

"What miscalculation was that?" Adrienne asked, too tired to be all that surprised that a seemingly-fortuitous entrance had apparently been anything but. When had she stopped believing in coincidence? It had been years, at least.

Maya had raised her eyebrows, then taken a single step back, upon being spoken to by the Altmer. She crossed her arms, appearing slightly offended. Or possibly annoyed. It was difficult to tell. "If I'm not mistaken," she began, "the potion I freely gave to you is the only reason your friend here has stopped bleeding all over the place. If I've somehow wronged you personally in the past, I apologize, but I do not remember any such occasion. I feel like I'd remember a face like yours. Very handsome, if I may say."

Shaking her head slightly, she switched to the previous line of thought. "Anyway, I'd ask that you please try to contain your hate for the moment. We've more important things to attend to." Stonehammer seemed to agree, as his hand had drifted to the pommel of his hammer upon Sinder's small outburst, an indication of the side he would take if things came to violence once more. Hoping to avoid that as well, he joined in Adrienne's tactic, shifting the conversation away from witches and werewolves, and back to the matter at hand.

"Her miscalculation was the dragon. Without it, I'd never have gotten free of that cage. I'd never have convinced you lot to kill them all and free me. I couldn't even get you to kill one. Seems the old man might have actually changed after all." The few remaining Stormcloaks had awkwardly gotten closer, unused to seeing their commander speaking with such a group of strangers. He waved them off. "Stop standing around. Search for survivors. We'll be moving out shortly."

The witch's words were not what the Altmer needed to hear, though there was certainly some truth to them, one which his more rational self was quick to latch onto and attempt to batter his groundless hate with. It wasn't the case that every Glenmoril witch was responsible for what happened to him. Indeed, the ones who directly were had... died quite some time ago.

A heat built beneath his skin, and Sinder was uncomfortable in his own body, as though it was too small to contain everything that he was any longer. It was profoundly uncomfortable, and precluded him from remaining still in body or mind. There was something metallic and rotten in his mouth, thick over his tongue and choking in its consistency. He retched, spilling something dark and liquid and glistening onto the dirt floor of... somewhere. He neither knew nor cared where he was; the pain was too great for that. It reverberated, splitting through his skull like arcs of magical lightning, and trilled into his limbs with all the force of a tidal wave. It was impossible to stop, and once he realized that, he stopped trying.

Something snapped, and then shifted, and it felt like he was being torn apart. It was suddenly obvious what he had to do, and unthinking, the beast lunged for the nearest pale neck, heedless of the magic that scorched his tawny fur.


'Died' was perhaps a gentle word for it.

To his shame, some part of him still exulted in that, and he wondered, somewhere in that primal part of himself that he hated, if she would taste as they had, flayed to bits and lifeless. The thought panicked him, and when he caught motion out of his peripheral vision, he focused on it immediately, seeking any form of distraction that could be provided. Even as close to that dangerous internal precipice as he was, he recognized his friend's face, and the grim expression on it brought something of himself back to him. The meaning of Vanryth's gesture was obvious, made so with time spent acquainted, and Sinderion nodded his assent, shutting out the conversation and slowing his breathing, trying to force his heart rate to slow. The less adrenaline in his system, the better.

It worked, for the most part, and he blinked slowly several times, letting a little more of the rage dissipate each time he faced the world anew. He could not bring himself to look at the witch, so he focused instead on his companions as they spoke, and on Stonehammer. That was simpler, safer, better for all of them.

At this point, Drayk rejoined the conversation, having done all he could for Adrienne. The wounds would certainly be sore for a good time to come, but the damage was mostly healed, and the burns from the dragon had been removed almost entirely. "So can you help us at all? Either of you?" Maya merely shrugged. "I don't actually know why I'm here, either, beyond being told to by a very dangerous and very dashing man. How about it, Vodrin? Got a direction for me?" The Nord rolled his eyes.

"I was given a task, and I will fulfill it. We received a visit from the Shade in the night, when the convoy had stopped for the evening. None of the Imperials saw him, nor did I until his face was just beyond the bars. I didn't actually see the old man, but the Shade said he was with him. They knew of a simple task the Spymaster had given me some time ago, a simple message delivery. He wanted to know who it was for. Saw no reason not to tell him. They were sealed orders of some sort, to be delivered to an Orcish stronghold in the Rift."

At that, Maya raised her eyebrows. "You delivered orders to the Bloody Curse? What did they say?" but Stonehammer simply shook his head. "Wasn't my place to ask. I just delivered the orders and left. That was all the Shade wanted to know. He told me the old man's new pupils would be coming along after him, and that I should send them in the same direction. He wants to be followed, though I couldn't say why." Maya appeared thoughtful for a moment. "If you're going to be searching for that Orc, then I'm coming along. Unless any of you are from the Rift, then I know the area the best. I can help you find her."

"As am I." Lynly stated evenly. A bold statement, considering just a few moments beforehand, the Stormcloaks and herself were enemies. To interject herself into the conversation seemed bullheaded or, optimistically, brave. At first, it felt as if that was all she was going to say until she continued. "I know the Rift as well. My travels have taken me all over Skyrim, and now that my mission with the Legion has ended," she said, even though the mission ended as a failure. She was tasked to aid the Captain in capturing the Stormcloaks. Now that the same Stormcloaks were milling about around them freely, it was no stretch of the imagination that the task could be construed as a failure. "I am free to do what I wish. I know nothing about the Shade and this old man you speak of, yet I can smell adventure on your heads. That scent alone is enough for me," She said, finishing her speech.

Though, despite what her bold words said about her as a person, her body language was an entirely different matter. Her shoulders were drawn close around her, her hands clutched at her elbows and she was situated a bit further from the group than was considered normal. She may have held the words of a warrior on her tongue, but she had the appearence of a rabbit ready to run. A stark contrast from the surehanded warrior who fought the dragon with no reservations only minutes ago.

The places this conversation had taken them were not really at all what Adrienne had expected. Perhaps, where these people were involved, it was best to give up any notion of expectation at all. They apparently had two volunteers and a jumble of new information, only some of which made sense. She supposed that the 'Bloody Curse' must be a group of orcs, or maybe just a singluar orc, it was hard to say. Either way, they were located in the Rift, which was apparently their next destination, and the Shade was both aware of their continued progress and apparently desirous of it. The reference to the Mentor changing somehow didn't surprise her much, as something to that effect had been hinted at before. She still didn't understand what it meant. Had he once been like them? Nearly irredeemable and lost? Was this as much a trial for him as they were finding it to be for themselves? The idea of the Mentor struggling with anything was foreign to her, and uncomfortable somehow, but she supposed it was not impossible.

Either way, she felt herself in no position to legislate about whether or not they were taking volunteers. There was something about this task that was immensely private, but on the other hand, it seemed that the world wasn't going to cooperate with her desires there, and she wasn't sure they could refuse help where it was freely offered. She looked to her friends- no, her family- for once allowing her feelings to freely show on her face: she was apprehensive, she was exhausted, but she was also hopeful, and a tiny bit optimistic.

Vanryth breathed a sigh of relief as Sinder managed to regain control of all of his facilities. He finally stepped out from in front of Sinder, but maneuvered himself between him and the witch, hopefully blocking his view. The pieces of conversation he heard only managed to confuse him, and for him their next goal was all but fuzzy. He hoped that Adrienne, feeling that she was more intelligent than he was, would be able to decipher all of the information they had gathered and digest it for him. But from what he gathered, apparently, two others had volunteered to guide their little group. The Nordic woman, and the witch. The Nord, he was fine with. She proved herself capable. The Witch on the other hand... Would be probablematic. He quickly glanced at Sinder and sighed again.

He felt weary, yet again. It seemed like a recent occurance, him being reminded of his age and hard fought life. That morning, he had woken up to stiff bones and sluggish muscles. He felt the same would be true for the following days. Especially with the witch around... He sincerely hoped that the mentor had a good reason for putting them through this, if not, Van had a couple of choice words for him... If only he had the tongue to speak them.

Upon hearing the apparent verdicts of their newfound... allies was far too strong a sentiment, but he could think of no other appropriate word, Sinder swallowed thickly. He could still swear that the taste of blood and flesh lingered at the back of his throat, but that was probably just an unwanted sense-memory. He wasn't in a position to trust any of them, but there was nothing terribly objectionable about the warrior-woman's presence, and if it was beneficial to the others, he would willingly concede to it. The witch- Maya, someone had said, and he'd need to use it if he wanted to avoid dehumanizing her too much- was another matter. How long would a rational consideration like her relative innocence in his case keep the rage at bay? Given the pressure the beast had been exerting on him recently, he did not know. It was not his desire to kill her, and the best way for her to preserve her life would be to stay well clear of him.

But, a voice reminded him internally, she should not have to. Nobody deserves punishment for being what they are. The obvious 'except me' did not even need to be thought, and Sinderion set his jaw resolutely. "...Do as you will," he managed, and at least his voice was back to its normal mid-range tenor, though not without an abnormal raspy edge to it. He'd make it a point to explain exactly the danger he presented at some later point, but for now, he was eager to be away from this place- he was growing to hate it already.

"Excellent," Maya said, perhaps more cheerily than was necessary. "As Stonehammer mentioned, my name is Maya, though some have called me Blackfeather. Now, if there's nothing else to be done here, shall we be off?" It seemed that her reasons for wanting to accompany the group to find this Bloody Curse would be remaining with her. Stonehammer nodded. "My men and I should be moving along as well. I'm going to Markarth, to pay that Dunmer woman a visit. Good hunting, Maya."

"An excellent choice of words," she said, seeming pleased. With that, she led the way east, expecting the Sellswords and Lynly to keep pace. They had a trail to follow once more.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives
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The sun had fallen before the group stopped, and it hadn't been at Maya's request. One didn't move from place to place across the country constantly, hunting consistently new and challenging targets, without becoming an extremely good traveler. It was as though the wilderness itself renewed her energy like one of the stamina draughts she had tucked away in her bag. Perhaps it was just the knowledge that she was finally moving towards an extremely important goal, with a group of capable individuals at her back. Capable enough to almost bring down a dragon, it seemed.

Oh yes, they would do just fine. And they would help her, even if they didn't exactly know why at first.

That was the kind of devotion their Mentor created, wasn't it? His seeming omnipotence, his ways of solving any and all of one's problems, no matter how minute or how gargantuan. They would do anything to get him back, would they not? For without him, did they not see themselves as nothing? One could go so far as to call the relationship somewhat dominating on the part of the Mentor. But she was getting ahead of herself. Stonehammer had believed the man had changed, considering that he'd supposedly tried to get them to kill one of the Imperials, and failed. If Vodrin believed it, perhaps she could, too.

When camp had been struck, and the fire started, surprisingly not by the fire mage, Maya had offered to take the first watch, to allow the undoubtedly weary Sellswords their rest. She refused the rations the other Breton girl in the group had offered them, having her own food contained within her bag. She was nothing if not self sufficient. It was also not lost upon her that the reception she'd received upon joining the group had been significantly poorer than that of the Nord warrior woman, she who looked vaguely familiar to Maya. Perhaps she would remember what significance the woman had at a later date. Or perhaps all Nord mercenary women looked the same.

In any case, Maya had chosen to remove herself from the immediate area of the group, but she stayed within sight, choosing to scale a nearby tree about halfway up, settling in a nicely V-shaped branch formation that afforded her the opportunity to put her feet up, while also granting an advantageous overview of both the camp and the surrounding area. The tongueless Dunmer was in conversation, if one could call it that, with Adrienne, as the fire mage had called her back at the bloody site of the dragon attack. The fire mage himself lay some distance from the fire, apparently turning in for the night, but not before he experimented with flicking sparks into the air from the tips of his fingers. An interesting bunch, to be sure.

Settling into her watch, Maya lifted her hood up over her head, plopped her bag into her lap, and began to nibble on some of the bread she'd brought along for the journey. There wasn't all that much, as she hadn't thought to be gone long from the coven. The thought crossed her mind that they could perhaps stop by on their way to the Rift, but she doubted very much the Altmer would enjoy that. A werewolf among the Mentor's handpicked misfits. What better a companion to join in her hunt?

If the beast in his blood could be said to have any positive qualities whatsoever, Sinderion supposed he would count unnatural endurance immediately after his extraordinary sense-capabilities. He rarely tired much if at all, but the downside was, he never slept particularly well either. He was perpetually ready to move, to act, quite probably to hunt, the last of which he strove with great effort to avoid. It also made him restless, and he had a hard time settling. It didn't help that right now, he was also feeling guilty. He was not in the habit of allowing irrational emotions to rule him, because it was that kind of impulsiveness that got people killed. It was never him, either.

It had occurred to him that he'd done wrong by the witch, and the proper thing to do was apologize. That it was necessary did not make it any easier, and after he took his share of the cold rations, he spent a few hours ranging away from the camp, mostly just trying to bleed away his excess anxiety by running. It sometimes worked, and the Mentor had always encouraged physical activity as a way of bringing his temper back under his control. For a while, he raced between the trees, ducking and dodging around such obstacles as the terrain saw fit to present him, and pointedly thinking of nothing. He simply took in sense-data and reacted, for once in harmony with the totality of his being rather than working against it. The temptation to shift was always there, but as long as he restrained himself to some degree and did not push beyond what his humanoid body was capable of enduring, it was avoidable.

Circling back in a large loop, Sinder slowed his pace and jogged back towards the encampment, satisfied both that he was in a better frame of mind and also that there were no hostile persons nearby. Each of these hings was a comfort to him, and if he as ever going to be able to manage what needed to be done, it would be now. Taking a deep breath, he sorted though the various odors and aromas of camp and picked out the one he was looking for, following it to a tree. Glancing up, he took note of Maya's presence and then glanced backwards. It looked like the others were getting ready to sleep or already there, and he had no desire to raise his voice, so with a jump, he caught hold of a low-hanging branch and pulled himself into the tree, repeating the process until he was roughly at the same height as the Breton woman, but occupying a decidedly-separate limb.

Settling himself into a crouch, Sinder took a moment to find his words. It was not always an easy thing. He didn't speak much now, and he'd had no need for speech at all for a significant portion of his life. "I apologize," he said at last, forcing himself with some difficulty to actually look at her, make eye contact as he should. "My temper speaks poorly of my character. You did nothing to deserve my ire. Thank you for helping my friends." He was quite ready to be done there, but he wasn't ignorant of the fact that it would be polite to wait for some form of response, so he did.

She let the silence linger for a moment, if only to study the man a bit more. He seemed very quiet, and very troubled, and speaking to her in this manner was bringing that out. He was not comfortable with her in the slightest. His demeanor, as well as his previous reaction to her, had made that clear. Most did not approve of witches, and she supposed it only made sense that one forcibly turned to lycanthropy against their will by them would feel more strongly about this. Maya would have called such a thing a gift, to take on such a glorious and powerful form, one in which the drawbacks, in her opinion, were few. Why sleep when one could hunt? A blissful existence, if she had ever heard one. Still, it showed more of her devotion to Hircine that she overcame her shortcomings due to her desire to hunt, rather than simply being forced to as a matter of necessity. In all, it left her with a hungering desire to learn more about him.

"Apology accepted," Maya said lightly, pushing her hood back and running a hand through black hair. "As are your thanks. I normally charge for my alchemy." She leaned back against the tree, allowing one of her legs to fall lazily and dangle to the side. "Now, if we're going to be traveling together, and very likely fighting together, perhaps we should learn to deal with each other like civilized beings, no?" She broke off a piece of her bread and chewed momentarily, swallowing before speaking again. "You may call me witch if it pleases you, in which case I will refer to you as werewolf, or perhaps simply as beast. Or we could put hate and prejudices behind us. For the sake of our common cause, if nothing else. You may call me by my name, which is Maya, and I may call you..." She trailed off, hoping to get the elf's name from him. She was quite serious about the whole beast thing.

The Altmer blinked slowly. His life had shaped him into a deeply-suspicious, wary sort of person, and he did not part with pesonal information easily. Still... there was little information to be had in his name alone, and she'd hear one of the others use it, eventually, if indeed they were to be spending any duration in one another's proximity. There was likely no harm in it, and he had no desire to be called "beast," however accurate the appellation may be. He shifted in his crouch, vaguely uneasy all the same. "...Sinderion. My name is Sinderion, but they-" he lifted one hand from the branch he was holding and gestured vaguely to the Sellsword camp- "are given to calling me Sinder. I... will not object if you prefer it as well."

In a way, her easy identification and untroubled acceptance of what he was perplexed him. He put great effort into appearing as nothing more than his current state showed him to be: a relatively ordinary Altmer, with the typical sharp bone structure and appearance, if a bit tall and with a somewhat-odd eye color. There was supposed to be nothing whatsoever extraordinary about him. Granted, his control had slipped that afternoon, and he'd felt a few physiological changes, but it wasn't as if he'd sprouted fur and descended to all fours. Perhaps it was simply her background that made it an easy guess; it was ironic, but he rather hoped so. Worse than that though was the fact that it didn't seem to bother her. He viewed that part of himself with a heady mixture of contempt, caution, disgust, and- he could admit to himself if nobody else- a fair amount of abject fear. He was no coward, but he managed to scare himself rather profoundly.

Either she didn't know what he was capable of, or she didn't fear it. Both would trouble him, for distinctly different reasons.

Perhaps he was more a coward than he'd believed, because he avoided that question in favor of one perhaps equally-important, but less about him. "If I may, how is it that you came to be connected with the Shadow? I... my knowledge of your people is limited and heavily-shaded by... unfortunate circumstances, but I had thought you rather insular as a rule." He was genuinely curious, but it also seemed important for their purposes. She was considerably chattier than he was, and more open than Stonehammer had seemed, so there was always a chance she'd tell him. If not, well... he supposed he could hardly blame her when he was reticent enough to almost refuse her his name. Perhaps this was something Adrienne should have been doing, or Drayk.

Sinderion. Beautiful. Or Sinder, even. Maya almost thought the Altmer wasn't going to part with his name, and that she would have to weasel it out of one of the Sellswords with a softer exterior. His cooperation was appreciated, and slightly unexpected given his violent reaction to her earlier. His change of subject to her past was slightly less appreciated, but the fact that he was talking to her was a massive improvement over what she'd expected. She had no intention of denying him an answer, but of course, the Shadow was not fond of being exposed. She was confident she could get their help even with a minimum of information presented. They needed to find the Mentor, after all.

"Easier than you might think, though of course I cannot say how much you know already. Or what exactly you've been told. If you spoke to the Spymaster, most of what she told you was probably lies, or at least half-truths. She's very fond of them." Even in the short time Maya had been exposed to the Dunmer woman, she'd learned that. Few enjoyed their plots so much as that one. Maya found herself hoping Stonehammer was indeed successful in paying her a visit as he had intended. Vodrin was far more bearable to be around, in her opinion.

She took another bite of bread. "As for myself, I was sought out specifically a little over seven years ago. I was still a girl in many ways, but I was exemplary in certain qualities that were being sought. I was contacted, I was prepared, and now I hunt. I'm afraid I shouldn't say more. If you haven't already learned, they don't look kindly on being spoken of." She thought for a moment. "I'm sure you'll learn what you need to know when the time comes. You're wrapped up in things now, whether you want to be or not." Maya hoped the words wouldn't worry Sinder unnecessarily, but they were true. If no one else, the Mentor and the Shade seemed driven on bringing them into this, for reasons she could not know.

The mer's reaction was scarcely earthshattering; his grip tightened minutely on the branch he held, his nostrils flaring slightly as he exerted conscious effort to regulate his breaths. His disliked being manipulated, and quite frankly, someone was doing quite a masterful job at it, if he had his guess. It was perhaps only the fact that it probably wasn't Maya that kept him level. How many times had he been told something similar? That his ignorance was for his own benefit? He'd asked the witches what they planned to do with him, and his answer had been nearly the same. The Mentor had used the sentiment as well, though he'd thought he'd managed to forgive that. His father had used it, refusing to tell him the finer details of his mother's untimely demise. His sister had held it over his head when he was small and she was so much wiser. He was not a fool and he was not made of glass. When he'd shattered, it had been the breaking of something far harder, but just as brittle, it seemed.

And then, as though she had caught Sinder on a bad move in a board game, Maya slid her proposal his way, failing to hide a mischievous glint in her eye. "Do you trade often, Sinder? I've answered your question the best I am able... might you do the same? How did you come to be connected to the Mentor and these Sellswords?" It was undoubtedly pushing her luck, considering that it was far more information than a simple name to call him by, but she saw no reason not to try. If he was going to attack her out of his hate alone, surely he would have done so by now.

"You attempt to draw me into a bargain after the fact," he pointed out flatly. Nevertheless, his sense of fairness niggled at him, reminding him that he was trying to be civil, and that it was truly little more than a return of his initial query. Any discomfort he felt with it could only be considered his own fault for asking it in the first place. He would, then, answer to the degree to which she had, which was to say, quite vaguely. "With more difficulty than you might think, though the extent of your knowledge is unknown to me as well," he echoed her speech pattern intentionally. If this was to be a trade, it would be a fair one. "I was the first of the Sellswords. I too, was sought, and for my qualities, though certainly not the same ones, I am sure. I was saved, I was trained, and now... I, too, hunt, it seems."

His mouth twitched, though whether it was a ghost of a smile or a grimace was unclear. Perhaps it was both. "What was the rest? 'I'm sure you'll learn what you need to know when the time comes'?" He tilted his head to one side, fixing Maya with something that wasn't quite a glare. It was less hostile than that, though still not exactly friendly. It was hard to say if the hard glint to his stare was intentional or just habit. "I suppose so, yes. If something as irrelevant as my history ever becomes important, I shall not withhold it." And that was the best he could do.

Nodding tersely, Sinder abruptly jumped backwards, propelling himself free of the tree's foliage and landing solidly, but not without grace, on his feet beneath the boughs. He still wasn't sure how he felt about this whole ordeal, and there was no mistaking that Maya's presence was going to make things more difficult for him (she could scarcely help how familiar she smelled, after all), but his mind was set somewhat at ease. Trust was no easy thing for him to give, and he hadn't, but at least when he checked behind him for the knife at his back, he wouldn't be automatically expecting to find it.

Maya pulled her hood up over her head once more as she watched him go, smiling slightly to herself. She could already tell she was going to like that one.

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Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong
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The witch led Sinder and Lynly into the Dead Man's Drink, a delightful name for a tavern, in her opinion. Her more outlandish garb drew a few looks from the patrons, but she paid them no mind. Maya had other things to think about, the armored Nord behind her, for one. Just as she led the party into Falkreath did Maya recall why the woman seemed so significant to her, though she hid it well from her face. Wouldn't do to have the surprise spoiled. Not that she thought Lynly would care much, but she planned to confront her all the same.

Perhaps investigate was a better word. She had no intentions of taking revenge, or demanding a sincere apology. It took a lot to get Maya to hold a grudge against someone, and perhaps surprisingly, what Lynly had done didn't cut it. Maybe the situation would change once they'd had a chance to chat. To that end, Maya inspected the interior of the tavern.

It was busy enough, but there looked to be few outsiders, judging by the lack of heavier clothes and weapons on most of the patrons. Mostly locals, then, come to have a drink after a hard day's work. There was one hooded and robed fellow by the bar, but Maya paid him no mind. The barkeep was unoccupied, washing out a line of mugs, and there was an open table near the corner they'd come in. It would do. "Sinder, if you'd be so kind, I'd like you to inquire as to the availability of any rooms for us. There's something I want to talk to Lynly about, girl to girl, I'm sure you understand." He probably didn't, but she probably didn't care. He was nothing if not polite, from her experience, but he also seemed to want nothing to do with her. For once, their interests were aligned, and so she assumed he would be willing to follow her order, at least for a little while.

Sinder blinked once, slowly, and flicked his eyes from Maya to Lynly and back again. The end result was a simple nod and an equally-simple statement. "If you wish." He couldn't say that he thought the mercenary woman was one for speaking any more than he was, but then the Glenmoril was likely quite capable of carrying on an entire conversation by herself if she so desired. Turning, he left them with a quiet tread, approaching the bar with obvious intent but free of noise. The hooded man, he did not look at; if there was anything important to be learned there, he trusted his ears and nose to inform him of it for the moment.

"Your pardon," he spoke softly to the barkeep, currently tending to several tankards. He was unfamiliar with this particular region of Skyrim, and understood well that the sort of reception he could expect varied widely. It was best to affect an air of deference with regards to just about anyone, as a servile-seeming elf ruffled far fewer feathers than a proud, brash one. "If I may, I would inquire as to the availability of rooms for this evening? I and my fellow travellers have been long on the road recently." He waited patiently for the reply, the only sign of his social discomfort the small flare of his nostrils as he took in the varying odors of stale ale, washed and unwashed bodues, and damp furs, among other things. It was more or less typical tavernroom fare, and this put him minutely more at ease.

He did his best to avoid listening closely enough to the conversation of the two women behind him to actually hear anything. He probably wouldn't be able to help it anyway, but he felt obligated to at least make the effort.

The barkeep looked over Sinderion for a moment, appearing none too pleased. Even among Imperial-held territories, racism towards the Altmer was a common thing for Nords to have. Fortunately for the Sellswords, this one didn't have too bad a case of it, at least not enough to turn down an opportunity at making some coin. "There's two rooms available, ten gold pieces each for the night. If you can squeeze however many you have into them, you're welcome to."

The hooded man at the bar next to Sinder turned his head slightly, revealing pale, light blue-gray skin of his nose that identified him as a Dunmer. His voice was quiet, but strong and even. "You arrive with interesting company," he noted. "If it is not too much to ask, what is your destination?"

Sinder counted the required coins out onto the table, then added in a couple of coppers for a drink. He didn't have any intention of imbibing much of it, but what he was really paying for was the barkeep's continued limited tolerance of his presence. Sighing nearly inaudibly to himself, he sat one over from the hooded man. "'Interesting' may be the mildest word for it, but true nonetheless," he replied simply, accepting the tankard of ale and trying very hard not to wrinkle his nose at the offensive odor.

It was not perhaps his habit to engage in conversation with strangers, but a comment like that was too pertinent to ignore, and he resolved himself to a delicate exchange of words, in which he'd be searching for he knew not what all while trying to reveal nothing important. He would not have thought to put it past Maya to arrange this sort of thing intentionally, if this man was another of her mysterious associates. The comment almost certainly referred to her, at any rate. "We make for the Rift." It had been some time since he'd last travelled that far; the Sellswords did not often recieve jobs thereabouts, perhaps due to the iron control of some parties over the region.

He glanced backwards only once, wondering what was taking his companions, but they appeared to be in conversation still, seated in a far corner.

"You travel east, I travel west," the Dunmer stated, taking a swig of his own drink, "I ride for Markarth tomorrow. I'm... touring the taverns, it would seem." His last sentence was tinged with no small amount of frustration, but he did not elaborate. "The Rift was most eventful when I left. Murders, talk of giants attacking in groups, the ever present thieves... I even came across a woman of the Psijic Order during my time in the city. I was glad to be gone."

He turned to look at Sinder, revealing himself to be somewhat young of age, perhaps no more than thirty, with red face tattoos trailing from around his eyes down his cheeks to below his jawline. He chortled to himself. "Though from what I hear, these lands are no quieter. Tales of dragon attacks destroying Helgen and raiding the Reach. A poor time to be a traveler."

He's searching for something, was Sinderion's immediate instinctual conclusion. He disregarded it, for the most part, as it really wasn't any of his business, and besides that, something else he'd said was much more interesting. "A Psijic?" he echoed quietly. "That's an unusual claim. Most people believe the Psijics don't exist any longer, disappeared with their island ages ago." Sinder, of course, knew differently, and it appeared that this Dunmer knew even more than he, if he could identify one on sight. Unconsciously, the elf's hand tightened on the handle of his tankard, but he was still quite in control of himself, so the motion produced no distortion in the shape of the thing.

Could it be? It seemed like the unlikeliest chance, and he wasn't even certain how he'd feel about it if it was her. They knew nothing of each other any longer; he could offer not even a distinguishing characteristic to the man for possible confirmation. His memories of her were hazy at best. So was everything before the Change, as if the beast had sought to conquer his entire being. He clung to only a few small things: a low, masculine voice, strands of golden hair, his mother's eyes. That was all. He drew himself from the intruding thoughts and decided that he could do something to make the exchange fair, at least. "There is at least one dragon in the Reach. Or at least, it was there. Take care on the road."

"Now we've both made unusual claims. Dragons were supposed to have vanished as well. I suspect all of this is too outlandish to be false, though." He tossed the barkeep a few more coins and acquired another ale. "I wish you luck in your own travels, stranger. Perhaps we'll meet again on the road sometime."

"Perhaps." When so many more absurd things had happened to him already, it seemed unwise to discount such a mundane possibility.




Lynly watched the back of the elf as he parted ways to glean his information. She really didn't favor the elf. She didn't favor either of them honestly. Knife-ears as her father would have called them. Perhaps it was his doing that she didn't like them. Inherited the trait from him. Either way, the elf was gone, and she was left with the witch, Maya, whose robe looked like it could up and take off at any moment. Though no elf, she was still offputting, though for an entirely different reason. She was chatty. Far too chatty for the normally quiet Lynly. The breton spoke perhaps as many words on the trip to Falkreath as Lynly did in her entire life. The nord woman was a silent creature, unlike her some of her boisterious kin, singing of war song and telling of battle tales. She'd much let her blade do the singing, and experience the tales rather than tell them.

Lynly was quiet to begin with, expecting the girl to hop straight into whatever it was she wanted to speak about. Though the expected stream of words weren't forthcoming, and Lynly gave them a little bit more before it was her own mouth that opened. As come to expect, the words that came were short and to the point, the only reason of them being spoken was the strong sense of curiousity ingrained deep within her being. Talos knows it being a majority of the reason she even accompanyed these people. "What about this talk?" she asked simply. Perhaps the little prodding would get the ball rolling.

It was one of the rare times that Maya struggled for words. The subject matter was going to be... awkward, to say the least, she knew that, and as such, it seemed an awful idea to be talking about it standing up, and completely sober. "Shall we sit?" she offered, though she certainly wasn't looking for an answer. She found the nearest table, towards the back corner opposite the door, and slid down onto one of the benches, waiting until Lynly had taken a seat on the other. The witch waved over a serving girl, procured two ales for them with coin of her own, and took a good, long drink of hers before looking the mercenary woman in the eye.

How to go about this? It was perhaps best to first determine what she herself wanted from this. Maya knew she wanted something, but that something eluded her like a particularly quick rabbit darting through the forest around her coven. She needed to catch it and smite it with a bolt of lightning until it was cooked through, that was what. The image helped to calm her, in any case.

"Have you taken many jobs in this hold?" she asked, preferring to simply wing it, and see where this led. "Any memorable ones?"

It was a while before Lynly answered. Never too much into social contact as she was, she tended to take her time and pick her words very carefully in an effort to try her best to not sound like a complete fool. Sometimes, it worked. Others not so much. She placed herself in the corner of the corner table, far away from the prying eyes of others. She wasn't the distrustful sort who liked her back against the wall so that no one could stab it for her... Rather she intended to put distance between herself and others. Hiding, in a sense. She never did get the interaction part of social interaction. The dungeons and barrows she usually found herself in didn't offer much in the way of conversation, but then again that was all fine for her. No one to look like a fumbling girl in front of in those cold, dark places. At Maya's question Lynly chewed her lip as she thought of all the adventures she had had in Falkreath and how best to put them into words, what scant few she used.

"Jobs? Not so much. Adventures, a lot. Most of them were of my own volition, some were jobs though. A little gold to line my pockets. Cleaned out a nest of skeevers, slayed some awakened draugr, put downs some Falmers, some witches-- Oh.. I.. M-my.. Apologies." And the reason that she didn't talk became blaringly clear. In battle, she could hardly make a fool of herself swinging her blade and hefting her shield, but when she opens her mouth, her tongue tends to cause unnecessary trouble. A coven of witches, she remembered it now. That was a job, not of her own accord not that it mattered in the end. Lynly blushed and looked away from Maya and down into her tankard. She wondered how hard she would have to try to drown herself in it.

Maya had been starting to think that she'd had the wrong woman, considering that Lynly didn't immediately pick up on what she was going for. But her suspicions were confirmed, and then she apologized. What was the witch to do with that? Was she to say no, that's quite alright, my sisters and I are hunted all the time, or perhaps throw the apologies back in her face, and ascertain how she had truly felt as she'd run them through? Or maybe she was just sorry she'd let the word "witches" slip, and made things uncomfortable between them.

"I'd have thought you'd remember," Maya admitted, shifting her weight to lean her elbows on the table, "we put up a good fight. Thought we nearly had you a few times, but you're tougher than you look, I'll give you that. But this was some years ago, perhaps mercenaries simply have short or selective memories. You probably don't remember bashing a girl into unconsciousness who was trying to protect one of her homes."

She let that sit for a moment, for herself as well as Lynly. It wouldn't do for her to become overly angry at her, or to make a scene. For whatever reason, the silver-haired Nord had decided to come along, and as she'd shown Maya in person, she was useful. The witch was nothing if not practical, and she recognized that a warrior woman of her calibur would be most useful in the days to come. That didn't mean she wasn't still feeling inquisitive.

"Your apology has no use to me, so you can keep it. I don't think of myself as the vengeful sort, so feel free to sleep soundly at night. I'm just curious why, is all. Is gold really so great a calling that you're willing to murder us for it alone? Do you fight for nothing greater?" She refrained from even raising her voice, fully aware that her garb alone drew enough attention to her. She reminded herself that she had to be wary, even here. Especially here.

During this, Lynly did not raise her head to meet the woman's eyes. Did she really think an apology would work? Sorry that I killed all of your kin. She wasn't surprised when she rejected her apology, Lynly would have done much the same. The words that Maya spoke struck a cord within her. Back then, she had viewed it as another job, another quest to do so that her pockets would be a bit heavier. Just another infestation to clean out. How Maya had put it, it made it sound like she was just some roving bandit jumping at the chance of gold. That's what it boiled down to, wasn't it. Adventurer or bandit, depending on the point of view they could both be one in the same.

She opened her mouth to speak, but quickly closed it. What was her excuse going to be? That the man who conscripted her for the job believed the witches to be evil. That because they were witches they had to be up to no good. No, excuses wouldn't do either. What did she fight for? A story? Grand tales of adventure? Slaying a witches coven sounded like a far cry from that. So instead of speaking, Lynly kept her silence. Anymore talking would only further harm matters. Better to be thought of as insensitive rather than foolish. She continued to stare into her tankard, quiet as a mouse, counting the seconds until this would all be over.

Maya wasn't sure if she was glad to be proven right. If Lynly's silence could even be interpreted in that way. She obviously enjoyed wagging a sword more than her tongue, so perhaps she simply was keeping something to herself. In another setting, the witch might have tried to extract it from her. She might have tried to kill her had she not more pressing matters to deal with and more sensible risks to take. The stupid and the misguided she could understand. Those who followed the other gods she could understand. The greedy and the selfish, however, eluded her comprehension. Maya wasn't sure if Lynly could be classified as either. Perhaps Maya had just helped to open her eyes to something. It hadn't been her intention, but it would certainly be a satisfactory result.

"It's something to think about, at any rate. I'll leave you to your ale. Feel free to finish mine as well, if you like."

She stood gracefully, sliding away from the bench and Lynly and heading towards the bar to check on Sinderion's progress. He seemed to have just finished speaking with the hooded man next to him. Maya reached out to tap the Altmer on the shoulder.

Her finger never made it there, however, as the stranger turned in a flash, one hand grabbing hold of her arm, the other sending an elbow into her throat. Maya's eyes caught a glimpse of a tattooed Dunmer face before she was forcefully turned and pushed to the side, her back slammed up against the wooden wall and pinned there by the man's force pushing on her throat. His gray eyes studied her closely, his face set as stone. The glint of an axehead shone just beneath the folds of his outer robe.

"For a girl who calls herself a huntress," he said into her ear, "your approach lacks subtlety. Are you here for me?" The witch shook her head as best she could with a forearm nearly choking her. But that was all it took to gain her release, and the Dunmer pulled away, letting Maya fall to her knees below him, coughing and struggling to regain her wind. "And I'm not here for you," the Dunmer continued, adjusting his hood and robe. "I'll be on my way. Safe travels, Blackfeather." He said no more, his cloak sweeping behind him as he removed himself from the tavern.

Maya look flustered and angry as she rose, but she was quick to compose herself as she stood. She waited several moments for the tavern's patrons to return their attention to their drinks, before she turned to Sinderion. "I'll... return in the morning, before first light. Don't follow me." With that, she too left the Dead Man's Drink, pulling her hood up over her head as she left.

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Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives
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There was a certain chill in the air that only ever seemed to accompany the dead of night, and it prickled over his skin in the most familiar of ways. What, exactly, he was doing out here, acting in a way he'd explicitly been told not to, was an interesting question that Sinderion had no desire to contemplate. He'd been unable to sleep, as usual, and it had seemed wrong to lie there, listening to Drayk and Van breathe in their more restful slumber, and right to be out here, on the hunt. That was all there was to it, for the moment, and he wasn't sure he wanted it to be anything else, so he just left the matter alone and focused on the task at hand. The scent was faint by now, the trail hours old, but he'd been a hunter even before he was a beast-- this was in his nature.

His senses had led him into the forest again, a ways outside the city, and this made things easier. However well Maya could blend into the woods, however good she was at hiding the evidence of her presence, she still smelled like a human being, and there were far fewer of those out here than in Markarth. He went with haste, but quietly, slipping in and out of the shadows of trees, his steps placed so as to make nary a sound, even to his own ears. It was such a simple thing, to become invisible here, almost as though he didn't exist at all. He wondered if that had been her motive, too, for seeking out this area, but he very much doubted it.

Maya had grown up in these woods. She knew the trees almost individually, knew the smells enough to place her exact location in complete darkness, the feel of the ground beneath her feet changing as she moved, seeing what lay ahead as well as her eyes could. She had killed in these woods. Beasts... and men. But for all her knowledge of the land, for all her life experience, for all her skill as a huntress, she felt blind, deaf, and dumb at the moment.

She was... angry, aggravated, confused, upset, a lightning storm of emotions that she had forbidden herself from feeling. She couldn't think, she couldn't focus, and without that, she couldn't see. Her sense of touch alone had guided her through the dark to the most familiar ground, considering that her eyes had more often than not been clouded with a watery substance that was quite foreign to her. In the end, she'd settled upon stopping near the comforting rush of water that had helped her fall asleep many nights in the past, a gentle stream flowing over a rock bed, soft ground flanking it on either side, trees shrouding the area in shadow.

Shadow... Maya settled upon a rock, running her hands through raven hair. Tonight had proven that she wasn't ready for what she'd been tasked with. But perhaps she had known it all along. Perhaps the Shade had known it, too. After all, here she was enlisting a group of adventurers, leading them along towards a mutual objective. Perhaps she could make up for inadequacy in one area with superiority in another.

The clean scent of freshwater soon mixed with the one he was following, and the muted sound of a moving stream indicated that he was drawing close to a river or stream of some sort. Far from unusual here in Skyrim, where the snowmelt from the mountains combined into rivulets of ever-increasing size to trickle down into the forests below. That combined with the pine of the coniferous trees nearby was... pleasant. He'd always found it so, and part of him dimly registered that it wuld be a nice sort of place to linger, if he'd had any time to spend idling. Picking his way carefully to the edge of the trees, he spotted Maya some distance away, seated on a boulder. Something was wrong, though; because now he was smelling some saline water as well.

This was... not good. Sinder was tempted to simply leave and pretend he'd never seen anything. It would probably preserve much more of their combined dignity, and save him from considerable discomfort, besides. He... wasn't good with people on the best of days, and upset people were another thing all together. He needed only think back to his conversation with Adrienne that evening to be reminded of that. And yet... she'd seemed a bit better off afterwards, though that could have been anything, including deception. Still, his considerations now seemed more like cowardice than anything else. But surely the polite thing to do would be to leave; this was clearly something he wasn't meant to bear witness to.

The polite thing would have been to not follow her here in the first place, he reminded himself, shaking his head. Well, if the situation was a wash anyway... it might as well be a complete wash. Soft treads carried him to her side, and he stared out over the water as she did, not really sure what else to do. "...I don't suppose it's the kind of problem we can solve just by sneaking into a ruin or killing something, is it?" He wasn't exactly useful for solving the other kinds of problems.

"I told you not to follow me," she said unenthusiastically. Any other voice, and she would have conjured a bow on the spot and aimed directly for the sound. As it was, she was still tempted, considering that Sinderion had just snuck up on her in the middle of her woods. "For your sake more than mine. My coven's not ten minutes from where we are. Didn't want to risk you losing control of yourself and assuming the form of a true hunter." She wondered if he truly resented the form he'd been given. Bloodlust, yes, a nearly unresistable urge to hunt, yes, but such power, such grace, such beauty.

"My... problem, is a hunt. My quarry is the Orc we pursue, Rikka gra-Tagrin, known as the Bloody Curse, the one your Mentor and the Shade apparently seek as well. At the Shade's suggestion, I offered to lead you to her, that he and I might use you to our advantage. I have asked a greater hunter than I to do my work for me. Though I could very well have been a dead woman back in that tavern, had that Dunmer sought it."

She sniffed, shaking her head. Why was she telling him this? He did not need to know, he only needed to hunt for her. Regardless, she continued to speak. She hadn't known saying the words would do her any good, but even as she did, it felt as though weights were being removed from her chest. "It's a hunt far beyond the simple beauty of stalking prey in a forest. So easily I could become the hunted instead. But my life and love is to the Lord of the Hunt. For him I would answer any call."

She looked Sinder in the eye, trying to study him for a moment. "Would it hurt to simply hunt for a night? Would you be willing to give yourself to your instincts? It need not be a matter of rage."

He might be rubbish at talking, but he could at least listen. Though he was perhaps more tempted than he'd ever been to offer counterpoints to what he was hearing, he waited. The words seemed to be coming more freely as Maya continued, and he was loath to interrupt that process, lest it cease entirely. The last point, however, bore some answering, and that answer was tied up with the rest of them, he supposed. His jaw tightened reflexively, but Sinder forced himself to relax, sitting down beside the large stone and folding his legs, more to buy himself time to think than anything else. Still, he wasn't the kind to force words where there were none to be had, and so it was still some time-- quite possibly whole minutes-- before he properly replied.

"That might have been true, if I were someone else," he admitted at last. "But unfortunately for everyone involved, I am not. That thing is not a hunter. A hunter knows when to stop. It's an instinctual activity, yes, but also a mental one. Logic, judgement, restraint-- each of these things has its proper place. The beast knows them not. It understands hunger, and violence, and that is all." The Altmer swallowed thickly, closing his eyes against his next words. "Perhaps that is not true in every case. Perhaps it has something to do with the circumstances of my change. But regardless, it is true, and if it never sees light of day or dark of night again, that will be too soon." His tone was so steady that it was obviously forced to be that way, deadened to a monotone against who knew what else.

"Can you know that?" she asked, her voice stronger than it had been before. "Can you be certain that the beast cannot show restraint?" The discussion had clearly helped her move her mind from her own troubles, so intrigued by Sinderion was she. He was clearly not at peace with himself, he struggled internally. She wished to help him. If that meant helping herself as well, all the better. "Rage can easily cause the beast to emerge, and yes, that state would be violent, powerful, and nearly impossible to control. But there are other ways to turn. Other ways to see what is inside of you."

She turned away from the stream and towards him, resting her elbows on her knees. "Must you fear the possibilities? If you could learn to master it, to harness it, would you not do so? Take what you see as a curse and turn it into a gift, and do with it what you will, rather than what it demands of you." She ran a hand through her hair. "I will hunt until my last breath, serve Hircine until the day I die, and not be nearly so skilled a hunter as you are now, through what fate has bestowed upon you. It seems a terrible thing to waste."

"I know what it is because I lived as it for two years of my life," he replied quietly. "What you say sounds nice enough, but if it had that capability, I would have found it then. And the risk of even trying... I do not care to repeat the things I did, no matter what the reward might be." The gruesome details, he would spare. What he had done to the witches who changed him was scarcely the worst of it all, and he to this day remembered the taste of human flesh on his tongue. Most disturbing of all was that he could not say which tongue it had been, so addled was he by the strength of a power not made for mere children to know. Perhaps it was simply that-- perhaps he had failed to gain control because he was a child. But now, when what was at stake could be the lives of people he held dear, he could not take the chance that being an adult might be different.

Well and truly uncomfortable, he chose to try and turn the conversation around again, back in a direction that wasn't so close to laying his deepest fears bare. "Why Hircine?" he asked at length, genuinely curious. He certainly had no overabundance of goodwill for that particular Daedra, but at the same time he was sure there was a reason to worship him. He just had no idea what it might be. "Hunting is surely not the only worthwhile occupation that someone of your talents might take up, so why choose it at all?"

"And what should I have been instead, a shopkeeper?" she asked, almost seeming amused by the question. "Sell my potions for coin, sell my poisons to the Dark Brotherhood, and live a quiet life?" she looked to imagine the idea for a moment before casting it aside. "In reality, the Lord of the Hunt and I were something of an arranged marriage. I was born to the wild. Whether I was abandoned, forgotten, or simply fell off the back of a horse-drawn carriage, the fact remained that Glenmoril witches found me and took me in. It's fair to say that fate gave me to Hircine as much as I chose him. Perhaps if things had turned out differently, and I'd been raised elsewhere, I'd be a shopkeeper, or a mage in Winterhold, or a noble lady, sitting on a pillow in a court in High Rock. But no, I was born a witch. As is possible with any arranged marriage, I began with anger, discomfort, frustration, but eventually discovered trust, joy, and later... lust, and love."

Well, there was an uncomfortable metaphor if he'd ever heard one. Assuming it was even a metaphor. Still, he felt like he understood where she was coming from, at least somewhat. But where she was apparently able to readily accept the circumstances life had thrust upon her, he was not quite so willing. It was something for consideration, anyway.

It was unlikely she would so openly give her life's history to any of the others in the party, but that was because they weren't nearly so interesting to her as Sinderion was. "I will respect your wishes. I understand that it presents a danger to those you care about. But if you do decide you would like to master this power, you need only come to me. I will not endanger your companions, nor will I force you into anything against your will. Perhaps when the hunt is your choice you will see the wild differently, as I do."

A sharp exhalation was only a hint of what might have been a snicker, were circumstances different. "I think it would be rather difficult to force, but thank you all the same." He paused for a moment, putting his next words together carefully as he knew how. "I... am aware that I was initially more hostile than you deserved, but I hope you do not think so little of me-- of us-- that you fear your life would be taken from you with no argument from our quarter." It had bothered him, that she seemed to think so, though perhaps the delay in his reaction had been interpreted as a lack of concern. The Altmer shook his head minutely, a syllable catching and dying in the back of his throat. There was something else he wanted to say, but as usual, the proper expression eluded him, so he fell silent instead. Perhaps he'd said everything he needed to.

That was... quite the compliment. They would object to her murder? She supposed that was a good thing. She probably hadn't made the best impression on the group, but they were a difficult group to make a good impression on, so different were they all. "That's... kind of you to say," she said, holding back a smile somewhat and touching Sinderion on the shoulder. "Now, I will be staying here for the night. You had best away from here so you might get some rest. That is, unless you wish to sleep here tonight? I would certainly not object." It wasn't entirely clear if she was trying to be funny or not. In all likelihood, she was completely serious.

Physical contact was awkward enough, but he quite nearly sputtered his response. "Ahem. Er. I'll just... be on my way, then." He stepped out from under the hand, quite thankful for the dark, as he was quite sure his usual uniform golden complexion was turnng quite crimson. He nodded politely and turned from the clearing, walking perhaps more quickly than was necessary back towards the town.

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Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero Character Portrait: Soren Ivarsson
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The witch stayed true to her word, returning to Falkreath before the sun made its first appearance over the tops of the trees. The Sellswords and their Nord companion found her awaiting them just outside of the Dead Man's Drink, the horses already prepared for the day's ride. It the events of the previous night were still bothering her in any way, she did not show it, nor did she give any indication that she had spoken with Sinderion. She seemed to have returned to her usual self, and was far cheerier than necessary given the early hour of the morning.

As they had the previous day, the group rode hard, taking the east road out of Falkreath. Down the road they passed by the Imperial fort at Helgen, or what was left of it. The former stronghold had indeed been transformed into a smoking ruin, its strong walls and proud towers turned to rubble. The Sellswords more than anyone should have been willing to believe tales of dragon attacks, and seeing the ruins of Helgen would only confirm the fact that the dragons had returned to Skyrim.

Not having the time for sightseeing, however, they pressed on, pushing east and gaining altitude, heading into the mountain pass south of the Throat of the World, the snows blasting them for the first time since they departed from the Mentor's manor west of Solitude. It was perhaps easier there for the group to maintain their quick pace, and thankfully, the pass was a short one, winding down into the Rift. Considering that there was still significant daylight left to them, they chose not to halt their progress in Ivarstead for the night, rather pressing on past Lake Geir, taking the southern fork and following the Treva River towards Lake Honrich and the city of Riften.

Maya had informed the group at large of what she had told Sinderion the previous night, that the Orc they sought was known as Rikka gra-Tagrin, known as the Bloody Curse, and that it was indeed the woman's death that the witch sought. The Mentor and the Shade were reportedly seeking her as well, and Maya was willing to bet that when they found their target, they would find the Mentor as well. As they continued east, they neared the Orc stronghold of Largashbur, and Maya advised the Sellswords to hold while she scouted the area. Upon her return, she stated that the Sellswords simply needed to "see this for themselves."





Drayk had been on his guard, shield in hand rather than slung across his back, as Maya led them briskly down the path towards Largashbur, the trees clearing somewhat before them. His right hand had a fire spell on the tips of his fingers, not visible yet, but ready to spark at a moment's notice. It was unnecessary, however, which became clear as the Orc stronghold came more clearly into view.

It had been utterly destroyed.

Even a number of the nearby trees had been smashed, trunks fallen over onto the village wall or even the houses within. The wooden wall in question had nary a stake still standing, the splintered pieces scattered around the area. The Orc longhouses had been smashed from the top down, the roofs caved in on most, walls knocked over, smoke drifting lazily from crushed hearths. Maya walked with purpose in her step towards the destruction, but slowed when they arrived at the gate.

"Quite the battle they had here..." she mused, peering about at the wreckage. Inside the village were bodies in the dozens, mangled and crushed, most a grotesque assortment of rearranged limbs and shattered bones. Those were the Orcish bodies, and they were of all ages and statuses. Most Orcs were warriors of some kind, and some of these deceased were such, but others were old, and others very young. And littered among them, quite impossible to miss, were a few hulking forms of giants, who had quite literally painted the ground red with the amount of blood they contained within their bodies. One had been hacked into pieces, with only his right leg remaining of his four limbs. It was a gruesome sight, but judging by the numbers of dead, the Orcs had fared worse than the giants.

Drayk felt the need to vomit, but managed to hold it back, averting his eyes from the most disgusting sights, difficult as that was. He set his mind to the business that needed to be done here, so that they might be moving on soon. "Is our Bloody Curse among these, Maya?" The witch looked over the Orcish corpses with less disdain than Drayk, calling out so that the group might hear her. "You'll know her if you see her. I'm of the opinion that her father's actually a giant. She's the biggest Orc I've ever seen. Doesn't look like she's here, from what I can tell."

Sinder did not bother to fight the need to cover his nose and mouth, the fetid stench of death was so strong here that he could taste as well as smell it. Covering his palm with the fabric of his sleeve, he placed this firmly over the lower half of his face. His left hand still held his sword in a relaxed grip, but there was no mistaking the tension writ into the lines of his posture. He took in the details as well as he could, given the assault on his other senses. It was even a problem for his ears- he could hear the maggots starting to feast on rotten flesh, and though it was a necessary and natural thing, it was not the easiest to listen to. Morbid as it might be, he counted it his good fortune that the corpses were not more freshly dead-- that would have triggered a number of memories he had no wish to dwell upon at present.

He removed his hand from his mouth just long enough to speak tersely, rapidly. "Something's wrong with this. Giants are usually quite peaceful, and I doubt any orcs who wanted to kill them for whatever reason would have done so in the company of their aged and their children." Able to manage that in one breath, he filtered his next inhalation as best he could again and picked his way through the bodies, examining them for any other clues as to their fate. Other than the obvious violence done to them, there didn't really seem to be any. The orcs had been crushed, as one would expect when facing enemies with blunt weapons, and the giants mostly hacked at, quite likely with that green orcish alloy. That well enough explained how, but not why, and something about it bothered him.

Adrienne admittedly did not know much about giants, but she was more tha willing to trust Sinder's information on this one. Swallowing thickly, the young woman was trying very hard not to look at anything in particular, and to ignore the way the place smelled. She wasn't sure how the Altmer was still standing; surely, if he had the sensitive nose she was suspicious he had, all of it was bothering him horribly. Yet he remained relatively stoic about the ordeal, which she supposed was rather normal as far as he was concerned. Turning to Maya, the blonde mage asked the natural follow-up question, though perhaps it was only natural if you were used to steeping in conspiracy. She was certainly not in a position to know the difference.

"Is there a chance that this was somehow engineered by a third party? Perhaps Rikka herself?" She wasn't sure what the woman's absence meant, but it seemed to be conspicuous, given the circumstances. Why anyone would want to kill these people and giants wasn't a question Adrienne was really in the business of asking anymore. People had so many reasons for doing terrible things; the fact that none of them were good reasons hardly mattered. It could be anything: to take some form of revenge, to cover up one death with many, or even something as simple and horrible as enjoyment. Maybe it was to hide, make her enemies presume her dead along with the rest. If so, it was clearly a waste.

"I don't see why she would," Maya replied, "she was devoted to her clan, as far as I could tell. If she's not here, I'd imagine she's still very much alive, and probably making these giants pay for attacking them, whatever their reason for doing so was."

"Used to get along with the bastards," the mercenary muttered darkly to himself, nudging an orcish corpse with one of his leather-clad feet. Shaking his head with derision, he scowled and crossed his arms, shifting his weight from one foot to the other with an air of impatience, though what exactly he was waiting on was unclear. At least he hadn't been ambushed yet; that was something. Frankly, the part where all of these people were dead was of less concern to him than that fact, though he studiously avoided so much as glancing at any of the young ones. Also, the statement was highly redundant-- the orcs he knew were of a different clan entirely, and thus had nothing to do with any of this. Didn't change much, really.

His peripheral vision picked up a movement then, and he was on the nearest high ground, bow drawn and arrow nocked, before he had to think about it. A few minutes passed, in which he did not move and scarcely even breathed, and then some voices carried over to him. They lacked the rough, underbitten pronunciation of orsimer accents, and he lowered his bow just slightly, approaching the unfolding scene with caution.

Sinder, meanwhile, nose-blocked by the awful stench as he was, was unaware of the stranger's approach until he heard it, and even then it was the barest whisper of sound. Still, it was enough, and it wasn't long before he and the unknown man were both staring at each other down the shaft of an arrow. Whatever the reason, this caused the unfamiliar person to laugh, a distinctly edged sound. "I'm a better shot than you," he asserted plainly, "but it looks like you brought friends." With an obvious shrug, he relaxed his draw until it was taut but only barely, lowering both arms and scanning over the group with a practiced, diffident gaze. "Well, you're not orcs, so I'll take it, I suppose." He made to leave, but Sinder called out after him.

"Wait. You know something of what occurred here?" The Altmer returned the gesture more fully, returning his arrow to its quiver. The recent purchase was a good one, if plain. It certainly lacked the elegance of the stranger's elf-made recurve. The man had the look of the rough-and-tumble about him, between his durable clothing, mostly in dark green and grey, and the set of his body language. His hair was an unusual shade of red, pulled into a very long tail high on his head, rather odd for a Nord, which was what he seemed to be. The question appeared to amuse him, if the feline smirk he gave was any indication.

"I know something of a lot of things," he replied shrewdly, "but I don't give it away for free. Unless you're offering money or different information, don't bother asking."

Lynly kept her distance from the party, having already lead them to their destination and she didn't see any reason to add anything that they couldn't see for themselves. The stronghold was attacked by giants. Which was strange in itself. As the elf had said, giants were normally peaceful. Though the odd bounty on a rogue giant filtered through the Jarls wasn't unheard of, there had yet been mention of a band of giants laying havoc on the hold. Strange indeed, Lynly had just kneeled to sit on her haunches when the sharp eared elf heard something. Being the cautious warrior she was, Her hand immediately went to the hilt of the sword on her back. Before long, the cause of such a reaction made itself-- himself rather-- known. When the threat of danger had passed, Lynly let go of her own blade and began to pick through the battlefield, raising up her armor around her nose to drown out the smell.

She wasn't one much for talking, as if that hadn't been made explicitly clear. If the party wanted to find information through the tongue of another, they were well within their right. She'd rather find solid clues and evidence amidst the battlefield. Unlike words, solid clues never lied. The massacre itself didn't affect her, nothing that she hadn't seen in her line of work. It was the severity that truly humbled her. Bodies were mangled, broken, it was a harsh testament to the prowess of a giant. Biased as she was against the elves, the Orcs did not deserve this, especially those of a stronghold. They were a strong people, spirited, loyal to their clan, much like her own people. Say what they would about their brutish appearance, the Orcs had hearts of true warriors, as the bodies of the gaints could attest to. Though slaugtered, they managed to take a few down with them.

Vanryth was much in the position of Lynly, so desensitized by slaughter he was, though nothing he has seen (or had incurred) of this degree. It was a grisly sight. Though he didn't quite have the time to truly behold the destruction as Sinder drew his bow suddenly. Much like the warrioress behind him, Van's hand went to the imperial blade on his back as his other hand sparked in a surge of lightning. Unlike the warrioress and even Sinder, when the man did not prove himself an immediate threat, he did not remove his hand from his blade. The lightning he did allow to sputter out, but that was the only concession he was going to grant the stranger.

Perhaps he was just paranoid, but a little paranoia would serve far in keeping them alive. How was he to know this man wasn't some common bandit, ready to attack them once his guard was down? How about what he said? How was he to know that the information, if this man even possessed any, was true? Besides, the man had appeared in the wake of a massacre, it was entirely possible that this man was the instigator. No, Vanryth would keep his paranoia draped around him like a cloak until this man proved otherwise. Once again, Vanryth found himself in the position of the silent watcher.

"You're an information broker," Adrienne asserted, though it was more an educated guess than anything else. This kind of thing, she could at least handle, and none of the others seemed eager to immediately speak up. Knowing Sinder, the Altmer had mostly exhausted his conversational resources already, and she didn't want any of them to start talking with steel if they could avoid it. She didn't know about the rest, but she was still more or less exhausted, and though her magicka was running at full steam thanks to a good night's rest, she still hadn't had a chance to replenish her stock of potions. Besides, the man, whoever he was, didn't seem to be immediately hostile, just as cautious as they were. "That means you're probably looking for something in particular. If you told us what kind of information you sought, we might be able to help you. We've been... on the road for a while."

If she had to guess, she'd suppose that businesslike was the best tone to take with him. He definitely wasn't the type that would be swayed by sympathy, and it took no great skill to see that. At least he'd made his terms clear. They probably didn't have the kinds of sum he'd be after for what he knew, and she couldn't gauge how valuable it was to know if he was cheating them, besides. A trade seemed more likely to be fair and get everyone on their way much sooner. As long as he doesn't turn around and ask me to kill someone. That had been... unpleasant, to say the least.

The newcomer's left eyebrow ascended his forehead as the smallest of the adventurers spoke, her words laced with confidence and a certain kind of assurance. He was silent for a moment, flicking his eyes up and down her person, a slow smile spreading across his face. This might actually turn out to be fun. "Have you, now?" He questioned, drawing out the syllables on a languid tongue mostly for rhetorical effect. He wasn't going to jump into this negotiation like some overeager hound baying at a scent-- the best advantage to have in business like this was the psychological one, and there was something just a little bit too desperate about most of this lot. Whatever they wanted from this exchange, they wanted it badly. Or at least he guessed it. The blonde woman was clearly an expert at this sort of thing, and he could read next to nothing from her, so he had to infer what he could from the tense lines of a few of the others. The way the Dunmer didn't let go of his sword, the flare in the Altmer's nostrils, things like that didn't escape his hawkish eyes.

"I could be persuaded to part with what I know. Let's see..." he pretended to consider the question. Actually, there were several things he wanted to know, but his current particular circumstances necessitated the resolution of one particular matter over the others, at least for now. "I want a name, and if possible a current location, for a rather tall female orc who likes her battleaxe a little too much. In return, I might know a few things about her, and about this." He gestured with the point of his arrow to the slaughter surrounding them, but he looked nowhere but at the woman. "And what say you to that, gorgeous? It's quite a generous bargain, if I do say so myself." There was an outside chance that they knew anything worth knowing, but that was increased by their very presence here. He wondered what the little Breton would do now.

If there was one good way to get a rise out of Drayk, that was it. His shield wasn't at the ready, exactly, but he certainly hadn't made any motions to put it away. Into his right hand, however, ignited a small ball of flame, which remained at his side while he notably positioned himself in the immediate vicinity of Adrienne. "You know of her? Spit it out." he seemed obviously displeased that he couldn't think of a more lashing choice of words, but his tone at least helped convey his displeasure. It seemed only to amuse the stranger however, and he was no more forthcoming than he had been.

"Now, now," Maya said, shaking her head, "why don't we let people who are going to act civilized do the talking?" She took a few meandering steps towards the stranger, stopping to cross her arms and study him for a moment. "We're after the same Orc, gorgeous. Her name's Rikka gra-Tagrin, though she fancies herself as The Bloody Curse. If I had her location, we'd be on our way there now. As it looks, however," she turned to look towards the outskirts of the village, "She's somewhere east of here. The giant tracks head that way, and there's Orc tracks following them. Our lovely lass is quite possibly out for revenge."

Ah, so they were Orc tracks. The print was much smaller than the giants that laid around it, so it only made sense that they were Orc tracks. Lynly had found herself sitting on her haunches over such tracks when Maya had confirmed her suspicions. She rose to her full height and turned to the gather group. "The trail only grows colder while we wait," she said, implying that if they were going to track this woman, then they should start with all haste. "Let us hope we find her before the giants do." She said, turning away from the party and toward where the tracks led.

Truth be told, she didn't know why she still remained. She had said she'd take the Sellswords to this area, and she had accomplished her goal. It'd be so much easier to just leave them to their devices, wish them luck, and be on her way. Go to the nearest bar, try to drown out the memory of the witch and what Lynly had done to her and her family. Even so, she couldn't quite find the will to leave them just yet. If asked, her response would be mere "curiousity" though it ran deeper than that. It always did. Maybe she was trying to make amends for what she did to the witch. Wishful thinking, as if aiding her in her hunt would do anything. Just as well, she couldn't just let it go, and leave the story as it was unfinished. She'd need to find a conclusion... Wherever it may lie.

"Well, I suppose it's convenient that most of us can walk and talk at the same time then, isn't it, lovely?" the archer replied breezily, apparently quite happy to do just that. At the very least, he let the rest of the tension out of his bowstring and slung the weapon over his shoulder, quite clearly inclined to follow the trail as far as it led him and let the rest come along if they really wanted to hear what he had to say. Only as they cleared the camp did he start to speak. "Revenge, is it? That seems to fit, though she probably had it coming, and should have seen it. This isn't the first time giants and orcs have been at it lately, at least if the rumors all over Riften are to be believed. That, you could have heard from any streetear worth his salt." He looked back over his shoulder at the majority of the odd little group.

"Of course, the rest would have cost you a small fortune, but since you're all just so charming, I'll play nice. A while back, that crazy wench killed a fellow. Typical orsimer execution: took a nice axe to his head and didn't slow down until she reached the midsection. Poor sod was basically cleaved in two, with a considerable amount of anger at that." He let that sink in for a bit, quite curious as to whether any of them would take the obvious bait dangling in front of their faces. Though he'd stowed the bow, he'd swapped the arrow in his hand for another, this one black from obsidian tip to the crow feathers at the end, and this he spun absently between the fingers of his right hand, something he knew he was doing but didn't really pay conscious attention to. An old habit, by now, and one he'd sometimes quell by methods inappropriate to the current situation.

Oh, brilliant. He was one of those. This was something of a double-edged sword for Adrienne. On the one hand, she'd never much liked his sort; power was attractive enough to some people, and that kind of easy confidence made for interesting exchanges, but that was really it. On the other... she knew the sort very well, and consequently, if push came to shove, she could probably play him like a lyre. Her sigh was soft, lost in the crowding of voices, and she gently laid her palm flat against the smooth wood of Drayk's shield. She could handle this, that much she knew with certainty. At least this one stopped short of being disgusting. That was something.

As it tuned out, she was required to do even less than she was prepared for, as he seemed not at all reluctant to part with his information once Maya had offered theirs. One last lingering look at the surroundings, and then she shook her head and followed, wrapping her winter cloak tighter about herself more for security than warmth, though given the shiver, it would surely be easily mistaken for the latter. She spent the majority of the journey out of the camp focused on the back of the man's head as he spoke, audible enough to be heard even from the front of the column, which he occupied with Lynly and Maya. She saw the lure for what it was and bit anyway. "Who did she kill?"

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero Character Portrait: Soren Ivarsson
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The lone mercenary shrugged, expression caught somewhere between indifferent and bored. "Don't know the poor sod's name, but he was an Imperial. Well-dressed, too, like he thought he was someone important. Then again, Imperial, so I might have just described most of them, no?" He smirked and glanced backward in the general direction of Drayk and Adrienne, lifting an eyebrow as if in some sort of unspoken challenge. "Ginger lad, pasty as all hell, sword at his hip- not that he got a chance to use it. The wench came out of sodding nowhere slightly off the road just outside Riften and drove steel through his skull without so much as a by-your-leave." He chuckled slightly to himself.

"It was actually kind of funny. Completely without any sense of style, but then that's to be expected. I suppose if you're an orc, the only difference between a battle and a hit is the number of people involved." A sigh. "And now, naturally, yours truly is hounded by such guileless attempts at ending my life every time I so much as set foot outside the place. You can understand my curiosity when I discovered someone had taken care of a large portion of my problem for me." He hid well the curl of his lip at the words-- there was absolutely no tact in whatever had happened here, and he at least wouldn't have killed the children. Still, he was a practical man, and wasn't about to pretend he was weeping for this lot or that it hadn't benefited him considerably. That said, Rikka likely had control of more than just these, and he was not free to leave the area just yet.

Soren's bash on Imperials didn't get so much as a glance from Drayk, who was busy keeping his eyes to the ground, examining the trail they followed, the deep giant footprints with the Orc ones placed around or even inside of them. The destruction had ceased by this point, which clearly pointed to the fact that the separate groups had come through here at different times, rather than battling all along the way. Drayk was now feeling poorly about his earlier outburst, realizing that it was probably exactly what the Nord man had desired from him, or any of them. Only when Adrienne had gently placed her hand on his shield did he actually realize the little fireball hovering in his palm, and snuffed it. That bothered him as well, but now wasn't the time to share it. He would instead focus on keeping his mouth shut so as to refrain from saying anything stupid, and focus on the task at hand.

Maya, however, would do nothing of the sort, seeming very interested in Soren, or perhaps just the story he was telling. She plodded along occasionally glancing to the trail, but it was evident that this was a trail she could follow while sleepwalking, and so her attention was diverted to speaking, as it often was. "That does sound like her. I'm afraid your description of the victim doesn't ring any bells. If you'd like to take care of the remainder of your problem, however, it's where we're going, and it is our intention. An extra bow would be more than welcome. I do tend to get lonely shooting arrows from the rear." It was perhaps an odd statement considering that she clearly didn't have a bow or arrows on her person. The only other in their party that did was Sinderion, and though she hadn't yet seen him fight, her knowledge of him gave her the idea that he typically fought best in more up close and personal situations.

"Well, we certainly can't have that," the sniper mused lightly, shrugging. "Why not? I want to kill someone, you want to kill her too, might as well murder in groups." The statement actually managed to produce a moment of thoughtful-looking silence in the man, during which the arrow in his hand completed several rapid rotations, then found its way back into his quiver. "You lot are rather unexpected, though. If I had my guess, I'd say mercenaries, but I always do think the best of people." The accompanying smile flashed too many teeth, a sure indication of its untruth. Sure, he was probably going to be asking some intrusive questions, but giving a damn about that would require a conscience of some sort, and he was sadly lacking in one of those. Besides, it was his job to know things.

"So then, what do a bunch of mercenaries want with our delightful mutual acquaintance? I don't suppose she murdered someone in front of you and then sent her little peons after you, too? Waste of good arrows." And it had been, too. He'd had to fletch a fresh lot of the ordinary kind; the black ones didn't get used on mere lackeys.

Something about that man's lacadasical attitude struck her, and she couldn't help but think that his question, framed as carelessly as it seemed to be, was nevertheless a very pertinent one. Why was this Rikka a target of the Shadow or the Shade or whomever was supposed to be pulling the strings here? Vodrin had delivered orders to her, which probably had something to do with all this, if she were truly being honest with herself, and yet it seemed that Maya, working for the same people, had standing orders to kill her. What in all of Tamriel was going on here?

"Those among us who are actually mercenaries don't really want much from her at all," she replied softly. "We're looking for someone, and the people who know where he is are intent on forcing us to jump through quite a few flaming hoops first," the Breton continued, choosing her words quite intentionally and glancing at Drayk with a small smile. Here before them was an intelligence man, seller of information. It was an outside chance, but it was still possible he knew something of the Mentor's whereabouts. It might serve them well to ask him. But first, she wanted to know a little more about who they were dealing with here. "Can I ask your name?" she enquired sweetly, quite certain that flattery and ego-stroking were the way to go with such people.

Oh, this one was good. He'd nearly just come right out and given it, too, lulled in by the big doe-eyes and the unassuming demeanor. That was downright dangerous, and he shot her a foxlike grin, as if to warn her that he was wise to the game. He held up a hand, fingers outstretched, the universal symbol for the number five. "Fifty. That's a fifty gold question right there, so unless your pockets are lined, I suggest you don't. Of course, I'm always interested in a good trade, so perhaps if I knew who all of you were, I'd tell you who I was."

"I'm Maya," the witch offered, more than happy to do so. "Some call me Blackfeather, and you may if you wish, but I prefer Maya." Drayk was more grudging about it, keeping eyes straight ahead and simply saying, "Drayk."

She was intrigued despite herself, and not really sure how to feel about that. This was clearly not the man's first waltz, so to speak, but she was curious as to how far that experience extended. Surely, he was not a member of a Jarl's court? He seemed far too rough around the edges for that, and he made his interests (coin and information) far too clear, which made her wonder if this was really what they were. Had she been so long-starved for a puzzle such as this that she was really considering trying to solve him? "Adrienne. This is Van," she indicated the Dunmer, hoping he wouldn't mind the liberty she'd taken. Considering the process of him introducing himself would reveal something a little more pertinent than his name, though, she thought it was probably good judgement.

"Lynly," was all the Nord woman offered the talkative man. She didn't see any reason to season her name with superflous words, and her tongue was no where near a loose as his, when he wanted to be though. He liked to talk, but he also liked to keep secrets. Fine by her, she didn't want to, nor was she going to pry the secrets out of him. That had nothing to do with her and she could survive with or without his bantering. As she had before. Van as well took the man in stride, though his eyes always came back to him, watching him for any moves that he didn't like. Just because they allowed him to travel with them, didn't mean he trusted him. Trust takes a while to gain, and does not come tied with a name. Van was just as stoic when Adrienne introduced him, which was fine for him, considering his disability.

"Sinder." The last name was given politely, if coolly. Frankly, the Altmer in question didn't do too well in the company of strangers, and this was the third new inductee into their little group in about as many days. He was also distracted, thinking on the nameless Dunmer's words. Try as he might, he could not shake the thought. A psijic monk, in Skyrim. What business would any psijic have here? He knew next to nothing about them, in all truth, only the fragments of stories he'd heard... somewhere. Maybe from his parents; the memory was only partial. He inhaled deeply, as if the wind would carry her scent to him over all this distance, but of course even if it could have, he knew not what she smelled like. She was a relic from another life, and part of him hoped that it was anybody but her. He was far from certain he was ready or willing to confront that last tie to what he'd been once, before all of this.

"Cheerful lot, aren't you?" the man asked, raising a laconic eyebrow at Maya, who seemed to be the only one much inclined to speak with him. Not that he truly cared either way-- they didn't need to speak to be of use to him. And useful he was quit certain they would be. Most of them were armed to the teeth, and those that weren't wore the robes and the look of mages, something he was a fair hand at on occasion but didn't much bother with outside the more... clandestine schools. "Still, a bargain is a bargain. Soren Ivarsson, at your service. Now, about the fellow you're looking for. Anybody have a name? I'm good, but I'm not a mind-reader, unfortunately."

It was such a simple question. The most basic of them, really. Just who are you looking for? It was perhaps indicative of the strangeness of their predicament that she didn't have an answer, not really. "I don't... know his name," Adrienne replied, something ringing hollow in it. All this time, all that guidance, those encouraging words and pointed rebukes, and she'd never learned his name. It was like something sacred almost, something that she wasn't allowed to ask until she was a whole person again. Or maybe that was just an excuse. Either way, it made her feel thrice a fool now.

"Everyone just calls him the Mentor, and we the Sellswords." She gestured to encompass the four of them, but left the other two out of it. If they chose to state their business, then that was fine, but she wasn't going to presume to do it for them.

"Then there's naught I can tell you," Soren replied with a shrug. He'd heard vague tales of the Mentor and his Sellswords, and a few of the more informed folk who'd chosen to speak with him on the subject had informed him that each of these people was a former criminal or ne'er-do-well of some description, though as to what exactly any of them had done, he'd simply have to guess. And guess he would, but not before he had a little more to go on. For now, he simply turned back to the trail, not that it was difficult to follow. Almost too easy, actually...

Drayk was thankful when the tracks did not lead to the gates of Riften, but rather around them by about half a mile, close enough that the people living there would no doubt have been disturbed. Giants did not travel quietly, and these Orsimer probably hadn’t either. The fire mage hadn’t yet been properly disguised, but their proximity to their goal was the more pressing concern here, especially if the Mentor was at the far end of these tracks. One thing was for certain
 they would find either giants, Orcs, or both at their destination. He adjusted his grip on his shield. This was bound to get rough, considering that the witch would probably attack them on sight, given her previously stated intentions of killing the Bloody Curse.

Maya led them south around Riften, staying clear of sight of the walls and using the cover that the woodland provided them. “Not all of the group is exactly welcome in the Rift,” she explained to Soren along the way. “So it’s best we keep a low profile when near the city.”

Ah, someone in their merry little band was a wanted person. He remembered with false fondness the days when he'd been much the same, though of course, growth and notable change in physical appearance had been on his side, and nobody recognized the squirrelly lad he'd been now. As an adult, all of his illegal endeavors had been much more discreet. If he was charging for this, his price would have just gone up by a considerable margin. It was actually kind of a shame that he wasn't charging. He'd have to think of some way to rectify that in the future. "Of course. Discretion is the better part of valor, or so I've been told. It's certainly the smarter part." He wasn't exactly unaccustomed to moving beneath the notice of others-- such things were necessary for a person with goals like his. And keep a low profile they did, exercising caution even after the sun had set behind the mountains, the price they paid for choosing to continue on rather than stop for rest. Thankfully, it was a trail they could follow even in the dark, and the witch had no difficulty keeping them headed towards their destination, appearing to want to get there as much as they did.

It led away from the city, winding north and east through the forest, through streams and over rocks, gained some altitude, and came to a halt near the foot of the mountains that divided Skyrim from its eastern neighbor, Morrowind. “Might want to have a weapon out,” Maya advised, lighting a black and purple spell in her right hand, “I believe this is Malacath’s shrine we’ve arrived at.” She left unsaid that giants in a place as sacred to the orcs as this would go over none too well.

Sinder wasn't terribly pleased with the announcement, as he understood its implications, and furthermore, he could already smell death, thick and cloying and fresh, and unbidden, his heart rate increased, in anticipation of violence to come. It was not something he liked about himself, but he would not deny that it had its uses. For some reason, this thought prompted him to glance at Maya's back, but then he shook himself and moved on, not willing to entertain the other thoughts burgeoning in those darkened places at the very back of his mind. To even open the door to such possibility was to weaken his resolve, and he knew well that he would need every measure of it that he could spare. From his back, he withdrew the bow, nocking an arrow to it and pulling until the string was tense, but not quite ready to fire. A short distance ahead of him, Soren did the same.

Ever the bold one, however, Maya was the first to set foot inside the gaping hole in the stone, leading the party through a short cave tunnel and to the other side, into a gorgeous site. Well, it was a gorgeous landscape, but dotted with the increasingly familiar gruesome outcome of a battle. A stream ran from the base of a waterfall into a giant cleaved cleanly in two at the waist, turning the crystal waters a dark red. Their battle had clearly resumed here, but on this ground the giant dead were at least equal in number to the orcs, if not greater. Here the orc dead were not elderly and young, but powerful appearing warriors, garbed in traditional orcish mail and plate, well armed, and clearly deadly, considering their moderate success against their giant adversaries. It was here Vanryth picked up another blade, Orcish in make. They would no longer need it. There were no living here, but as they pressed onwards, the sounds of battle eventually reached their ears.

They emerged into a large circular clearing, the cave opening up to the night sky, the area centered around a small hill in the middle, the land adorned with a great hulking statue of Malacath himself, keeping vigil over the slaughter that occurred beneath his stone gaze. The orcs numbered at least thirty here, all clearly trained warriors, armed by orcish smiths and fierce as the lord they served. The giants were dwindling, and they numbered six, no five, as one of them had just had his leg removed by the largest of the orcs, sending him to the ground on his back in a spray of blood. The orc warrioress, at least a foot taller than any of her fellows, leapt upon the giant’s chest, raised a massive battleaxe over her head, and brought it down into the giant’s, cleaving it vertically to the base of the neck.

Maya, having taken in the sight of the battle, immediately sprang into action, her left hand calling forth a dark magic while her right began conjuring. She tossed a spell towards the nearest fallen orc warrior even as her bound bow appeared in her right hand, glowing with otherworldly light. The deceased orc was lifted from the ground and placed firmly on his feet, his axe returning to hand, his eyes dead and unseeing, but his body obeying her will. He set off to hack at the nearest enemy in the rear as the witch pulled back the string, an arrow forming in place in her fingers, ready to be loosed. Her reasons for killing these orcs remaining her own, the Sellswords would have to fight as well, if for no other reason than the necromancer was about to draw a large portion of their aggression.

Adrienne wasn't unusued to the concept of necromancy; her people were notoriously-skilled conjurers, after all, and while her own skills ran more in the vein of bound weapons and atronachs, she knew well that his side of the art existed, and it didn't much surprise her that Maya used it. More problematic was the fact that they were just leaping into a fight completely unaware of what was even happening. She had no great familiarity with Daedra, but she knew enough to say that she was wary of being involved with anything so close to one of their shrines. Especially anything bloody, and especially anything she wasn't fully prepared to face the consequences of. Waltzing in here and indiscriminately killing anyone who got in their way was about the least-ideal plan she'd ever been forced to participate in, and it turned her stomach considrably.

Still, there was in one sense no mistaking what she was fighting for now: they'd drawn attention, and if they didn't defend themselves, her friends, her family, would die. Next to that, even the possible innocence of these orsimer only went so far. It was a part of herself that she wasn't proud of, but she'd done horrible things for the people she loved before, and she may yet have to do so again. With a deep breath, she summoned an ice atronach to her side, gesturing it forward to tear through a line of incoming orcs, but they would be no easy foes, of that, she was certain. One had only to look at all of the dead giants in the area to figure that out. That hand lit with an ice spell, frosting her near-impervious palms, but the other slid Redemption from its sheath, readying the sword for the inevitable possibility of close-quarters fighting. She'd be nothing on an orsimer in terms of size or strength, so she had to play to her good points: speed, and intelligence.

Soren, for one, didn't much care that he was effectively being forced into this fight. He would have picked it anyway, perhaps in smaller numbers, but they would have died all the same. It was what happened when you decided to hound him for seeing something he shouldn't have. Without much of a conscience left to bother with, he drew back on his elvish bow and picked a different target, launching an arrow for a nearby orc who was just turning around upon noticing the disturbance. The arrowhead bit with effortless precision into his eyesocket, sliding into one of the slits in his helmet as though the offending chunk of metal hadn't been there at all. A satisfied smirk curled the archer's lip upwards, and he wasted no time finding the next victim.

Sinder, on the other hand, was less ambitions with his shots, and aimed mostly for chests, throats, and exposed flesh. There was no mistaking that with these numbers, he and anyone else capable of it would be forced into melee eventually, but if they could soften the numbers somewhat beforehand, well... they increased their odds of survival, however marginally given the circumstances. He knew Maya wanted the orc chieftain dead, but perhaps the giants would withdraw once their foes lay slain. Fighting five of them did not carry good chances of living through the experience, that much was certain. Still whether to engage at all was no longer their choice to make; it had been made for them, not that he'd failed to expect as much. He wasn't a soft touch like Adrienne, not anymore, but even he felt some measure of distaste at what they were doing. Perhaps because he knew nothing of what was going on, and there was no guarantee they were intervening on behalf of the side they would have otherwise supported.

Necromancy. If Van was surprised, he didn't show it. His eyelids did slide down halfmast as Maya raised her first corpse. As a Dunmer, his kind was naturally averse to the necrotic arts, though Vanryth didn't particularly care. Just as long as the walking corpses didn't get in his way or cause him any trouble. He stepped forward beside Sinder and Soren as lightning began to arc between his fingers. The witch could hunt her prey if she wished it, Van didn't care, her blood had nothing to do with him anymore. He drew back his hand as he gathered the Magicka need for his spells. Lightning then arced from his fingers and into the fray below before arcing between a number of orcs. Another bolt followed that one, and he then drew his sword as lightning still popped in his other hand.

Lynly had followed the witch, sword and shield at the ready. She couldn't call the dead to her aid like the witch, she was too proud for such parlor tricks. She would win her own fights by her own hands, not by the rotting hands of thralls. However, that brought up another point. Was this her fight? Did she have anything at stake here other than mere curiousity? Why was she fighting? The witches words rang in her mind as she squared off against the first orc. What purpose would his death serve? What purpose would all their deaths serve? She brought her shield to bare the brunt of his greatsword, sending a shock through her entire frame. Was it some petty ideal of making it up to the witch? Some excuse to make herself feel better? It was weak. She was weak. Letting such thoughts, such emotions take hold of her mind in the middle of a fight. The orc's greatsword crashed against her shield again, pushing her back. The warrioress was pushed into the defensive, as the relentless assault of the orc continued, until he either broke her arm or he tired out. By the way he foamed at the mouth, his battle lust wouldn't subside until either everything was dead, or he was.

The Nord became frustrated. Frustrated at her own weakness of mind, frustrated of what had transpired, frustrated how easily she was thrown into turmoil. This was not how a true nord fought, she was not some mewling kitten, some girl who's feelings got hurt. She was a daughter of Skyrim, descended from a strong line of warriors and adventurers. Her goal was to write her story, a grand tale of adventure, of battle, of blood, not of weakness. She was a warrior. The greatsword came again, and instead of merely taking the blow, she pushed against it, a fire lighting in her eyes. The clash was great and ferocious, nocking the greatsword away like it was a kitchen knife. The sudden ferocity threw the orc off balance and caused him to hesitate. Long enough for Lynly to wail a Nordic battle cry, one that carried her and her ancestors past. Fear etched into the Orcs face as he took a step back. A step too slow as Lynly surged, bashing the flat of her shield against his face, and throwing him to the ground. The warrior ended the fight with a deep slash across his chest.

Emotions would no longer hold her back. She was a true daughter of Skyrim, and battle was in her blood. She would win the day, she would win her tomorrow, and she would find her story. She stalked deep into the fray to fight, her face solid and eyes wide, and she would prove her ancestors in Soverngard proud. She'd sing a tale of blood and victory today.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero Character Portrait: Soren Ivarsson
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Thirty orcish warriors all in the midst of a berserker rage is perhaps one of the most frightening sights one could see, and it was enough to get the two surviving giants to simply turn tail and flee. Unfortunately, the only way out was the way the Sellswords had come in, and as such the group now had two massive men barreling down on them, swinging great trees of clubs side to side as they went. The first actually went down before he could reach the Sellswords, the orcs hacking off his feet and sending him slamming face first into the dirt, before they set about removing him of his limbs and head. The second was luckier, or perhaps simply bigger, and was soon charging through where the Sellswords had mostly gathered, swinging at anything in range, mad with fear and the smell of blood.

The giants largely defeated, the berserkers turned their full attention on the Sellswords, axes and greatswords and great double-sided cleavers raining down upon them, not a single bow among them, heavy armor shielding them from returning blows. They gave about as much thought to fighting them as Maya had seemed to give in return, and that was none. They were so far gone to their bloodlust it was a small miracle they didn’t turn and start cleaving each other to bits. Perhaps it was their leader that kept their minds focused on the enemy, kept their rage centered into a focus.

The Bloody Curse was like a massive rock amidst the raging sea that was her warband, standing a foot taller than any of the rest, covered head to foot in blood and guts and mud and dirt, her command over her battleaxe making it seem a mere stick in her hands. In fact, if Maya had not told the group of her gender, she would easily have been mistaken for a man, so muscled was she, and so unrecognizable under the layer of gore.

Drayk had taken his position towards the front of the group, spewing flame at the nearest orc, only for the warrior to burst through it, axe overhead. The mage barely got his shield up in time to prevent his head from being cleaved open, but the force was enough to drive him backwards a good three or four steps. He was intimidated in a way even the dragon could not bring forth, surrounded by some of the best warriors in the world, and the fact that he was no great warrior himself was becoming apparent. The Mentor had distilled knowledge into him at a rapid pace, but courage took time. His had not reached this level just yet.

He enveloped himself in flames, the fires swirling and licking around him, eager hands reaching out for victims. The orc pressed his attack again, and Drayk met it, letting the fire wrap the pair of them in a deadly embrace. The orc did not feel the pain immediately, and perhaps he never did, but he eventually fell, only to rise moments later in a violet light as the witch returned him to his feet, the flaming corpse launching itself at former allies. “They are blind and stupid in their rage!” Maya shouted from the rear. “Use your wits, not your arms.”

"You mean raging orsimer lack intelligence? I'd never have guessed!" Soren replied facetiously, grinning rather too broadly for the situation, perhaps. Armored or not, they still had eyes, and he could leave them blind in more ways than one. For a moment, he didn't draw a new arrow, instead lighting a spell in one hand, of all things. Still smiling like a madman, he released it, abruptly disappearing from the field. Ordinarily, he considered invisibility in rather poor taste and preferred the challenge of simply sneaking past people, but this wasn't a heist, it was a fight, and he was going to get himself some superior positioning. Weaving in and out of the bull-rushing orcs, he flanked them, setting his position on the massive boulder near the shrine to Malacath. Uncaring of any implications that might have, he nocked three arrows to his bowstring at once and aimed high, launching them into the sky even as the shroud of his spell dropped away. It was still dark, and he was still behind them, so it'd be a while yet before he was noticed.

For what looked to be a random act of violence, the arrows had accuracy, one of them entering the juncture between a man's helmet and the back of his chestplate, and the other two striking less-vital areas on another. It wasn't bad, but he'd really prefer to give things a little extra... something. He didn't much go in for magic that wasn't illusion, but even a gifted child knew the most basic flame spell, and this he used to light his next shot on fire, aiming squarely for the crazy murderess. Of course, that she too was facing away from him meant that it wouldn't be finding her eye, which was rather a shame, but he aimed for the back of her knee. Armor, however well-made, still had to flex, and it was always weaker there. With a little luck, it might even hobble the nasty bitch. Before the flame could do any damage to the arrowhead or burn away the shaft, he let fly.

Using one's wits rather than one's arms would have been sound advice, were Sinder faced with anything other than a giant. Granted, being smart was still a good idea, but the giant was rather intent on leaving the area, and the Altmer had the misfortune to be directly in his way. Leaping to the side and tucking into a roll, he came up onto the balls of his feet even as the mighty club crashed into the ground where he had been mere seconds earlier. Abandoning the notion of fighting from a distance any longer, the elf drew his swords, assessing the situation for an opening. What he really wanted to do was duck in around its legs and slice along its achilles tendon, so as to bring it down swiftly. A protracted fight with one would merely increase the chance of someone getting hurt, and not just by the giant himself...

Luckily, he'd not have to fight the giant alone. Vanryth had been beside Sinder when the giant had charged, and had thrown himself in the opposite direction of the club. Instead of rolling up to his feet like the young Altmer, Van had managed to slide into a kneeling position, sword dug into the ground to stop the sliding. In the calm before the storm, the minute before the battle with the giant began, Van locked eyes with Sinder and then nodded. While he wasn't the agile or graceful fighter in the Sellswords, he could take a hit. He'd just hope that Sinder was fast enough so that he wouldn't get them both killed.

Lightning arced in his hand and the streaked toward the giant, drawing it's ire to him. Another bolt of lightning, in order to cement the giant's attention, and he swapped to his orcish blade and waited. It'd be foolish to rush a giant after all, and Van had hoped that the lightning would dissuade it from fleeing and instead attempt to squash him. By Azura, he hoped it would only be an attempt and nothing more. Being plastered by the club didn't seem like fun.

When the charge began in earnest, Adrienne had to admit, if only to herself, that she was afraid. But she'd been afraid before. This was exactly what masks were for: smoothing oneself free of such troublesome things until everyone, oneself included, believed that there simply were none. The one she wore now was perhaps the closest to frightening her own aspect could become, her face closed off, soft eyes hardened, grip firm on her sword. The first orsimer that charged for her, she dodged, darting to the side and spinning, sweeping low, so as to hack at the back of his knees, parting the flesh there and sending him to the ground. Doubling back with celerity, she drove the point of her sword into a less-protected spot at his waist, hitting his spine with uncanny precison. Few knew the body as well as an alchemist, after all, and she had always been a quick study.

Today would not be the first time she stepped into danger with little but her wits to her advantage, and she cast cold eyes over the field. There were simply too many, and they were approaching too fast. Clenching her free hand, she opened it again, sweeping it in front of her and covering the snow about herself with a thick sheet of hardened ice, the swath cutting at least ten feet in a broad arc from her position. Shoring her position carefully, she allowed the first few to tumble and slide past her, not wishing to interrupt their momentum, their own force working so insidiously against them. Well enough, for when one at last found himself on a collision course towards her, she was ready. The large shard of ice hurtled towards him, meeting his forward progress with enough impact to almost halt him on the ice, and then she leaped lightly onto the sheet, skating with much more grace towards him, grabbing his helmet and tossing it off to the side as she passed. Like that, half-dead and without any protection on his head, he'd be a prime target for an archer, or anyone who wanted to finish him.

As she reached the end of her ice, she produced more, creating herself a slick pathway across the field, diverting occasionally to throw more patches underneath the feet of incoming warriors, or to lay steel across this exposed neck or that bare shoulder; while most of them were heavily-armored, she was more than willing to exploit chinks here or there, or punish one for losing a piece in the fray. A humorless little smile turned her mouth up at the corner, and whatever part of her was softhearted and tender fell silent, at least for now.

Adrienne’s maneuver succeeded in bringing a pleased smile to Maya’s lips, and with her off hand she prepared a concentrated blast of lightning, unleashing it in the direction of the orsimer she had weakened and exposed. The bolt struck true in the warrior’s skull, causing him to spasm for a brief moment before his head popped and sent bits of skull and brain in a neat radius around him.

Soren’s arrow hit its mark in the back of the Bloody Curse’s leg, and though she did not howl in pain or cry out whatsoever, she wobbled awkwardly with her next step, seemingly unaware as to why one of her legs was no longer functioning very well. The witch had to assume she wasn’t feeling much of anything at all at the moment. But even slowed, the orc woman managed to move with speed comparable to that of her kin, hacking clean through the chest of the orc warrior Maya had most recently raised. Maya felt mostly drained at this point, and doubted she’d be able to raise another corpse. Best to keep the spellpower in reserve in case a lightning spell became necessary. In the meantime, she kept towards the rear, putting glowing arrows in targets when she could, and kindly allowing all of the others to take the hits in her place.

Drayk was doing a fair bit of that himself, his flames a protective wall wrapped around him. He had unintentionally made himself something of a beacon to the orcs, as the man on fire tended to stand out just about as much as the giant did. Still, with as quick of movements as he could muster and the knowledge of shield use that the Mentor had bestowed upon him, he had so far been able to avoid taking any major hits, or being surrounded.

At least until one axe-armed warrior barreled full-on into him, axe biting deep into his shield, the orc’s shoulder slamming into the wood and knocking Drayk over, the pair of them going to the ground in a fiery heap. The sensation of burning had been enough for Drayk to get the upper hand once he had been flattened, however, and he firmly took a hold of the orc’s throat before he could do much of anything, pushing and rolling so that he could get out from under him. Once the orc was on his back, an intense heat flowed out of Drayk palm and enveloped the warrior, and it was mere moments before he was melting inside of his own armor. The smell of burning flesh right in front of his face had almost been one Drayk had forgotten.

He was aware that his back was currently exposed to the enemy, however, and so his next move was to roll back over and unleash a cone of fire in the direction of the orcs, not bothering to aim or try to limit his output. The flame cloak made it difficult to see anything not immediately in front of him, and thus his instincts guided him into doing the safe thing, and burning whatever was in front of him, before it could have a chance at laying an axe into his head.

The numbers were against them, Lynly knew that. She couldn't just rush into the middle of the field and begin swinging her sword and shield. That's how fools and greenhorns died, and she was neither. She was a tested warrior, and she would not fall to the mere rage of an Orc. She dropped back behind her shield and stepped back to their lines, as scattered as that may have been at the moment. Two orcs converged on her, one wielding a warhammer and another a mace. Things did not look bright for her shield arm. She gently led them backward, leading them away from the bulk of their number. If she was to fend them off, then it'd do to not have any undue attention

She dug her heels in and waited patiently behind her shield, only her sky blues peering over the rim. She wasn't kept waiting long as they both attacked at the same time, warhammer coming from above and mace to the side. Instead of choosing one to block and taking the other, she opted to take a hop back, and dodging the blows. She would not be pushed back however, and once the weapons went wide stormed forward to her original position and slammed the edge of her shield into the chestplate of the warhammer wielding orc, the force of the momentum forcing him back and down. Even over the din of battle, she could sense the heaving of lungs. He'd be down for a while, perhaps just enough time to deal with the mace wielding orc.

She was not allowed the time to savor her small victory as a mace came from the side again. She twisted her whole body around and brought her shield to bear just in time. The rage driven mace sent needles of pain through her arm, but she was still alive, and her arm was in one piece. Once more, she set her heels and stood before the berserker's onslaught. Another mace blow from above, and another, and another. After the trio of blow and on the forth, instead of merely meeting it, she threw her shield against it. Her arm was wracked with pain again, but the force was enough to throw the orc off balance and send the mace flying. She took a step forward, slamming the edge of her shield into his throat. Hands went to his neck, as if trying to claw his way through his collapsed throat. He began to fall forward, just in time to fall on her blade.

She pulled her blade free, just in time to go up against a warhammer. Lynly hastily threw her shield up, but the force was much greater than the mace, cracking some bones in her wrist and bringing her to a knee. The orc was beginning to drop the final blow just as Lynly was pulling her sword back to pierce him. Though their blows were interupted by a gout of fire. The heat was sudden, engulfing Lynly's arm and the side of her face, while the orc was completely scorched. The nord threw herself to the ground to avoid taking any more fire damage, while the orc was burned in place. Once the fire subsided, the orc fell to his knees as Lynly raised herself to her own. The orc was still alive, but it was clear he was in no shape to continue. Lynly mercifully put the orc out of his misery with a stab to the heart.

She stood, throwing her shield to the ground and dipping into her reserves of magicka for a restoration spell. As she did, she yelled back to wherever the fire came from and barked, "Watch your aim boy!" Her voice was filled with a rage not like her, but the total disregard displayed by the boy enraged the disciplined warrior within. Luckily, the healing spell was steadily easing the burns and sapping the pain away.

Still working from her broad swaths of ice-slick snow, Adrienne might well have been a blur, skating past orsimer and ally alike as she flitted this way and that, picking off those foes which were not currently directly engaged with any of the others, but might be moving to reinforce their ranks elsewhere. She might not be much help in a direct fight, but this sort of fringe utility and strategy was very much in keeping with what she knew, even if the application was quite different indeed. Homing in on one in particular, the girl executed a light pirouette motion, which might have looked a bit silly, perhaps, but was entirely serious, considering the extra momentum it lent the slim sword in her hands. The blade cut deep, exploiting yet another armor-joint, and this one, she drew away from the main body of the fight, skating backwards mostly to keep an eye on him, but also because it was a little bit funny to watch the confusion turn to anger on his face at the apparent ease with which she moved around.

Even her considerable reserve of magicka wouldn't last forever, though, which was why she was trying to get this one apart from the rest. Unfortunately for her, perhaps, not all of the others were occupied, and as it turned out, a slip of a woman dashing around on the snow, leaving a steady trail of dark red behind her, while not as notable as a flaming man, perhaps, was certainly something one paid attention to if one was hit by her. As she hopped off the slick, she found herself with rather more company than expected, in the form of exactly five orcish warriors. All were to some extent maimed already, whether by her or someone else, but that didn't lessen the fact that she was thoroughly outmuscled here.

It was perhaps telling of how far into the psychology of battle she was that it didn't outwardly phase her at all. Inwardly, the story was a little different, and she hesitated for just a moment. It... wasn't really the same thing, was it? The purpose was completely different, and was it not the intent that made the action, for the most part? Would it be a little bit wrong? She might be able to live with that, especially if it literally saved her life. No, surely it wouldn't be the same. It couldn't. So why did those thoughts sound like hollow excuses, even when she heard them only in her own mind?

Her moment of indecision cost her, and two of the orcs coordinated an attack, one sweeping low with a wicked sword while the other brought a war-axe down in a brutal vertical arc. She was able to jump backwards and avoid both, but not with the proper forethought to make the motion at all graceful, and she wound up on her back, in the snow, at the feet of another. He wasted none of his time in contemplation, and his attempt to crush her skull with a mace was admittedly quite sincere. She rolled to the side inches before the first of the spikes met her nose, scrambling to her feet and staggering backwards several steps, fumbling at a belt-pouch she usually left closed. Her hands found the vial of the right shape with an ease too practiced, and she tossed it deftly, shattering it on the nearest one's face. There was a momentary delay, but the howling started up shortly thereafter, as the corrosive substance ate away at his eyes and the tender flesh of his mouth.

Perhaps the most horrible part of all was that she couldn't decide if she was entirely replused by that or not. Then he dropped his mace, dropping to his knees, and she felt her stomach turn as he clawed at himself, tearing his helmet off and trying to dilute the acid with snow. Small, small comfort that she hated it, then. His fellows, who had been for the barest moment just as engrossed in the sight as she, looked between one another then, as if forming some kind of unspoken consensus. The man with the sword raised it, the downstroke cleaving the fellow's head from his shoulders, and they turned to her as one. Adrienne, hands shaking, reached for a different vial, uncorking it and tipping the viscous contents down her sword. There was no mistaking, however, that the addition of a paralytic was just as likely to be futile as helpful. They were twice as angry as they had been, and there were still four of them. She wasn't so sure she was going to survive this.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero Character Portrait: Soren Ivarsson
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Vanryth's play at distraction was quite successful, and with the giant's attention focused almost solely on the Dunmer, Sinderion knew that time was short. He had to do some serious damage before the behemoth could bring that club down too close to his friend. Dropping into a crouch, the Altmer made a stealthy approach to the creature's flank, rising and darting in under its guard while it was still staving off the effects of the lightning. Sliging in behind it, he did not hesitate, driving one of his steel blades into the back of the giant's knee, and wrenching with the considerable strength packed efficiently onto his tall frame. The mortion jarred his shoulders, but he just threw his body weight into it, torquing his abdomen until the blade tore free of the muscles and tendons there. A nimble jump, and he was repeating the process on the other side, but by then the giant was no doubt aware of what was going on, and he had to abandon the sword and roll to the side to avoid another devastating blow from the club.

Still, there was no mistaking the fact that the creature was quite hobbled now, and its movement would be incredibly restricted, assuming it wasn't brought to its knees. Sinderion could not gauge what the attack would do until it had been done; he had no experience in confronting giants. At least none that he could remember. Either way, it seemed he was now playing the role of distraction, which should allow Van an opportunity to pummel away with his magic.

Now taking the role of the agressor, Vanryth closed the distance between the giant and himself, his blade glistening in the low light, patiently waiting for the chance to taste blood. Now that the giant had eyes only for Sinder, it gave him the chance to quickly approach without having to dodge the club. Agile as he was, he was not Sinderion, and he was not as quick as the boy was. Just watching the boy dance and roll around the giant would have tired him out, had he not the familiar feeling of adrenaline surging through his system. Sinder had managed to bring the giant to a knee, which made Vanryth's intent all that more easier to accomplish. He approached from the side in which the giant wielded his club.

A flash of his sword and a spray of blood later, and the giant no longer wielded the club, instead coming short a finger. The club clattered to the ground harmlessly, though he wasn't done yet. He vaulted onto the gaints arm and then used every muscle possible to clambor up and over the giants shoulders until Vanryth sat on the back of his neck. He then placed his free hand on the back of the giants head, igniting the sustained electricity spell. Van hoped the act would stall the giant from just grabbing him and chucking him like a rag doll. He also hoped Sinder would use this opportunity to do something-- as the idea of learning to fly didn't appeal to the landbound dunmer.

The electricity forced the giant's muscles to lock up, its mind no longer able to command its body effectively. It was all the opportunity the Altmer required. Taking a deep breath, Sinderion backed up several paces, aware that he didn't have long to accomplish something important. Having been liberated of the longer of his blades, he was left only with the shorter, more dagger than sword. At present, it was the one he'd prefer to have anyway, and he flipped it in his hand until the base of the blade rested delicately between his first two fingers. With a sharp flick, he sent it flying, end over end, until it embedded itself with a solid thunk at the base of the giant's throat. The creature's skin was tough, and no doubt an actual fatality would require much more force, but he'd planned for that, and he was off after the steel projectile like a shot from a bow, quickly reaching a risky velocity. Risky, because what he was about to do would test the limits of his body quite thoroughly, and the beast may well be justified in deciding he needed its assistance.

He didn't. He couldn't, and if this wasn't so damn important, he wouldn't even be attempting it. Still in a full-out sprint, he gathered his legs beneath him and sprang, momentum carrying him forward as strength propelled him higher. He alighted on the crook of the creature's slightly-bent elbow, pushing off that at an angle to take him past the neck and the dagger in it. Twisting his body, he slammed a heel into the hilt of the knife, burying it in the extra five or so inches, feeling the jarring reverberation through his whole body as the end of it scraped against the first few vertebrae of the spine.

"Off!" he barked tersely to Van, as much a warning as he had time to give. His landing, he'd thought through even less than his approach, and unless he wanted to land on his back or his neck, he'd need yet more acrobatics. Luckily, his angle off the blow hadn't been too awful, and he was able to complete a full backwards rotation, landing heavily but safely in the snow, only to roll immediately out of the way of the inevitable fall. A mighty one it was, too, as the combination of electricity and a critical wound to an artery in its neck proved too much. Slowly, with an air of great ponderousness, he tipped forward, crashing into a snowbank as though it had been choreographed that way.

At the command, Vanryth drew up his heels to the shoulders of the giant and pushed, flinging him off behind the giant and nudging it into it's forward fall. Again, the dunmer displayed his amazing lack of grace dispite his elven linage, and instead of rolling into a ball and making it to his feet, he more or less planted himself in the snow before scrambling away a distance from the giant. Pushed it forward he might had, but the chance that fate would forgo that and topple the giant on him was still ever present. He never did have the best of luck after all. It stark contrast to the agile and graceful sight of Sinder just slipping away, compared to Vanryth who on all fours padded off.

A hand missed and he fell to his shoulder, rolling to his back. Luckily, the giant didn't collapse on top of him and Sinder was alive. Good news abound as his head dropped back into the snow where he just laid for a moment. He was getting too old for these young man's antics.

Sinder, slightly favoring one leg, spotted his friend over a ways and picked his way over, heedless of the red snow that coated his boots. Wordlessly, he offered a hand to Van, so as to help the other man leverage to his feet. There was little he could do to ease anybody's physical maladies, but he could manage this much, at least. Vanryth shot him a look of utmost tiredness, eyelids hanging in halfmast before he accepted the hand and drew himself back to his feet. He put the ball of his fist in the small of his back as he followed Sinder away from the giant's corpse.




Watching this little band try to coordinate itself, Soren wondered if they were even capable of seeing the big picture. Certainly, the two men were at least able to coordinate with one another, but the rest were running around more or less on their own, and the battlefield was a chaotic mess, full of openings and flanking opportunites that they were frankly lucky the orcs were too stupid to take advantage of.

Scratch that, the young one was not that fortunate after all, and quickly found herself surrounded. She threw something, which resulted in one of the men screaming bloody murder and dropping to his knees, forcing his comrades to kill him. That still left four though, and he wondered if he shouldn't charge for his mercy, as keeping any of them alive was never part of the deal. Still, he nocked an arrow to the string, unable to resist the taunt that followed. "You know, gorgeous, I don't normally do this for free, but it'd be a damn shame if they mauled that face of yours, hm?" The arrow flew, striking one of the remaining orcs in the back of the neck, that irresistable joint where helmet failed to quite meet chainmail.

From there, though, he turned his attentions back to the Bloody Curse, aware that she had yet to select a target from among them. Though he did not by any means desire to be that target, all things considered, he knew it was practically better if it were him than a boy who couldn't control his own damn fire, a waif of a girl without much staying power, one of two people already engaged with a giant, or a mage. The nord woman was probably optimal, but it hardly mattered since none of them would last five seconds against Rikka in a no-holds-barred melee. Hence, the attempt to bring her down from afar before she had the chance to engage in that sort of thing.

Words, as much insult as compliment, were something she had not expected, but she could not deny that one less opponent was a mighty relief. Adrienne could not draw her attention from the other two to fire back, either, as may have otherwise been her wont. It had been long since she'd last held a purely verbal match with someone, and this Soren seemed ever-inclined to them. She might have even appreciated that, were his tongue not already proving a problem on some other counts. As things were, she had not the time to devote to such thoughts, and simply accepted the boon for what it was-- a favor, unlikely to be repeated.

Darting forward with all the speed and suddenness she possessed, Adrienne feinted for the vulnerable line between neck and shoulder on one of her foes, turning the blade aside at the last second to hit the inside of his elbow instead. The blow was precise enough to slice through the leather strapping that held his elbow armor in place and flay delicately into the skin and tendon beneath, but it was no mistake to say that it was glancing at best. The man looked down at it, then back up at her, chuckling darkly. Adrienne simply smiled, as if, in fact, yes, it had been rather silly of her, hadn't it? But of course, as was always the case in situations to her advantage, she knew something that man did not, and when he next went to heft his axe, he found that arm to be quite useless, hanging at his side as though the limb of a dead man.

And one of those, he would surely soon be. Ducking to the side whipchord-quick, the girl evaded the blow incoming to the left, intent on finishing off the paralyzed one before the poison wore out. Small amount as it was, it would not stop his heart outright, and her brews had ever been designed with delay in mind, and death only in the highest doses. Dancing around the third's attempted shield bash, she nevertheless gasped in pain when it clipped her hip, spinning her about ninety degrees as it struck too closely to where the dragon's claw-marks were still tender and scarring on her torso. Frantically, she shoved the end of her blade into the juncture between chin and throat, up into the paralyzed man's head, then snaked the blade out with a slick squelch.

That was one down and two to go, but things were looking less well when those two attacked in tandem, one moving high, and one low. Jumping back wasn't exactly an option, as one of those attacks was hooking around from behind, and she bit her tongue hard enough to draw blood when her vertical hop evaded the mace to her knees but not the sword to her shoulder. Stumbling backwards, she tried to regain her balance, but was tripped when the mace-wielder, unperturbed by his miss, simply swung back the other way and swept her legs out from under her entirely, landing her flat on her back with a profusely-bleeding shoulder and an aching side.

If one thing was on the Sellswords' side, it was that berserker rage or no, these orcs were tired. They had trekked across half of the Rift after finding their home obliterated, perhaps even fighting in that battle, and then carving their way through at least a dozen giants while wearing heavy orcish armor, equipped with naught for weaponry but their axes, swords, hammers, and rage. They were slowing, and while still very dangerous and very skilled, it was playing a major role in the fight, and their numbers were dwindling.

Given a moment to take a look around, it did not take long for Drayk to spot Adrienne's predicament, nor did it take long for him to react, his feet digging into the ground and propelling him towards the two orcs. His flame cloak faded just as he reached them, though whether or not this was a conscious act of his was unclear. He slammed shield first into the back of the one wielding the sword, the pair of them going to the ground, the intense impact of the collision jarring the fire mage. A quick punch from the orc slammed into his jaw, lighting stars in his eyes, but Drayk was quick to return the blow by laying his palm across the orc's face, and an agonized wail followed his helm was melted onto his face.

A struggle followed, Drayk fighting to keep the warrior pinned and keep the deadly heat flowing from his hand. His efforts were rewarded with an orcish sword sinking in under his left ribs, bringing a grimace to his face and cutting off the fire. Before anything worse could be done, however, Drayk brought the rim of his shield down in a punching motion at the orc’s softened helm and skin, the first blow stunning the orc, the second denting his skull, and the third crushing through it to the ground, spattering him with gore. The sword he was quick to pull from his side, hissing at it went, before he pushed himself away, reigniting his flame cloak in a more violent manner this time, the fire whipping out wildly all about him in at least a five foot radius, Drayk himself staggering to a knee and clutching his side, the fire a defense against anything remaining that would wish harm upon him. It was a panicked maneuver more than anything, his instincts of self-preservation breaking through loud and clear, and demanding an assurance that enemies would burn before they got near him.

Drayk's intervention left Adrienne with but one foe to contend with, though admittedly she did not know that until she managed to scramble to her feet, profoundly-sore and tiring fast from the blood loss. Her vision swam in front of her, and she blinked several times to clear it, steadying her grip on her blade. Thankfully, the fact that she seemed to keep winding up in the freezing snow was of little concern. Small and not-Nord as she was, years of favoring frost magic had left her with a bit of resistance to the effects of the cold, something which one could put to great use in Skyrim.

Within a few seconds, the four identical orcs in front of her eyes resolved into one more steady image, who wasted little time in worrying over the state of her comrade and charged the Breton girl, war-axe in one hand now coupled with green-metal knife in the other. What had the Mentor told her about situations like this? There were ways to overcome large enemies with more weapons than you, she was just having difficulty remembering. The orsimer was fatigued as well, and moving much more slowly than she likely had been at the beginning of the fight. Maybe not quite slow enough for Adrienne to take advantage of, as her shoulder forced her to hold her sword in her off-hand, which she usually reserved for magic. Her frost atronach was still fending off a few enemies elsewhere, so it would be of no help. Her magicka reserves were low, bordering on depleted, so it had to be something basic, something practically innate.

With a quick thought, Adrienne moved the magic to her injured side, reaching just inside herself for the most innate spell of all, the one that connected almost directly to her being. In better condition, she would have been able to manage two, and they would have been on fire, no less, but for now, one familiar was enough. She only needed a distraction, after all.

It was taught to her that the shape of one's soul changes as its character does. When she'd first called this power to her, the resultant manifestation had a look much akin to a smug, slinking fox. These days, it most often took the shape of a large crow. Perhaps it was related to her desire to be free, or her self-loathing for the time she'd spent essentially a scavenger, perhaps not. Symbolism was for writers and people who had time to think about it, not battlefields. As it was, the creature winked into existence, and with a caw, rushed the orc charging for her. Weak as it was, it fell relatively easily under the weight of the axe, but not before giving her enough time to dart in and take advantage of the distraction, stabbing up into the orsimer's sternum. It was enough, and the woman fell, leaving her to turn and try to thank Drayk while no more presently surrounded them.

What she saw wasn't quite reassuring. She was opening her mouth to speak when he burst into flames, more or less. Though she knew this to be relatively harmless to him, she was forced to take a couple of steps backwards, or else face a repeat of what had happened in the fight with the dragon. One sleeve of her robe, already largely tattered and in serious need of repair, singed, and she immediately plunged that arm into the snow to stop the smoulders from catching properly. From that crouched position, she remembered herself and found her voice. "Drayk? Drayk, it's fine, you're fine! Nobody's here but me right now, and I think I need your help. Can you take down the flame cloak, please?" A glance at the snow beside her confirmed her suspicions: it was dyed a deep red, and a good portion of that was hers. She might have tried to stand, but she wasn't sure she'd make it back up without fainting from the blood loss, and now that the adrenaline was slowly leaving her, the wound was beginning to hurt in a way past simple aching.

She swayed uncomfortably on the balls of her feet, trying to remember if she had any healing potions left. That the answer eluded her was perhaps equal evidence for the severity of their recent trials and her current fragile state of consciousness.

It took a moment for Drayk to remember why exactly he'd come running over here. He just remembered a life or death struggle with an orc, that overwhelming need to shroud himself such that nothing could touch him without burning. At first, Adrienne's voice was akin to an ember floating around in a forest fire, but eventually it took hold, the stress in her tone breaking through to him. Soon all that was left was the crackling of the Orsimer corpse beside him, the body having lit when he'd ignited his flame cloak. Drayk needed only to see the amount of blood, and the way she was swaying about, to know the urgency, and how much he was needed here.

He did a fair bit of swaying himself when he stood and moved towards her, his shield cast to the ground so that he might clutch his side with his left arm, leaving his right free for the casting that would be necessary. He didn't know how much was left in him, but he would be using all of it here, he had no doubt. Drayk made it nearly to Adrienne before he stumbled and fell forward, catching himself on hands and knees. At that point, it was the best he could do to sit back on his heels, beckoning slightly, his voice coming out rather hoarse. "Come... here. I might have enough magic for the two of us."

Enough... magic? The words filtered too slowly through her mind, and Adrienne resisted the urge to shake herself. That... was only likely to make things worse, right? It was so hard to tell... She settled for blinking, and trying to think. There was something she could help with, she was almost certain. Grey-fog-silence pressed in around her like something palpable, nearly cutting her off from the outside world entirely, but something sharper, more acute and focused, kept it at bay, if only just. Healing. That's what he was talking about. Could she help with that? She'd tried to, once, but... something had happened, hadn't it? The fog pushed back, and she fought the rising tide of panic in her throat.

Not that. Something else. Something else she could do. Why was it so hard to think?

By chance, her hand brushed something at her hip as she half-dragged herself forward, and she paused as this triggered some other thought. Bulb and stem. Why does that matter? But it did, and so she reached into the satchel there, feeling around until she had what she wanted, then withdrew it with a shaking hand. Blue. Yes, surely that was right. She held it out to him, still coherent enough to manage a few words with reasonably-steady clarity. "Yourself first. You need... to be able to concentrate. I'll... I'll live." Not the most eloquent phrasing she'd ever used, but sensible enough for the present. At least she hadn't come right out and said that his life meant more to her than hers did. Maybe, she speculated in the detached manner of one in extreme pain, that was why she even kept on doing this. Because they meant that much to her. Or because he did. Or because she wasn't good, and could only be worse without them. It was difficult to say.

Drayk did not hesitate to take the magicka potion, quickly uncorking and downing it. He probably would have argued some over who should be healed first, but he also didn't want to waste the time. She was right, focus was necessary here, and so he closed his eyes, taking his hand off his bleeding side and raising both palms upwards. He tried to calm himself, clear the thoughts from his mind, but it was little use. He summoned a healing spell nevertheless, only to be confused when he didn't immediately feel the sensation wash over his body. He opened his eyes to a glow in his peripherals, and quickly determined that both of his arms were on fire. He shouted slightly in alarm, calling the flames back into his palms, before banishing them entirely. He blinked in surprise, too tired to try and figure out why that had just happened. Shaking the cobwebs he imagined in his mind, he tried again, and this time his hand lit with white light, a glow surrounding him, the familiar feeling of a heal spell returning.

He waited only as long as necessary for him to regain enough strength to stand before stopping, pushing to his feet and standing before Adrienne, gently healing her shoulder and side as best as he was able in the moment, allowing her to lean on him if she needed to. "This'll have to do for now, I may need to save some for the others. Will you be alright?"

The offer of support was most welcome, half-slumped as she was already. In the end, Adrienne was able to push to her feet, the shoulder-wound closed, but not fully healed. That was all right; at least her mind was shaking off the last of the persistent fog. "I'll be fine. Thank you, Drayk." Her fatigue was more evident in her tones now, the last few sylables trailing off into a near-whisper of sound. But she was alive, and it was time to make sure the others were, too.




Meanwhile, the witch was none too pleased to see that her intended prey, the Bloody Curse, had chosen to hunt the hunter. Rikka had her eyes locked on Maya, narrowed slits on each side of the nose guard of her orcish helmet. Maya’s immediate response was to back up while firing arrows, three to be exact, all finding the mark, one in the orc’s stomach, one in the gap in the armor at the underarm, and a third deviously placed just above the thigh plate, near the groin. The orcish berserker was dripping blood everywhere by the time she closed the gap, most of it probably not her own, considering the amount of blood she was covered in, but at least some, enough to where she was slightly slower than she had first appeared.

Maya banished her bow, no longer useful as it was, and instead lit lightning spells in each hand, lowering her base and preparing to dodge. A single blow from that axe would cleave her in two, she knew, and thus her agility was about to become very important. The first swing came diagonally down, and Maya sidestepped. The attack was immediately followed by a backswing, Rikka’s recovery time from the first swing seemingly nonexistent. The cut came horizontally, aiming to slice her head clean off, and Maya was forced to bend over backwards, the flat axe face passing inches above her face. Not letting up her offensive, Rikka continued the attack with a quick spin, letting the weight of the axe carry into her next strike, a pommel thrust that caught Maya in the stomach hard, her wind leaving her with a grunt, and her feet leaving the ground, the force of the blow enough to knock her to her back.

She rolled over once, ending perhaps conveniently on her back, as she was able to send twin lightning bolts into the Bloody Curse’s chest, slowing her enough for the witch to roll out of the way of the down stroke that cut a foot into the snow and dirt beneath her. Acting quickly, Maya conjured a quick dagger, having the idea that her axe would be quite awkward to use in extreme close quarters. She plunged the glowing purple blade into the back of the other knee, the one Soren hadn’t shot, and the second hobbling strike was enough to bring the orc warrioress down to her knees. Ripping the knife free, Maya rose to her own knee level, going quickly for the throat, an attack which hit a stone wall that was Rikka’s forearm. The orc had dropped her axe and gone for her own knife, something Maya wished she’d seen coming as she wasn’t able to move out of range of a stab to the right side of her abdomen. She gasped as the pair fell to the snow, the Bloody Curse’s armored weight crushing down on her and the knife in her side.

With whatever magicka remained to her she looked left and found a corpse. By the time it reached its feet the snow around the two was dark with blood dripping from the both of them. Rikka’s single-minded rage prevented her from seeing it coming until an orcish axe was buried in her back. She cried out, feeling pain at last, ripping the knife free from Maya and turning on the risen corpse. By some bizarre roll of the dice her undead servant managed to preempt Rikka’s strike, the next axe swing slicing the orc’s hand clean off to a stump. That didn’t stop the Bloody Curse from closing in further, wrapping her good arm around the corpse’s head and twisting until the head was on backwards, and the minion fell. Weaponless and likely delirious, Rikka returned to Maya, still lying in the snow, dropping a gauntlet to her throat and squeezing, her strength letting Maya do little other than struggle pointlessly.

Lynly had dispatched another Orc, though taking her time and allowing the berserking warrior to do most of the work for her. She wasn't stupid, they were outnumbered-- were, she had lost count a while ago, so whether the case still stood or not remained to be seen. She'd need to save her strength else she would tire out and a tired warrioress was the same as a dead one. She had picked her shield back up, and despite the bones in her hand still mending from a healing spell, she had built a fortress behind the metal disk. Rage had carried the orc too far, taking one too many steps forward. A simple dodge from Lynly and a focused effort brought the orc down.

A long exhale and she turned back to the battle at hand. Maya's battle rather. The witch seemed to have bitten off more than she could chew with the Bloody Curse. Taking on a warrior like that small as she was, Lynly took her for crazy and decided to see if the witch could use assistance. Of course, that meant she'd have to wade over to the battle, and through another orc warrior. So be it. She raised her shield and took a steadying breath. She issued a challenge, banging her sword on her shield as she approached the orc. Gaining his attention, the nord and orc squared off-- all for about a couple of seconds. In a split second, Lynly positioned her shield primarly on her shoulder and charged.

Blood drunk as he was, the Orc was to slow to react to the charging nord and was thrown to the ground. Lynly replied with a steel boot to the temple, if not outright killing him, knocking him out for the duration of the battle. She then approached the pair of Curse and Witch, of which the former was attempting to choke the latter to death. Intervention from Lynly would see to it that the Witch saw her hunt through. A rising uppercut from her shield met the Bloody Curse's head, attempting to use brute force to get the orc off of the girl.

"I thought you were the hunter," Lynly said.

Lynly's attack had worked well on the Bloody Curse, the orc giving a low grunt as her weight was forcibly removed from Maya, who gasped for air the moment she was able. She made no immediate attempt to reply to Lynly, her eyes alight with a sort of anger that could only be brought in such a tense moment. After scrambling away, and throroughly ignoring the wound in her side, she reached a hand into her satchel, retrieving one small vial of blue liquid, all that she would need. After downing the liquid, sparks lit at her fingertips, and then a storm exploded from her hands, forks of lightning stabbing through the armored orc woman, who convulsed with at the attack, body wracked with intense pain. Only when her skin was smoking did Maya relent, and Rikka was allowed to fall to her back in the snow, breathing heavily and making no further attempts to move, the blood running freely from her stump of a right arm.

The witch, still fuming, took the moment to retrieve a larger vial of red liquid from her bag, which took her slightly longer to drink. The healing potion helped to stop the blood flowing from her side, even if it didn't completely mend the wound. It was more than enough to go on. It was at that point, now that she was satisfied her target would no longer struggle, that she acknowledged Lynly with a small smile, one that carried a mix of relief, self-satisfaction, and a hint of deviousness. "I'll admit, my experience hunting seven foot tall axe wielding orc berserkers is woefully limited." Her thanks were in her eyes, if not her words, but soon enough she turned them away from Lynly, and towards Rikka gra-Tagrin.

Soren, damn opportunist that he was, flickered into view just then, Imperial steel drawn and hovering about the Bloody Curse's back, but something that he saw when he happened to glance over at the two women gave him pause. With a lofty sigh, he rolled his eyes and stepped back. "I suppose this is personal, is it, beautiful?" He seemed quite unconcerned with the answer, however, and merely retreated a few steps, not stupid enough to take his eyes off the downed warrior for a moment. As far as he knew, she could spring back up again at any moment, and frankly he wasn't willing to be unprepared for that. So even when a great crash sounded from the other side of the makeshift gladiatorial arena they'd created, he didn't blink, unwavering emerald stare fixed on the orsimer before them.

Off in one corner, it would seem as though the last of the orcs were getting pummelled under the gargantuan fist of an ice atronach, and the rest of the field had fallen almost eerily quiet, the only audible things to his ears the crackling of flames and the low murmur of voices from some undefined location behind him. Fitting enough; something about the settling of a grudge was potent enough to demand near-silence, if indeed that's what this was. It certainly appeared that way, but maybe he was projecting now. He did have that habit from time to time.

"To be honest," Maya admitted, "this isn't personal at all. Still, it'd be best if I finished her off, I think." Her confidence returned with her victory, the witch stepped lightly over the snow to the Bloody Curse's side, bending over to pull her helmet off. Rikka's face was a sheet of blood, mostly not her own, and she turned her head to cough out a globule of it when Maya tossed the orcish helm aside. Into her hands Maya called her bow once again, quickly pulling the string back even as an arrow formed in place. "I've heard some warriors wish for their last words to be remembered," she commented. "Would you like me to remember yours?"

Well, if it wasn’t personal, that was an insane level of loyalty to one’s employer. Either she was being paid a hold’s worth of gold (and one of the big ones, at that), or else there was an equally-compelling reason to charge into a damn war between crazed giants and crazier orsimer. Not many things could provoke a reasonable person to do that, though he supposed that entailed assuming Maya was sane. Maybe unsafe, given all of this, but the opposite wouldn’t be a bad thing, necessarily. He’d run with some crazy folk before; it might be fun to do so again, as long as he didn’t make the same mistakes. Unlikely; Soren was a man who learned his lessons flawlessly, really.

The orc quite nearly sighed. "The Blackfeather didn't think she could finish her hunt on her own, I take it?" The corner of Maya's lips curled up. "It was never forbidden, and only a fool would hunt prey such as yourself without company." Rikka spat out more blood, her gaze not wavering from the ethereal arrow trained on her forehead. "And the giants? Were they your doing as well? You thought to destroy my home and my family, force me into battle to weaken me, then strike when I was vulnerable?"

Maya's smile faltered only slightly, her tone more serious. "No, I had nothing to do with that. I can't deny the effectiveness of my timing, but I would have preferred to avoid slaughtering family. I know that pain, and it is not one I would wish upon others." The Bloody Curse seemed to believe her, and she huffed a few breaths, preparing herself. "Then you are not in the wrong here. You have done as you should, and bested my warriors and I. Take your kill and press on. There is no better place to die than by Malacath's side."

The revelation about the giants wasn’t exactly unexpected; the orsimer weren’t usually stupid enough to go seeking out those buggers if they could be left in peace. Especially not when their families were involved. Smarter than I was. The thought was terse, bitter, and dropped Soren's face into an automatic scowl. Let anyone curious assume it was from the further mystery or something.

They locked eyes for a brief moment, and then Maya loosed the arrow, letting it thrum into Rikka's skull, ending her life. When she was certain the Bloody Curse was gone, Maya turned to the others, gathered about the scene. "Well, glad that's done. You all fought well out there. Glad I brought you along."

”I can think of a few better places,” Soren muttered darkly, but timed it after the arrow struck, apparently by sheer coincidence.

Sinderion, at this point drawing up to the main group of the others, looking bruised and exhausted but otherwise unharmed, shot a glance at the man, but it quickly refocused on Maya. ”We did, and you should,” he agreed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Despite the heaviness of his limbs, he felt quite alive just beneath his skin, and it was making him irritable. He knew why, and didn’t like it at all. ”Have we yet earned the consideration of walking with sight, or would you have us remain blind and hunt more without answer?” his tone, while relatively mild, was clipped, and for Sinderion, quite close to upset. He could smell the blood of his friends, and it was not sitting well with him, even less than usual because this had not been their fight, and their participation just short of coerced.

No sooner had he said it than another voice spoke, not belonging to one of the group, but from slightly beyond. "And the deed is done..." Maya peered in between two of her companions to see a dark-haired Imperial man roughly of her height standing alone in the snow, a hood up over a pale, lightly bearded face. He was not physically imposing, and only light leather armor protected him beneath a black cloak. His eyes had almost a yellowish hue to them, and an undeniable glint. Maya found herself smiling in spite of the atrocities she had just seen and participated in.

"I thought we might find you here, Shade."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero Character Portrait: Soren Ivarsson
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“Your timing was excellent, my dear,” the Shade said to Maya with an undeniably charming smile. “A perfectly executed plan, I think. The giants performed admirably, and you came along just in time to clean up the mess.” His demeanor perhaps could not be described as happy, but perhaps exhilarated was a more effective word. Eyeing a few of the Sellswords quickly, he then shook his head.

“Forgive me, I seem to be forgetting myself in the moment. I am Tarquin Aurelius, called the Shade, representative of Nocturnal in the Game of the Shadow, son of the Master, brother of the Light, and a man who loves it when a plan comes together like that.” He introduced himself with a small flourish of his hand, before coming slightly closer, quite uninvited. “Now, I imagine you have a few questions for me. Lovely Maya can’t have told you much, if she got you to come here and fight orcs for her. I hope she didn’t promise your dear Mentor to you? I would hate to dash such hopes, but sadly I was forced to deliver him elsewhere.”

"I've had enough of Daedra Lords for today," Lynly muttered under her breath, much to Van's grunting agreement. Between the Witch's Hircine, the Orcs' Malacath, and now this stranger's Nocturnal. Both individuals had enough of Daedra Lords stringing them along. The fact that they may be involved in some kind of fantastical game did cross Vanryth's mind, and that thought did little to ease the weariness and the embers of rage in him. His stance was tense as he stood beside Sinder, waiting for one of his other companions to ask the questions he couldn't. Lynly stood apart from the group, sitting on her haunches with her weaponry laying on the ground beside her. A faint glow from her hands was easing away the injuries she may have missed, but she too listened intently to the man's honeyed words.

There was an incredible amount of information alluded to in that statement, but Sinderion was finding it hard to care about the majority of it. That this man, who had caused them so much trouble already, could just appear in front of them and behave as though everything was all sunshine and roses was setting his teeth on edge, rankling something in his stomach until it turned sour. His irritated post-battle (but far from post-adrenaline) state wouldn't allow him any option but cutting straight to the point-- one way or another. "Spare us your pretty words. Where, and why?" These people could play all the foolish games they wanted, entangle themselves with Daedra and darkness and whatever other sins they wished. All he wanted was to find the Mentor and go home, before something snapped and he lost what of himself remained.

"Ah, but my pretty words have power, don't they? You may not want to, but you'll watch them dance before your eyes anyway, you'll let them drag you along through the mud and be silent about it, because my pretty words are all you have to go on right now." Maya looked to be considering putting a hand on Sinder's shoulder, but decided against it, instead crossing her arms. "That... was probably not the most delicate way of wording it, but he's right. I don't think anyone else knows how you can find your Mentor." She looked to the Shade. "I told them next to nothing, Shade, and they followed on the faint hope they might find him here. I thought it best for my chances that way. The more they knew, the less likely they would have been to assist me."

"Wiser than your years as ever," the Shade commented. "As for your question, brute, I cannot answer the where, for that would interfere with the why. He is the final destination, not the first. There are many places we must visit first, many sights to see, many people to kill. Such is the nature of the Game that you and I will be a part of."

Pretty words but no substance for a man who has been stringing them along by the short hairs. The gall of the man to just appear after a hard fought battle just to wax poetic about useless nothings. It had the hairs on the back of Van's neck stand up in fury as his hands clenched and unclenched, trying to find an outlet for his fire. Only the faintest chance that this man could tell them where the mentor was stayed his hand, though he was unsure for just how long. However, much to his anger, a clear answer wasn't forthcoming. Only calling Sinder a brute, many riddles tied up with enigmas, and punctauted with the allusion to a game.

A game? Did this man really believe this was some damn game? They were clearly in no mood to play his game, yet he spoke as if they had no choice, as if they were compelled to play his game. The nerve, it stoked the flames. How many hoops were they to jump through? How many more riddles do they have to solve? How many more battles do they have to risk themselves in until they can get a bloody straight answer? It was almost too much for Van to handle. There was a moment of silence, a calm before the storm. Van made no move, nor did he make a sound, only his breathing was heavier than normal.

He had reached his breaking point, and the demon of his youth broke it's rusty cage. Rage and anger engulfed his mind and carried his feet forward a step, hellbent on beating the Shade senseless. He was tired of the riddles, and he was tired of the game. He wanted the Mentor, and he wanted to go home. The flames had surged and if not restrained soon, would try to beat the man into a puddle, like so many others in his youth.

For once in her life, Adrienne was not the first person to jump into a situation like this with ready-made words, and it made the response of the group more... visceral, certainly, but also more honest. Unfortunately, it was undoubtedly not the right way to approach this situation. It was no secret that they were tired, hurt, and probably of the right mind to just get their Mentor back and leave, but it was also clear from the obvious strength and complexity of this setup that things would not be happening that way, not while the other players still held all the cards. She was about to speak when Van lunged, and though her body was still tired and sluggish, it was probably safe to say that his was, too, and she managed to get herself in front of him, spreading her arms to block his forward progress as much as anyone so small could hope to.

"Van, wait, please!" The words were a bit too loud in the clearing, but she could either modulate properly or ensure she was heard, and the latter seemed more important. "I know this isn't what we want, but we have no other choice. They have all the information, and we have none. If we want to get the Mentor back, we must hear this man out." She glanced over the Dunmer's shoulder, trying to make eye contact with Drayk or Sinder. Chances were good that if he wanted to, Van could simply ignore her, and she had not the strength to do anything about that. A spell was an option, but she was very depleted and didn't much like the idea of manipulating a friend's mind like that.

Adrienne's appearance and words had managed to slow him for a moment, but the fires were lit and nothing short of an razing would quell it. After his momentary hesitation he roughly pushed through the breton girl in order to get to his shade.

If the Shade hadn't been able to react, Adrienne's intervention had certainly changed that, and when the Dunmer pushed past her to strike him, he was more than prepared. Drayk had come forward to restrain Van too late, but the Shade simply darted around the punch, lighting a spell in his right hand, which he touched to the side of the Dunmer's head. The calm spell was quickly cast, and very powerful in its concentration. "Be still. Be passive. Be gone." His spell was more or less designed to remove thoughts of any kind from Vanryth's head, for at least the time it would take to finish this conversation. Once he was quite certain Vanryth would not move to strike him further, he turned to the others. "I have stilled his mind, but it will return, unlike his tongue. If anyone else thinks to beat the Mentor's location out of me, they would do well to know that I have simply no fear of anything that any of you can do to me. You cannot kill me, for I am your only link to your goal, but know that while I would value the use of tools such as yourselves, I do not need you, and will not hesitate to leave you in this wasteland if I see fit. Are we clear?"

Sinderion had no interest in answering such a question, and he was much more concerned with the present state of his friend. He was willing to bet that when that spell wore off, Vanryth would need to be somewhere away from anyone that did not wish wrath upon themselves. The Altmer could take a few spells or blows if he had to, and he could also hear the conversation from a much greater distance than anyone else, so it only made sense that he take his comrade elsewhere for a while. If his desire to do so also had something to do with getting himself away from a person who was practically asking to be assaulted, well, he wasn't about to mention it.

Clasping the Dunmer on the shoulder, he shot the Shade an unmistakably dirty look, but said nothing, his upper lip half-lifting in what might have been a snarl, had he been just a little further pushed. But this was more important, and he was still wise enough to know that. It didn't mean he could manage the careful phrasing and delicacy necessary to accomplish this, but he trusted Adrienne and Drayk to manage more than either himelf or a mute, angry Van would have been able, and steered the other man some distance off. If that bastard had been lying, and he saw no indication of his friend's mind returning within good time, however... well, he might not care how confident the Shade was anymore.

Adrienne added a few new bruises and yet one more humiliating fall to her abnormally-high tally for the day and sighed softly. This situation was far from ideal, but at least she might be able to carry on a conversation with the Shade now, unpleasant as she found the idea. A concerned gaze followed Van and Sinder away from the rest, but the Altmer seemed to have things more or less in-hand. Biting her lower lip, she pushed herself back to her feet and attempted to brush the snow from her robes, however little it mattered, considering all the tears in the garments. She really would need to fix those, or the next few rips would probably verge on immodest... but enough of that.

Something in the Shade's words struck her oddly, though, and she slanted a curious gaze at the man. "You do not fear us, perhaps, but there must be something you do, else you'd have spoken differently." She blinked, then shrugged, apparently quite willing not to pursue that, at least for now. Tilting her head to one side, she fixed him with a dark-eyed stare. "If we are to be tools, to what use shall we be put? There are many kinds of game one could play with a setup and pieces such as these." The smile she wore was a little askew, something about the asymmetry suggesting that it was not a sign of good cheer at all. It was... brittle, perhaps, and not at all warm, as though the ice that she called so frequently to her hands had bled a little into her demeanor.

Icy as she was, the Shade seemed to warm from the words, appearing visibly pleased. "And here I was beginning to think the Mentor was collecting nothing but half-wits. You bring us to the heart of the matter. Though, considering you had the first true kill of the game, Maya, perhaps you would like to explain?" Maya did not seem to enjoy the suggestion, and in fact there was something akin to a guilt crawling on her face. "The Game of the Shadow is a competition among the Daedric lords, sixteen in all. Each elected a representative of their own choosing," she recited, eyes falling somewhere towards the carnage, "Every representative is given a target, meaning that we hunt even as we are hunted. We know not who seeks to kill us, only who we seek to kill. Skyrim is the arena to which we are confined. To break any of the rules is to invite a punishment worse than death, as we are told. I am... surprised this was allowed to stand, actually. The Bloody Curse was my target, not yours, Shade, and yet you interfered by provoking the giants upon them. Who is your target?"

"The Inquisitor," the Shade answered without hesitation, "which is our next destination, but we'll get to that later. The giants were provoked when Rikka was not present, and she made the decision to lead her warriors in retaliation. You arrived here, you slayed her, and I have taken my revenge, even if it was not direct. Now thirteen remain. Perhaps we might work together for a time longer, Blackfeather? Who do you hunt next?"

"The Omen," Maya responded, though it was not clear when or how she had learned that information. The Shade pondered for a moment. "Hm... I'd be willing to help with him if you grace me with your presence back to the west. I did just deliver you this victory, after all." Maya nodded, though she didn't seem that interested in repaying any debt she owed him. "You may want to explain why the Sellswords should help, with this..."

"Quite simply, once the game is through, you may have your Mentor back. Assuming I'm quite alive at the end of it, of course."

What in Talos' name did she just step in to? Lynly had rose to her feet at the Dunmer's outburst and her curiosity of this Shade had drawn her closer to the group. A Game of Shadows. It sounded like a tournament of sorts, and she would be lying if she said that the whole thing didn't intrigue her. That also raised a couple of choice questions, and solved a couple of riddles. The reason that Stonehammer must had been a part of this game too, considering how bent he was on killing the Imperial Captain. She found herself wondering if the Captain was in on the Game as well, but she brushed it off. The cowardly fool probably didn't have the stomach to deal with Daedric Princes. Still... She found the entire ordeal a lot more interesting than a normal person should. This certainly would make for a grand story.

At the tail end of the Shade's words, Lynly had found herself between both Adrienne and Maya, listening intently to sate her curiosity. Though, there were still riddles hidden within the revelations. She'd been drawn in too far to let these slide. "If you expect us to hunt these representives for you, then perhaps it would best serve to speak their name instead of their titles. Perhaps even the Daedra they serve," she implied. The Inquistor and the Omen were awfully vague terms after all. She allowed the unasked question to sit in the air, up to either representives to answer.

"Very well," the Shade acquiesced, "we seek Talmoro Vasuderon, a high ranking inquisitor and war mage of the Thalmor. He keeps himself in the west, in an estate of his own near Solitude, one of the few places he can be reasonably sure the locals won't try to drag him out and tear him limb from limb. Not that they could, as he's the most powerful Destruction mage I have encountered in my time, and the representative of Mehrunes Dagon. He is not to be treated lightly, and thus I do not believe it wise to approach him on my own." He turned to Maya. "Of course you have just been hunting another, but do share what you know of the Omen, if you will."

"He's a Redguard," she said, "Silas Rialta, representative of Vaermina. I know he was formerly a pirate lord, and may still be, and probably is captaining a ship somewhere in the icy waters off the north coast."

Sinder, several yards away, was still perfectly capable of hearing what was being said, and was not nearly so simple as the Shade seemed to think he was. Not that he much cared what the other man thought of him; it might actually be better this way. He almost asked the obvious question: namely, why Maya would agree to travel in their proximity when the plan was obviously going to necessitate them killing her eventually. Even if it was convenient now, any time she spent with them was an opportunity for them to learn of her, and any hunter knew that was a marked disadvantage. Perhaps she, too, planned to manipulate them into something, but she at least he would allow to give an accounting of herself before he simply asumed this. Shaking his head slightly, he turned back to his watch over the stilled Vanryth and chose to keep his mouth shut for now.

Soren was of no such inclination. He had to admit, the whole thing sounded rather fun, and suitably life-theatening. "You know, I really am going to have to have a chat with Sanguine about this. I've been living in a constant state of organized debauchery for years. You'd think that'd entitle a person to some consideration for this sort of thing." The Shade raised an eyebrow. "Interesting that you say so. Sanguine's Drunk is the only one that none of us have any knowledge of." Without any stake whatsoever in the game, the assassin's tone was light. "Oh, but about that fellow she murdered... don't suppose he was playing, too? Or did she just go around chopping into people for fun? It'd be nice to know I was inconvenienced for something at least mildly worthwhile rather than a random act of violence." Not that he had anything against random acts of violence per se, but he was a selfish bastard and would prefer it if the whole affair was at least backgrounded by something interesting. This was actually kind of like a game he played with the Dark Brotherhood, only he was the one with a specific order and they were all on the same side.

At Soren's second question, he darkened somewhat. "It was my brother she murdered. He was the representative for Meridia, called the Light, and he never belonged in this game, but that is a story I'll not go into now. Perhaps once we collect a few heads together. The important part is that his death is avenged, and that the game has begun in earnest now."

Well, that explained the 'brother of the Light' part, but not a few other things. "The title you gave yourself," she said quietly, dropping her gaze to the snow for a moment, "you also said 'son of the Master.' Who is that? Would this game have you play against your father as well?" That part was a little harder to swallow than the rest. All the games she'd ever played had been for them; playing against them seemed so impossible, even now, when the constitution of her 'family' had changed so much. "And..." she hesitated slightly, trying to decide exactly what she wanted to ask with the next question. "From what we could tell, the Mentor left with you voluntarily. I know you can't tell us where he is, but... just how deeply is he involved with this Game you're playing? May we know that, at least?"

"Ah, but you are going to be a useful one, aren't you?" the Shade said, lips curling into something of a smirk. "You ask the right questions. But if the Mentor was indeed a player in this game, my plan to win it and then return him to you would not work very well, would it?"

"True, but I asked after his involvement. Games do not have only players." There was something a little evasive about that answer, but this was a question she wasn't quite willing to let go.

"There was never any Mentor involved in the Game. There was a man who called himself the Master, and he served the Lord of Domination faithfully for more years than you want to imagine. He prepared us for this game, one and all, and we agreed... father, wife, and sons, that we would see it through. There are only so many years a life can be carried out in preparation. But when the time came, even after all we said, he turned his back on us, fled from his Lord. Molag Bal showed him how truly little he meant by stripping him of his gift, and ordering that the Game carry on without him, starting with the butchering of one he meant to protect. Now all he has to show for it is a hopeless bunch of broken souls he thought to repair rather than dominate. But his Lord is not forgotten so easily. Just look at where your lives would be without him. Through him, I dominate you, and if you want my father back for the precious few years that he has left, you will do as I say. Does that answer your question?"

Adrienne was quite certain she'd never relied so heavily upon her ability to remain impassive in the face of anything. Well, save once, but this was nearly as bad. "A little heavy-handed for Nocturnal, isn't it? But yes, that does indeed answer them. I'd disagree in only one place: we are not hopeless. You hold our leashes, and I'll not deny I have one. But this is not all we are, and the wise would remember it." It was no threat, simply an observation. Truthfully, she was reeling, dizzy in a way too similar to the one the sheer blood loss had produced, but even that was not enough to deny her her wits. It wasn't too hard to guess that the Mentor's son, the Light, had been the one butchered, and this man doubtless blamed the Mentor for his brother's death. That was fair enough. His accusations of their being under his control were fair, too. But denying them even the chance to be otherwise, she would not sanction, either with words or silence.

"Give him a chance. I believe in him, and I believe in you." she murmured, shaking her head ruefully. At least that made sense now.

"For all of our sakes, perhaps it is best if we do not travel together. The next target is near Solitude, as I said. Return to the manor. I will meet you there. The Inquisitor has nowhere to run, that much I know. It's merely a matter of slipping in without his detection. Believe me when I say we will not be heavy-handed then." He said no more, instead making his way past them, and away from the shrine of Malacath.

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Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong
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There was something about the woods that let Maya stay alert more than any human being should have been able to. Perhaps it was the experience of having done this before. Well, not this ordeal specifically, but Maya had gone more than two days without sleeping on a few occasions. She hadn't reached that mark just yet, but she figured she wouldn't be lasting quite so long this time, considering the pummeling she had taken from the Bloody Curse.

The witch had a somewhat sullen mood about her, and it wasn't hard to figure why. The group she had just essentially deceived into assisting her in murder was now being forced to help another, and that meant that eventually she would come up on their hit list, and they would be directed to off her as though she were merely another roadblock on their path to the Mentor. Considering the lengths they were willing to go for the man, she didn't feel like she would have much of a chance when that time came. It was her or him, wasn't it? And to them, she was probably little more than a deceitful witch trying to subvert them to her own uses. Not much to stand up against the almighty Mentor, guide and leader of the lost and broken.

He hadn't seemed so noble, the Master, at least not when she had met him. There was no time to speak, only time to learn, to prepare. Her powers must have increased threefold under his watch, but she felt no other reason to value him. Others could have done that. The wild could have done that. In more time, yes, but experience was the greatest teacher, so long as it didn't kill. Was she... jealous? No, that couldn't be. The man had lived for hundreds of years. More, probably. She was still little more than a girl, the unlikely chosen of Hircine, and perhaps the least expected to walk away from the Game alive. No one had expected her to kill the Bloody Curse, and yet she had done that, hadn't she?

With help, of course. Maya finished gathering what resources she could from the immediate area, intent on replenishing her stock of potions while they had a moment, before returning towards the camp, eyes scanning the area for the Nord warrior woman. Lynly wasn't too hard to find, considering that the only other woman was speaking with the fire mage, and cutting his hair. Wasn't that adorable? She rolled her eyes, striding towards Lynly, who was doing something or other with her armor.

"Are you here for the glory?" she asked her, rather out of nowhere. "Unless I'm mistaken, you don't know their Mentor. Wait... Hircine strike me if this is true. You aren't a daedra worshipper, are you? You can tell me, you know, I can keep a secret if you like. Even if it's someone other than Hircine."

Instead of playing makeover with the rest of the children, Lynly was too busy polishing and buffing her shield. Blood had a habit of filling the space between the ridges and bumps in her shield and if left unattended for too long would weaken the structure. It wouldn't do to have the shield shatter under too heavy a blow just because she forgot a little maintenance here and there. She'd also made note to repair her armor and the things that an oilrag wouldn't buff out the next time she came upon a forge.

Though she didn't seem like it, she was actually in a kind of cheerful mood. Not that it was readily apparent on her face. Her face was still as impassive as ever, as if it was her default look. It may very well had been, wear the look long enough then the muscles relax in that state. Cheerful as she was though, there was no hiding the damage done in the last battle. Her wrist was bandaged, tufts of her hair were missing from where she had to cut the charred remains off. Even the side of her face had a reddened complexion thanks to the boy's fire. She was still sore from his wanton display of disregard and had chosen to ignore him on most of the journey... Of course, that only left the mouthy Soren, the breton girl, and the witch. Not the best assortment of conversation partners...

Not that Maya wouldn't do her best to try. Daedra worshipper? Her? How ridiculous. Almost ridiculous enough to make her laugh. Almost. Instead of laughing though, Lynly leveled a blank stare on the woman before reaching into the neck of her armor and pulling out a talisman. Talos' talisman to be exact. She held it up for Maya to see before she spoke, "Good guess," she deadpanned as she tucked the amulet back into her armor. She figured she had nothing to fear from these people, if they were so ready to help a couple of daedra worshippers, then an adherent of Talos was the least of their worries.

Lynly then sat the rag on a rock beside her and laid the shield down on her other side as she answered the first question, "Glory? No, no glory here for me. This is your game. I'm only a spectator. The glory is all yours."

"Your shield smacking into the head of a certain orc says that you are very much a player, I'm afraid," Maya said, sliding down to a seat and criss-crossing her legs, placing her alchemy bag in her lap and beginning to sort the contents. "And hey, you never know about the Daedra thing. I can tell you for a fact that at least half a dozen people in Markarth eat human flesh whenever possible, for their lady Namira. Bet you'll never walk through those gates the same way again."

Her demeanor was slightly joking, but it was unclear whether it was simply a wall thrown up over her feelings or not. It was hard to imagine her being pleased about all of this, however. "Sadly, I fear there will be no glory for me. Besides hunting by my Lord's side for eternity, which isn't so bad at all, but no glory of the living variety. Perhaps the best thing I could say for myself is that no one expects me to win. I certainly don't, not unless there's some way to convince these fine people to help me rather than the son of their great and lost leader."

She seemed to remember herself, and shook her head. "Not sure why I'm telling you this..." She pulled the petals from a useless flower, tossing naught but the seeds back into the bag.

"Because your only other options are a flirt, a couple of kids playing house, and moody elves," she stated plainly. "Though why me specifically, I do not know," she admitted. Truth be told, Lynly didn't expect the witch to even speak to her for the rest of their time together considering their... past. Though she was not the same milk-drinker she was back at the bar, battle had bled the weakness from her and reminded her that she was a warrior. "Underestimation is good," Lynly suddenly said. "It leaves your enemies unprepared," she remarked. "As for this lot and their Master, well, it does not concern me." she shrugged. These people, their Mentor, the Shade, this Hunter, none of it really concerned her, though the Game... The Game interested her. A morbid type of interest, but interest still.

Maya was none too pleased about what she had decided to do next, but in all honesty... it wasn't too different to what she'd been trying to do all along. "I've had some time to think since the Dead Man's Drink," she began, her tone losing whatever humor it had possessed before. "You did what you had to. We would have killed you otherwise. I would have killed you if I could have. You could have killed me if you'd wanted to, but you used restraint, and spared me. It's not like I have any grounds to hold myself above you, having just taken advantage of a woman's entire home and family being destroyed. I should be thanking you, not cursing you."

A small glint returned to her eye. "But not for the battle with the Orsimer, I had that completely under control."

"Her hands around your throat told a different story," Lynly said with an arched eyebrow. Her tone was soft though, and was as close to a jest as she had come to on the entire trip. She had time to think as well. To mull, and to digest. How her actions had slain this woman's family, and for what reason she had done it. She wouldn't try to side-step the issue no longer, nor would she hide within herself. (though that didn't stop the cloistering of her shoulders-- old habits die hard) She believed she had done what was right, and she didn't regret it. She was sorry for what had happened, yes, but she did not regret it. Lynly leaned forward on the stump she was sitting on and put her elbows on her knees.

She was quiet for a bit, trying to put the words in the right order so that she didn't sound completely daft. "You asked me why once, and I didn't have an answer for you. You asked if I fight for something greater," Lynly said, her words degrees surer than they were last time. "I have an answer now-- though if you'll like it I can not know." A pause. "I fight for myself. I fight so that I might write my story. I'm no bard or skald, so I can't write my story with ink and quills. I'm a warrior, an adventurer, so I write my story with my sword and my boots. Stories of battles, tales of grand adventures, of sights unseen and sounds unheard. My story is written on the horizon. Why do I fight? So that I can say that I fought. I am truly sorry for what I put you through, I am, but I do not regret it, as callous as that sounds." She had done what she thought was best at the time. With the information she had, the promise of gold, and the promise of another tale, she had accepted the job. She believed the Witches to be harrassing the village-- though she wouldn't try to excuse her actions, not to Maya.

Lynly may have been digging a hole with the witch, but she did not regret her words. They were true, after all, and there is honor in the truth. She shrugged, her shoulders steadily closing in around her. This may have been the longest she had ever talked. Though the words were easy, the experience was different. She never had to explain her ideals before. Dead men in dusty crypts have no use for her ideals after all. Though, speaking about it reaffirmed them in her eyes. She knew why she fought, why she traveled. So that when she grew old and withered, she could say that she had.

She propped her chin up on her wrist, careful about the weight she put on it. The bones might have been mended, but it was still tender. "I sound like an idealistic fool, adventuring just for the sake of it. Though it's the truth and I do not regret a single moment of it," she said. Another pause and another shrug. "This Game of yours... It sounds like a fine tale, does it not?" She said with a smirk. She wasn't here for the glory, she was here for the tale.

"It does," Maya agreed, eyes cast away towards where the light was poking up over the tops of the trees. "I think the ending where the lowly witch triumphed over all her betters would be particularly riveting. They all expect one of the others, perhaps the Inquisitor, the Stonehammer, Shade, Horizon, Feral or Omen. Perhaps the wily witch will get a few more kills yet."

She then shrugged, looking back down to her bag. "Of course, that would require convincing this lot not to burn me when the Shade gives the order. Thankfully, I think I can at least say they'd hesitate before doing it, and maybe I'll be able to get away in the meantime. Sadly, I doubt I'll be killing the Omen all by my lonesome, which makes my choices either remain with the group and eventually die, or go off alone and die sooner. I think I'll stay, in that case."

She didn't really feel a need to comment on Lynly's answer to her question of why, perhaps because she found herself more or less agreeable to it. Her path was strikingly similar to Maya's, in a way. What was a hunt if not an adventure? And why did Maya hunt? For the glory of her Lord Hircine, yes, but mostly because the entire process was pleasurable to her. The tracking, the stalking, the execution, the thrill of a kill, the exhilaration of a chase, and the stories to be told. Hircine allowed her to devote herself to a life she wanted to lead. They had slightly different ways of desiring to experience the world, but it was a goal they shared.

"It'd be quite a twist to the tale indeed if you and I ended up friends, wouldn't it? Maybe it's only fitting. We are the two most sane people here, after all. Well, assuming you don't have a terribly low opinion of me." She gave the Nord woman a once-over with her eyes. "I happen to think you'd make a much better friend than a thrall. And I wouldn't say that about many people, believe me. And you're rather pretty, too. Surely the stories wouldn't want the hero to be a half-blind, tongueless, battered old Dunmer, but two deadly beauties instead!"

She shrugged again, with a bit of a smile this time. "I could be wrong, though. I'm not much of a storyteller, I'm afraid."

"Don't count on me becoming your thrall, I don't plan to die any time soon. I'm no storyteller either, but that doesn't sound like a fitting end to an adventurer's tale," she replied.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Soren Ivarsson Character Portrait: Adrienne Jastal
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For whatever reason, upon entering Riften, the sulky Altmer and the mute Dunmer decided to split off from the group, but the rest of them indicated an interest in resupply, so Soren decided to lead them to what little marketplace Riften boasted. Considering most of the business really happened underground, that wasn't much, but they at least had the basics: a forge, an item shop, a jeweler, and a few people he was pretty sure just sold whatever sundries they could get their hands on. Usually for inflated prices, but his presence would likely be sufficient to ensure his companions recieved the fairer Guild rates. He walked somewhere, merchants lowered the cost of everything. It was a pretty nice system, really; he was going to miss it someday.

"Dunno what you need, but this is what they've got," he announced in a deadpan, a sweeping gesture indicating the small circle of merchants. Turning to face those that still remained, he gave a shrug, then paused upon apparently noticing Lynly. "You look like you'd make use of the forge, lovely. That's this way." He casually waved for her to follow and set off around the circle, leaving the rest to sort themselves out. He had a bit of business with the Forgemaster himself; the man had promised to pay quite nicely for some fire salts, which were apparently what kept that pit burning hot enough to make decent equipment. Why anyone would stake the success of their business on something that hard to procure, he didn't know, but then, that was where people like him stepped in. Good, honest, greedy bastards who were good at killing things.

"Balimund! You dirty fool, I've got what you asked for." Balimund looked up sharply, apparently ready to be offended, but settled for rolling his eyes upon recognizing present company. Soren untied something from his belt and gave it a toss, which the smith caught deftly, opening the satchel and nodding to himself.

"Fair coin for fair work, Ivarsson," he replied in the near-typical gravelly Skyrim accent. A coinpurse changed hands, which Soren surpisingly did not bother counting, though he did grin and dip his head only half-seriously.

"Pleasure doing business. Now, I believe the lovely lady here might have some actual work for you, so you might want to see to that."

One of Lynly's eyelids had slid halfway over her eye as Soren paraded about the market and the eventual forgemaster, though she kept her tognue and her thoughts her own. He was so graciously leading her around after all, what kind of tourist would she be if she said something? So she kept quiet and let Soren do his business before he finally deposited her with the forgemaster. Like she didn't know how to smith her own armor. What kind of Nord would she be if she didn't know how to mend gaps in her arms and armor? Though, the idea of having someone else tend to her equipment was an appealing one. It'd get her out of the armor for a bit and let her breath. Why not? If Soren had these connections, why not utilize them?

"My armor and shield recieved some kinks. Would you repair them for me?" she asked, pointing at the singed plates and a gap in the midsection, as well as taking the shield off of her back. "... I need to change first," she admitted. She didn't quite think that one through. How was she expecting to repair her armor if she was still wearing it? Luckily, she carried around some extra clothes (a dark green dress specifically) for just such an occasion. "May I borrow your house for a moment?" she asked, pointing at the door behind him. At his ok, she slipped in, and changed.

She handed him the armor, along with with shield and sword and left him to his devices... A smith worked best when a pair of eyes weren't hovering over his shoulders.

At the warrior's reemergence, the assassin raised a speculative eyebrow, then grinned, obviously quite laciviously. "I knew there was a woman underneath the metal somewhere," he opined sagely, smile only stretching wider. "Bet all that training comes in handy when you have to beat them off with blunt objects, hmm?" He chuckled, but though he might have liked staying to bother her further about this, he unfortunately did need to see a man about a job. Dropping a two-fingered salute, Soren strode off in the opposite direction, only calling out once behind himself. "Try not to be the subject of any fights. There are parties here who look poorly upon such disorganization." Lynly snorted at this. If she was a subject of a fight, it'd be her finishing it.

Now, to find Brynjolf.

Adrienne, who'd spent the last few minutes procuring of all things a few pieces of worked metal (for later enchantment, truthfully), found herself mostly browsing, at least until she spotted Soren and Lynly by the forge. She rolled her eyes somewhat, wondering if the man was harassing her, then deciding that the answer to that was obvious. He was walking harassment. Shaking her head, she made her way over, having a legitimate question for the lady-warrior anyway, and passed the grinning fellow as she went. Well, if nothing else, her life wasn't lacking for excitement, and hadn't she once complained of exactly that? Hindsight was so much better than any other kind, unfortunately.

"Hello, Lynly," Adrienne greeted, assuming the manner she usually did with most Skyrim natives, which was considerably more direct than she would have been otherwise. "May I ask you something?" Assuming there was some kind of assent (or at least not a refusal), she continued. "I'm planning on working some enchantments, you see, and I was wondering what kind of defensive augment would be most useful to you. I can do the standard sort of thing for people with armor like yours, but if you'd prefer an elemental resistance, that's possible too." She paused delicately, inviting input on the matter.

Surprisingly, Lynly was thrown off-guard by the breton girl's directness. At the first word, she locked up and her mind went blank as shades of her social dysfunction returned in all of its awkward glory. She knew of the girl, Lynly didn't peg her for cutting to the point like a Kinsman would. She though Adrienne's words were a fluffy affair, dancing to the subject, not straight to the point as these were. She was surprised, and at the inquiry Lynly could only manage to nod her assent.

Eventually, her social dysfunction wore down enough so that she could become a functioning member of this conversation, albeit with her shoulders drawn. Unconsciously, she had began to put distance between the breton and herself. She mulled on the question for a moment, a couple of questions of her own coming to mind. Why, for instance. Why would this girl offer to enchant something of hers? Perhaps so that she would be more of use to them. Or something. Her mental processes had been thrown for a loop, so it may have been just an inkling of paranoia sneaking. Decided that no harm was meant, she debated on the question in earnest. What would she like enchanted?

Her sword and shield were out of the question. Pride refused her that. She would not resort to magical weapons if her own arms failed her. Stubborn pride, but she was a Nord so it was to be expected. Though, an elemental aid weaved in the plates of her armor... That was a better thought. But what element? Certainly not the cold, her blood and upbringing had already granted her a resistance to that. The irony of a Snowsong being afraid of the cold was too much. Lightning was a choice, though she didn't in recent memory remember be struck by it. Fire. That was the best choice. Her gaze drifted around them, trying to find the boy who nearly roasted her in her armor before going back to the girl.

"Fire resistance. On the armor. In case your friend becomes overzealous again." She stated flatly. Feminine or not, she hated having to trim the singes from her hair because of an errant fireball.

Adrienne nodded, though there was a tiny frown on her face. "That... yes, I understand. I can do that for you." She'd originally simply been planning on enchanting the new necklaces and rings she'd procured, but she was quite capable of working similar magicks on armor plating. "If you'd like, I can do so as soon as the smith is finished with the repairs. There's a worktable nearby which would make the process a great deal easier." At this, she smiled instead, shifting her items from one arm to another, then ducked her head almost bashfully.

"I... I'd like to apologize, too. I realize that you're here of your own free will, and I haven't thanked you for that. Whatever your reasons may be, you are helping my friends and I, and I have not been mindful enough of that to bring it up before now." She didn't bother making excuses; it was obvious what the reasons were, but whether they granted her pardon was something for the Nord woman to decide. She also pretended not to notice the fact that the woman was putting distance between them, instead mentally adjusting her estimation of the bounds of Lynly's personal space for future reference. It occurred to her that she might say something similar to Maya, though the other Breton's stake in the happenings was considerably more obvious, their use of each other much more mutual.

Attempting to break some of the ice she still sensed lingering, Adrienne tilted her head to one side. "Have you any other errands to run? Perhaps you would care to tell me something as we walk? I'm curious as to where you learned to fight as you do, if you don't mind parting with the tale." Truthfully, it was probably from a member of her family or through a Guild; most such stories ran that way. But it wasn't the potential novelty of the situation that she cared about; it was the simple fact that she enjoyed hearing other people talk, when it was up to her. Especially when she didn't have to take mental notes for later exploitation, and could simply listen.

A hand raised as if to brush the apologies and thanks off. "No need," Lynly explained. It was her choice after all. There was no coercion, no strong arming, she didn't even remember an offer to join them. Not that it mattered, she joined them to watch their own adventure, to see them write their tales before her eyes, as the world turned around them. She supposed that if there had to be any thanks, it was hers. Thanks for allowing her to be a part of their story. She wouldn't of course, Nordic pride and stubbornness runs deep after all, and pulling a thanks like that from the woman would be the same as trying to draw water from a stone.

"No other errands, unless you count breaking the archer's arm as one," She said. Though the statement was a joke, the stone-faced delievery might have said otherwise. A small wisp of a smile proved the statement to be what it was. Adrienne chuckled; she could sympathize. It was the first time she had brought up the archer's constant flirts, all of which she had taken with her normal impassive face. Without any other words, Lynly settled into a stride next to Adrienne as they went about her tasks. She was quiet after the breton asked her question, not because the subject matter was some secret, just so that she may gather her words without floundering like a slaughterfish. She was not wordsmith like the woman she walked beside after all.

"My father. And necessity," she answered. Figuring that was a sour answer for a genuine question, she explained, "Father taught me to handle a sword and a shield. The basics. He was in a profession much like mine once upon a time, though he did not want me to model after him. "Forge my own way" he had said. Other than that, I picked up what I know along the way, and through many fights and scuffles. As you noticed, I'm more defensive than your average Nord," She said, crossing her arm and tilting her head. "The tale itself isn't much, but the scars on the shield can tell you more than I can," She finished.

Adrienne nodded sagaciously; that made sense. She had been taught, too, but all these fights were teaching her even more still. "I'd never even had cause to hold a sword until the Mentor taught me how," she offered mildly. "My family were all healers, back in High Rock. I... can't. I've never been able to. I mostly relied on my alchemy and enchanting before I wound up in Skyrim." She lifted one shoulder in an approximation of a shrug, smiling gently. Relied may have been too weak a word for it, but it was the one she used in polite company, anyway. She stopped for a lull at another clothier, picking up a few bolts of fabric and a new bone-needle as well as some strong thread. Her robes were still in serious need of repairs, and at this point, it might be wiser to just make some new ones. It was a poor court lady who didn't know how to sew, after all.

"I suppose the fact that they're on your shield instead of elsewhere says quite a bit already, doesn't it?" she mused, amusement crinkling her eyes at the corners. She thought on the three new slash-scars over her abdomen and avoided cringing only through practiced control. In one way, she'd known such things were inevitable with her new lifestyle, but they and the reddish burn-mark that now covered her left shoulder were not exactly pretty things, and perhaps she was a little more vain than she'd estimated herself to be, or maybe she was just looking out for one of her few advantages.

It wasn't something to think about now. "Do you... ever miss your family? Or are they still close enough that you don't? I suppose you could visit, couldn't you?" There was an edge of wistfulness to the tone of the question, but she made no attempt to hide it. She'd readily admit that she missed Daggerfall sometimes, but it was home for her no longer, and the people that resided in the Jastal holdings were not her family. They had ensured that, and it was her burden to bear. She had a new family now, and a new home, and perhaps losing that scared her even more than anything she'd yet had to contend with.

"Windhelm. They still live in Windhelm. Father runs a forge and mother trades with the local produce," Lynly offered plainly. They lived a plain life now, while she took up her father's adventuring torch. Every time she went home though, she could still she the fire in Sven's eyes. The only reason he wasn't out fighting in the war was because he was more afraid of her mother than anything else. The thought brought a smile to her face. Remembering seeing her mother crack the whip on the adventurous man never failed to do that. "I... Worry about them sometimes," She admitted. "They are still loyal to the Empire, despite them living in Ulfric's Windhelm. They keep their allegiances secret. Still, it's hard not to worry about them,"

The irony of her worrying about them was not lost on Lynly. She was the one facing the elements, fighting in some dank dungeon or getting caught in some skirmish, not her parents. For all intents and purposes, she had no right to worry about them after what she puts them through day after day. Well. Her mother. Her father was proud as he could be of her, but her mother... Disapproved, to say the least. "That color," she said, pointing out a violet blue bolt of cloth. "It matches your hair. My mother disapproved of my profession. Unsurprisingly. Don't blame her for it. She settled my father down, if only she could have done it with me," she said, the wisp of a smile returning.

Adrienne would admit she was surprised at the unsolicitied color advice, but she took it in stride, ordering that color instead of the dark green she'd been eyeing. It probably would have washed out her complexion anyway.

"Yes. I can still visit. Though tearing myself away from all of this is a bit harder than that." There was a deadpan tone somewhere in her voice. It wasn't Riften, but rather Skyrim as a whole. She was a grand vista, with awe inspiring sights if you found yourself at the right place at the right time. She never got tired of standing on a rise and watching an aurora at dusk. "Though every time that I do, it gets harder to leave them..." she added, her own wistful edge finding it's way into her words.

Adrienne could sympathize, and nodded her understanding. "Family's a funny thing that way, I think. Sometimes, just knowing you're under the same sky is enough. Other times, you wonder how you could ever think that at all..." She shook her head, folding the new fabric gently over her arm. "Forgive me that sentimentality, I suppose. It's rather silly." Still, it had propelled her through more than one hard-fought night, curled into herself and unable to sleep for fear of what her dreams would bring her: agonized faces in the throes of deadly poisonings, and her mother's fearsome expression when she'd at last been able to confess her sins. It had needed to be enough that they were still out there somewhere, still safe.

Done with her errands, she turned to the Nord. "Well, perhaps it's time to head back. If you need to retrieve your armor, we can do that, too."

"Let us go then. And pray we don't run into the archer on the way," she said, uttering her first genuine chuckle.




"You know," Maya muttered under her breath, "I don't think you could look any more guilty if you tried. Loosen up for a little, you'll be fine." Drayk scowled at her. "Says the witch. Don't these people want your head for something, too?" They walked together, and much closer than Drayk preferred, through the market area. Somehow and somewhere Maya had managed to change her clothes, and she was now wearing a slightly fraying, long sleeved woolen dress of a dark grey tone. Drayk hadn't seen when, nor did he particularly care, but apparently Riften was a big enough place that the witch thought extra caution necessary.

"I'm sure they'd like to kill me for existing," Maya said, seemingly unconcerned, "but this is not my first time in a city, or Riften for that matter. There are more of us here than you might think. We simply prefer to avoid shouting our presence from the rooftops. It tends to result in the peasants crying for people to be put to the torch. Now, do at least try to cheer up. You're much more handsome when you smile, and fear not, your hair will grow back eventually. Your ladyfriend's damage will not be permanent."

He seemed mildly affronted. "What? I never said anything about--" but Maya was grinning deviously at him, and Drayk rolled his eyes. "Can't you bother someone else?" She screwed up her face in thought for a moment. "Let's see... I think I've bothered Sinder enough for now, and he seemed to want to be alone besides. The Dunmer's no fun to bother, he can't even talk back, and he looks just as likely to try and hit me as he is to walk with me, you saw what he tried to do to Tarquin--"

"The Shade," Drayk interrupted, "he tried to hit the Shade. I don't really care what his name is, to be honest." Maya just shrugged, and continued. "Have it your way. As I was saying, Vanryth would be no fun, the real Breton girl's off getting to know the warrior-woman, and while I will admit that Soren is devilishly attractive and at least as mysterious to me as the Shade is, he smells like danger, and I'd prefer to observe a while longer before getting involved."

"So that leaves me," Drayk concluded, and she nodded cheerily. "Yes, indeed. Truth be told, I think I'll bother you more often. It's as if you wear a sign around your neck that lists all the things that bother you. You're mildly unstable, yes, but I was never the type to avoid dancing by the fire, even if I got burned once or twice. That, and you're as cute as a button, and warm, too." She said the last word as her arm slithered under his, and she got a little too close for Drayk. He wormed his way out of it, putting the former distance between them.

"Don't do that again," he commanded, but she smiled mischievously as they resumed their walk. "No promises."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero Character Portrait: Soren Ivarsson
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Soren's home lay a little ways outside Riften proper, the grounds behind it opening up into the forest. The house itself was of solid construction, two stories mostly of grey stone and some wood where that alone would not do. The grounds were a bit on the overgrown side, perhaps an indication of the amount of time the resident actually spent on the property, but the interior was quite nearly immaculate. Upon arriving, the Nord seemed to abandon his usual incredibly lazy demeanor and did most of the work himself, though whether this was from benevolence or the desire that the others not touch his things was unclear. Before long, a fire was crackling in the hearth, and a huge cast-iron pot hung on a hook above it, simmering something that smelled delicious. Why a singular person owned such a large implement was another small mystery, for it was obvious just from looking at him that he didn't eat nearly that much on his own.

The wood floors were covered with furs, useful items gleaned from hunts, on the occasion that he turned to that occupation to make his living, which wasn't often. Still, the pelts were well-maintained, and the decorations in surprisingly good taste. Several rooms occupied the lower floor, and among these lay equipment necessary for both enchantment and more advanced alchemy, in addition to a few extra bedrooms. A couple more of these were upstairs, as well as a separate chamber apparently designated only for bathing. All in all, it was a house built for at least five people, if not more.

Presently, its owner was crouched in front of the stew-pot, stirring occasionally but mostly staring off listlessly into space, with the occasional yawn serving to remind everyone present that he was in fact alive and not some eerie statue or something. He appeared not to have much care for what the rest did with themselves for the moment.

Though the idea of a bath was almost irresistably tempting, Adrienne had a few things she needed to accomplish first. Surprised to discover that the house had a full range of enchanting equipment, she collected Lynly's armor as well as the pieces she'd bought earlier in the day and her collection of soul gems and vanished into the workroom, intent on completing the enhancements before the night was out and she could sleep. Then maybe she could start working on that new set of robes, or at least finish the mends in her old ones. Presently, she was stooped over the table, palms set gently into the marked places on either side of the stone slab, murmuring low words to aid in the fixing of the magic to the steel of Lynly's armor. The soul gem in the carved bowl at the noon position on the disc pulsed gently, and some distance away, a substance bubbled merrily in the alchemic glassware Soren owned, all of which she'd cleaned thoroughly, helped a long by a little flame in the center.

The soul gem flared, and this was the most delicate part of the process. Adrienne's chanting grew almost feverish as she guided the wisp of light- the souls of vanquished foes, in this particular case mostly draugr from an old job- to the plate and sank it slowly into the smooth surface, made so by the smith's skilled work earlier in the afternoon. What she did had to go deeper than that, though- it would be no good if the enchantment could be ruptured with a simple blow. She felt a twinge in the back of her mind when the spell caught, like a sharp bramble on fabric, and from there it was a simpler process of something like unravelling and weaving again. When it was done, she pushed off her hands and sighed, running both hands through her hair, but her smile gave away her satisfaction. It was a good enchantment, really, and she was glad of that. Armor could not be replaced so easily as a trinket, which was why she'd chosen to do it first, while she was fresh and able to focus as much as possible.

Setting the chestplate, gauntlets, and greaves aside carefully, she moved on to the next item, setting the materials down on the table before she moved to check on the potions. They were moving along quite nicely, but that was a process she could complete while asleep, so accustomed to it was she. That would probably be a useful skill, tonight- she had no intention of letting any of them walk a step further without options, ways of healing if Drayk was occupied, and she didn't trust her own hands to administer that kind of care anymore, not after what she'd almost done to him. It occurred to her that she might have been trying to replace herself with the things she was doing now, but... surely, that couldn't be a bad thing? She wasn't exactly indispensible, and she'd proven to herself if not any of the others that she was entirely fallible when it counted the most. Yes, even if that was in fact what this was, it was for the best.

Anirne sat crosslegged on a rug draped over the floor, close to the fire. Her staff rested over her knees, and she appeared almost to be asleep sitting up, except nobody slept with such straight posture. She'd already taken the opportunity to cleanse herself, and presently her hair was darkened by water, curling slightly at the ends, which were long enough to pool behind her on the rug. The band it was usually braided with rested about her wrist, and she was without her cloak, but otherwise she was arrayed in the same manner as she had been that afternoon. Normally, this would be an opportunity that she would utilize for proper meditation and rest, but at present she chose to filter slowly through her thoughts instead.

And indeed, they were many. This was not so unusual; she thought often about a variety of things, after all, but today they were mostly centered around her brother and his friends. They'd accepted her presence with a minimum of fanfare, and essentially no questions whatsoever. It was actually curious, and she wasn't sure she liked it. The gesture smacked of desperation, and a concern with matters too far into the future for the present to matter much. Perhaps she would eventually be questioned (she was actually rather hoping for it), but that would not alleviate the underlying problem.

She had gathered that only four of them were actually Sellswords-- Sinderion, the striking young man the others called Drayk, Vanryth, and the gentler-looking of the Breton women, Adrienne. The other three-- the personable Maya, apparently closed-off Lynly, and their present host, Soren, were in fact all outsiders who had attached to the group for one reason or another. Sinderion's recounting of the events had necessarily mentioned at least part of Maya's role in the whole thing, but the presence of the other two was a mystery. Were they, like her, strangers who had been brought on with little thought to the consequences? It was certainly possible, but she didn't know enough to determine whether that should worry her or not. Well, the whole situation was problematic, but there were things she could control and things she couldn't. Anirne had long ago learned to tell the difference, and concern herself only with the former.

A small sigh escaped her, and she cracked open both eyes, looking around the room with passive interest.

Maya had just entered the room with Sinderion's sister, having just finished cleaning off herself. It was actually a rather remarkable transformation she'd undergone, to those that had accompanied her so far. Her hair tumbled about her shoulders and back in a practically dripping mess of black, but at this point, it was really the only thing that appeared wild about her. Her skin was cleared entirely of any dust of the road or dirt of the forest, and she wore a second dress, a clean and simple garment of light grey, with not a feather on her person. It seemed to make her eyes brighter, dark blue orbs now a lighter color, reflecting that her mood was no longer remotely sour.

She slid to one side of the fire, dropping slowly to the floor on the same rug as Anirne, laying upon her side and propping her head up upon a hand, the elbow perched against the floor, allowing her hair to fall off her back and towards the rug. She kept her eyes on Anirne for a few long moments, as though studying her, or searching for something, all the while a little half-smile made its way onto her face. She'd only introduced herself by name, and while she suspected Sinder may have already revealed what she was, she made no effort to do so during their official introduction. It was always interesting to see how differently people treated her once they knew.

"The poor fire mage," she began wistfully, "he stumbled upon me just after I'd finished with my bath. Face turned as scarlet as blood, and he tried to run. I told him there was plenty of room for him to join me, but alas, he feigns disinterest. In any case, he's washing up now, and I do believe he barred the door. As if that would stop me." Soren snickered from his place beside the fire, shaking his head slightly, but otherwise did not comment, though the content of his thoughts was anyone's guess. She sighed at the thought, imagining something that probably no one wanted to hear about. After another long moment she returned her eyes to Anirne.

"So, Anirne. I do hope you know what you're getting into. How much did Sinderion tell you? Surely not everything." She had heard about the little scuffle that had broken out at the Bee and Barb, finding herself amused and slightly disappointed that she'd missed it. Not that she would have taken part. She wasn't one to enjoy swinging her fists when so many more elegant weapons were at her disposal.

There were a lot worse places to be than the mercenary's den. The inn for example. Vanryth was glad that his actions didn't keep them from sleeping outside the city walls on the cold ground. Although, the generousity of this total stranger did strike him as odd. Not that he wasn't grateful, far from it actually. That didn't keep him from being his wary, paranoid self though, and he'd sleep with one eye open in any case. That being said, Vanryth did notice the size of the house-- or rather mansion. The house was equipped with more facilities than should be necessary for one man. He found himself wondering just who exactly this Soren was. Everyone had something to hide, and this man looked no different than any other.

Still, Vanryth had better things to do than ponder the mysterious of the man. He sat draped over a high backed armchair near both Soren and Anirne. He had washed earlier and had managed to trim his beard into something respectable. His legs dangled off to the side of one arm, while the corner of it provided the support for his back. An inkwell lay on the floor nearby and with a quill and book in his hand, writing. He had learned (or rather the Mentor taught) that writing helped with his anger issues. Every moment spent writing in his journal was a moment not spent within the prison of his own mind, stewing with all of his thoughts. All of his mistakes, his regrets, his sins. Writing was a valve to release the steam. At it were, the quill was busily scratching away. He needed something to take his mind off of... everything.

Lynly on the other hand found herself at a loss as to what to do. Normally, she'd spend her time buffing and polishing her armor, but since the pieces were otherwise occupied, she found herself a bored. Reserved or not, the woman lived for excitement and adventure. She had to admit though, that a break from the road was a nice thing. The idea of exploring the Soren estate did linger in her mind for a bit, but a memory of a certain daedra lord and the life of organized debauchery managed to snuff that idea. She'd rather not wander into something she'd rather not, and then have the archer explain it. In fact, she'd rather keep the acts of debauchery firmly in his past and not in her present.

"Daedra lords and their games. What's not to get?" Lynly spoke up, her boredom drawing her words out. She too had heard about the scuffle the elves had managed to get themselves into. Otherwise though, she had no opinion on the matter. It wasn't her in the fight after all, and she was nobody's nanny. She may have thought that the idea of them getting into a fight mere minutes after arriving was something queer, and then there was the fact of them bringing another elf along the way. The other knife-ear's sister from what she had gather. She was wary of the girl, as she was the scholarly type. Unlike her brother, who had something more feral about him. She'd made note to hide the symbol of Talos when around the girl. For all she knew, she was a Thalmor spy, and she'd rather not find that out the hard way.

Anirne's glance flicked to the Nord for a moment before she brought them back to rest on Maya, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug. "Perhaps it was not everything. I cannot say. It was enough. I know of the game you play, and how the Sellswords came to be involved. He did not say it directly, but I think he is troubled. Partially for you, it seems, though I know not why. You seem the sort who can take care of herself quite well." Anirne clasped her arms together in a simple gesture, resting her wrists on the staff crossing her knees. "Still, I can see the reason for his puzzlement. You travel with a group whose success depends on your eventual death." The small smile on the woman's face betrayed that it was perhaps not the strangest thing she'd ever heard, and also her confidence that there was more to the situation than Sinderion knew. He might not understand, but she thought she might be able to guess at the underlying thought, if pressed.

"I will admit, I have little concern for the Daedra. For gods in general, really. What others do is their business, but my kind follow the old ways, and if I could be said to venerate anything, it would be the spirit of my ancestors-- the enterprise to move ever forward, the tenderness to remain attached to others, the strength to withstand what those gods seek to thwart us with, that sort of thing. But if I have to play this game to help him, I will. I owe him that much, at least." She spread her arms, a gesture of resignation and also placidity. She seemed unconcerned with the situation, to say the least, or perhaps just filled with an easy equanimity that made accepting it a simple matter.

Sinderion, on the other hand, found himself with very little desire to be in the large, elegant house, as even Nordically-styled as it was, it still managed to make him feel like a bear in a room full of fine ceramicware. Instead, he prowled the grounds, as had become his wont. He'd always had more affinity for the outdoors than was perhaps to be expected, even as a child. Back then, it had simply been a fascination with the wild, sprawling landscapes of Skyrim, but now it was more a need than anything else. He needed to be out-of-doors, else the restlessness in his blood would fill his limbs to tingling, and he'd begin to feel as though he would burst.

Presently, he carried nothing more cumbersome than a single knife, expecting that he'd have no need for anything else. He wasn't out here for confrontation. Quite the opposite actually-- for the same reasons Vanryth wrote, Sinder ran, hopping over obstacles as though they weren't even present, siling through the air for exhilarating seconds before his feet alighted again on the ground, making next to no sound on the dead leaves that carpeted the forest. As always, information found its way to him through his nose and ears before he had any reason to see much at all, and he was acutely aware of the position of his limbs and the way they moved in tandem. It was easy; the easiest thing there was. He did not need to speak, nor even to think in the conventional sense. All he had to do was be as he was, and if the lines between himself and the other blurred here, well, there was nobody around to suffer for it.

The smell of fresh water ahead alterted him to the presence of a stream, and he slowed before reaching the banks, coming to stop in a crouch beside the water. Peering into the depths, he was able to spot several shadows flitting about below the surface-- fish. Sinderion spent a moment longer in consideration and shrugged, standing and unbuckling his leather armor, shrugging out of the rest of his clothing and wading in. The water was cold-- perhaps nearly frozen, but he had never worried about it. Among the alterations the beast made even to this body was a tolerance of such things, and it concerned him not. When the water was waist-deep, he stopped and grew still, entirely unmoving, rooted in the smooth stones of the streambed like an impossible tree at the edge of a cliff. Patience was key here, and he didn't move for minutes, until such time as the fish forgot that he'd ever moved at all. That was the fatal mistake, and with a few quick lashes of movement, he'd plucked three from the stream and opened their bellies with his knife, spilling the entrails out onto the bank.

Returning to the water, he scrubbed himself with coarse sand from the bank until he was free of dirt and no longer smelled of much in particular, then caught a few more fish and returned to the shore. Shaking himself more or less dry, he gave his linens much the same abrasive cleaning, then built a small fire, roasting the fish and drying everything out simultaneously. By the time all was said and done, the sun was low in the sky, and he figured it would be best to return to the house. He might have preferred to remain here, but he was not unaware that some people might have concern for his presence. Donning his dry (and quite warm) garments, he gathered up his armor and the fish he hadn't consumed and ran back to the residence, entering the main room in just enough time to hear the end of Anirne's last sentence. He looked between all the people in the room, eyes half-masted with something approaching unease, but then shook his head, depositing his armor in an unoccupied corner for later maintenance.

"Nobody owes me anything, least of all you," he replied simply, handing the fish off to Soren, who looked surprised for all of two seconds before shrugging and adding them to the bubbling pot. No skin off his teeth, anyway.

"I disagree," Anirne returned, but she did not press the point. Sinder said nothing, settling himself in a corner of the room and studiously avoiding sending so much as a glance in the direction of the others, though why it was so was not precisely clear. Sighing, his sister returned her attention to the younger women.

"Why do you ask? Is there something else you would have me know?" She inquired politely.

Maya wanted to know if Sinderion had informed her of his lycanthropy. Considering her current demeanor, she was either very good at hiding her emotions, she simply wasn't troubled by the knowledge, or most likely, she didn't know. The witch found herself momentarily frowning at that, but that was all the subject would receive in her mind. It certainly wouldn't be her to tell Anirne, as family matters were not hers to intrude upon, no matter how much enjoyment she would have gotten out of delivering the news. Come to think of it, it probably wouldn't have been much. And maybe she was being a bit hypocritical. After all, she was still concealing her own status as a Glenmoril witch, though that was more for her own amusement than forced by shame or fear. Perhaps she would have a talk with Sinderion about it later.

"The Shade isn't the only one capable of making plans," Maya said to Anirne, "for now, let's just say I'm growing more confident that my new friends wouldn't simply kill me because he demanded it. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe it would defeat the purpose of finding their Mentor if they were willing to stoop to any lows to do so." She left the point at that. Truly, she did not think the Sellswords would butcher her without hesitation, especially at the Shade's command. He had not made friends with them, and while Maya was not exactly bonded with them yet, the fact that none of them had struck her in any way yet was promising to say the least. Anirne simply smiled. It had seemed likely that the reasoning was something like that. Sinder, on the other hand, frowned and shook his head, apparently dissatisfied, though he said nothing.

"I'm wondering how much you know of our current goal," she continued, "Talmoro Vasuderon, the Inquisitor of the Thalmor here in Skyrim, is to die next. Are you familiar in any way with the man?" To be honest, Maya knew less about the Psijic Order than she liked. She'd actually thought they didn't exist, and was still quite skeptical that this Anirne was really what she said. However, if she was a member of an order such as theirs, and being an Altmer as she was, it seemed a decent chance she would know something of the most skilled torturer and interrogator in Skyrim.

The monk's smile dropped into something resembling a grimace, and something in her glance hardened. "I know of him, yes, but we are not personally acquainted. Whether he knows my face, I cannot say. Among the Thalmor, I am often known and never liked." That turned her lips back up at one corner, and she shook her head. "He is a singularly despicable sort, or at least my information leads me to that conclusion, but he is also not one to be trifled with. Killing him will be a challenge, and likely require subtlety and force in equal measure." She looked thoughtful at this, raising her clasped hands to her chin and spending a few moments in thought. This answer managed to win some respect from Lynly, though she said nothing. At least she didn't have to worry about her Talos worship around her-- not that she still wasn't going to be careful.

"Is your method of closing in on him yet set, or would you care for some advice?" Anirne raised a delicately-arched brow, but truthfully, nothing of consequence to her hinged on the answer. She would work with what she was given; it was, as ever, a matter of distinguishing the changeable from the steadfast, and striving only at one of them.

"What's to set?" Soren asked from beside the fire, shooting a look over his shoulder at the others assembled. "Sneak past the guards, or kill them and hide the bodies if you have to, then pick the lock on one of the side doors and slip in. I doubt killing the guy will be easy, but that's the same no matter how you go about the rest. Unless you plan on just waltzing right up to the door and hoping he doesn't recognize you, of course." He'd done that a few times, too, actually, and while it could be just as fun as skulking about, weren't all these people supposed to know each other or something? It seemed like Maya, Tarquin, and possibly Anirne would be easily-recognizeable, so unless they planned to send in a bunch of people who had no idea what the hell they were doing (plus him, of course), they were going to have to be a bit cloak-and-dagger about it.

"I could get in, though I do not like how," Lynly said, digging out her hidden Talos amulet and flashing it. Obviously that would mean she would enter the estate as a prisoner, and not an idea she was too overly fond of. It was a suggestion all the same though, a morsel of information for the group to do what they will with it. Though she did find herself hoping one of the others would come up with a better plan. Even Soren's quiet solution sounded better, despite the bad taste it left in her mouth. Vanryth looked up from his book and shrugged. He wasn't much of a planning man and allowed those of more stable minds to work out their plan of attack.

"To be honest, I think a well crafted disguise on me would fool him easily enough. He would recognize a Glenmoril witch, not an elegant lady from High Rock. And while stealth would probably be necessary on the part of Tarquin and yourself," she said to Anirne, "I doubt he would know any of the Sellswords by face alone. So while the idea of sending in some bait is awfully tempting," she flashed a smile at Lynly, "it shouldn't be necessary. Of course, the final plan will no doubt be whatever Tarquin wants, as this is his kill after all, not mine. That said, I very much like the idea of dressing up and finding a way into one of his horrid social functions. A lovely change of pace, even if the majority of you would be an absolute disaster." She thought of Vanryth, Sinderion, and Drayk. It would no doubt be funny, though, at least for a while.

The fact that Anirne was imgining this very scenario was immediately obvious from the fact that her facial expression shifted from thoughtfulness to vague horror to unadulterated amusement quite quickly, and she actually laughed. It wasn't an ostentatious sound, nor particularly loud, but it did seem genuine. "Well, 'disaster' might be stretching it, but if you could all stand it, I see no reason some of you can't go as guards or attendants. If the former aren't permitted, surely footmen would be? I imagine any guests of sufficient importance would protest were they not, after all." The thought of her brother dressed as some noble lady's footman managed to produce another chuckle, but this one passed quickly. "They also wouldn't likely be expected to say or do much, which could be a benefit. A guest goes missing, that's one thing, but nobody pays much mind to the help." An unfortunate truth that they might well be able to play to their advantage here.

"But if as you say this Tarquin gets to choose, speculation is perhaps without merit." She might have spoken further, but at that point, a slightly haggard-looking Adrienne emerged from the workroom, arms full of newly-enchanted items. She handed Lynly her armor first, smiling softly and giving the Nord woman a nod. It was well-protected against fire, now. When she'd realized they had another permanent addition, she'd had to adjust a few things, and as a result, what she handed Vanryth was in fact not a piece of metal, but a tightly-knit red scarf.

"Health restoration," she promised, aware that his joints and muscles tended to trouble him easily and having decided to try and mitigate that as much as possible. From the others, she'd taken suggestions, and worked the magicks into simple but reasonably-nice pieces of jewelry, which she handed to their recipients, at least the ones that were in the room. Anirne's provided a bit of a boost to her strength, to make wielding her two-handed staff easier over long periods of time, for instance. Drayk hadn't been around when she'd inquired, so she'd worked a magicka-restoring property into his, on faith that he'd use it well. She had to believe it, anyway.

"Is anyone in the baths? I could really use one..."

Maya jumped right on that, running a hand through still damp hair. "Drayk should still be in there. He was when I left, anyway. I'm sure he'd love it if you joined him." Her tone was mostly playful, the mischievous glint back in her eye. Adrienne met the other woman's eyes for a moment, then smiled, equally foxlike. "Perhaps, perhaps not. He'd have to work a little harder, though, maybe even ask." She shrugged lightly, making it rather hard to tell if she was serious, then picked herself a spot on a chair, gathering up her new needle and some of the fabric. She could still use new robes, at any rate.

The witch shrugged back. "Suit yourself." It didn't much matter one way or the other, she just thought they needed to have a little fun now and then to avoid going insane, and perhaps sadly this was one of the first things that came to mind.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives
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Despite their fears, the group managed to leave the city of Riften without causing any incident, apart from the scuffle at the Bee and Barb, during which the bard never actually stopped his singing. They took the road north from Riften, passing through Shor's Stone on the first day and turning west shortly thereafter, entering the southern reaches of Eastmarch, though they would not pass particularly close to the Stormcloak capital of Windhelm. They held their westerly course towards Whiterun, and it was there, in the forest along the shores of the White River, that they camped during the second night of their return voyage to Solitude.



Chapter IV
A Nest of Vipers




The second night of the journey, Sinderion had once again left the rest to spend time in the forest, mostly to figure something out. He had a thought (several, actually) that he wished to express, and while such things had never come easily to him, they only grew more difficult with time, it seemed, and this was important enough that he needed to think about it beforehand. Being in the calmest frame of mind he could manage when he actually said it would help as well, perhaps. Presently, he'd ceased his running, having drawn once more close to the edge of the camp, and sat against the trunk of a large tree, half-rotted and gnarled with age. He could smell the disease inside of it, wearing away at its center. The arbor had not long for the world, and perhaps that was why he'd chosen it. Knees drawn up, he'd draped his arms over them, head tipped back so that his crown rested on the deadened bark, giving him an interrupted view of the evening sky.

If he'd ever doubted his own cowardice, such reservations were laid to rest here. He had something to say, he knew more or less how he wanted to say it, and still he could not. He suspected that this was because doing so would necessitate an admission that he was loath to make. His weakness was something that he could usually let linger in the periphery, to be understood but not acknowledged. Not so, if he wished to demonstrate his point, and it seemed important that he do so. Unfortunately, need was not the harbinger of desire, and simplicity did not follow from something being essential. Sighing, he rubbed his face with both hands, pulling the loose hairs from his face and letting his fingers tangle in the rest. He should retie the tail, he thought absently, but banished it. Delay would serve nothing, nor would trying to change the subject, even to himself. Still, he loosed and removed the leather cord that tied the mass in place, making his lean that much more comfortable.

"Damn it to Obilvion."

Where Sinder ran, Maya instead chose to hunt, and to that end, a pair of hares hung from her belt as she made her way back towards the camp, her footsteps naturally light and carefully placed, but not with the effort of being currently in the act of stalking prey. Her hood was drawn up over her head, her back to the moonlight making her face currently a nonexistant visage of darkness. The hares had arrow wounds clean through them, but the arrows themselves were gone, and the witch did not carry any. One of the benefits of using weapons only temporarily called into the world. Of course, the glowing purple nature of the projectiles meant she had to summon the bow itself just before the kill, but she'd done this enough times to know how to succeed.

In truth she had left camp that night to think rather than hunt, but found that once she was out there, she really didn't want to. She needed to know more, but the very nature of the Game made each step one that had to be taken into an abyss. She was continuing to remind herself that she needed to be on her guard more. There was a distinct possibility that her own hunter would come for her long before these Sellswords were asked to kill her. She only knew a little: it was not Stonehammer, for her had been in search of the Spymaster; it was not the Horizon, for he would have taken his chance in Falkreath otherwise; it was not the Omen, for she hunted him, and it was not the Shade, for he hunted the Inquisitor. That left far too many names for her to be comfortable with.

She stumbled upon one of her Altmer companions as she nearly reached camp, and she was glad to see that it was Sinderion, not the new arrival. She still felt she had little idea what to expect from the Psijic. She wouldn't have put it past the Inquisitor to send a spy, if he somehow knew what was now in motion. Still, familial bonds had to count for something. Bah, as if she would know.

"Poor thing," she said quietly, stopping next to the tree and putting her palm gently against it. Apparently not too moved, however, she soon turned and leaned back against it, tilting her head back to look up towards the night sky. "Beautiful night, for once." It was rather still for a Skyrim night, no howling wind or cascading snowfall.

Sinder's nostrils flared, the scent of blood and raw meat obvious and none-too-comforting at present. Still, he supposed it was preferable to some things, and might actually make things easier-- he still had a visceral negative reaction to hers. It was too close to something else. Universally bad with small talk in any situation whatsoever, he found he didn't have much of a response for the musing, though for what good it was, he did try. "I... yes, I suppose. Thunderstorms in spring are preferable, though." Those tended to dampen his perception, at least a little bit. Hard to hear anything else when the lashing of rain was so loud, and rain was one of the most pleasant odors he knew. They were also wild, in a way that bid him out-of-doors, even when everyone else was inclined to be bundled tightly somewhere warm. When he'd still lived at the manor, he'd often simply leave when they arrived, and the Mentor had always seemed to understand...

He shook himself. That was not the kind of track he needed to be taking right now. Between going there and delivering his warning, he actually had good reason to prefer the latter, cowardice or no. "What do you get for this?" he asked, tone perhaps describable as miserable, though not ostentatiously so. It was the slow, pulsing misery that lay underneath the languid heartbeats before death or slumber. His, anyway. "Say for a moment that you do win. What does Hircine recieve, and what do you, aside from keeping your life?" He was curious despite himself. What, apart from devotion so fanatical he couldn't pretend to understand it (or could he? was it not the reason for everything?) could possibly motivate anyone to do this?

He shifted slightly, folding his legs and lowering his knees until he was more or less crosslegged, palms resting on the dead leaves beneath him, as if he were trying to anchor himself to the spot. Maybe not so far from the right of it.

She was silent for a moment, her arms folding together across her chest as she thought of how best to reply. "I certainly do not claim to know what my Lord would receive should I be victorious. Our struggles are petty things to the Daedra, and things that have value to us may not have value to them. It is not my place to know the terms of their agreement in this Game." She shifted herself, moving her weight onto the other foot.

"As for my own reward... have you ever been forced to take something on faith? Not asked, but forced? The Representatives did not volunteer, they were chosen. They were faithful to the last, and I don't doubt that I am among the most loyal to my Lord in this land, but when Hircine informed me that I would be participating under his name, there was no offer, there were no questions asked. I was informed of my selection, I was told where to go and when to be there. I was trained, I met the majority of my competitors, and you know the rest."

She turned her head to ensure that no one else was overhearing the conversation. Not that she planned on saying anything particularly important, she simply liked to know when she was alone. "I still believe that this is the greatest honor I will receive in my life, and I am grateful that I was chosen, but the choice was Hircine's, and not mine. I do not doubt that the reward he would bestow upon me would be worth the time and the effort I have devoted in preparation, at the very least. I take that on faith because I have to."

Sinder snorted, shaking his head. He supposed she probably did. Then again, she didn't much seem to mind, which he hardly understood. Still... "If you want to find out, you should leave," he pointed out flatly. "I'm sure you could convince the archer and the warrior to go with you. Not as many, but more survivable." He paused, hands clenching in the dampened leaves. "You might be right, about us. We might not listen to the Shade if he told us to slay you. Now. But we're unravelling at the seams, and we will not maintain even this much of our stability for long. You can joke about the 'fire' in Drayk's eyes all you want, it's still dangerous. Vanryth just started a fight he would have easily ignored two weeks ago, and you saw him with the Shade. Adrienne might last longer, but if she broke, we wouldn't know until it was far too late. I'm..." He stared hard at some point in the middle distance.

"I'm coming apart. Sometimes, I almost forget how to speak. I had to practice this. Every day, it's closer. I will succumb, it's only a question of when. And when we've lost everything else, the only thing we'll remember is how much we need him. The Shade knows it. I know it. In their secret hearts, I'm sure the others know it as well. You don't have to take us on faith, and I'm asking you not to." More hesitation. "I don't... I don't want to kill you, but if I'm that far gone and the Shade tells me to hunt you, I just might. I'd hope you could kill me first, but that won't happen if you're not far enough away to see us coming."

There, that was it. He was crumbling, and he knew it. He needed to warn her, them really, as much as it made his imminent failure all that much more real to him. Anirne... he'd talk to her later, when he could figure out how to tell his only living relative just what kind of monster he was.

She let him speak, not trying to stop him at any point. She'd learned that there was a danger he would simply stop speaking, forget as he said, if she got in the way. She did, however, sink down towards the ground, tucking her knees to her and folding her arms neatly around them, pulling her hood away from her head. She knew his words to be true. The Master... no, Mentor, the Master she had known never would have stooped to bother with them, had truly collected a broken group. That they would simply unravel without him was painful to watch, and it could be watched, day by day.

"So then what's the point of waiting?" she asked, growing suddenly more animated. "You don't want to kill me, I don't want to die. You say you're unraveling... the Game will not be done in a few days, or a few weeks. You will have to travel across this land a dozen times over to find and kill all in your way. If you don't think you can last that long, why bother trying?" She suddenly rolled over onto her knees in front of him, leaning towards him slightly. A small flash of purple light accompanied the conjuration of a dagger in her hand, which she flipped over backwards and held towards his throat, slow enough to not seem like an attack.

"Perhaps you should let me just kill you now, while you still have the choice. Avoid the pain. I can do it for the others too, if they think their future as bleak as yours. Would it not be easier than tracking me across the land and hoping against hope I can bring down a werewolf before he is upon me?" Though she almost had the knife up against his throat, her posture still wasn't threatening, but something else entirely. "If that is truly what you want, just say the word. Me, I know what I want, and it doesn't involve any of us dying."

For the first few seconds, Sinderion was entirely dumbstruck, unable to do much more than level a wide-eyed stare at the witch, swallowing tightly as the dagger drew closer. Not, unfortunately, for the reason he should have been wary of its presence, and indeed, once he had adequately processed the situation, he cracked a crooked, bitter smile, something that suited his face oddly-well for someone who usually expressed next to nothing. Silently, he moved both hands, leveling the first near his head and bracing his index finger against his thumb, leaving the other three digits upright. The other actually moved the dagger closer, so that the point of it rested at the hollow of his throat, touching but not breaking the skin there. "Thrice," he said softly, eyes flickering to his hand just for an instant before returning to hers. "I know what it's like to be a desparate man, Maya, and thrice have I attempted exactly what you suggest. And every single time, it has stopped me, because it refuses to allow me to die. If only the solution were so simple as that."

In fact, they were presently close enough that she couldn't fail to notice that even the proximity of something so close to his throat was beginning to work changes on him-- Sinder's pupils were blown until they nearly eclipsed his irises, leaving only the faintest rim of blue, and the hand that rested behind hers on the conjured blade's pommel had acquired steely claws. "Do you really want to meet it? You're welcome to try, I suppose. After all, what's the point in waiting?" Somewhere, in the far recesses of his mind, that part of himself that he hated was quite nearly delirious with anitcipation, but Sinderion himself was rather hoping that what he was doing here was calling her bluff, not risking an appearance of the beast this close to the others. He supposed the next few moments would tell him something he needed to know, anyway, and he could not deny that the portion of his personality that had always resented his iron-clad self-control was quite happy reveling in the danger of the possibilities.

Which was probably where the challenging smirk was coming from, in retrospect, because on an ordinary day, he would not have dared any of it. Too bad none of his days were ordinary anymore.

There really was no point in waiting, was there? What had been a rather intense look on her face fell away to a raised eyebrow and a glint in her eye. "I think I do want to meet it." Her next actions were lightning quick; she lunged forward, slamming the knife into the tree behind them with one hand, the other hand sliding around the back of Sinder's neck and pulling him to her, kissing him and pressing herself up against him.

Well, that appeared to have done it for rational-Sinderion and beast-Sinderion, perhaps simply shocking all of his usual faculties into cognitive silence. That left somewhat bitter, reckless Sinderion, and he at least wasn't complaining. Honestly, he'd been half-expecting to wake up in another four years and find everyone around him dead, so this was... quite nice, actually. Not that he was thinking about it much; his hands, which had been torn from the dagger and dropped uselessly to his side, respectively, threaded into Maya's dark hair, and for the moment at least, he was quite content with where he was.

At least until he properly came to realize what he was doing, and why he should absolutely not be doing it. The Altmer's eyes, which had fallen shut, snapped open, bright with his (flawed, but better than the alternative) humanity, and he stiffened, pulling back as far as his positioning would allow. For someone of such a tawny color, he was doing quite the impression of a beet at present, particularly across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. He had a feeling the point had been lost in here somewhere, but he honestly wasn't in any state to go trying to find it. His mouth worked ineffectually for a few moments, until it clicked shut and he took a deep breath, shaking his head as if to rid himself of some phantom thought. Obilvion take it all, truly.

Of course, now that he'd gone and done that, he had nothing to say for himself. "I... you... why would you do that? I can't.." In retrospect, even Sinder would realize that this was not the question he should have asked, but he certainly didn't know what was.

She'd expected the response, but to be honest, not the initial one. The one that had been there for just a moment, before he'd locked up and pushed her away. Which meant that had actually gone better than she thought it would. She leaned back away from him to give him some room, sitting back on her heels. "If my time's as short as we both seem to think it is, then for once in my life I'm going to use it to make my own choices. And... well, that got rid of your dreaded beast right quick, didn't it?"

Maya stood, pleased with herself, adjusting her robe slightly. "I'll see you tomorrow, Sinder. Sleep well." And she sauntered off back towards the camp, leaving the elf to bury his face in his hands and try to figure out just how a warning had turned into that.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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They were three days into the ride by the time Anirne had convinced herself that it would not be egregiously out-of-line to ask. Granted, she hadn't actually discovered that Van wasn't mute by choice until the first time she saw him writing and showing the script to somebody in response to a question. The other Sellswords seemed to accept this as a matter of course, which meant it was something he did regularly, hence her deduction. The others seemed disinclined to speak with him at all. She had to admit, she was curious. There was certainly a story there, but it was probably unpleasant, and besides, there were much better ones she could ask, especially considering the situation they were all about to find themselves in.

Like most of the rest, the Altmer woman owned a horse, and so presently she steered hers just a bit so as to be alongside his and leveled the best question she could think of. Admittedly, the phrasing was a bit inelegant, but hopefully he wouldn't mind. "Sir Vanryth? If I may, are you not familiar with any sign-language systems? Or is it just that none of the others know them?" She pursed her lips for a second, then followed up with a bit of context, that the inquiry might make sense, perhaps. "There are several silent brothers and sisters where I'm from, you see, and I'd thought Skyrim might have some such method."

There it was again, Sir Vanryth. The first time she had said it was a novelty, something that held an ironic tone for Van. That novelty was slowy beginning to wear thin, but the stubborn Dunmer was loath to correct her. It didn't matter what she decided to call him after all, and he'd heard worse in his lifetime. Still, he lent an ear and listened to what she had to say. Sign language, it wasn't something that he didn't entertain thoughts about, but none of the Sellswords to the best of his knowledge didn't know it, and had the Mentor, Van was positive the man would have taught him. While a quill and paper was one option in order to get around that handicap, he often didn't find himself with the luxury of time, nor space to write when he needed most to.

Fortunately, this was not one of those times. He had managed to position his blank journal on a knee and was able to write satisfactory enough to convey his thoughts. He licked the end of the quill in his hand to loosen up the ink and put quill to paper. First though, he had to flip the end of his newly mint scarf of the side of his shoulder. The thing may not have been him but it did make waking up without rocks for joints a lot easier.

Vanryth Galero wrote:A bit of both, I'm afraid. I have heard of some being able to speak with their hands, but unfortunately such an ability is rare in these lands. Or perhaps it is not rare and I am just looking in the wrong places. My travels don't tend to lead me to the intelligent sort who would know of such systems and none of my friends here know any sign language, as far as I believe. Alas, as far as I know Skyrim doesn't employ any such language, unless you count the grunts and chest beating of some of her inhabitants,"


He stopped his writing, ripped the page from the journal, and handed it to the girl. A chuckle was in his throat and a wry grin played at his hard face. The fight at the bar must have let some that steam building vent. At least, until they had to meet the Shade again, but Van didn't try to think of that. No point in ruining a perfectly decent mood after all.

For a moment, Anirne was left to wonder if it was something she said, but a quick scan of the paper yielded the source of his amusement, and her own eyes crinkled at the corners, the shallow lines there sure evidence that she, at least, had spent a good portion of her life smiling. "I see. I think I might have borne witness to some of that, now that I get to thinking on the matter." The smile itself followed the words, a brief flash of teeth receding into a more subtle slant to her lips. She thought on the matter a moment, a slight crease in her brow perhaps indicative that she also spent much time contemplating, and nodded. "Would you like to learn? I know how to use signs myself, and if nothing else it will give us something to do. I enjoy the landscape here as much as the next person, but one can only gaze upon so much snow before one grows weary of the color white."

She flipped the paper over and handed it back so that he could use it a second time. No sense in wasting it, though with luck, by the time they reached Solitude, she personally wouldn't be causing him to use any more.

Van accepted the paper and slid it back into the journal, for use at another time. He contemplated her words for a couple of moments, thinking it over. Really, there wasn't any reason not to, as he didn't have anything else to do for the long ride. But he asked himself how useful would it be, really? If he was taught, then the only ones who could be able to communicate like that would be Anirne and himself. It was still better than using ink and paper for one's tongue. He looked around, at his friends surrounding them. Perhaps... Perhaps they could learn to listen to him. Maybe he put a bit too much faith in his friends, but as he had thought earlier, it was better than nothing. Another option if nothing else. Why not?

He shrugged his shoulder and nodded his assent. There was nothing to lose and more to gain. There was no reason to deny the idea. If anything it'd burn the time that have until they reach Solitude, and maybe take his mind off of what was to come.

"Sorry to intrude, but could you teach me, too?" Adrienne asked from her own horse, not more than a few paces behind the two of them. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but it's sort of hard not to when we're traveling all bunched up like this. I think it's a wonderful idea, and it would only be more useful if more of us learned, right?" She looked hopefully to Anirne, who nodded with simple acceptance.

"Of course. The idea is to expand communication, not limit it. I'd be glad to teach anyone who wishes to learn." She pursed her lips momentarily. "Actually, I could use everyone's help. It seems most important to cover certain words and phrases first, but the way we teach it, those words usually have much to do with magic and technical minutae that probably aren't of much use to you. With what things would you all recommend I start instead?" She suspected that they would have reason to know commands, and warnings for the same purpose, but as she knew little of their habits outsie of their occupation as mercenaries, she was interested to know what they considered most pertinent.

Adrienne hummed somewhere deep in her throat, glancing up at the sky as if it were an aid to the considerations. "Well, aside from the obvious, I guess words about locations would be good. Hills, mountains, streams and so on. Directions, I guess. An alphabet to spell things we don't know otherwise? Can we do that? What else do you think, Van?"

Van tapped on his journal for a minute, thinking it over for a moment before he opened the book and went to the blank side of the paper he had just recieved. A couple of scratches from the quill and he offered both ladies the paper.

Vanryth Galero wrote:How, what, why, when, and where are simple things that would help to glean information. And what Adrienne said, locations and directions seem useful. Maybe an alphabet. Practical things like that. If I need to be eloquent with my words, I can always go to these books. We'll see where we'll go from there, see if your teaching jars anything else loose that would end up being useful.


"Teach them to proposition somebody. Not a one of them doesn't need to get laid," Soren advised with dripping sarcasm from the sidelines. Actually, he was a little curious about the whole endeavor, and about the woman offering her lessons up to the lot of them. Like all of the women in his present company, she was obviously fetching, but for once, that wasn't what he meant. He'd been quieter than usual for the past few days, choosing mostly to observe rather than comment, and in that time, he'd noted a number of things, none of which puzzled him quite like the psijic did, if indeed that was what she was. Not everyday you met someone who could walk up to this mad band and not judge the hell out of them.

He was certainly judging them, or he would be if he thought he had any right. But he didn't, so he pretended instead. Her though? She practically radiated that spun-sugar goodness that usually made him sick, but somehow managed to not be overbearing about it. In a party of sinners, she looked like a saint, and what the hell was with that? It made him incredibly suspicious. Moody Blue's sister or not, her presence didn't make sense, so naturally he didn't like it. Besides, he might actually have some use for that sign-language business.

The "moody" individual currently in question shot the archer a halfhearted glare, but at this point, he knew well enough that nothing would stop the man from being the way he was, and trying was only a wasted effort, something that he couldn't really afford anymore. Additionally, he was expending it fighting the pink tint to his cheeks, which he dearly hoped nobody noticed. "That list seems a fair place to start. I... will learn as well." His words were failing him more often than not of late; whether that was something about his tongue or in his head, he really didn't want to know. Hopefully, something like this would at least help keep him from dwelling too much. It'd be nice to be able to talk silently with the others, anyway, especially Van, who had few other means of saying anything.

Drayk was doing his best to ignore the archer as well, though that didn't mean he hadn't been thinking about him. He'd mainly been trying to decide whether he or the witch was more annoying to have around. It was clearly a debate that would take some time to resolve, and as such he set it aside for later. He shifted the shield on his back and turned around as best he could to look at the others from his position near the head of their little caravan. "Count me in. At the very least, it gives us something to think about and work on. Couldn't hurt."

Maya flashed Anirne a smile. "You'll have to teach us some rude signs as well. I'm just imagining the look on Tarquin's face if we all said something absolutely dreadful to him at the same time in some language he didn't understand." Perhaps opposite of how she should have seemed, the witch appeared to be growing steadily more pleased with how things were going. Impending doom obviously was having a negligible effect upon her mood. She had, however, not spoken a word of anything that occurred between her and Sinder the night previous, no doubt to the Altmer's relief.

Vanryth didn't nearly take the Archer's quip as well as his companions, and as soon as he shut his mouth, Vanryth flung his book in his direction, aiming for head heigth. Decent mood or not, Soren's big mouth could manage irritate the dunmer to no end. Hit or miss, Van leveled an intense glare on the Archer, daring him to say something else. As far as appearances go, played the part of the irate elf very well, but internally as soon as the book left his hands, he knew he made a mistake. He was slipping back into his old ways, and he knew it. He was coming undone. But he wouldn't let the archer see that weakness, he wouldn't let any of them see it. He'd rather die first. He'd play the part of the angry man in order to hide the broken one underneath.

Anirne sighed softly through her nose, but if she was genuinely frutrated by any of the events or the facetious suggestion she made no actual sign of it. It would, truly, take a great deal more than some immature antics and a few issues with tempers to upset her; she'd been spying on Thalmor for a good portion of her life. If pretending to kowtow to them did not teach one saintly patience, then nothing would. She did manage a half-smile for Maya though. "And what makes you think that I would know any such gestures?" she asked lightly, in a way that very clearly suggested that she did. She watched with passive interest as the journal sailed towards the archer, supposing that the man would probably catch it and disinclined to help, really.

"Well, I suppose we'll start with basic question words, then the alphabet. I hope you're good at riding without hands."

Quietly, Lynly made her way closer to the group on her own horse. While she said nothing, nor even agreed to be taught, the idea wasn't too outlandish. It wouldn't hurt to see what this lot was learning, if only to see if they were talking about her without her knowledge. Besides, the psijic knife-ear did have a point, snow did get old to look at after a while.

A deft limb shot out, plucking the book from the air before it could reach his face. Raising a brow mildly, Soren shrugged and tucked the thing into his cloak. Much as the fellow had been scribbling away a few nights ago, there was bound to be something to read in there. Not that he probably would, it was the threat of it that could prove interesting. Or not. Maybe he would snoop around; information was still his stock-and-trade anyway, and if the Dunmer was stupid enough to just throw the thing at him, he figured he could do whatever the hell he wanted with it.

"Heh, I don't know. I'm willing to bet there's quite a bit you know that you shouldn't," he replied to Anirne, eyes narrowing half from humor and half from actual suspicion. The point was fair; none of them knew much about her at all. Not that they were all exactly well-informed on each other anyway, but it wasn't every day you met someone from a supposedly disappeared and clandestine group of monks. Plus, if he was being honest with himself, she was damn good-looking for someone he suspected to have hit thirty-and-five, so the fact that his tone was bordering on lacivious was perfectly excusable.

Van began his lessons by showing the archer a particularly... rude gesture. Soren simply smiled.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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They continued west, making good time as they went. The witch had no doubt the Shade was ahead of them, perhaps a day or more, but she did not seemed concerned that they would miss him. Just as the Sellswords needed to help him, the Shade needed their help. He was powerful, but so was the competition, and so one needed something to tip the scales in their favor. The Sellswords were that something.

They arrived before Whiterun near midday, but chose to press on, trading for what supplies they needed with the Khajiit caravan that happened to be camped outside the walls. Continuing west, the group passed the remains of what had been Whiterun's western watchtower, now a mostly collapsed ruin. A short inquiry to the guards there led to the information that a dragon had attacked it. Though they had apparently managed to slay the beast, its description did not match that of the dragon that had ambushed the Sellswords in the Reach, this one's scales being bronze rather than a stony gray. They moved on once the guards would tell them no more.

The road cut southwest for a time before rounding north at the intersection between Falkreath Hold, The Reach, and Whiterun Hold, and the group managed to arrive in Rorikstead just as the sun set on the third day, spending the night in the Frostfruit Inn. Hoping to arrive at the manor while light still hung in the sky, the group left early the next morning, heading into Hjaalmarch and then into Haafingar, passing over the Dragon Bridge in the afternoon. The sun was setting before them by the time Solitude's magnificent natural rock arch over the mouth of the Karth river, and the Mentor's manor came into sight...





Drayk's smile was tinged with sadness. He used to complain about this little climb, the steep hill and the winding steps the led to the Mentor's manor. Compared to the climb he had already made, this little walk should be nothing. That was what the old man had said to him, more than once. Or something like that. He was having trouble remembering a lot of the things the Mentor had told him, and it left him feeling empty. The sun was hitting the building just right so that the wooden walls seemed to glow with light. It was almost like he would be stepping into a house of the Divines, so beautiful and shining it was set upon the hill like that, overlooking the river, the city up on the rock, the Blue Palace shimmering in the sunset. He felt as though each step he took back was a transgression. Somehow, he now felt so unworthy to even look upon it.

He hadn't expected it to be this hard to come back. So much had happened since they left, so much that had changed him already. He'd left the manor having not conjured fire in years, but now he was returning amidst a storm of his own flames, so to speak, his mind secretly reveling in being reunited with his power while his heart was calling out for him to stop, to grab on to something and keep himself from falling any further. Of course, it was too late for that now. Only one force on Tamriel could halt his plummet into darkness now.

Sighing, he hefted his shield up higher on his back and took the last step. The witch let out a low whistle. "Nice place," she murmured, though even she seemed to realize that this wasn't easiest moment for any of the Sellswords. This wasn't how they imagined themselves coming home. Drayk avoided looking at the door as he pushed it open, afraid it would glare at him or something. The main hall appeared... more or less as they left it, though he noted that the great table was currently set with plates and dinner. The source of the changes sat comfortably at the end of the table, boots propped up on the edge, his elbows on the arm rests, fingers lighting touching together. He beckoned Drayk and the others upon seeing them.

"You made good time," the Shade said in a pleased manner. "Welcome home, Sellswords, and welcome to my father's manor, honored guests. Please, be seated, and eat. You must have had a hard day's travel. We can discuss preparations for the morrow over dinner. It gives us something more useful to do with our hands while we speak, no?" The last part was said while eye contact was quite clearly made with Vanryth, and the Shade wore a pleased smile as he said it.

Vanryth returned with a hard, furrowed stare.

The smell of home was tainted with the increasingly-familiar collection of odors belonging to the Shade, and Sinderion was clearly not happy about it. The entire trip onto the grounds and up the stairs, his mouth was compressed into a line, and he made eye contact with nobody. The whole endeavor was poignant enough that they should have had the opportunity to wade through its complexities before the new was melded so jarringly with the old. Symbolism was not lost upon him, and he knew what it would mean, to find that man in this house. It meant that the one place which could possibly offer them sanctuary any longer was gone, and they were fully immersed in this world they had so unwittingly been thrown into, drowning with no more shore to be found.

Soren, on the other hand, was hardly bothered. "Hm. Don't mind if I do," he replied easily, settling himself into a chair closer to the Shade than any of the Sellswords would probably want to. The thought crossed his mind that the stuff could be poisoned-- paranoia taught one lots of useful things like that. But the guy needed them, for whatever reason some other bunch of mercenaries wouldn't do, and he was unlikley to waste his considerable effort thus far in procuring their services. Honestly, the Shade seemed like a pretty reasonable guy. Give me what I want, and I'll return the favor. The language of trade was a simple one, really, so why so many of these kids seemed to balk at the very idea was a little beyond him. Either they cared enough about this Mentor fellow to do what they were being asked to in order to retrieve him, or they didn't.

Not in the least bothered by the awkward and perhaps somewhat hostile atmosphere in the room, he was at his dinner afterwards, though to be fair, his table manners were quite appropriate otherwise. He wasn't a complete barbarian, despite some insistence to the contrary at times.

The archer's ease only made the werewolf tenser, but he recognized the futility of arguing directly, at least for now, so he settled himself at the opposite end of the table from the Shade, for the moment refusing to touch anything. It smelled fine, as far as he could tell, but that didn't mean he was happy taking his blackmailer's charity.

For a place so close in distance to the one in which she had last resided in Skyrim, this manor house could not have been much different. Upon their flight from the Isles, Anirne's parents had been of relatively little means, despite their famed ancestors and former nobility. Such was the trial of the exile, perhaps, and she had been raised on nothing like this. To be sure, the Mentor's abode did not shock her in the same way the grand architecture of Summerset had done, but that was simply because she was long used to the grand by now. She tried for a moment to imagine Sinderion's first days here, so far removed from the little set of rooms above the enchantment shop, where dinner was often as not placed on the table by the skill of his own hands. It must have been jarring, even leaving whatever else had been happening aside.

She glanced to her left, where he was walking, and observed without comment the tense set of his movement, the way he was looking at nobody. It didn't appear much like a homecoming, though she supposed she could understand. It really wasn't, not now. Anirne maintained a passively-relaxed demeanor as they crossed the threshold into the house itself, and therein, she laid eyes upon the man called the Shade for the first time. Aside from being fair of feature, as humans went, there was nothing about him to immediately suggest that he was at all extraordinary, and that was a much more pressing, subtle kind of danger than that displayed by those who went around bristling with weapons and violence. It was something that she was at once aware of, and she would not forget it.

Anirne sat across from Sinderion, the better to keep an eye on him as things progressed, though neither she nor Adrienne beside her ate at once, perhaps more inclined than Soren to observe the typical etiquette of such situations: eat only when the host has begun doing so. The breton woman hadn't spoken for a lengthy interval, and she didn't seem inclined to do so now, either, eyes fixed ahead of her on the space just over her plate and otherwise nearly entirely still. If Anirne had to guess, she'd suppose that the woman was contemplating something, most likely reaching an unfavorable conclusion, but even as the Altmer watched, she seemed to emerge from it, looking over at the Shade and smiling a bit, not entirely mirthfully. "How very thoughtful. My thanks." To Anirne, it was as though she were looking at a completely separate second person, one unwearied by the road and with absolutely no resentment towards her position at all, and the older woman blinked once before shaking her head minutely and deciding that it didn't matter.

Vanryth obviously wasn't going to stand sitting near the Shade, but he was beaten to the seat furthest away from the damn man by Sinderion. So instead he took second place, taking a seat beside the Altmer and in front of Adrienne. Though the food spread out in front of him smelled delicious, Van had decided he wasn't going to touch any of it. Hunger was no match for his pride, and he'd eat nothing that came from this man's hands or hospitality. Oblivion take him. He'd rather starve. He was bloody lucky Van didn't decide to lunge across the table and choke him.

Lynly however was somewhat more courteous, if not just as reserved. She had taken a seat closer to the Shade than the elves at the end of the table, unfortunately, that brought her nearer to the Archer than she would have prefered. Also closer to the archer and the elf, she had partaken in the food. Warm food was rare in the wild, and she was glad to eat something that hadn't decided to eat her first. Still, she ate quietly, though not with the manners Soren displayed, and her arms tucked in close to her. She didn't do very well at banquets...

The Shade removed his feet from the table, sliding his chair a little closer so that he could begin eating, deftly stabbing a slice of chicken on his plate, followed by a small sip from his goblet. His eyes fell to Anirne, and once his cup was once again on the table he spoke. "Forgive me, we've yet to be properly introduced. I am Tarquin Aurelius, though my fellow competitors call me the Shade." He awaited her reply, eyes taking in the similarities between her and the other Altmer at the table. If he was at all surprised at the Sellswords arriving with one more than he had encountered previously, he did not show it. The table had even been prepared with the correct number of plates.

Anirne dipped her head in acknowledgement, a small, polite smile crossing her features before they receded once more to neutrality. "Anirne Direnni," she replied, and then a light touch of amusement entered her tone, "but as many of us seem inclined to titles instead, some do call me Greycloak." She took the opportunity to begin eating, As did Adrienne close to her, who looked at Van with something resembling a request. Indeed, she also awkwardly signed over the table. Please? Need strength. The psijic smiled to herself.

The Shade clapped his hands together softly, leaning back in his seat at the head of the table. "To business, then? I have already had the opportunity to scout the Inquisitor's fortifications, as well as gather information on him within Solitude. I must say, I'm rather excited to see how this all plays out." Another short drink separated his words, and he wiped his mouth delicately before continuing. Discussing murder had put something of a glint in his eyes, moreso than the one that was always there. "He houses himself within an embassy of the Thalmor here, perhaps the most secure location the Aldmeri Dominion possesses within Skyrim. The compound is walled and patrolled day and night by Thalmor soldiers and war wizards, the entire force of which is somewhere between fifty and seventy-five, housed in a barracks on the north side of the grounds. The manor itself is in the center of the compound, two stories, with guards posted in pairs on each of the ground floor doors."

He propped his elbows up on the table, threading his fingers through each other. "The man himself is the reclusive sort. He follows the commands of one Elenwen, though I understand that she has traveled south to Markarth to make contact with Thalmor agents there, and to investigate dragon attacks in the area. This leaves Talmoro in command at the embassy. Apparently he spends his time either locked away in his study in the manor proper, or otherwise making his way below the barracks to the interrogation chambers, to practice his craft." Anirne frowned. That much, at least, didn't seem to be news to her.

"The area is not without weaknesses, however, nor are we without opportunities. Apart from the front gate, there is one other way in: a cave at the bottom of a short cliff behind the embassy, below the barracks and torture chambers. A frost troll took up residence there, and so the Thalmor dispose of bodies from interrogation in that way. It is unguarded, and would be a simple path in, at least until we reached the barracks. The other option is through the front door. The Thalmor have a reception planned tomorrow, with invitations extended to prominent and affluent citizens of Skyrim, something that apparently happens perhaps once a month. I am aware of several men and women that will not be attending, and some of us should be able to pose as them to gain entrance, should they think themselves up to the task. Talmoro will have to make an appearance at such an event in Elenwen's absence."

How the Shade had managed to come across such information was not readily apparent, nor did he seem about to explain.

The elder Altmer looked pensive for a moment, lips pursed slightly as she chewed something over. Swallowing, she took a sip of water and spoke. "I... should perhaps enter as clandestinely as possible. Without an attempt to sound self-important, there are not a few Thalmor who know my face, and none of them have reason to like me. I'd not like to take the chance that one of them will be in attendance. Barring that, though... having an Altmer in the reception party would not be a bad idea, particularly if things go south and such a one could pretend to be Thalmor proper, perhaps by procuring some of their armor?" She glanced at Sinderion, unsure of how he'd take that but having the inkling that it might not be to his taste. Nevertheless, it was a safety measure that would surely help, and perhaps that alone would be enough to sway him.

"So we try both, then?" Adrienne queried, then nodded as if in answer to her own question. "That makes sense. I'm much better with talking than fighting, so I think it's obvious where I'd be best-put." She paused, then, and glanced over at Tarquin. "What you've said so far is a fairly good indication, I suppose, but what kind of man is this Inquisitor? What sort of thing would be most likely to convince him to abandon his guard and be caught alone? I doubt a few flattering words and some fluttering eyelashes would do the trick, after all." The less work she had to do assessing his demeanor at the event, the better.

That got an amused smile out of Tarquin. "As lovely as you are, I'm afraid no amount of fluttering eyelashes will have an effect on our Inquisitor. He doesn't care for such things, and if we're drawing from the spheres of Mehrunes Dagon here, I'd say he most highly values destruction and ambition. The most tempting thing to present to him would be an opportunity to advance his own position, lure him with the promise of some way to surpass his superiors, to do something important while his commander is away."

"Someone interested in allying with the Thalmor presenting him with a prisoner he would be most interested in would likely get his attention, and perhaps draw him away from the festivities and to an interrogation. I think while a simple Talos worshipper may not suffice," he said, eyes darting towards Lynly for a moment, before settling on Anirne, "perhaps if the Thalmor dislike you enough, they would desire to take you as a prisoner?"

Soren didn't try to hide his amusement at the very thought. "Why not go the full distance? Dress Moody-Blue here-" he jerked a thumb in Sinderion's direction, "in some of that Thalmor armor, tie up the psijic lass," he paused for a moment, cocking his head to one side as though contemplating the image, "and bring her in as a tribute from the Inquisitor's new favorite allies. That ought to get his attention. Shouldn't be too hard for the gifters to feign some curiosity on the matter of their prisoner's fate and get down to the right chambers; it's not like no Thalmor ally's ever had a thing for torture before," he spoke casually, diffidently, and perhaps with a little too much knowledge, though exactly what kind it was wasn't immediately obvious. "Or maybe the good little Thalmor soldier just doesn't want to remand custody until she's properly in a cage, whatever works."

Sinderion immediately hated the idea, mostly because it called for hobbling his sister and putting her at great risk. "Absolutely not," he said, shaking his head. "There has to be another way." There was also the matter of whether he'd even be able to pass himself off as Thalmor, though honestly he probably could. It was more about the amount of danger Anirne would have to deal with, for something that wasn't even her problem.

"There might be," Anirne acknowledged, "but not one so efficient, I should think. I believe it will work, and as for the danger of it, well, it's not as though there's a way to do this that's any less hazardous." She smiled somewhat, as though she might actually enjoy the idea, and honestly, why not? She'd never liked the Thalmor, and if her status as a rather public opponent of their policies could be of some use to them, there was no reason not to use it. It had been a little too long since she'd last staked her life on something, perhaps, but she'd never forgotten the unique sensation. Anirne did not play games, but whatever anyone else thought of it, this was no game to her. It was clear that the lives of her brother and his companions hung in the balance at every moment, and for that reason alone, she'd throw her own in to tip the scales as well.

Adrienne sighed. The problem was, it was too obviously the best plan they had. Nodding slowly, she glanced over the others. "If it's advancement the Inquisitor wants, we're best off playing him that way. I don't expect it will be too hard to convince him that we are as he is, or perhaps interested in his methods." That was the thing, really; no matter who you were, validation didn't go wrong, and you tended to switch off your suspicion of the people who validated you.

"Then it's settled!" the Shade exclaimed, leaning back in his seat with a smile that did not fit the gravity of the situation. "the mages among us enter through the front with our psijic here as a prisoner, with Sinderion in the guise of a Thalmor guard. The others will follow me through the cave entrance to the interrogation chambers, and prepare an ambush. Unless there are objections?" Maya looked rather pleased with the plan. "None here, though I'll need a change of clothes. Perhaps we should wear matching robes? Unless they expect us to look the part of nobility, that is." Drayk didn't look pleased, but at this point, he was beginning to believe there was no arrangement that would suit his abilities. He knew he'd only ruin the stealth group's chances somehow, and as it was... well, hopefully he would be able to be the quiet member of the group, playing the part of Adrienne's subordinate or something.

The Shade waved a hand in dismissal. "There's a store of gold in the basement. I'm sure it will be sufficient to purchase suitable disguises. The reception begins tomorrow evening, so we have until then to prepare. I'll be in my father's study, should you need me for anything." He took his leave of the table, making his way up the stairs behind him into the Mentor's study, closing the door behind him. Maya leaned across the table towards Adrienne. "Well? Shall we do some shopping?"

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero Character Portrait: Soren Ivarsson
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Rather than spend the remainder of the night in the immediate vicinity of the Shade, Drayk had decided to lead a movement to take a trip up the road a short ways to Solitude, and visit the Winking Skeever. He was beginning to see the value in drinking moderate amounts of alcohol when on these long and stressful ventures. It actually helped him to relax, to speak easier, and turn his thoughts away from... other vices. Tonight he managed to secure the company of Vanryth, the mercenary woman Lynly, and to his slight chagrin, the archer, Soren. Normally he would have tried to tell the man to go find his own hole to drink in, but something about being in the manor had the Mentor whispering give him a chance in the back of his mind, and so the party of four departed for the city.

It was dark by the time they reached the front gate, but the tavern was lit up on their left, orange firelight glowing from the windows. The fire mage led the way in, the group picked out a table in the middle of the main floor, and Drayk left to secure drinks for the group. The tavern was busy for the night, many of the local soldiers in attendance. Their number had been much higher than usual ever since the war had started, Solitude being the center of Imperial control in Skyrim. Still, the Winking Skeever was not without more colorful patrons tonight as well. The bard for the night was a green-scaled Argonian deftly playing a lute, and another of the lizard-folk was sitting at the bar garbed in armor of a light leather. In a corner of the tavern, facing the door, was a hooded Dunmer with red face paint trailing from his eyes. He watched the group with some amount interest as they came in, Lynly in particular, his brow narrowing as though trying to remember where he'd seen her before.

It was out of sheer boredom that Lynly had elected to go to the bar with the flirtatious archer, sulky dumner, and the firebomb. It may not have been her initial choice of partners, but she felt like she sorely needed a drink. She followed behind the group at a short clip, noting the dunmer was walking closer to the mage than he was either of the archer or her. The mage was the only one Van actually was fond of, much less trusted, in this motley crew they had that night. Still, the allure of some kind of elixer proved more powerful than the choice of companions. Van needed to remind himself however, to not partake too much of the drink, else a repeat of the last bar incident was inevitable. He hoped that Drayk would keep an eye on him, for he didn't even trust himself in this.

Once seated, Lynly (nor Van) didn't offer to start conversation. Not like the dunmer was going to be able to participate anyway. She figured Soren would be the one to do that. Least, she was waiting for a flirtatious comment when a familiar figure strode through the door. Lynly's eyes locked with the newcomers furrowed brow for a moment before she averted her gaze. Not due to some sort of worry at being recognized, just that eye contact wasn't her most favored thing in the world. Still, from what she saw of the man, he looked strangely familiar. She turned her eyes back to the table in front of her as she mulled over the thought.

Oddly, Soren was quiet on the walk to the bar, simply choosing to fall in line next to Lynly and keep pace with her. He said nothing, and he honestly didn't so much as glance at any of them, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead and half an ear out for any odd bits of conversation or disturbances from outside the group. He'd grown up that way, always expecting to be ambushed around the next corner, lynched if he was lucky, and if he wasn't, well... worse. He supposed that was what happened when your father was a fleece and you were his accomplice, whether you wanted to be or not. But in the end, it had made him better at what he did, and it was all probably the only reason he was still alive, so he could barely be bothered to summon the necessary bitterness anymore. Yes, yes, the old man beat me black and blue, terrible person, yadda, yadda. He didn't care.

What he didcare about was the time of year. That day was approaching again, and this was the reason for his silence. It was perhaps a week away now, and he still hadn't done what he was supposed to. He still wouldn't be able to meet that day straight-backed and sober. Ordinarily, he would have tagged along to the bar for an opportunity to observe and perhaps toy with the others, or just to get laid. Today, though, he was going because he really wanted to get plastered and forget. He was willing to bet the only one of this lot that had a chance of putting him under the table was the tongueless one, and even that was a long shot.

He entered the bar just behind the rest, and though he was astute enough to observe that they were being watched, and the Nord woman's reaction to it, it took him a second to find his own tongue. "Friend of yours?" he drawled, raising one red brow just slightly and letting his empahsis do the rest of the work. He took a seat at the table and immediately waved over a round for everyone in the small party, handing the barkeep the requisite funds and ordering two more for himself. The first one went down in a single long draught, but he'd linger over the next two a bit longer. Maybe. "First one's on me," he explained. "Gods know you lot could stand to relax a little." The words lacked the usual bite of cynicism, and it actually sounded like he might mean it.

"That's the plan tonight," Drayk said, perhaps the first thing he'd said to the archer without at least a mildly hostile tone. He started in on his own, noting the way Soren attacked his own drink, but not commenting on it. For his part, he was completely unaware of anyone watching them. Despite all he had been through, it seemed it was still not in his way to keep a watchful eye at all times.

Vanryth harumphed in reply. He didn't need to relax. If anything he needed to tighten up a little. Last time he tried to relax, it ended in a barfight, and he really didn't want to start one here. The more he drank, the shorter his fuse got. He couldn't promise that an errant word from either the archer or the warrior wouldn't light it either. Still, despite his wariness, he gladly accepted the first tankard, nearly matching Soren's own draught. Lynly was much more reserved about hers, thinking deeply about the familiar face. Her eyes glazed as she down at the table, trying to force the memory back to the forefront.

Soren's question ushered a shrug, but it did remind her where she had saw the face. "I am relaxed," Lynly began. If she was, it certainly didn't appear so. Her shoulders were drawn and her hands were in her lap. By all accounts, it looked like she afraid of being out in public. Though at this point, the others had to have noticed her social awkwardness. It wasn't so easy as to turn it off afterall.

"That man. The kni- dunmer with the face tattoo," she caught herself before she could utter "Knife-ear" infront of Van. Luckily, the mute man was too busy trying to get to the bottle of his next tankard to have heard. Lynly's eyes danced between him and Soren before continuing, "He was in the bar in Falkreath, before we ran into you. He was the reason Maya ran into the woods that night," She said, shifting eye from the archer to Drayk. "My guess is that he has something to do with the game..." Though, that could be her suspicion talking. Vanryth belched then nodded, remembering something like that.

Perhaps the Dunmer had come to the same conclusion Lynly had at the same moment, as he was soon on his feet, moving slowly over towards their table, his own mug in hand. He came up alongside them, resting a hand against the open chair at the table. He directed his question towards Drayk in a calm voice, not emotionless exactly, but as though he simply did not use his voice that often. "Would you object if I sat?" Drayk looked to the others for any objection, before shrugging a consent. "Have a seat." He nodded, pulling back the chair and sliding into it, the glint of a war axe on his belt appearing for a moment before it vanished beneath the cloak. "My thanks."

He went straight to the point, crimson eyes locking solidly with Lynly's, his gaze rather intense, though it didn't seem like he was trying to be. "I remember seeing you speak with the Blackfeather, in Falkreath. Would you have any news of what became of her? You were traveling east to the Rift, as I remember, and yet you are here now."

"Are you seeking her?" Lynly posed with a curious tone, leaning back in her chair. Her eyes didn't quite meet the man's, instead focusing on his plain manner of dress. She wasn't completely certain, but if he was indeed involved in the game, then Maya could be his next target. She didn't feel comfortable giving the man information on the girl if he intended to hunt her. While Lynly was uncertain if they could be considered friends, she felt she owed her at least this much. She wasn't about to throw Maya to this man.

The Dunmer took a long drink of his ale before setting it down on the table and removing his hood, revealing a rather impressively maintained mohawk and suddenly making him appear much less closed off. The hood had cast shadows over his features that were now gone, and though he was certainly still a dark elf, he appeared slightly less so now. "Well said. I was unaware how much you knew. They do not appreciate word of their Game being spread needlessly, but if you are already informed, then I may speak freely. No, I do not seek her."

He leaned forward slightly, shifting in the seat and speaking such that only the immediate audience could hear him. "Forgive me. I am Invorin Hastati, called the Horizon, and representative of my lady Azura. I would be willing to share what information I know of other targets if I could receive some in exchange."

"Oh good," Soren replied this time, clearly warming to the conversation. "An exchange of information. A sad dearth of people in this world speak the trade tongue. Well then, allow me to ask for the specifics: exactly what information are you offering, and what questions are you asking?" This was his profession, after all, it would be rather remiss of him not to at least assist in the conducting of this little venture into the sharing of knowledge. It was also best done when both parties were as at-ease as possible, as it tended to loosen tongues a little, so he waved over the waitress again and turned, brow cocked, to Invorin. "What's your poison?"

"This will be enough for me, but thank you," he replied politely, holding on to his singular mug of ale. "I can offer you the current locations of no less than six representatives, some of which you may already know, and what I know of their movements. I can offer you the name of my own target as well. I would ask that you provide whatever similar information you possess. The more knowledge we have of the kill order, the more effectively we can plan out our movements."

Drayk shrugged. "Seems like a fair deal to me. Would be nice to know what kind of people to watch out for when we're on the road." It wasn't that he was particularly interested in Maya's or the Shade's well being, but considering that he was working with them, anyone who sought their deaths would likely seek his as well, and for the moment, he wasn't interested in either the Shade or himself ending up dead.

Vanryth held up four fingers and another two to make six from within his tankard, not even bothering to look up. Though, he was intrigued to hear that the bar traveler was the representive of Azura, but it made sense. Azura wouldn't have chosen a nord or imperial to be her representive, considering she was the matron of the Dunmer of people. It was this bloodline that gave the Horizon a small measure of respect from the scarred Dunmer. Not enough to stay his hand if the man stood between him and what they were after, but respect none the less.

Lynly glanced at Van, noting his the number he held up before looking back to the Horizon. "We too know six of the players," Apparently. She really only knew of Maya, the Shade, and their targets, the Omen and the Inquisitor. She raised an eyebrow at the Dunmer wondering where did he get the other two. What were they doing before they met her? Still she shrugged and elaborated on what she knew, "Of those, we know of the Blackfeather, the Shade, the Omen, and the Inquisitor..." She looked to the dunmer to explain the other.

Reluctantly, Van sat the tankard down, and began to try and figure out how to convey his message to the Nord. He sat for a moment, his beard in his hands before making the signs that meant rock, and a hammering motion. That one Lynly understood, the man had made an impression in her mind, though she was slow to piece together that he was a representive of the game as well. "The Stonehammer, and..." The next sign meant spy, though that seemed a plain name for a representives... "The Spy?" She asked, confused. This had to have been before she joined the Sellswords.

Vanryth merely shrugged figuring it was close enough. He had meant the Spymaster, Rylin Moroth, they had met in Markarth, though Drayk perhaps understood what he meant by spy. He hadn't learned the word for master yet. With that done, Van buried himself back into his tankard, and Lynly likewise kept her silence. She had given enough information to grease the wheels, and if any bartering was to be done for more, Soren could more than handle it.

Soren shrugged; it was a few less septims he had to spend, which was never a bad thing as far as he was concerned. The recitation the mute one was getting the warrior woman to perform was interesting, but the list of names was not really of much use unless it was accompanied by connections between them, and these, he could provide. As soon as he'd figured out the nature of this little Game, he'd been most intrigued by it, and had set about asking questions (largely of Maya) until he knew exactly what was going on. Well, exactly what the Sellswords knew of it, anyway. He wasn't dumb enough to think that was all there was, which was why this little opportunity intrigued him. That it kept him from thinking on far less pleasant things than Daedra and assassination games was only a bonus, if a large one.

"The Stonehammer seeks the Spymaster," he started, downing another half a drink. "The Light is dead; he was killed by the Bloody Curse, who is also dead. Blackfeather's last target-- so you can thank us, in part, though the Shade had an apparently non-illegal hand in it as well. He hunts the Inquisitor, and she's now after the Omen. They're both in this area, so if by some off-chance you're after the Shade, I'm sure most of these upstanding mercenaries would be happy to lead you where you need to go." Unlikely, but possible, based on the numbers involved. "I think that's about the long and short of what we know. So, what do you have that we don't, hm?"

Honestly, he ordinarily wouldn't have given it all away at once without some guarantee that he'd be getting something back, but the fact was (conveniently), this was nothing but a diversion for him, and nothing really depended on the outcome. In other words, while he might like whatever information the Horizon was offering, he had no need of it, it was hardly saleable, and therefore he didn't much care in the long run.

"The Stonehammer sought the Spymaster," the Dunmer corrected. "While I was in Markarth a dragon struck the city, sowing chaos. This was accompanied by a jailbreak of Forsworn prisoners from Cidhna Mine, a small number of Stormcloaks among them. The Stonehammer had turned himself in. Apparently Rylin thought to keep her enemy closest to her. The dragon nearly cooked me as I went for cover. After the Forsworn had left the city and the dragon disappeared over the hills, the Spymaster was found dead, her head crushed. The Stonehammer seeks the Spymaster's target now."

He took a long drink of ale. Speaking of it seemed to be making him irritable, an indication that he had so far been met with naught but frustration in his pursuits. "With the Light and the Bloody Curse also dead, and the Master gone, it brings us to twelve. I am... surprised the Blackfeather prevailed. Perhaps she is more resourceful than she lets on. I'm sure all of you had your reasons for helping her." Drayk took a long swig as if in response. If being deceived was an adequate excuse for a reason, then sure, they had their reasons.

"You must be here for the Inquisitor, then. He seems content to wall himself in his fortress for now, and I know not who he hunts. The Stonehammer left Markarth heading north, but he paused in the nearby mining town, and I continued on. I did not speak with him, so I do not know who he seeks now, only that he is a force to be reckoned with. I also had an encounter with the Feral near the Dragon Bridge. He still possessed enough of his sanity to know not to attack me, but that was the extent of the encounter. If Blackfeather and the Shade are here, it's likely he seeks one of them. Have you heard of him yet?"

Drayk shook his head, interested. "No, we've heard nothing of him. Care to explain?" Invorin nodded, looking rather grim. "His name was once Ja'karo, a Khajiit hailing from Elsweyr. I know nothing of his history, only that he acquired a rather unique case of lycanthropy, and a taste for flesh. He hunts in the night, in the shadows, with claws and teeth, his form somehow crossed between the beast and the Khajiit. He feasts for Namira. I'd advise you sleep with an eye open from now on."

It was advice Drayk had received a few times in his life, that he had sadly failed to heed to this point. "Thanks for the heads up. And who are you trying to kill?" That question seemed only to make the Horizon more irritable. He took a swig of ale before answering. "The Bard," he spat, "of Sheogorath. A maddening traveling minstrel, with seemingly no connections to any living being in this country. My problems are not yours, though. I hope we are not forced to meet again on less pleasant terms."

The Bard. Truthfully, Van had expected the chosen of Sanguine to take the title of Bard, but then again, he knew very little of this game and only a passing knowledge of Daedra Lords. The Bard. He knew many Bards. Though... Something about it seemed to strike a familiar chord. He sat down his mug and began to think, drowning out the voices of the others. The Bard. He vaguely remembered lyrics dancing around in his head, dissolving as he reached for them. The bar in Riften, before the fight, there had been a bard, singing the strangest song. He had only heard it because he was enjoying the drink instead of either Anirne's or Sinder's company. The harder he thought about it, the more lyrics came to mind.

He closed his eyes and nodded. From what little he could remember, the lyrics sounded like their little venture, and something to do with what the Horizon had just told them. He covered his face with his palm and chuckled lightly. It did sound something someone affiliated with Sheogorath would do. He looked up from and began to motion with his hands, city, east, and south-- city in the southeast (Riften), and the best bardlike motions he could conjure up. If his guess was correct, then the Bard was the same one in Riften. Though if he was still there, he did not know, but it was more information than the Horizon had now, and it wouldn't hurt for him to owe them a favor. He'd leave it up to one of the others to interpret his words.

Drayk did his best to interpret the words with what training he had managed to master in the short time they had. "City... southeast, so the Bard was in Riften?" Perhaps unfortunately Vanryth was the only one among the four of them to have visited the tavern in Riften, for Drayk remembered seeing no such character. Invorin rolled his eyes in frustration. "I had just come from Riften when we last met, and he was not there. It means little now, he has undoubtedly moved a dozen times over since you encountered him. Perhaps a change in tactics is necessary." Having finished his drink, the Horizon pushed his chair back and stood.

"I thank you for the information. I will be staying here until the day after tomorrow, should you wish to seek me out." He took his leave, departing up the stairs and towards the private rooms. Drayk turned to the others once he was gone. "Well, that was enlightening. Good to know the Stonehammer saved us a load of work, I guess."

"I'd rather have to fight this Spymaster over the Stonehammer..." Lynly mumbled. "In any case, we should keep an eye out for this 'Feral'. It sounds... Unpleasant."

"Oh, I don't know," Soren countered playfully, "I think we're due for a nice ambush at some point. Pity we know it's coming." He polished off his third drink and slammed the mug down on the table. "Another!" Lynly scoffed, and added "Pity," in agreement.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Adrienne Jastal
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Perhaps an hour or two after Anirne had departed, Adrienne was about ready to do the same, cinching her new robes in place with an embroidered strip of fabric, so fanciful if only because shed had hours of free time on the way to Solitude and little to fill them with, aside from the intermittent lessons in signing courtesy of the resident Psijic. Having forgone the option of journeying into town the previous night, she was actually more well-rested than she could remember being in quite a long while, and though that brought with it a little bit of soreness as her body's accumulated damage caught up with her, it had also started to repair itself, helped along by a healing draught. In short, the breton girl was feeling pretty fantastic, if she conveniently forgot that the lives of everyone in the world she cared about were still hanging in the balance of a game she had not wanted to play in.

That bit was actually surprisingly simple, if she focused only on what was immediately before her. Picking up a small satchel, the mage tied this to her new sash, laying her alchemist's bandoleers loosely enough about her waist that everything was within easy reach. She'd made a few more than she could comfortably carry, even considering the ones she was planning on giving to the others, and those, she would sell in town today, to hopefully build a bit more of a stockpile of septims in case they were needed.

Double-checking her room to ensure that everything was in its proper place, she nodded to herself and left it, closing but not locking the door behind her. It would take more than a simple lock to stop anyone who really wanted in from entering, and she didn't bother, though she did place a blond hair in the doorjamb, which would doubtless not remain there if someone did use the portal to enter. It was an old trick, one she'd never really been able to shake. Still, she couldn't fault herself for it: it was one of the reasons she trusted the other Sellswords so much: to her knowledge, none of them had ever been inside without an invitation, which was a nice thing to know when you were inherently suspicious but also really, desperately needed to learn how to trust.

The front entranceway was currently unoccupied, and this was where she waited, assuming that Maya would be out soon enough.

She assumed correctly, as the witch presented herself not two minutes later, looking very unwitchlike. Maya's raven hair was done up in a slightly messy bun, for once not falling about her shoulders in wild droves. She'd removed her witch's robes in favor of a simple dress of a pale green color over a tunic that must have once been white, but was now a yellow-brown color, particularly towards the ends of the sleeves and the hem of the skirt. Her boots were no longer the thigh-high moccassin like contraptions she wore regularly, but instead rather drab looking things that looked better for working a field rather than navigating a forest. In all, she looked very much like a commoner this morning, hefting a medium sized pack onto a shoulder.

"I found these old things lying about," she said, giving a half-hearted shrug, "They make me look sufficiently boring, I think. Shall we?" She could have worn the same garb she'd used in Riften, but chose not to, as it was rather wrinkled in her pack at this point, and these were probably better than what she had anyway. She'd found them amongst a bunch of other women's clothes in a large bedroom she would have guessed belonged to the Mentor himself. Curious, but probably not worth mentioning to the others.

Maya led the way from the manor, armed with some coin she appropriated from the stores the Shade had informed her of. Only enough to buy what she would need, of course. She assumed her companion had also brought along coin. At this point, Maya's cheer seemed to only be growing, and now even she wasn't so certain it wasn't an act. The day would be long, and bloody before its end. If all went well, there would only be Thalmor blood spilled. If not... well, she'd gone over that line of thought already. It wasn't worth her time right now.

Like every other city in Skyrim, Maya had been to Solitude before. It was actually one of the cities she was more familiar with, and she had often traveled the road up past Whiterun and Rorikstead, over the Dragon Bridge and into Haafingar. She liked it here, it was very... picturesque, both the city and the surrounding countryside. She could hide her appearance, but the witch was not so adept at hiding her mood. It was a beautiful morning, and by the time they reached Radiant Raiment, she was strutting inside like she owned the place.

The Altmer proprietor didn't seem to think much of that, giving Maya a glare when she walked in, which she promptly ignored as she began browsing their wares. "What do you think, matching robes? We could look like some kind of crazy cult... the Legendary Dusk or something." At the storeowner's raised eyebrow to her initial question, Maya just waived a hand in dismissal. "Oh, we're just going to a costume party, I'm sure it's nothing you would be invited to." If she was interested in making friends with her, Maya certainly wasn't showing it.

"Hm... maybe simply matching color palettes. Drayk could conceiveably wear the robes, but I think you and I need to dress to impress. That's usually the point of such functions, after all, and crazy cult or not, people with power want everyone else to know they have it. Especially women with power." Adrienne noted. That said, the colors themselves would have to be well-chosen. The match would need to be strong and obvious, enough to make an impression. Probably in garments rich enough to appear like they'd cost quite a bit.

She didn't really want to admit it, but this bit had always been a favorite of hers: planning, and then executing a fleece of sorts, coming away with exactly what she'd gone in wanting, having given nothing away that she wasn't entirey willing to part with in the first place. The fact that this would be a Thalmor engagement was hardly much of a concern as far as such things went. It was true that the Thalmor were dangerous, but so was Daggerfall. This was the kind of danger she knew how to deal with, anyway. "So Maya... how do you feel about dresses? And the color red, perhaps? Red and gold might work." It would certainly make a statment, especially for the difference from Thalmor blue and its brightness on the eyes. She also thought it would look rather fetching on the other woman and Drayk both, given their dark hair. As for her, well, she'd make it work just fine.

"So long as I won't have to tear my way out of it in order to run somewhere, I wouldn't mind a dress. I've always fancied a chance at being the ravishing Breton noblewoman, take a break from being a witch of the wilds, you know? Mm, you probably don't. Anyway, it seems prudent to account for the outcome where we're forced into more drastic measures. Maybe we'd have time to enchant these? I have spare soul gems, and I noticed you're an enchanter yourself. I'm sure it wouldn't take us long." She spoke the truth about liking the idea of the dresses. The issue of being able to move at a moment's notice was perhaps more pressing, though. The skirts of her own robes were more akin to coattails, not restricting the motion of her legs in any manner. Considering the fact that they were bringing Drayk and Sinderion along with them on a mission like this, Maya was willing to bet the chances of things getting hectic were pretty high.

"Mm, perhaps," Adrienne demurred, tapping an index finger on her lips thoughtfully. "And well, just because one is wearing a dress does not mean they cannot hide other things under their skirts, anyway. I knew a few women who swore by deerskin leggings, actually." The young woman shrugged, as if to say it could all be arranged if necessary. Of course, if they did their jobs right, they'd be walking out exactly the same way they came in, with none the wiser for the death of the Inquisitor. Things didn't often seem to go according to plan anymore, though, so she could see the wisdom in not counting on it. That in mind, she examined a few of the lighter fabrics on offer, aware that weighing down their skirts too much would be counterproductive, but too much gauzy billowing would be just as bad, and more likely to trip them up.

Still, her desires were overcoming her caution of late, and the idea was too tempting to pass up. "Red and gold should look nice, a good change of pace. We can glow like the flames our little firebrand likes to wrap himself in." She smiled at the thought. It occurred to her that this was really the first time the two Breton girls had been alone together. She pondered why that was for a moment. Had she been avoiding Adrienne? Had Adrienne been avoiding her? No, that wasn't it, she had no reason to dislike the woman, and as far as she could tell, she hadn't gotten on Adrienne's bad side. One would think they would have a decent amount in common, both being of the same Breton blood, but anyone could look at them and see they came from different worlds.

"You were raised in High Rock, weren't you?" she asked, her line of thought turning into words. "Would it be unheard of for something so precious as a child to be abandoned due to some scandal or intrigue?" Perhaps it was a strange question to ask without a lead-in, but perhaps this was at the root of why she hadn't made much effort at speaking with Adrienne. It wasn't... jealousy, or resentment or anything like that, just... curiosity, from one who was doomed to never truly know the circumstances of her origin.

Adrienne, who had been scrutinzing several different shades of red-- scarlet was brighter and thus more noticeable, but crimson carried an air of gravity, being the obvious analogue to blood as well as flame-- paused, lifting her eyes to Maya's face. Whatever she saw there prompted her to answer, or perhaps it was just the polite thing to do. "An interesting question," she mused thoughtfully, angling her head just a bit to the left. "But I doubt you'll be surprised when I tell you that it wouldn't. The bastard child is a frequent and very unappreciated happening in a society where sex is an oft-exercised form of power, as one might expect." The woman at the counter looked positively scandalized by this point, not to mention more than a touch confused, but Adrienne paid it no mind.

"There are, however, infrastructures in place to handle that sort of thing; I know of no reason why such a child would end up in Skyrim, if that's what you mean to ask, unless the family was in exile. That's... not uncommon either, especially in cases of forcible disenfranchisement." Disowning a proper-blood child was far less common, but as she knew quite well, it did happen in dire enough circumstances. One learned to cut the dead weight when one was intent on rising, after all, and once she was discovered, she'd been little but. Funny that it turned out to be her own fault.

Turning back to the clothing, she pursed her lips, then nodded after a moment. "I think these are the best bet; the crimson is more properly ominous, and I like the edging. It says that we're well accustomed to opulence and hence getting our way. We'll need to have them taken in, though." She turned to the counter and smiled winningly, which did little to move the owner. "Can you take my friend's measurements, please? I have my own for you as well." She loosened her coinpurse from her belt and placed it on the counter, having filled it from the stockpile in the basement. "This should cover the alterations and a matching set of robes, I should think."

It certainly changed the woman's tune, regardless.

"Well, if I fell off the back of a carriage as a baby, I'm quite glad I did, and thankful that I avoided any kind of brain damage in the process," Maya said with a degree of certainty, cooperating as the Altmer woman took her measurements. It was rather exciting, actually. She'd never had anything made for her like this, apart from her own robes, which she'd crafted for herself through a good deal of trial and error until she found the correct fit.

"Maybe it's a case of not being able to regret the only life I've ever known, but I really can't imagine myself anywhere else. Brief forays into worlds of elegance and intrigue are fascinating, but ultimately empty to me. I think my heart will always rest with the forests, and the moon, and the hunt." She was aware that her words were likely very strange to the woman currently measuring the size of her hips, but Maya seemed content to act as though she simply wasn't there.

"And what of you?" she asked Adrienne, curious again. "If you could go back to your homeland and resume your life there, would you? I have only ever led one life, so I cannot know what it must be like to have led two, and decide which one meant more to me."

"A choice between the people that cast me out like I wasn't their daughter and the people who took me in as though I was family?" Adrienne sounded slightly incredulous. "It's not a choice at all. I know we're the furthest thing from perfect or even functional, most days, but, well, I guess I can't imagine myself anywhere else anymore either." She shrugged lightly. "If there's anything I've learned, coming from that life into this one, it's that the family that wants you is vastly prefrable to the one that doesn't. I won't tell you to consider yourself lucky, because you probably weren't, but if the other witches gave you even a bit of that... well, doesn't your life now make you happy?"

She honestly wasn't sure, but she'd never gotten the impression that Maya resented being where she was, nor even what she'd been told to do, and that was more than Adrienne could say for her life in High Rock. "In the end, I'd die for them and I'd kill for them, and I'd do it without regret. That's something I've never known before. Right or wrong, it's certainly not empty any longer." The blonde woman pointed quickly to a succession of fabrics, and the seamstress took down the notes with just as much efficiency. It was funny, though; she'd never have expected the skills from her old life to help at all with her new one. Being able to use them again felt... surprisingly natural.

"My apologies," Maya said, "I was unaware of your reasons for leaving High Rock. The others don't exactly gossip a lot. Perhaps Skyrim is the better place for both of us. I do consider myself lucky, actually. Many search their entire lives for something to devote themselves to. Perhaps it hasn't been easy at times, but it's given me a great deal to be thankful for."

She'd never really thought about how bad a life could be among nobles. Family was... different for her than it was for most. Blood family didn't exist, and so her family was whoever was most interested in taking care of her. There was no group she was required to assist, to do the bidding of. She was raised as a witch, but she was never forced to be a witch. She could have left if she'd wanted, but she found that the life suited her. She imagined she would have had different thoughts about the Glenmoril if the relationship had been one of... captivity? Rather than freedom. "I hope I haven't offended. I was merely curious about your past, and mine. I'm thankful for the help you've given me so far. It's... regrettable that I felt I had to deceive you."

"No, not in the slightest. I could hardly expect you to know. The question was merely surprising. With the Sellswords... I think there's an unspoken understanding that none of us ever wish to go back, though moving forward is often difficult. It has been some time since I spoke of it, is all." She flashed a smile, though the expression faded into thoughtfulness shortly thereafter. "Deception... is something with which I am familiar. It would be incredibly unfair of me to condemn you for it, being of a rather dishonest sort, myself." There was a short pause, then a soft snort. "Of course, if we could keep it to a minimum in the future, that'd be lovely. I don't think any of us want the Shade to win this Game, not after what he's done. But we can't help much if we don't know the rules, so to speak."

That said, Adrienne wrote a series of numbers representing her own dimensions on the seamstress's parchment, and cast her eye appraisingly over the items that had been assembled. On seond thought, she added a few approximate notes regarding Drayk's height and such as well, so that the robes would fit as well as could be expected. There was a little more room for leeway with such things than with bodices, after all. "That should do it," she told the woman. "We'll be back this evening. There's extra in there for the short notice. Thank you." She gestured to the small satchel of coins, and then turned to Maya.

"Well, I suppose that's it. Now we just need to find a way to pass the afternoon, I think."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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The rest of the day was spent in preparation for the night's strike at the Thalmor embassy, the disguises prepared for the mages of the group. The Shade delivered a set of elven armor to Sinderion just before they departed, rather pleased when he informed him that he'd cleaned the blood from it personally. Once all were in disguise, and Drayk reiterated once more how he was going to let the others do the talking, they departed. The news had been spread by Drayk about the meeting with the Horizon the previous night, and the Shade had seemed none too pleased to learn of the Feral's presence in the area. The witch, too, seemed somewhat disturbed by the news.

The plan was run over again: the mages were to infiltrate the embassy with a Psijic prisoner, to get the Inquisitor's attention and hopfully intrigue him into abandoning festivities in favor of an interrogation, retreating to the questioning chambers below the barracks where he would be more vulnerable. There, the team of Tarquin, Lynly, Vanryth and Soren would already be lying in wait, having gained access through a frost troll's cave in the rear of the compound and together with the others they would bring him down. If all went well, another would fall tonight, and the representatives would number eleven...





Most of the procession of important guests had already passed through the front gates, and Drayk noted how fashionably late they were. This was sure to get some kind of attention, and he could only hope it was the good kind. The kind that didn't involve arrows and lightning bolts flying at them. He felt ridiculous in this get-up, even if it admittedly made him look a little more presentable. He was without his shield for the night, the dull wood and steel contraption clashing terribly with the rest of the look. He would have to rely on his wards alone for defense if it came to that. Just one more thing to be nervous about. He added it to the list.

Maya was excited, however, barely staying behind Adrienne to allow her her role as the leader, or at least the spokesperson, of the group. The one thing that did have her on edge was the rumored presence of the werewolf in their midst, and not the one she trusted to have her back. She had absolutely no desire to have an encounter with the Feral, certainly not while they were trying to pull off an operation as complex as this. Fortunately, her own weapons could not be separated from her, and her bow could be in her hands at a moment's notice. Apart from that, her best defense was her disguise, the crimson robes leaving her looking nothing like the wild woman she normally was, her hair done up in an elegant bun, curls falling down to brush lightly at the base of her neck. She would have to compliment Adrienne on a job well done after all this.

The front gates were open to them, but they were soon met by a Thalmor war wizard, flanked by two personal guards, as well as two more standing watch over the front door. More were patrolling the length of the wall, armored in shining elven plate. At their approach, the war wizard pushed back his hood to get a better look at the nearing group. He raised a hand to command them to stop. "Halt! What is the meaning of this? Guardsman, who are these people?" He spoke to Sinderion, expecting that such a group would be met by a patrol if they did not appear as though they were one of the guests.

Adrienne had to admit, she'd done rather well for a budget and a time crunch. They certainly matched, and the visual effect was actually quite arresting, helped along by the fact that nobody in the party was at all a strain on the eyes. Her hair was fashioned similarly to Maya's, though half of it hung in neat, soft curls down her back. The dress left her shoulders bare, though, and she'd had to mix something up to hide the faint redness of a particular burn scar on her left one. She'd also darkened the area around her lashed and painted her lips a bright red, something that she now used to considerable effect, smiling wickedly at the guard with his hand held in the air. It wasn't enough to look the part, however, and she knew that as well as anyone.

"Well, aren't you just precious," she purred, apparently quite amused by the Thalmor's actions. "Such a shame you're all so serious, though." she shot a glance at Sinder, as though he were the confirming case of her point, and lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. "My companions and I represent the Burning Circle, a particular group of individuals with an... interest in the continued growth of the Aldmeri Dominion." She stepped aside, revealing more clearly to his sight the enchained Anirne, shackled at the wrists, her iron bindings resting firmly in Sinderion's hands. "We're here to speak with a very important someone who may have a very specific interest in our tribute here. A Psijic monk, if you were curious."

Anirne straightened at this, standing at her full height and affecting every inch the haughty, proud demeanor a prisoner of her stature would likely take on. Adrienne raised a brow as if bored with it, and the conversation already. "I assure you, it's an opportunity you don't want to leave standing at the gate." She made a point of examining her nails, the lines of her posture conveying a sort of contained impatience that wasn't at all uncommon on the highborn and those with far too much self-importance but an unfortunate amount of ability to back it. Essentially the posture of every major noblewoman she'd grown up around, really.

Given the incredible shift from her usual demeanor, it was fair to say Adrienne was purposefully attempting to take over most of the talking, and for that, Sinderion would have had difficulty being more grateful. It was already hard enough to stand there in this armor that still smelled of old blood, holding a cold chain to which his sister was attached, still in her Psijic greys and an obvious target if things went wrong. Given his actual frustration, it wasn't hard to fake it, and he channelled the feeling into a skyward roll of his eyes, meeting the eyes of the guard and nodding curtly. "She speaks truly. They caught the monk, I'm just here for... security." That sounded plausible, right? The Thalmor would surely wish to keep track of a prisoner this important.

The wizard looked a little flabbergasted at it all. He looked confused at the guardsman's response, but really too taken aback by Adrienne's act to respond to it. "A... Psijic? Caught by... who did you say you were again?" Maya took this one, appearing none too pleased with him. "The Burning Circle. Open your ears, elf. I expect much more of Skyrim will have heard of us soon." He looked torn, as though he should be reprimanding them for the severe lack of conventional boot-licking he'd become accustomed to from the other nobles, all full of air and empty promises. These ones did not merely state their intended allegiances, they were showing it.

He sighed, giving in. "Guards. Escort them into the lobby and summon Lord Talmoro. I believe he'll want to handle this himself." He returned his hood to his head once a slight breeze blew a small puff of snow about the air around them. "The Thalmor appreciate this, I assure you. Please, enter, and enjoy the party."

A pair of guards came forth to join Sinderion in escorting them in, and they made their way up the few steps, the double front doors swinging open for them to reveal the interior of the embassy manor, and the small mass of clustered nobles speaking to various members of the Thalmor, among each other. Drayk shifted about nervously, doing his best to keep his face straight. Adrienne and Maya were doing an excellent job of playing the parts needed. He felt bad for Sinder. His role placed a lot more pressure on him, as the armor almost invited questions to be directed his way.

"Wait here," a guard said firmly, departing up the nearby set of stairs to the second floor. An awkward minute or so passed in which Drayk attempted to catch the eye of one of his friends, but he knew they needed to stay in character, and reassuring him however they would wasn't part of that. He hated this already. Perhaps his only consolation was that it wasn't one of his loved ones currently in chains. He'd do whatever it took to make sure everyone else came out of this fine, though.

"My eyes must betray me," were the first words their target spoke as he came down the stairs, the words elegantly falling from the tongue. Talmoro Vasuderon was garbed in an immaculate set of Thalmor mage robes, black as night and trimmed with gold. He was no youngling, his hair graying and combed back, a slight arch to one eybrow accompanying the smirk upon his lips. He came to a halt before them, the eyes of more than a few guards and war wizards upon him. Drayk was sorely tempted. He was here, right in front of them? But no, he would see it coming from the front, and there were far too many of them to handle on their own. Patience was key here.

"You bring me a monk of the Psijic Order? An excellent choice of gift, indeed. I don't think I could stand another moonstone circlet." He stepped forward, stopping before Anirne, raising one long-fingered hand to grasp her by the chin, as if inspecting her for some abnormalities or some such. "How did they get their hands on you, I wonder?"

Anirne smiled tightly, eyes narrow and displeasure radiating from her stature. "I'm not hiding what I am," she said, voice low and full of simmering heat. "So few recognize what they see anymore. The doing of people like you, in no small part." To her credit, she did not flinch in the slightest from him, standing her ground and looking as regal as one could, imprisoned as she was.

To be completely honest, Adrienne wasn't sure how much was an act and how much represented genuine sentiment on the woman's part, which was actually a good thing. It was that much more believable, even to someone who knew there was a ruse involved. She'd not let it go to waste, either. "And those who do don't always have to act like it," she finished blandly, shooting the woman a disdainful glance, which was returned with pride, as though they'd been through this song and dance several times already. Which was quite likely, if indeed they'd had to journey to bring her here. "We found her in Riften, actually. I suppose that's to be expected; who in a city of thieves would know anything of magic?"

She returned her attention to Talmoro, though, because he would be expecting an explanation, a pitch of some kind, and the kind of person she portrayed would not hesitate to give it. "We," she said, gesturing to encompass herself, Drayk, and Maya, "are the Burning Circle, and we offer up this little... gift to you because we know enough to understand that she might be of some value for a man in your rather... unique position." The smile was close-lipped and conspiratorial this time, though she left it at that, for the moment. Of course, there was the matter of what they wished in return, but it would be much more in keeping with the proper order of things if they waited for him to inquire-- his was the superior bargaining position, after all.

Drayk was reasonably certain that Talmoro was impressed. He released Anirne's chin and stepped back to speak with the three of them. "Well, you're obviously no fools, and even the Thalmor have had extreme difficulty capturing any of the Psijic Order, so you must possess a good deal of skill to match your boldness." He thought for a moment, before a small smile formed upon his face. "Yes... perhaps a partnership could be formed from this. Such a gift to the Thalmor shall not go unrewarded, I assure you."

Rather abruptly, he turned to look at Sinderion. "Escort the captive to the interrogation chambers, guardsman, then return to your post. I'll be along momentarily to speak with our guest in a more private setting." He took in all three of the Burning Circle, such as they were, his eyes lingering momentarily longer upon Maya, but not so long to warrant worry. "If you'll follow me, perhaps we can discuss the terms of an arrangement in my personal quarters."

Sinder was momentarily paralyzed, because he was quite sure he had no idea where the interrogation chambers were, but he knew he had to act, and now. "Yes, my Lord," he replied, hoping quite fervently that it was the proper form of address. It was what he'd heard the other guards use, so it was the safest bet he had. Gripping Anirne's chain tightly, Sinder exited the room, attempting to keep his breathing steady. A wave of unfamiliar smells assaulted him, including odious perfumes and old books, but oddly, the smell of blood and unwashed bodies lay under the rest like a sickly undertone.

Oh, wait. He could definitely use that. The dirty people were more likely to be soldiers, and they were likely to be near the prison, which was probably the blood. Chances were, if he got close enough, he'd be able to pick out Van or the Shade to get to the actual chamber. This was... possible, and strange as it was, he had only the bestial part of his nature to thank for that. He almost hated to admit that, but... if everyone he'd spoken to on the subject (sans the Mentor, but he was trying very hard not to remember that) was right, then it might be the case that he could come to terms with it after all. Just... not right now, while he was trying to get unobtrusively as possible from one end of this gods-forsaken place to the other.

He almost wanted to say something to Anirne, seek some kind of assurance that his plan was the right one, but he couldn't risk it being seen or heard. In everything but the physical fact of her proximity, he was alone on this one.

Back in the original recieving room, Adrienne wasn't much more sure of how they'd fare than Sinder, but she hid it well, trusting as well as she could that her friend would figure things out. He was resourceful, the Altmer, even if it wasn't usually something he used in situations like this one. They'll be okay. She watched them leave with feigned disinterest, but immediately refocused on their target. "Well, of course I'm sure our capabilites are modest when compared to the might of the Dominion, but we have our moments," she demurred politely, though of course things like that were formalities at best. On one level, obvious, due to the numbers involved. On another, irrelevant, as they'd clearly been able to "accomplish" something that would have given three Thalmor more than considerable difficulty.

"I think we'd find that most ageeable, your lordship," she said, glancing at both Maya and Drayk as if to confirm it. It, of course, hardly needed confirmation, though they were going to have to find a way to get him down into the interrogation area. Patience would be important, though; they couldn't appear to be pushing it.




It was an excellent night for a hunt, Tarquin mused to himself. Clear skies, a general lack of wind, the stars and moon bright above them. His eyes shone with excitement. The plan was certainly not foolproof, but at the very least it would serve to be interesting to watch, and the Shade had every confidence in his ability to escape if things turned south. He certainly could have hired another group of mercenaries, but certainly none more interested in seeing the job done, none that wouldn't flee at the first sign of their deaths. On top of that... he was curious. His father had cared about them a great deal, that much was obvious. Perhaps a small part of him wondered at the effectiveness of his new appoach.

He crouched down in the snow to the rear of the compound, watchfully peering towards the cave, his hand lightly gripping an ebony dagger beneath his cloak. He expected to be able to hear it by now, they were close enough. No guards patrolled back here for risk of angering the troll out of its cave. There was a chance it was inside, feasting on some poor soul's flesh, but trolls did nothing quietly. He could certainly smell it, when a slight breeze carried the stench in his direction. He frowned.

"Something's not right," he voiced quietly to the others, Van, Lynly, and Soren. "I could use the werewolf's nose right about now. It smells... wrong." He shifted to look at his help, taking a moment to refresh himself on their abilities. "I'll be needing a volunteer. It's possible they've somehow learned of this, and have a trap planned. If the frost troll is dead, then something is amiss. Someone must scout the cave and send a signal."

Soren's answer was a low, trilling whistle, that sounded something like a mockingbird. "Dank cave, possible trolls, possible half-mad khajit? Sounds like my kind of fun. That'll be your signal, Tarquin, if you'll listen for it. If you hear a lot of shouting and growling, let's go ahead and say that means you should leave." He grinned, catlike in his own right, and unslung his bow from its place on his back, nocking an arrow to the string, but not pulling it too far back, yet. Lynly's own answer wasn't anything near so verbose as Soren's, just the whispered scrape of steel on steel as her sword left her sheath and her shield found it's way into her hand. "I'd rather you not leave, but come and help. I'll make sure he doesn't kill himself," She added.

"Ah, so I face death not alone? I didn't know you cared, lovely. Well then, we're off." He spared the woman a lacivious wink, (which Lynly scoffed at) but didn't dwell over it when there was work to be done. The smell of the cave was even worse the further in they went, and the whole thing gave off an aura of a bloody swamp, thick and cloying like chokedamp or some kind of insidious fungus. Soren made a face, though it was really more for effect than anything. He was actually remarkably serious for once, though it was apparent perhaps only in the fact that he kept a quick clip and passed soundlessly. Not that stealth would do him much good here-- he was walking beside a woman in plate armor, of all things.

True, Lynly was making a lot more noise than the prowling archer, though not for lack of trying. Still, this was a creature's lair they were entering, if it hadn't smelled nor heard them by now, then perhaps they still had the element of surprise. They covered a decent bit of ground in the cave without incident, until they came to a bend. The warrior nudged the archer's arm and pointed at the corner, while she planned to step past it and deeper into the cavern. As she rounded the corner, she came to find something that was wholly unexpected. They had found the troll, but that wasn't the unexpected part. The unexpected part was that it was strewn across its den in pieces. Entrails lay smeared across the ground and a massive amount of blood painted the walls. Lynly dropped her guard for a single moment in surprise before she raised it doubly so. Lynly scanned the immediate area, searching for the culprit, and after not finding it, called back to Soren, "This doesn't bode well..."Lynly lowered her guard for a moment before raising her shield, doubly on the defensive.

The sniper, who'd come up behind warrior woman, arched a red brow. "Yes, but for whom, I wonder?" Sharp eyes scanned the room, and though he did not loose the tension in his bowstring, he did straighten to his full height, picking his way over the worst of the scattered organs and bodily fluids to the remains of the troll, which had tufts of black fur caught in its claws. "Hm," he murmured, almost reflectively. "Snowball here had a tussle with another furry somebody, by the looks of it. Not many khajit come in colors that dark. I think we may have found sign of our Feral friend." Shrugging, he whistled, the mockingbird's call unnecessarily flippant, but the piercing sound would carry well enough back through the cave and to the men behind them. Lynly sighed to herself, allowing her shield to drop a couple of inches as she stood beside the archer. "Talos save us... I'm beginning to think this lot is cursed..." Though she wouldn't admit it, she was having quite the adventure.

"I know, isn't it wonderful?" For his part, the assassin had no qualms about admitting that he was enjoying himself.

The Shade made his way to them with the tongueless Dunmer in tow, stepping soundlessly through the powdery snow until he reached their position. He frowned at the grisly scene present in the cave. It wasn't hard to figure who had done this, but who the Feral was here for was still not apparent. "I would have thought Ja'karo would have simply attacked us if he was hunting me. He doesn't seem to be here any longer. I would say we should warn the witch, but frankly I don't think that would be in my best interest. If she's alert, she may survive." He really didn't care one way or another. The Blackfeather needed to die at some point, that much was clear. That he'd actually recruited her to help was almost laughable. She'd grown rather attached to this group already, he could tell. If she insisted on making his job easier, he wouldn't complain.

"This way," he said, leading them through the cave to its end, a wooden ladder leading up to a hatch in the roof. "Archer," he spoke, turning to Soren. "You know how to work around a lock?"

"Does a fish know how to swim?" Soren asked rhetorically, aware that he was probably being asked to do this because it carried some form of risk, not difficulty. It suited him just fine, really, and he was already pulling a specialized lockpick from his belt and ascending the ladder within heartbeats of the initial question. The immaculately-polished steel demonstrated the same level of care as he showed his weapons and his home, and slid smoothly into the surprisingly well-maintained locking mechanism. The man kept an ear cocked, listening for the tumblers to click properly into place, and he was awarded for his skill in mere seconds, as the lock came apart in his hands.

For all that he wasn't really mindful of his life, he wasn't a moron, and so when he opened the hatch, he did so slowly and silently, cracking it just enough to see through. The back of a pair of boots was some distance off, and from the pained groaning and the occasional dull scrape of something metal, it was clear that there was an interrogation in process. Chained to a wall and in a cage on the right side was a man, in a general state of undress and looking quite ill. He apparently saw what was going on, forcing Soren to lift the door just enough to put a finger to his lips, then draw it across his throat. The man looked away immediately, apparently compliant. Carefully lowering the hatch again, Soren tuned to the three other people behind him. Speaking was probably a bad idea, given how close they were to the torture chamber, so he signed instead.

Three fingers first, for the total number of people in the room, then two, and he curled his hands into fists, touching his wrists together. Prisoners. His index finger alone, and then he hesitated for a moment before spelling out 'Thalmor' in Anirne's alphabet. Then his face broke into a grin, and he repeated the second motion he'd shown the caged man, a fairly universally-recognized sign for a rather grisly death. Tarquin might not get most of it, but that was half the fun, now wasn't it? The bow returned to his hands, and this time when he nocked, he drew it back all the way, setting his feet on the highest rung of the ladder he could, intending to open the hatch with his back. When he moved, it was quickly, rising as quietly as he could and firing, letting out a satisfied 'hm' when the projectile buried itself cleanly into the back of the wizard's neck, dropping him without so much as a scream.

With his now free hand, he beckoned the others up and climbed into the room more properly. "Nothing like a nice assassination to get the adrenaline going, eh gentlemen?" he asked of the two prisoners, not really caring for the answer one way or another.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Four guards in shining gold elven plate accompanied the Inquisitor as he led the Burning Circle members up the stairs and away from the party. Drayk felt reassured, and significantly more uncomfortable at the same time. On the one hand, they had gotten away from the party and the threat of people all around, expecting him to act a certain way. Well, save for Talmoro, of course. On the other hand, things were about to get significantly more intimate with him. They were going to be speaking with him, alone, in private. No doubt he would want to get to know the people he was working with. Ugh, he'd probably have to speak for himself at some point. No matter. He could handle this, he knew he could.

Again he was tempted to strike. The man's back was even turned, and yeah there were guards around, but only a few. Surely they could take them, and fight their way out. He found his fist clenched, and forced it open, forced himself to relax. No, he had to think clearly here. He had promised to follow Adrienne's lead, to trust in her far more extensive experience in these matters. He had to trust that they would do this right, as they had planned. There was no need for being a hero.

Maya, of course, couldn't attack Talmoro even if she wished. The Inquisitor was not her target and thus it was forbidden. This game was a mildly enjoyable one, but the sooner it was over the better. She smelled something foul on the air just before they came in, and her thoughts lingered on the Feral. Every corner held the potential terror of a beast leaping forth to claw her open. She couldn't possibly be prepared for that and still be able to trick this Thalmor at the same time. It was a difficult position.

"In here," Talmoro said, gently ushering the three of them through a large door into the Inquisitor's private quarters, a rather expansive room with an amount of wasted floor space that seemed wholly unnecessary. Two of the guards remained outside the door, while the other two accompanied him in, shutting the oak behind them. The Inquisitor guided them to his desk, a massive contraption of sparkling clean wood, taking a seat behind the desk. The two guards hauled over three identical chairs for them to sit in, before taking up flanking positions on each side of their Lord.

"I believe we missed introductions in all the excitement. Though you probably already know, I am Talmoro Vasuderon, High Inquisitor, and in command of this embassy while the Lady Elenwen is away. You have introduced yourself as the Burning Circle. I'm afraid I've never heard of it. How many do you number?"

"Not many," Adrienne replied as though confiding a weary secret. "Not yet, anyway. About twenty, all told, and these scattered over Skyrim. We usually work in threes, though there's currently one pair, as numbers demand." She sank gracefully into the chair presented, folding her hands in her lap. "I am Celene Madec, and when they need to be led, I lead them." It was obviously unwise to give her real name to a Thalmor, especially since the organization would long survive him, and they'd have only a name, not likely a face, with which to try and track this mysterious group. She left it to the others to devise names for themselves, as they'd be much more likely to remember them, that way. Her own selection had been the only warning she could give.

Maya's posture was much like Adrienne's, one leg draped elegantly over the other, hands folded before her. As much as she hated to do it, she met the Inquisitor's gaze when he looked to her for her own name. "Marjolaine Bellasaris, my Lord. A pleasure." He smiled and nodded in return, which Maya thought to be the best of signs. Then it was Drayk's turn. He tried to model his own introduction after Maya's. Just a name and a greeting. "Liam Jerrik, Lord. I look forward to working with you." Though his posture was somewhat relaxed, confident even, he felt anything but, and merely speaking at all to Talmoro had turned him a bit red. All in all, that had gone well. If the Inquisitor assumed him to simply be muscle of the magical sort, as he intended, then perhaps he needn't do any more talking here.

"And I look forward to exploring this opportunity," Talmoro said graciously, before launching into the heart of the matter. "Now, to business. As you know, Skyrim is rife with heresy that threatens to tear the land apart, and has already done so with a civil war. The Thalmor seek to restore order to the region, that further cooperation with the Empire might be maintained. Unfortunately many of the people of this land will not give up their false idol willingly, nor do they trust those of the Dominion to hold their best interest at heart. An alliance with a local organization such as yours could prove most useful. Tell me, what would you ask in exchange for your services?"




The main floor of the Embassy had led out into an open courtyard, and nobody had stopped him yet, so he assumed he was traveling in the proper direction. Unfortunately, rather than the brief respite of fresh air he was expecting, the smell of blood grew thicker, accompanied by one like a damp hound would give off. But... it wasn't exactly a hound, was it? The other odors floating around made it hard to tell for certain, but the scent raised he hairs on the back of his neck all the same, and unbeknownst to him, a low, nearly inaudible rumble began in his chest, until he finally heard it and forced it to silence. That was... not good, to say the least. If the Beast was that wary, he should be, too. Closing his eyes for a moment, he forced his feet to continue, one in front of the other, though part of him railed against the very notion, informing him in no uncertain terms that he needed to free his sister now and run back to regroup with the others, to protect the pack, and that in and of itself was alarming.

Sucking in a breath, he ignored his instincts and kept going, reaching the barracks (and the two guards in front of them) shortly thereafter. The both of them looked over he and Anirne both, eyes lingering somewhere between disbelief and confusion. Still, they were good enough at their jobs not to abandon protocol, apparently. "Prisoner?" one asked, and Sinder couldn't help but think the answer to that was obvious.

"Psijic," he replied curtly. "For interrogation. Brought in by some human lot, call themselves the Burning Circle or something." He figured it couldn't hurt to spread the word, in case these two guards happened to encounter his friends somewhere. At least it might give them pause before they drew steel. The guard's eyebrows ascended his forehead, and he exchanged a speculative glance with his parter before he shrugged and waved Sinderion through. That placed him in the barracks proper, and though he could smell several more Thalmor, a dozen and then a few, he bypassed most of them without comment, having caught steel, blood, faint traces of alcohol, and moon sugar-- Soren and Lynly, at the very least.

Following that, he eventually found the door he was looking for. Well... that and the screaming, though he detected the clang of metal underneath that. A hatch led to a staricase, which would doubtless take them down into the chamber they wanted. Hopefully, he wouldn't get shot or stabbed for his trouble, but he trusted them to be cautious enough not to do that. Exhaling in a huff, he lifted the door and started down, Anirne behind him still.




"Nice shot," Lynly complemented as she emerged from the trap door. She took a cautious glance around the room before she lowered he own weapons. Her first order of business was the prisoners' safety and freedom. Both were Nords, and Lynly had an idea of how they ended up in this predictament. Chances were, they were Stormcloaks, and though she didn't agree with their idealogy, they were her kinsmen. She slipped past the archer, looking to free the one on the table first. His wrists and ankles were bound in iron cuffs at the four corners of the table. She sheathed her sword and grabbed at the first lock trying to get it to come loose, but her bare hands couldn't prevail against the cold iron. Option two involved searching the body of the Thalmor for keys, but too proved fruitless. She sighed and leveled her eyes on the locks. She had hopped it wouldn't come to this.

"Can you help him?" Lynly asked Soren, indicating the man in the cage. She then began to test her shield arm and adjusted her grip, lining up her aim on the cuffs. She didn't want to miss and break the man's wrist. However, before she began though she leaned down and instructed the prisoner to scream. It'd help cover the racket she would cause. She raised her shield and hammered the cuff with her shield. It took a set of two bashes in order for the cuff to relinquish it's grasp of the Nord's wrist. She repeated the process for the other three before the man found himself free. As she sat on the table, Lynly said, "Leave. Fast. Don't look back," she said, pointing at the trap door. The man didn't need much more than that, and after a volley of rapid thanks and praise Talos's the man was escaping through their entrance.

"I normally charge by the lock, but for you lovely? I think I can manage," the mercenary replied, half sarcastically. Honestly, he didn't really care whether or not these prisoners escaped; the whole 'Aldmeri Dominion versus Empire versus Stormcloaks' thing wasn't really of interest. Empires rose and fell, and dynasties with even greater frequency. He wasn't arrogant enough to assume that anything he did would matter in the long run, ironically enough. Still, there wasn't really any harm in it, and a pretty lady had asked, so...

"You, my friend, are one lucky bastard," he told the prisoner, who shot him a weak glare. "What? It's true. You could be dead. I could have left you here. Sure, you've been tortured, but life's like that sometimes. At least you're going to survive it, hm?" He made quick work of the lock, and then of the chains binding the man to the wall. "Well, there you go. Now run along, little Stormcloak, and do try to find some trousers. It's cold outside." Lynly had overheard and shot him the dullest glare she could manage. He simply shrugged, as if to ask where his culpability lay.

Vanryth opted to do some janitorial duty. After Lynly had inspected the body for keys, and both she and Soren had freed the prisoners, he lifted the corpse up and began to drag it toward the trapdoor. No use in cluttering up the space with the dead, and if they needed to hide, a body laying in the middle of the floor was the most conspicious thing he could think of. With little ceremony he kicked up the door, and threw the body into the hole, watching as it crashing into a couple of rungs before the ground stopped i's descent. Vanryth shook his head at the sight, but otherwise seemed to not care about the whole ordeal. They had more pressing matters to attend to. He felt glad that he could finally be of some use, instead of silently waiting at the Shade's side. He hated the man, and every word that came out of his mouth only intensified that hatred, but he kept himself together. He had to, for the sake of the others, and for the sake of the Mentor. And now with evidence of the Feral on the loose, there was no time for rift between their rag-tag little team.

"It's your head when they get caught and half a hundred guards storm in here," the Shade said off handedly towards Lynly as the Stormcloak prisoners escaped. He was certainly capable of disappearing if he needed to, although he had no illusions as to how difficult it would be to be free of this place entirely if everything came down on top of them. "They're lucky indeed. I'd have cut out their tongues and put them back in their cells, or just killed them. Simpler that way."

He had just been beginning the process of examining their surroundings for a good way to ambush his prey when a telltale click informed him that the door was opening above them. A small flight of stairs down was now the only thing that separated them from a legion of Altmer soldiers. He hissed at the others to hide, before a wave of his hand and the briefest flash of light accompanied him turning entirely invisible. Soren sank into a shadowed corner, another arrow at his string already, but this probably wasn't their man quite yet, not unless the others worked awfully quickly. Meanwhile, Lynly darted forward, sliding into the recess between the stairway and the floor, shield at the ready. She didn't dare try to draw her sword lest the sound give away her position. Luckily she was just as proficient with her shield as her sword. Vanryth opted to hideway in the cell that was just opened by Soren, itching to call forth a lightning spell if things went sour.

The sound of soft footfalls descending the stairs filled the silence, which Sinder found too complete. It was obvious from the very muted breathing he could hear that conscious concealment was happening, and the scents were all familiar. "It's me," he called into the relative gloom, and his eyes weren't quite as good as his ears or his nose, so that was still relatively difficult. "And Anirne." He finished the descent, withdrawing the key from his pocket at last and using it to free his sister's wrists. Anirne sighed, bringing her left hand up to rub slightly at her right one, the soft glow of magic illuminating her face from below. That cuff was rusted, as things turned out, and it had been bothering her since they put it on, slowly wearing the skin raw. But it was much better now, and she glanced around, seeking a familar face, perhaps.

"What news? The others are still with Talmoro." His expression darkened. "The courtyard smells like death and dog." That was about all he had to relay, though-- he knew not how the rest fared now, in the viper's nest as they were.

At the sound of the familiar voice Van stepped out of the cell he was in, looking extremely relieved. He gave both of the Altmer a thumbs up, telling them that things went along decently enough. Though the mention of scents of death and dog caused his brows to furrow. He then took the time to spell out the word 'Troll' and pointed at the hatch, and made the same motion Soren did for death earlier. If the pair didn't understand, he'd figure one of his companions would elaborate for him. Still, it was good to see that Sinder and Anirne faired well. He patted his friend on the shoulder, a gesture that meant he was glad to see him. Lynly took her time to emerge from under the steps as it came to light that they were theirs. She stepped past the golden knife-ears and stood a distance in front of them, arms crossed. "The troll is dead, and not by our hands. I do not believe we are the only one prowling these grounds..." the let the implication hang in the air.

"The Feral killed the frost troll, that much was clear," the Shade, appearing out of thin air to state the obvious. He sheathed his dagger upon seeing allies appear rather than enemies. "Ja'karo could have attacked us if he wished, we were a smaller group in the open. I am left to assume the wolf seeks our dear huntress instead. He may... complicate things. Perhaps the matter must be forced. If the Feral were to strike before we do, the entire compound will be up in arms before we get into a bow's range of Talmoro. We need him down here, and soon."

Sinder's jaw clenched uncomfortably tightly, and he had to double down on himself again to prevent the idiotic dash up the stairs and into the courtyard. He could catch the scent, follow it, hunt down the wolf-cat that threatened the pack. It was nearly unbearable to sit here in relative security when three of his friends were still so clearly exposed to danger from not one, but two obvious sources, neither the kind of thing one should ever trifle with. On one count, he knew personally, and as for the other... he was sure Anirne could infrom him if he really wished to know.




This was the delicate part. Adrienne knew what the endgame was, but the important bit was getting there and sounding reasonable about it, in a way that would produce results today while aiming (or appearing to aim), distinctly for the future. She'd given this matter some thought, and as a result, her phrasing was delicate as she could make it while still cutting to the chase, so to speak. "We are a small organization, my Lord, and while this is itself a disadvantage, it is not one that cannot be overcome. We forsee growth in our future, after all, but in order to be successful, there are certain... gaps in our knowledge that need be filled. As you have witnessed in some measure, we are not without the subtlety required to accomplish certain tasks, but we do lack a certain... resourcefulness in the obtaining of more delicate information." Here, she paused, allowing her implications to sink in. If this worked properly, they'd have him hook, line and sinker, convinced that they wanted an alliance not only with the Thamor, but with him, and that would leave them, proven effective as they were, manipulable by him, an excellent opportunity for his own advancement.

"One thing we do not lack is information, Lord Talmoro, and when it comes to the artful methods required to obtain testimony from... witnesses, let's say, the learned wisdom is that you are without peer. When we came upon the opportunity to present suitable tribute to the Thalmor with whom our goals align, then, the choice was an obvious one. I hope you'll not think us too forward for making such an observation, but I'm a practical woman, and I've always found that I like the best considerably more than the simply passable. I'm sure you understand."

The Inquisitor looked most intrigued, leaning on one of the armrests of his chair, fingers idly stroking his beard. He smiled wickedly when she was finished. "I do believe I'm starting to like you," he said, thinking it over. "Yes, I think I can help you with this. Perhaps a demonstration is in order? You have, after all, brought me a specimen I have very much been desiring to--"

Sadly, that was as far as he would get. The door to his private quarters burst open, a pair of Thalmor soldiers rushing in, hands still wet with blood. "My Lord!" the first of them blurted, bowing quickly. "There's been a disturbance. We found one of the patrolling guards dead. Something cut clean through his armor!" They were huffing for breath, clearly frightened out of their minds.

Drayk was confused. The Shade had killed one of them, he had to assume, since Sinder was wearing the elf's armor, but they hadn't found that guard. So someone else had died? For a moment he worried for Sinder, but then realized that if they had found him dead, they would have been reporting the battle occurring around him, as his sister would never have abandoned him, nor any of the others. No, something else was afoot here.

Talmoro was none too pleased by the announcement, and unfortunately for the Burning Circle, he directed his anger straight at them. "What is this? You... thought to slip in here and sabotage the work I have done? Was this the Psijic's plan all along?" Apparently he didn't really care, as turned to his guards. "Seize them! They wished for a demonstration, after all." A ring of metal accompanied swords coming loose, and one in the back readied a bow.

Drayk didn't know what happened, but he reacted. The ringing of steel brought fire to his hand, and he was on his feet. The words seize them rang in his mind like a bell in utter silence, and suddenly there was no plan, there was no following Adrienne's lead, there was no subtlety, there was only fight or flight, and he had run all his life. They could end this here. Talmoro was powerful, but so was Drayk. He knew he was. His arm drew back, and he hurled a fireball into the group of elves.

It sent two flying, a third staggering back, trying futilely to push the flames off of him. The one in the back, the archer, had drawn an arrow and taken aim. Maya groaned. So close. There was nothing left to do now but fight it out, wasn't there? She hoped the others could reach them in time, as they certainly couldn't handle Talmoro on their own. Well, in her opinion. She conjured a glowing purple bow into her hands in an instant, drawing the string back and conjuring an arrow in place, loosing before the archer could get off his shot. The daedric arrow struck him in the throat, and he stumbled about, clutching at it.

In a flash of understanding, Talmoro looked at Maya, and saw her. What went into his eyes then was a mix of confusion, amusement, and pure aggression. "Blackfeather." Was all he hissed, and then he did what she really hadn't been expecting: his arm cocked back and threw a thunderbolt directly into her chest, sending her flying back away from the desk and sliding across the floor, smoking and motionless when she came to a stop.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Even from within the interrogation chambers they could hear quite clearly that the entire compound has just entered a state of chaos. Boots that were previously resting upon the edges of tables or idly bobbing off the edge of a bed were now stomping in the direction of the courtyard, clear ringing echoing in the night as elven steel was drawn and readied, shouts from the war wizards directing their troops into organization. The Shade' upper lip curled into a disgusted sneer, and he cursed.

"The damn dog's gone and ruined their cover, no doubt. We need to move, before they're organized." He was already on his way up the stairs, ebony dagger gleaming maliciously in one hand, a glowing red spell lit in the other. "The Inquisitor is the priority. We sow chaos among his troops, and then we cut through to him. Perhaps your friends will still be alive by the time we reach them." He didn't wait around for their reaction, or even to see if they were going to follow his orders. No doubt they would, though. Sinderion would not leave his friends to die, nor would Vanryth, and the Psijic apparently would follow her brother into any danger. The archer and the warrior woman strangely seemed to seek it out, something Tarquin had no qualms with.

He pulled the door to the barracks open and stepped on through. The second of the door guards was just beginning to leave his post, but he was cut short when the Shade grabbed the top of his helmet and pulled back, exposing his throat for the dagger to slice open. A second saw this done, raising steel and charging him, but the Shade was gone when he swung, appearing a moment later to stab into his belly, and then up under the chin, dropping him. Through the window, he could see a number of Thalmor troops watching the second story of the embassy building, which was currently flaming out of a window, no doubt the work of their level-headed fire mage, while more led by a few war wizards were heading inside to neutralize the threat. The sound of screams from the guests could be heard on the far side of the compound as they fled the building. If there was one thing to be thankful for, it was that a majority of the soldiers had their backs turned to the barracks, and an opportunity to carve through them was available.

Lynly hesistated for a moment, looking up at the door above her and wondering just what was happening beyond it. If the Feral was truly involved, then Maya, along with the other Sellswords, would be in danger. Not only from some otherworldly mix of cat and dog, but from the Inquistor as well. She sighed, and not from the lack of adventure. She looked over to Soren and shrugged, freeing her blade from it's sheath. Maybe this time it'll see some use. "Cursed," She repeated before taking to the stairs. Her pace was slower than the others, and notedly slower than Vanryth's who had pushed past the Nord warrior and followed the Shade out. He crossed the door just in time to witness the Shade rip his blade from the Altmer's chin.

He paused for a second so that he wouldn't be sprayed by blood before he approached the window beside the Shade. His eyes were immediately drawn to the fire in the second story building. The first name in his mind was Drayk, followed by a number of curses not worth repeating. Without wasting any precious moments, Van pushed himself away from the windowsill and drew his orcish sword while igniting a lightning spell into his hands. He was tired of the cloak and dagger anyway. As she passed the window, Lynly offered a look outside, and Drayk was the first person in her mind too, though for different reasons. "Damn firebomb..." She muttered as she followed the mute knife-ear.

"Heh," Soren half-chuckled, drawing an arrow from his quiver. "You're not fooling me, lovely. You'd not have it any other way." He flowed up the stairs behind the rest, not really inclined to make a prominent target of himself until he knew what he was up against, but he needn't have bothered. Most of the guards were facing towards the embassy building itself, probably warranted considering the jet of flames issuing from the second floor. Someone's unhappy, the mercenary thought dispassionately, but he refocused his attention on the ground in short order. It was, for the moment, so easy it was almost painful. "Like fish in a damn barrel," He muttered, drawing the string back to his cheekbone. The elf-made bow, rather similar to what a few of the Thalmor were carrying, loosed the arrow when his fingers slackened, the string humming faintly for a few seconds after its departure. Though he'd hardly wasted time lining up the shot, it still thudded reliably slightly left-of-center in on guard's back, where his heart would be.

There was a joke in there about the likelihood of any of them having hearts, actually, but it was a little tired for his tastes, and not raunchy enough to tell anyway.

Sinder was barely able to ascend the staircase without bowling over the Shade and anyone else in his way, drawing the sword that had come with his armor with a rasp of sound. The weight was off, but he could hardly be bothered to notice. As soon as he was clear of the stairs and the others, though, he was off much like Soren's arrow: swift, silent, and pointedly aiming for a certain spot, in this case the door into the Embassy. As he was dressed identially to the majority of the Thalmor here, he wasn't anticipating too much resistance, and frankly he had a feeling the group down here was more prepared than the one up there. He assumed the Shade wouldn't care, since Talmoro was supposed to be the target anyway, but frankly, the Altmer couldn't have cared less about Tarquin's opinion right now if he'd tried.

Long, loping strides carried him forward, the smell of burnt wood and blood flooding just about anything else, the sound of his own heart thundering in his ears nearly all he could hear. It was close, so close, but he couldn't tip over that edge just yet.

It was... not the best moment to be without her staff, perhaps, but Psijics were mages first, anything else second. Granted, killing was not her favorite pasttime, but she was mature enough to admit to herself that the fact that these were Thalmor was making it considerably easier to stomach. She'd never liked the organization, as monks tended to disaprove of the concept of mass subjugation and also being called infidels and heretics, that sort of thing. Tossing her braid over her shoulder, Anirne set about clearing as much of a path for her little brother as she could, knowing that time was of the essence. To both hands, she called power of storms, cloaking herself in crackling lightning and then letting another version of the same leap to her palms.

The bolt struck with almost as much accuracy as one of the sniper's arrows, but it didn't quite need to, as the jolt to the system of the warmage that it hit from behind was enough to slay him, stopping his heart. Bringing both hands in front of her, Anirne advanced, a constant stream of electricity arcing from all four fingertips towards a gathered cluster of soldiers. If that didn't get her some attention, she didn't know what would.

The pawns had taken the lead, as he'd wished, and Tarquin was somewhat pleased to remember that they had an elf on their side in Thalmor elven armor. Perhaps he'd be able to reach the others quick enough to do some good. Then again, perhaps he'd simply get himself killed and put yet more work on the Shade's back. Either way, this had quickly become a rather irksome situation, one that required careful but powerful uses of force. The first step being the chaos he had previously mentioned.

The Shade stepped out into the moonlight, his dagger temporarily sheathed so as to better cast the spell, a glowing red orb of light hovering in between his hands. The others had drawn more attention, as was their purpose, and so the Shade was free to cast his spell as he saw fit. He aimed for the tightest cluster of Thalmor soldiers that he could identify, loosing the magic, sending it flying hungry and furious towards them. The frenzy spell exploded on one of the elves, the effects spreading outward like wildfire, and within moments they were turning on each other, possessed of an incomprehensible rage. The war wizard tried to shout them back into order, to no avail. There was little any of them could do but defend themselves, and thus the courtyard turned into a bloodbath, Thalmor killing Thalmor, and the Shade and his pawns killing them all.

He'd just been about to cast invisibility over himself when he caught a glimpse of the beast, eyes gleaming like a dark blue ice on the rooftop of the embassy, black fur bristled and blowing in the breeze that had picked up. Claws were dug into the roof, powerful legs coiled for a leap. Ja'karo, the Feral, was at least ten feet large at his full height, and he very quickly put that on display, legs pushing with incredible force away from the roof, sending him soaring down into the courtyard. And here the Shade had thought Ja'karo had come for Maya.

He landed lightly on the group not five feet from Tarquin and took another bound in one smooth motion, barreling into the Shade's chest, jaws snapping and claws closing around the Imperial's shoulders, the pair of them hurtling backwards to crash through a window of the barracks, rolling through tables and chair, a ball of murderous fur and flesh. They tumbled back through the beds and out of sight.

Insane as the sentiment might have been, Soren was half-tempted to stick his head through the broken window and see what happened. Instead, he shot a glance at Lynly, who, though occupied, was certainly close enough to hear, especially considering the few seconds of silence that had followed the most unusual intrusion. It was surprising enough to strike the Thalmor in the immediate proximity dumb, but it took a lot more than this to shut him up. "Somebody fed kitty-cat a little too much, methinks." he observed dryly, though he actually was wondering just how one went about becoming a ten-foot-tall man-beast. It definitely wasn't the skooma. Whatever it was, he rather wished to avoid it. Lynly groaned and shook her head, "Really? Is now the best time?"

Their foes were starting to regain their senses, however, and a quick succession of three arrows later, things were back to normal, though he did keep glancing back at the window. If a shot presented itself, he'd take it, but other than that, he surmised that it was probably best to let Tarquin handle himself.

Somewhere in the heart of the free-fall-all against everyone, Van was ankle deep in the blood of his foes. His mind was only focused on the next enemies and his next kill, thanks to the Shade and his wanton disregard for friendly fire. That meant that Van was running off of both his natural anger, and the magical effects of frenzy. After the frenzy spell hit, Vanryth dropped all semblence of a magical offense and drew the second, imperial longsword on his back and threw himself into the fray with a sounding wordless warcry. No longer was he fighting for his friends, he was fighting to sate his anger. The Orcish blade caught the first Thalmor in his exposed side, as he fought his ally. Then he brought his other sword from the opposite side, lopping the elf's head off with little effort. Without minding the blood that was stained him, the fallen elf's opponent then became his own.

He took a step forward to close the distance, planting a foot on the back of the headless elf as he beat the elfish longsword away with a savage parry, cutting across with his other blade. This elf had enough sense to dodge the slash by leaning back and followed it up with a gout of frost. Heat or cold, it didn't matter, Vanryth felt nothing in his state. He surged through the frost and cut the offending limb off. The Thalmor wouldn't have time to lament the missing limb though, as Van lodged the imperial sword into his throat, silencing whatever yell he was shouting in his throat. The victorious Van almost didn't feel the dagger enter in his back, but the force told his feral mind something was right. He spun on his heel, digging it in deeper into the body of the first elf, and brought both swords across. A flimsy dagger had no chance against the ferocity of two blades. Both pushed past the Thalmor's defense and lodged themselves inside the Atlmer's frame, stopping only because of his spine.

Van ripped free his weapons and went to his next opponent, not realizing that he had been struck.

Anirne had noticed much, though unlike Soren, she hadn't quite been able to find the words for most of it. A roundhouse kick snapped the neck of her most recent assailant, leaving her free to survey the battlefield. Adrienne's enchantment was quite good, and it kept her magicka restoring at a decent clip (plus the augments that her robes already carried), fast enough that the low-level lightning she'd been using for most of the engagement thus far was almost nothing. That said, she had a feeling she'd need to save it, and she wasn't far wrong. Van might not have noticed the dagger slip between his ribs, but she did, and Anirne frowned, aware that she was needed in more than one place. But first things first: she concentrated, bringing years of training and mental discipline to bear in what was actually a relatively simple task. The healing spell worked quickly, forcing the blade from the Dunmer's back and healing the wound it left behind, flesh closing seamlessly and without scar. There was a certain merit to battle-scars, perhaps, but not one earned from a sneaky Thalmor when you had your back turned.

That done, she turned, running back behind the lines created by Lynly and Soren respectively, to the broken window, presumably wherin lay Tarquin. She disapproved quite fiercely of what he did to the Sellswords, but that did not mean she would leave him to die, and a person like this Ja'karo would not likely leave anyone unscathed, not even the Shade.

It was hard to tell what was going on inside, and as such, she lacked the resources to properly diagnose and spot-heal any wounds he might have, so instead she simply flooded his system with her benevolent magicka, laying a broad-spectrum curative spell upon him. It would drain her, but not quickly, and she had several magicka potions stored in the loose sleeves of her robes. They were more useful than health draughts, to one such as herself.

Lynly found herself faring better than the berserking dunmer, as she was well out of range of the Shade's frenzy spell. It did make things difficult for her when she had to fight the wild knife-ears of course, but savagery brought about sloppiness. She just had to mind their swords and she'd live the day-- Maybe. There was still the matter of Inquisitor and the Feral, but she'll deal with those if she comes across that bridge. The first contest was against the Thalmor gaurd who's golden eyes were flashing red. He was predictable as she imagined he would be, coming in with a swipe from his sword. It was child's play for her to knock it away with her shield. What she didn't account for was the ferocity of the blow, and it twisted her wrist a little bit. Something to keep in mind if the fights dragged on for too long.

Not wishing to be caught trapped by a flurry of savage blows, Lynly took the opportunity to advance, bashing him once with her shield and then thrusting forward with her sword, skewering the knife-ear. She planted a boot on his chest and pulled it free, collapsing the Thalmor into a pile on the ground. The action managed to slip her Talos amulet free so that it dangled freely in the open. She quickly dropped back, letting her foes come to her, and not the other way around. And so they did. A group of three including a war wizard, who somewhere deep in the subconscious psyche decided that they hated a Talos worshipping Nord more than themselves. One on one, their savagery was to her advantage... Three on one, not so much. She was not looking forward to this.

He was losing arrows at an alarming rate. Just how many Thalmor did this place contain, anyway? Soren sighed, mostly to himself, and decided to abandon the shooting for now, at least until he could procure some more arrows from a corpse. Of course, there was the matter of the half-dozen black ones still firmly tucked in his quiver, but he wasn't using those. Not even for this. Not even to save his own skin. Instead, he slung his bow upon his back and drew the sword at his hip, the Imperial steel glinting in the light of the sun. It didn't stay that way for long, as a quick thrust drove it home into the belly of a Thalmor who'd thought to out-sneak the thief, and that would have been laughable if it wasn't so pathetic.

A spell sparked to life in his hand, causing him to waver and disappear, and he was off then, murdering his way through the distance that had grown between himself and the closest ally-- which excluding Tarquin and the psijic who'd quite readily taken over the role of "Tarquin's probably superfluous assistant," happened to be Lynly. Who was presently staring down three enraged Thalmor, including a warmage. Oh, what fun!

Disguising the noise his feet made was hardly necessary, and so he didn't waste the time sneaing or even throwing a muffle into his current magical repertiore. Instead, he circled round the group at a swift strafe, approaching the wizard from behind and enclosing the unfortunate's forehead in his left arm, holding him still while he made good on an old suggestion and drew the blade across the fellow's throat, flaying it open neatly. Of course, to the already-less-intelligent-than-usual guards, it looked like he'd simply been cut by nothing, save perhaps the stare of the woman before them. The one on the left's eyes bugged, something breaking through the haze of his rage. "Witch! Talos-worshipping witch! Kill her!" The other one nodded hastily, and Soren chuckled to himself. He'd never been attibuted to heathen witchcraft before.

Unseen, he advanced until he was shoring up a position at Lynly's back. "Ever had an imaginary friend, lovely? It's like that, only I kill people for you."

"A witch?" She asked, disregarding Soren's comment. She had never been called a witch before, and the only thought that sprung to her mind was Maya. A wayward glance to the tower took her eyes off of the fight for a moment, long enough for the first of the Thalmor to attack, blades to bear. It was trained discipline that brought her shield edge up in time to intercept the blade. There was a moment where Lynly pushed up against the blade, and the Thalmor pushed down each trying to when a battle of strength. It wasn't to last long, however, for the opportunistic assassin slid in and impaled the altmer contender from behind, a nasty twist of the blade earning him a labored shout, then silence and slackening as the body went still.




Damn it to Oblivion! She'd had him, right there, wrapped around her little finger, and then what? Some plebian had to go and interrupt, because clearly an idiot had killed a guard without bothering to so much as hide the body properly! She was halfway thought through her next sentence, which was probably going to be equal parts false offense and very real confusion and outrage, when everything rolled right off the cliff it had been sailing towards and hit the ground with an emphatic splat.

He recognized Maya. And he attacked her, which obviously meant that she was his target. Which also meant that even if they did kill him, she'd be next on the Shade's list, too. Well. May the crows feast on your entrails, too, Fate.. This was too many things to deal with at once. First priority... well, that was caught somewhere between "don't die" and "don't let friends die," but they required the same things anyway, so it would do for now. Adrienne dropped low to the ground to try and avoid becoming collateral damage in the maelstorm of fire and lightning that was being hurled around, but she was willing to bet that the Inquisitor wouldn't miss if he were really aiming for her. From the sheath secreted on the inside of her calf, she pulled a knife, a far cry from the sword she usually bore but more than she would have had otherwise.

...Not that it was going to be much help here. It was pretty clear that their best option was to run away, but that wasn't happening with Maya prone on the floor. Adrienne was pretty certain she had two choices: try and get to the woman and force her to swallow a potion of some kind, using Drayk as a very bright distraction, or... try to bring him down from whatever fire-fuelled state he was in and get him to heal while she played bait to a far superior mage and tried not to die. Oh, excellent. So both of her plans were suicidal. That was always a good sign.

Trying to stave off the symptoms of what was probably a combination conniption fit and incoming panic attack, she ducked as low as she could, scrambling behind furniture where she could and sort-of hoping that Drayk could keep Talmoro busy long enough for her to do... something to assist the witch. She could only pray to whatever gods had not yet forsaken them that help got to them, and quickly.

The four nearest guards were dealt with, and they had a small window of opportunity before legions more arrived to defend their master. In the time that Talmoro had spent sending Maya across the room, Drayk had summoned up as much fire as he could muster in both hands, free of the typical restrictions he placed on his output potential. Like the dragon exhaling the inferno that had reawakend his own fire he unleashed his energy at Talmoro, enveloping the Inquisitor in walls of flame that wrapped entirely around him, to the point where no part of his body was visible any longer, his desk in front of him and the bookshelf behind him long since having gone up in flames.

He pushed closer, expending magicka at a dangerous rate, the fire spreading around them. There was seemingly no movement from within the inferno he'd created, at least not until the center of his destruction was smothered like a waterfall on a campfire. Everything was instantly cold as a swirling blizzard tore through the flames and reduced them to nothing, shards of razor sharp ice slicing through the air. The spell passed right through him, and at least a dozen stabs of pain accompanied the little blades slicing through him. Drayk staggered backward as the Inquisitor emerged from behind his ward, another ice spell prepared. Drayk's ward went up just in time to shatter into pieces the bolt of ice that slammed against it, but the force blew his concentration to pieces. The second ice bolt came right through, slamming into his gut, and it was Talmoro's turn to advance, closing to melee range, a flash of otherwordly light accompanying the daedric sword that appeared in his hands, and with a swift diaognally upwards slice he cut across Drayk's chest, sending him spinning to the ground on his side.

Spending no more time than was necessary on the fire mage, the Inquisitor turned to find the witch, who was coming to, shaking her head and trying to push onto her hands and knees.

Trying to ignore the obvious chill in the air (a sure sign that things were not going well for Drayk), Adrienne crawled with all the speed she could muster to Maya's side, yanking a potion from yet another artcile of storage hidden by her voluminous skirts. She hadn't been able to bring her entire bandoleer, though, and she was low on supply as a result. Still, she had a few, all of them incredibly potent, and even as the witch was just starting to open her eyes, Adrienne was holding the glass rim of one such concotion's container to her lips. "Drink, quickly," she implored in a hissed whisper. "We have to run; there's no way we'll survive if we don't." She tipped the contents of the vial back as quickly as she dared, and was just about to stand when a dread silence fell over the room, a sure sign that either Drayk or the Inquisitor had fallen.

Whatever her fickle heart wished to believe, her intellect knew exactly which one it was, and something sank like a lead weight into her stomach. Oh gods. She should have helped him. Maya would have woken on her own, with enough time. She should have helped him! Aborting her effort to stand, exactly, Adrienne placed distance between herself and Maya, trying at least to create two separate targets, if nothing else. Where, oh where were the others?

Drink was something Maya understood, and she obeyed, lights and sounds and smell of burning returning to her in a rush. She looked around in time to see the situation: Drayk was down, impaled by ice and bleeding from his chest, probably dead. Adrienne was moving away from her, trying to buy time or something. There was no time, not with him here, not in this empty space, not with his power. They couldn't wait. The witch cast aside the glass and pushed up quickly, sprinting to the side and towards Adrienne, but more importantly, the window behind her.

The Inquisitor was kind enough to cast a brutal chain lightning spell, which forked into Maya's side and no doubt struck Adrienne after that, but her momentum couldn't be stopped. She spread her arms and lowered her shoulder, tackling the other Breton woman and taking her with her right out the window, the pair falling among shattered glass and drifting snow, down a full story until they landed harshly in the shallow snow. Her field of vision was swaying slightly before her, but Maya forced herself to stand, and get her bearings. Where were they? She could hear fighting, a great amount of it, coming from her... right.

"We have to go, into the fight," she insisted to Adrienne. "Nothing we can do for him now," she added, referring to Drayk. It was true. Staying there would have ended in both their deaths. Staying here apparently would, too, as Maya spied Talmoro in the window they'd fallen out of, preparing a fiery explosion in both hands. "Run!"

It must have been something in her subconscious, some basic human instinct to live, that moved her limbs, because Adrienne herself wasn't really feeling up to it. All she knew was pain, and it was unlike anything she'd ever had the misfortune to experience. The chain lightning was awful, her muscles still tense and spasming after the impact of it, her entire body rattled like a bone-dry old tree in a tempest. She felt that she'd crack and splinter to pieces any moment. Her mind was moving sluggishly, bereft of its usual sharp acuteness, as though she were watching her own life, and quite possibly the last moments of it, unfold through some soup-thick fog, settled low over the ground and weighing heavy in her belabored lungs.

That was nothing, though, nothing at all compared to the lead she could almost feel on her shoulders, the result of a tremendous amount of guilt and misery. Her first instinct, was, honestly, to pull her knees to her chest in the snow, curl up on her side, and weep until she was numb or dead. But someone was speaking insistently in her ear, and her heart still thudded away in her chest, her lungs still pulled the breath of life into her body, and some annoying part of her that refused to be silenced knew she should be paying attention, because viscerally, instinctively if not presently cerebrally, she wanted to live. So, much as it cost her, the young woman pulled herself to her feet and ran, the heat of the fire searing the skin left exposed by her garments as the spell exploded behind them, though not quite close enough to burn.




From within the barracks, sounds of a savage struggle floated into the cacophony that was the rest of the battle. Claw swipes, growls, a lower rumbling growl, and then what was akin to an explosion of flesh, as if the walls had been spattered with blood and entrails. There was a single whimper, and then the Feral came flying out of the same window he'd barreled through, bouncing once across the snow before his back slammed into the statue in the center of the courtyard. Ja'karo rose quickly, his bloodlust tempting him into placing both claws on the nearest Thalmor and biting into the neck, severing the elf's head in a single bite, reveling in the blood and flesh before turning to search for his target once more.

The Shade presented himself, though not in any recognizeable state. Taloned feet hovered perhaps a foot off the ground as his floated through the window and out into the courtyard, his previously pale skin now a blue-gray. His dark clothes had been mostly torn off above the chest, his form now intensely muscled and toned, hands ending in wicked claws. Wing bones had sprouted from his back and hung poised at each shoulder, sharp, fanged teeth bared as black voids of eyes glared down at the werewolf. The form of a vampire lord was magnificent and terrible all at once.

When the Feral lunged for him again, the Shade caught the beast in the grip of powerful vampiric magic, holding him struggling in mid-air for several moments before he cast him violently aside, the ten-foot werewolf sent flying over the outer wall and out of sight. He turned to look down upon the nearest of his pawns, which happened to be the Psijic. He gestured lightly with his hand towards where the Feral had passed from his sight, his voice deeper than it had been before, but still unmistakably his.

"Do not let that filth interrupt me again. I will be finishing this momentarily."

Anirne sighed, more than accustomed to dealing with attitudes like that, though admittedly they usually did not issue from vampires. The only one she knew was a rather mild-mannered fellow. Immediately cutting off her ill-advised attempt at healing, she nodded politely and trotted off to where the Feral had fallen. There was no mistaking that he was still quite possibly a fearsome foe, but that did not seem to deter her any.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Sinderion rounded the last corner, bounding up the remaining flight of stairs three at a time, and bursting into what he could only suppose had once been the Inquisitor's study. The place was in complete shambles, most of the furniture burned or blasted into splinters. The walls bore scorch marks and frost alike, some of the impact radii clearly belonging to more concentrated lightning blasts rather than the raw flame Drayk would have summoned. It was also completely still, any occupants either dead or gone. Wait... no. Not quite. He could still hear the sound of ragged breathing, and following it, Sinderion came upon the fire mage, prone on the ground and impaled with a massive ice shard, doubtless courtesy of Talmoro. Despite knowing that, being so easily-able to guess the cause, it was still a shock to see his friend like that, and Sinder's eyes opened wide, his stride hitching badly enough that the normally-graceful Altmer nearly tripped in his haste to reach the youth, hands moving automatically to check his pulse, as if for confirmation.

It was there. Weak, certainly, but present. If Sinder had his guess, the ice had probably slowed the bleeding by blocking the wound, but it would melt, if he'd even last that long. For a few moments, the elf hovered indecisively, unsure how to best handle the situation. It was clear that he needed to get Drayk to Anirne, as quickly as possible, but moving him in this condition was not a good idea. His breath left him in a frustrated huff, but he knew that he had to do. He just wasn't sure he could do it. Shifting his weight in his crouch, Sinderion gripped the ice bolt and ripped it cleanly from the wound, activating the simplest healing spell there was in an attempt to slow the continual bleed enough to at least stabilize the mage. Gradually, a bit of strength returned to the heartbeat, but he knew it wouldn't last long. There was no other choice: they had to move, now.

With a bit of effort, the Altmer managed to get the Imperial situated somewhat securely on his back, probably the most stable position he could occupy for what was certain to be a bumpy few minutes. "Drayk, if you can hear me, hold on." He wasn't sure of whether it would make any difference, but it bore saying anyway. With a steadying breath, Sinder ran for the window, following unknowingly the selfsame path forged by Maya and Adrienne a few minutes prior. There was a moment of vertigo as the solidity dropeed out from underneath him when his feet left the windowsill, and then he was dropping. His feet hit the ground hard, borne down by the extra weight of another person, but his knees absorbed the impact in a maneuver so practiced it was second nature by now.

He skirted the edge of the battlefield, catching Anirne's scent also moving away. Why that was, he couldn't say, but he hoped she wasn't hurt.

Maya had known from the get-go that her only shot at survival was to get the Inquisitor to the battle, and thus the Shade. Of course, that also got her to the Shade, and she'd long since connected the dots. She had no idea how the next few minutes were going to go, but there was no time to think on that. For the moment, it was certain death now, or almost certain death later. She'd buy herself a few more minutes of life.

She vaulted a low stone wall into the courtyard just as a forked thunderbolt exploded it under her. The witch went rolling into a small storm of snow and rock, roll over once, and then went back to her feet, raising the nearest corpse she saw and booking it, raven hair whipping behind her. It wasn't as though there were no corpses to choose from. She caught sight of the others, fighting the steadily dwindling elves, but she'd lost track of Adrienne. If the Breton was smart, she'd split from Maya, as the lightning bolts were aimed at the witch, not the Sellsword. And there was the Shade, in the form of a vampire lord. She'd been wondering when he was going to pull out that little trick. It certainly didn't make her feel any better about her chances.

"Inquisitor behind me!" she shouted out to anyone who cared, coming to a stop towards the rear of the group, trying to stay low, simply hoping she might have escaped the Inquisitor's sight. The Shade smiled wickedly upon seeing the witch, honestly rather impressed that she actually managed to drag Talmoro out here. The wizard himself was just appearing in the courtyard, looking on at the scene in no small amount of horror, watching his men fall around him, the floating Shade waiting in the back. The vampire began raising his own corpses, one, two, three, four, the dead of the elves joined his side and marched on their former comrades. Talmoro called out to his remaining soldiers. "To me! Into the embassy, fall back!"

And the Feral, ever persistent, bounded back over the wall with a growl, to find the Psijic in his way. He crouched low in a predatory stance and lunged forward, attempting to simply swipe her aside with a powerful and deadly claw, in order to move on to his true prey.

The nimble monk ducked and twisted out of the way of the blow, but she had nothing on strength of this magnitude, and so it was into the Feral's back that she fired the lightning bolt, still covered in her cloak of the same, for all the good it would do her. She rather wished she had some kind of weapon in her hands, as there was nothing her bare flesh could so that would even leave a mark on Ja'karo, she was sure, and her robes would be precious little protection against such a set of claws. It was entirely possible that he'd ignore her and keep going, but if so, she'd have little choice but to chase him down.

Soren’s outline shimmered, and he appeared in full view gradually, as the invisibility spell wore off. This managed to give the final Thalmor soldier pause for all of a second, before he thrust his sword at the new foe, too far gone to the battle-lust to remember the old one on his other side. While the assassin usually preferred to let other people be the distraction that he then utilized, he supposed turnabout was fair play, and Lynly had so kindly handed him the last one on the battlefield equivalent of a silver platter, sometimes also called a shield. Returning the favor seemed agreeable, at the very least.

Bringing his sword up with both hands, Soren blocked the incoming swing, using the locked blades to kick out with his right foot, catching the elf in the kneecaps, and he staggered to recover his balance. Raising a brow, the mercenary clocked him on the back of the head hard enough with the pommel of his sword to dizzy him, then kicked him again, sending him sprawling to the ground at the warrior-woman’s feet. “Oh, it appears I’ve dropped something. Mind taking care of that one, lovely?” The elf was currently trying to struggle to his feet, taking a potshot swipe at Lynly’s legs. The last ditch effort was quickly stopped by plunging her blade into the ground to catch it before it lopped off her legs. Without retrieving her blade, she lifted her shield and drove the edge straight down into the throat of the elf. A single death gurgle was her answer as the elf choked on his own blood. With that out of the way, she retrieved her sword, and hefted her shield up back into it's defensive position. "Careful where you drop your trash, you almost got it on my boot," she said before nodding her thanks. Soren's brand of humor might have been getting to her... Realizing what she had just said, she furrowed her brows and looked back into the fray. Things were much more interesting there anyway.

Soren, however, caught it easily and laughed, quite satsified with the results of his constant forays into the exchange of barbed words with the woman. He was also rather thrilled to discover that he’d happened upon a near-full quiver of elvish arrows, a fact which made him very happy indeed. Tossing these into his own quiver, he sheathed his blade and drew his bow once again, quite happy to be doing what he did best once again.

The Thalmor with an arrow in his eye was probably less joyous, but there was just no pleasing everyone, really. Some people were simply impossible.

Adrienne straightened, kicking the body off the length of her stolen sword. Gone was any feature that belonged to Celene, or the ever-courteous young woman who managed to smile even at her bitter foes. Gone, too, was the taunting combatant, the one that teased orcs dangerously close to her own death. Belladonna the poisoner was vanished with the sweet junior member of the Sellswords. All of her porcelain and silk and stone had cracked and fallen away, and as she feared, what lay beneath was... nothing. Just hollow acceptance of the situation and mechanical movement of her body in time to the pulse-point of the battle. It felt almost like everything were moving through water, even she, the slow-motion shadowplay of life that at once amplified and diminished the goings-on to a very loud but mostly indecipherable hum somewhere in the back of her head, where her thoughts used to be.

An errant elvish axe caught her mostly unawares, slicing though the red satin of her gown and biting viciously into her arm. She paid it no mind, though, simply switching her blade to the other hand. Magic had fallen by the wayside, at least for the moment; it wasn't as though it had done her much good recently, anyway. She looked up (always up) at her assailant with lifeless eyes and sighed, darting in whip-quick under his guard and shoving the elvish sword up and into his throat. She should have been angrier, would have been angrier, but vengeful Adrienne had perished with the rest, and this was all that remained. It might have been some consolation that she was technically doing what that version of herself would ahve wanted to, if she'd even been in the frame of mind to consider it.

The fight was shifting vastly in their favor, Maya noted. The elves that the Shade had raised were falling to ash, having served their purpose, their uses as tools no longer worthwhile. The Sellswords and their allies were hacking their way to the Inquisitor, who seemed more concerned with firing spells at the Shade than stopping the encroaching attackers. Tarquin nimbly manuevered around them, however, waiting for the right moment to strike. The witch spotted Sinder emerge with Drayk on his back, skirting the battle. She stood up only enough for him to see her. The Inquisitor was more interested in staying alive than taking his mark at this point, anyway. "Sinder, here! Quick!"

The Altmer's sensitive hearing would have picked up on the shout even if he hadn't seen Maya, and he made a beeline for the witch, Drayk still not stirring behind him. He dropped into a smooth crouch beside her, lowering his friend carefully to the ground. "I've stabilized him, but there's no telling how long it will last. Do you have any draughts with you?" The mage's wound was already starting to ooze again, and with Anirne far enough away that he couldn't see her, he had to hope that Maya would have a solution. There was worry evident in both his tone and his body language, but it was also clear from the looks he was sending the fray that at least part of him desired to be in it, not on the sidelines, so to speak.

As of yet, he was unaware of the nature of Talmoro's target, else he might have been quick to stifle that instinct and remain precisely where he was.

The Feral growled and little else when the lightning bolt struck him in the back, sprinting on all fours past her and towards the Shade. Tarquin saw the beast coming entirely, of course. At the same moment, the Inquisitor launched another swirling mass of razor sharp ice out away from the battle, towards the vampire lord. Just as Ja'karo reached the Shade he seemingly exploded in wisps of dark smoke, which snaked through the ice and across the length of the courtyard, twisting through the air and into the embassy building itself, halting behind the Inquisitor, where Tarquin reformed and landed upon clawed feet.

The Feral was struck wholly by the Inquisitor's spell, vicious slices cut across dark fur. He surveyed the battlefield, the odds arrayed against him, the distance and the number of foes between him and the Shade. Ja'karo growled in anger, before pounding a clawed fist into the snow and letting loose a screeching howl that echoed into the night. Then, before any further attack against him could be made he scambled off and up over the wall, sprinting away into the night.

Maya watched the Feral go only long enough to know they weren't in danger. Not that he was allowed to kill or even attack her, but still, a ten foot werewolf was worth watching at least until it was out of sight. She looked down towards the fire mage. "No, I've none. Hey! Psijic! Help here!" It was the best she could do on short notice. Despite how much she knew the young mage meant to them, she had more important news to relay. "Sinder, listen, Talmoro attacked me, I was his target. The Shade will know once he kills him. I need to know... do I need to leave?" He would know what she meant by that. Very shortly, the Shade would likely be ordering them to slay her, if not attacking her himself. Sinder knew the others better than she did. If there was truly no hope of them standing by her, then she needed to start running. Now.

As predicted, the Feral ran right by her without so much as pausing, and Anirne took off after him, though this, too, was clearly without point, as the three men in the middle of the field were a battlefield unto themselves. Which was why she didn't feel all that frustrated diverting to heed Maya's terse request. Jogging over to where the young Glenmoril was behind some cover with her brother, she soon detected the reason for the distress: Drayk lay prone on the ground, looking quite worse for wear. It appeared that some rudimentary healing had already been worked upon him; Sinderion's, if she had her guess. It was clumsy, but it had worked in the interim, and she knelt, setting to work immediately and trusting the two of them to watch for any incoming enemies.

"What in the name of the ancestors...?" she murmured softly, though of course she expected none to answer. It was more an expression of sympathy than anything else, and her hands lit with the necessary light a second later, the psijic leaning over the boy to do what good she was able. Anirne was fairly confident she'd be able to save his life, but it wasn't going to be a short or simple matter. Though she tried not to listen, she did hear Maya's urgent question to Sinderion, and found herself somewhat curious as to just what he would say. Her own opinion was rather sure, but she did not enter this arrangement under the same conditions as they, and that was bound to have an impact.

The news had the impact of rendering Sinder speechless, though admittedly, this was not the hardest thing to do. Still, he had to take a moment to absorb what he was being told. Of all the gods-cursed luck... but then, he'd known something like this would happen eventually. It was just much sooner than he'd thought it would be. At first, he cursed the fact, but in thinking about it, it might not be as bad as all that. His own primary worry had always been that by the time Tarquin tried to turn them on Maya, they'd be too far gone to care. Now, though... he gave the question as much serious thought as he could, and finally, he shook his head. This was a turning point, for all of them, he could feel it, and the morning he'd spent in he shell of his former home had given him some much-needed perspective on it. "You have nothing to fear from me," he said firmly, glancing down briefly at where his sister labored to keep his friend from the precipice of death.

Had he known what this would put them through? Could he have known, and still claim to care at all for them? These were questions Sinder didn't have the answer to, but he found that in the end, the answers weren't the important thing. Not right now. But he knew not if they'd all see it so. "The others... I can't speak for them. I do not think they would harm you, but... it isn't us that present the real danger, Maya." He looked up at where the Shade was currently locked in conflict with the Inquisitor. "We're barely alive. We don't stand a chance against him, and I hope you'll forgive me, but neither do you." He didn't want to tell her to leave, but it might well be the safest thing she could do. And, he realized with a degree of chagrin that he chose to ignore, he did want that.

"Do what you think best. If you run, I'll do whatever I can to slow his progress. If you stay..." he shrugged. "The same, really."

This felt... wrong. She hadn't felt indecision in the forest that night, she'd known her plan then. Where had it gone? It fell apart as the Sellswords did. They were still here, in a sense, but of them, only Sinder was still capable. The others were spent, damaged, useless in a futile resistance against a man who might as well have been a god to her. Maybe she should have left, that night after she'd kissed Sinderion. At this point, it wasn't the character of the Sellswords she needed to question, but the character of the Shade. There was one thing she could still bank her hopes on, one small, tiny hope, placed in her by the looks shared between this god, and the god he always had and always would answer to, no matter what words he spouted about him. She'd seen different when they came to her, in those few days before she even met the Sellswords, before she followed a dragon on a wild chase through the cliffs of the Reach.

The bonds of a family were more powerful than any devotion to any Daedra, and family was not given up so easily. Not when you lived as long with a family as he had.

"I trust you," she said, staring into his eyes. "I need you to trust me. Stand in his way. He chose you and your friends to serve him for a reason. Put it to the test." It wasn't much and she knew it, but her hunches had served her well in the past. "If he attacks us all, well..." she leaned forward and kissed him for a long moment, before pulling away. "Then we'll all go down right here. I'd rather die here and now than alone in the woods in two weeks time. I'm not leaving." The last words were almost more for herself than him. They felt good to say.

To his credit, while Sinder hadn't been precisely expecting that, he was much less confused about it than the last time, and tentatively placed a hand on Maya's cheek when she drew back, nodding solemnly. "I will." It was a simple answer, but it served well enough for every implied question. He'd trust her, he'd stand with his family, blood and bonded, against a man who could probably kill them without breaking a sweat, all to test a hypothesis he didn't quite understand. Maybe it was because, in the end, he was done running, and done calling himself a coward and knowing it was true. Whatever the case, it would be done, for once with no reservations. That was, surprisingly, enough.

Anirne smiled to herself, though she continued to repair Drayk's wounds, quite content to pretend as though she hadn't seen anything at all.

Enough time had lapsed for the Frenzy spell to dispel, and most of Van's rage along with it. What was left was a tired husk of a man trying to get his bearings on what exactly in Oblivion's name was going on. What was left of the Thalmor was dropping back with whom he could only figure was the Inquisitor, a piercing howl off to his side somewhere was apparently the farewell of some wild pitch-black were-creature assumedly the Feral, and amidst all of that, a grotesque vampire monster hovered just feet above the ground. Whatever went on, it was readily apparent that it spelled poorly for the Sellswords. At first, he didn't know where to go. In the distance, he saw Lynly and Soren holding there own, and elsewhere Maya and Sinder was hovering over someone. He didn't see either Drayk or Anirne, and could only hope for their safety.

And to top it all off, he saw Adrienne stalking the battlefield all alone. While he had faith in the girl, he knew her martial skills put her at a disadvantage in a melee. Figuring that she would need his help over the rest, he began to trudge his way over to her. As he moved, he realized that his legs felt leadened and jolts of pain shot all across his body. Apparently, in his rage he had taken a number of hits, unbeknownst to him. While Adrienne's scarf managed to take the edge off of some of the pain, they still hurt like hell. Still, he didn't have time for pain, and he pushed past it, trying to make his way to Adrienne. He approached her from an angle, from behind and with his tongue there was no way he could call to her.

As he approached his eyes met a wet red spot growing ever larger on the sleeve of her robe. Now he was worried, and urged his legs to quicken his pace. Along the way, he had discarded both of his blades in attempt to drop weight and give him a bit more speed. He'd need it too, as out of the corner of his eye he saw a mage readying a spell intended for Adrienne. He didn't think, he didn't have time to. He threw himself behind Adrienne just as the spell was fired. His back was met with the entire wrath of a vicious Thunderbolt. The shock wracked his entire system, and he could think of nothing but the white hot searing pain in his back. The bolt had his limbs in their grasp and when the spell finally dissipated, it was all he could to keep from crumpling into a pile of flesh. Instead, he drooped forward across Adrienne's shoulder as smoke rose from his back.

In his last act of consciousness, he tossed a ice spike in the direction of the Thalmor hoping to save Adrienne.

Even through her foggy haze, Adrienne heard the telltale strike of a thunderbolt, its proximity to her alarming enough to temporarily shake away her apathy. Moments later, a weight draped over her shoulders, dragging her to the ground, and the faint scent of smoking fabric alterted her to the fact that whomever was behind her had taken the hit. For her. That significantly narrowed the options, and even as she was borne to her knees and Van's ice spike, unbeknownst to her, ripped through the mage's chest, she regained with startling clarity an awareness of what was going on around her that she'd lost. The flutter of red fabric in the corner of her vision made the sensations that much more real, and her eyes filled with the tears she'd been too numb to let fall before.

"Gods, Van," she muttered in broken syllables, and all at once, the pain she should have accumulated over the last ten minutes or so was back in a rush, and Adrienne lost all strength, tasting dirt as she buckled under his weight. He half-pinned her to the ground, but she was not quite so numb, now, and she squirmed, trying to work her way out from under her friend's limp form. With a great deal of struggle and fresh tears from the sheer pain of moving that much, she managed, at last working her fot free from underneath his abdomen. With shaking hands, she fumbled at her skirts, pulling them to her knees to rummage in the leather pouch affixed to a leg. "One more, just one more.." she muttered indistinctly, her mind fogging for a completely different reason this time.

With a small sigh where a triumphant cry should have been, Adrienne produced two vials. Ripping the cork out of one with her teeth, she knocked it back in one swallow. The other was for him, and if there was any justice left in the world, it would be enough. Slowly, painstakingly, she crawled to his side, unstoppering the cork in this one and holding his chin in the other hand. "Sorry for this," she slurred. "Tastes awful. No poison. Made sure." The thought of who she'd almost poisoned caused her vision to blur again, but the blinked furiously until she could sort of see, guiding the alchemic concoction down his throat as well as she could. When the vial was emptied, she slumped, falling backwards into the snow, but nothing so blissful as unconsciousness awaited her, just exhaustion without respite.

Vanryth laid still for a while, even with the potion snaking it's way through his system. His breathing was shallow and didn't seem to gain strength, up until the point a raking cough escaped his lungs. He felt horrible, like he was on death's door stop. There was only one other time he had felt like this in his entire life, and they had also made the mistake of leaving him for dead. He surprised then too. He tried to get up, but the fatigue and pain wouldn't allow him the luxory of movement quite yet. He lay in the snow for moment, unaware that Adrienne was nearby. He tried to work out what had happened to him to leave him in such a state. There was the Frenzy spell, he was running, and then... Adrienne! He forced himself into a sitting position, fighting the pain and aches the entire way. Pain be damned, he needed to see Adrienne okay.

What Gods that still watched them allowed him that bit of respite, Adrienne was nearby, and from the looks of it still alive. Relief washed over him as he uttered the longest sigh that his injuries would allow him. He stayed as he was for a moment, silently watching over Adrienne, until he decided that he had worked up enough strength. He dragged his old carcass closer to Adrienne, and then lifted her up, placing her head in his lap. And so he held her, keeping a watchful vigil against anyone who would dare approach them. A memory came floating back in his ravaged mind, one from what seemed like years ago. When he once held her in a similiar manner, in very dissimiliar circumstances. But they'd be alright. They would all be alright. They had to be.

His men dead and gone, the Inquisitor was left alone to battle against the Shade, the vampire lord having appeared directly behind him. Tarquin's first slash of claws cut into the Altmer's chest and spilled his blood onto the stone floor, but the Inquisitor hardly reacted, swinging a daedric sword to try and open the Shade's throat. Tarquin nimbly ducked, but the Inquisitor followed with a gout of flame from his off hand, catching the Shade full in the face, staggering him for the briefest of moments, in which Talmoro sought to swing again, a swift cut again aimed for the throat.

Tarquin caught him by the wrist, stopping the cut short, reaching out with his other clawed, long-fingered hand and snatching the Inquisitor's spell hand, following up with a powerful headbutt to stun him. With a snarl, the vampire lord's teeth sank down and into Talmoro's neck, sending a fountain of blood spewing forth, spraying in several directions. The Inquisitor struggled briefly, a struggle which was then reduced to twitches, before Tarquin unceremoniously released him, allowing the elf to fall in a heap at his feet, his formerly golden skin reduced to a pale grey, drained of blood.

The Shade stood triumphantly over the kill for a moment, swallowing the elven blood while more dripped down his chin and onto the floor. A few short moments passed before his rapid, excited breathing slowed quite quickly, and he tensed again, eyes darting up towards the aftermath of the battle. A smile slowly worked its way onto his face, and he moved forward at a gradual pace, one foot carefully placed in front of the other, stepping over the masses of dead left behind by the fight. He stopped in the doorway of the embassy, gazing out upon the battered state of his pawns. His voice was still arrogant as ever, even if it was deeper than normal, and blood dripped from his mouth with every word.

"Bring forth our dear witch. We have business to attend to."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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The battlefield had at last grown quiet, the corpses strewn about the courtyard and the vampire lord still hovering in the air the only visual cues as to what had happened, excluding the battered state of several of those still alive. What to most would have been silence was nearly deafening to Sinderion: he was hyperaware of the rasp of breathing from Drayk’s healing lungs, the quiet shifting of Anirne as she moved to another wound, perhaps, the rustle of Maya’s clothing, the sound of his own heartbeat, vital and strong.

He could see what looked to be Vanryth and Adrienne some distance away, both looking considerably worse for wear. Soren and Lynly were in the opposite direction, the three groups forming a rough triangle in the courtyard. The Shade’s voice thundered over to them, then, and the Altmer clenched his teeth at the man’s haughty tone. It was obvious what he thought they were worth, to say the least.

Rising from his crouch, Sinder stepped a few paces forward, removing himself from the immediate proximity of the wounded fire mage and the witch that was the vampire’s next target. He was actually a bit upset with himself for not sniffing out the man’s nature sooner—he could certainly scent all the blood now, and the faint odor of rot that must have signified the sanguinarus disease. He wasn’t inclined to dwell on it right now, however.

Meeting the Shade’s eyes from across the field, he shook his head. “No. You shan’t have her so easily.” Truthfully, he did not know what the man’s intentions were, whether he planned to simply kill her now or delay for some strategic reason. He supposed there might be such a possibility, but he was not the strategist Adrienne was, and now wasn’t the time to try figuring out what it might be. Not when the possibility of being attacked was so live and immediate. It was actually rather electrifying, and though he appeared to be making his denial with relative equanimity, there was a small tension-tremor in his limbs, not the shaking of fear or fatigue, but one of the conscious repression of a fight-or-flight instinct.

He would not flee. But attacking was not a resort he wished to have to take, either.

The sounds of battle of faded out into the snow, leaving Lynly casting her glance around. All of the Thalmor knife-ears lie dead or dying in their wake, but the Sellswords weren't without their own losses. Of their number, three lay on the ground and out of the fight. Sinder was the only one of the original group who stands, and along with him, Maya, Anirne, Soren, and herself were also relatively uninjured. Still, those numbers meant little when they stood against a Vampire Lord.

The appearance of the ancient monster took her aback, leaving her in gaping awe for a few precious moments. The monster was undeniably still the Shade, he still looked like that man once did, only more grotesque now. She had heard stories about the ancient race, though scant few. Of all times, this was the least expected to which she would find herself face to face with the creature. She glanced back to Soren once more, cursed on her lips for the third time that night, but then decided to swallow it. It was no time to be tossing ribs back and forth with the Archer, not when one of their number was threatened by the Shade. Instead of speaking to the man, she merely shrugged and walked forward.

Her shield hung heavily from her side and she carried her sword over her shoulder. For all of the urgency present in their situation, Lynly painted a portrait of absolute calm. Not even a hint of her earlier social disfuction remained. Such as she was, more comfortable in the heat of a fight than she had ever been in her own skin. The only time she felt truly alive was in a fight, and while the fighting had sense died down, danger still lingered on the air. She had chosen the subject of her story, and she was going to see it to it's conclusion, even if that meant her death. As she walked past Maya, she nodded acknowledgement. She was unsure whether she was considered her friend, but it didn't matter to her. She had a debt to repay.

She stopped beside the knife-ear and settled into the snow, lifting her shield while her sword hung at the ready at her shoulder. "No. He won't," She said, agreeing with the elf. While she may not have understood what was going on, she knew enough about the Shade to know she didn't like it. If he wanted to see Maya, then it was probably not for the best of reasons. She might not had been part of the sellswords, or even the Game, but still. She owed the girl that much. She had killed her family once upon a time, the least she could do was to see that the witch lived through the night.

She was not so conceited as to believe this would be simple if he did decide to attack. Far from it. Two fighters against a Vampire Lord were sorry odds, and not for the Vampire either. Even if all of the Sellswords were willing and able, it would have still been a difficult fight. And yet, it was not the first time she stood between a strong opponent and his target, the memory of Stonehammer and the Imperial Captain coming to mind. Though Stonehammer was a man, and not a monster. Hidden by her shield, a smile crossed her face and she muttered "Cursed."

She'd have it no other way.

Soren didn't seem so inclined to immediately leap to the defense of someone he didn't really know, and indeed it was debatable whether knowing any of them any better would have made a difference anyway. It wasn't that he was a coward (he was many unsavory things, but that had never been one of them), just that he was predominantly self-interested, and frankly, he doubted the Shade would even spare a thought to him if he chose not to interfere. He was, essentially, free to come and go as he liked, and taking any sort of stand here would doubtless diminish that ability to some extent by making him a rather defiant ink-spot on the fellow's mental map.

If it didn't make him dead, first.

That was a thought, though, wasn't it? If was one to go to the gates of Oblivion at last (as all must eventually do, functionally immortal or no), there wasn't a much grander way to go about it than to be escorted there by a nasty set of vampire-claws impaling your chest, perhaps. But there was still something he wanted to do, and in the end, it was a poignant mental image that held him back, of folk who had met much more inglorious ends than that. The world would have plenty of people to be concerned over it, and the Daedra and their Representatives many more peons. But nobody else was going to care enough about a few mercenaries and a little boy with a sweet face to bring justice for them.

So Soren remained where he was, watching with apparent disinterest as Lynly moved to stand by the Altmer fellow, who acknowledged her with a nod but did not remove his eyes from the vampire. Smart, not that it was likely to save any of them. A quick glance behind himself revealed that there were several ways off the premises, though if the creature Tarquin had become was of a mind to kill them all, he wouldn't find much escape there. In fact, those two might have just doomed him to his fate anyway. Sighing through his nose and rolling his eyes, the sniper drew an arrow from his fresh stack of them and took to turning it between his fingers, the same absentminded gesture he'd used many times before. This time, though, his bow was still in his left, and it would remain there.

Anirne finished the last of Drayk's wounds, then, and sat back on her heels for a moment, regaining her equilibrium. Her magicka was fairly drained, but her enchantments would take care of that in short order, and the important thing was that the young man would live. At least for now. Bracing her hands on her knees, she glanced over at Maya and smiled. She had not missed the exchange between the witch and Sinderion, but if she had an opinion on the matter, now was not the time to offer it, anyway.

"Well, it won't be the most foolish thing I've ever done," she said lightly, though there was gravity to the proclamation all the same, and she used her hands to push herself into a graceful stand, shaking a few stray hairs from her face before taking long strides to Sinder's other side. She said nothing, as truly she didn't think there was anything to be said. So much of this journey could kill them; Talmoro would have been capable of it, and the Feral as well. She did not doubt that the other Representatives were just as mighty, in their way, else the Shade would not have thought to use them at all but wiped out his opponents by himself.

In a world where anything and everything could prove fatal, it made sense to risk yourself for the right reasons. And reasons did not get much more 'right' than protecting a friend or family member. She was inclined to take her brother's hand, but she did not, knowing well enough that he might need to move at a moment's notice, perhaps more quickly than she could react. She suspected his reflexes were quite superior to hers, even given her training.

So instead, she laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed briefly before letting it drop. Reassurance, affirmation, support. If that was all she could give, she would give it freely, without a moment's hesitation.

A distance away, Adrienne was aware of being moved, but found for the moment that the task of opening her eyes was simply too great for her capacities to handle. She would live; she had that much faith in her alchemy. But what did it matter, anyway? Drayk was dead, and that was her fault. Vanryth probably hadn't survived either, and that was her fault, too. People had died because she was too weak to do what needed to be done, so caught up in her plans and her hopes that she'd forgotten what was really at stake, how vulnerable they really were. She'd had faith, when what they'd needed was help. And the worst part of all was that, where another might have been able to save them, she could not. For the same reasons she'd always been inadequate. She couldn't give life, couldn't coax someone back from the precipice of death or heal so much as the smallest parchment-cut, not without plants and patience and time the universe had not seen fit to give her when she needed it most.

What did anything else matter, next to that?

Somewhere beneath the grief and abject misery, though, her mind was still working. Sluggishly, it was true, but working all the same. She hated it, almost, and tried to make it stop, to think of nothing but all the things she'd done to deserve her agony, but something was nagging at her. Frustration tightened her fingers in Vanryth's sleeve, though she wouldn't realize that's what she was doing until her eyes snapped open seconds later, havign finally tracked down the thought and discovered what had bothered her so.

"Maya," she whispered, her voice unable to gather the strength for anything else. Her vision came into focus, and she registered Van's face above hers with a relief so great it brought tears to her eyes. Her voice did fail her then, and she weakly brought one hand up and signed two words: Van. Alive. Smiling hollowly, Adrienne rolled to the side, gathering herself on her hands and knees.

"Maya," she repeated. "Talmoro attacked... Maya. She's... Tarquin's next... target." Her words were punctuated with small gasps as she forced her aching, trembling body to its feet. "Can't... no more dying." But Oblivion take her, she needed to move! She had something, nothing more than a vain little string of words that fancied itself strong enough to save a life. A plan, a tiny piece of strategy that might sway the mind of a being without much mercy to him. Whether or not it worked, she could not allow it to remain in her mind only. Nobody else could die because of something she'd failed to do. She wouldn't, couldn't, bear it.

Sinder, Lynly, and Anirne couldn't be more than fifty feet from where she now stood. So why, why did that seem like such an impossible distance?

Van couldn't stop her-- or could stop her in his state. It wasn't the wisest to challenge the shade in condition they were in... Though no one had ever accused Van of being wise. He tried to rise to his feet as well, only to stumble back to his knees. He grunted in frustration, why should he have to stay while Adrienne tried her hardest to protect Maya. He snarled through the pain, through the fatigue and finally found his legs.

They were shakey, and unreliable, but they were there. He wavered but righted himself. Once positive that he wouldn't keel over he slipped his neck under Adrienne's arm, and placed her own hand on his collar. If they were going to do this, then it was going to be together. If they were going to do this then they all should be together.

It wasn't that he thought of Maya as a friend, the witch and him hadn't hardly spoken since she joined them. But that didn't matter, that wasn't factored in the decision. His decision was focused squarely on the Shade and denying him everything. The asshole Vampire Lord had nearly cost him everything. He had almost cost him all of his friends and family. That was the line, it was because of that he would deny him everything. The Mentor was not worth any one of their lives. Not Sinder, not Drayk, not Adrienne, none of them. And if they were to die denying him Maya, then they would all die together.

It was with confusion at first that the Shade watched as first Sinderion, then Lynly, then Anirne stand in front of Maya, blocking his path to the witch. Maya found herself unable to watch as the battered Adrienne and Vanryth struggled to make their way to the rest of them. Back in the Rift, in Malacath's shrine, had been a... similar feeling, when the Sellswords had learned just what they'd nearly died to do. When they learned that she had effectively used their life's blood to further her own goals in a Game they wanted no part of. But that had been guilt. This wasn't guilt, it was... humbling. She hadn't thought the Sellswords would simply try to kill her, but to see them seemingly willing to die in this moment was... powerful. Almost more than she could bear.

Regardless of how this ended, her decision to stay had been the right one. The Shade would track her down, and a head start on him would make little difference in the end. If the Sellswords truly meant to oppose him, better that she help them than leave them to their fate for a few days of life. Sinderion was right; she stood no chance against him alone. And though it pained her to use them in this way, having the Sellswords between her and Tarquin gave her a chance at life, if her theory proved correct.

The Shade wiped remnants of the Inquisitor's lifeblood from his chin, taking a few steps forward into the courtyard. "Perhaps I was misunderstood," he said, maintaining his composure, "you will allow me to kill the witch, or I will ensure that you never see my father again. Those are the terms." Maya knew she had no right to be excited at the moment, but as those words were spoken she knew she had been right. She could not help but whisper to those in front of her. "He won't attack you, any of you, I'm certain. Just oppose him, and we leave this alive."

"Has Maya wrapped you so easily around her finger? That she has you doing her bidding now, to your own detriment? I offer to return whatever security the Mentor brought you. She leads you only towards madness and death, pain and suffering. Choose what you will, Sellswords."

Sinder remained unmoving, Maya's words loud enough in his ears to register, though he was not quite yet able to share her certainty. It was possible, just possible, that the Mentor had gone with the Shade only on a condition of that nature, but in the end it didn't really matter. There was something, something that he saw, that he was almost sure the Shade did not see. It had nothing to do with Maya, or what she had convinced any of them to do, though he would readily admit that he stood here for her sake.

"And what would it be worth," he asked, "to stand before him again, having forsaken everything he taught us? To need him again as we did then, because we failed him utterly in our pursuit of him? I should think he would rather we never saw him at all, as long as we were able to live as he had given us opportunity to." Suffering? Madness? What did the Shade know of these things, that he was not already intimately acquainted with? More pain was hardly sufficient deterrent, as they were going to face it anyway.

Though he was inclined to, he did not draw blade or bow in service of his words, feeling perhaps that it would undermine the point. He would fight if he had to; it was always emphasized that sometimes, there were things worth fighting for, killing for, even, but that to make it the first course of action was the error of a man with poor judgement and little wit. That said, if he did have to fight the Shade, it would be with neither blade nor bow, that much he could feel.

Adrienne could not hide her relief at Van's support, and slowly, painstakingly, the two managed to hobble their way over to the others. The Shade did not seem pleased, to say the least, and all Adrienne was able to think was that, much as she agreed with Sinder, she couldn't take it if any more of them died. They had to live, didn't they see that? Their lives were worth so much, to her and surely to each other, and damn what the Shade or the rest of the world had to say about that.

"Perhaps," she ground out, leaning heavily on the arm wrapped awkwardly about Vanryth's shoulders. Her voice was raspy with fatigue, absent of its usual music, but that seemed appropriate somehow. "There is a third option." She agreed wholeheartedly with Sinderion; she always had. But living as the Mentor had given them an opportunity to required living period, and being wholly unaware of the plan he and Maya played at, she had only her own observations to go by, and though the vampire lord before them seemed relatively collected, she at least wasn't buying it.

Gathering her breath to her, she continued. "As it stands, your position is superior to basically any of your opponents'," she told the Shade, straightening as much as she could to look him in the eye. She was without the resources for flourish and dramatics, and he wouldn't have fallen for it besides. "Two people in this Game have permission to kill you, and you know who both of them are. You might as well exploit this fact for as long as possible. Let Maya take down her targets, and use us to guard you from those that target you simultaneously. You eliminate foes without them ever being able to touch you at all, through us, through her. And then, at then end when only the two of you remain, we have this... discussion again. At no time, except perhaps after the Feral is dead, will you ever have to wonder about where other people stand, and that will allow you much leeway in choosing your battles to most suit yourself. As for when that time comes, well..." she trailed off, coughing several times and wincing when she pulled away her free hand bloodier than it had been, "I hardly think you're worried about being able to defeat us." She held up the hand, palm open, as if to let it prove her point.

This battle had beaten them, killed one of them, and certainly come close to killing a few more. He was relatively unscathed. She was content to let those facts speak for themselves.

"A temporary solution to let the witch live longer," the Shade pointed out. "In the end, if you want the Mentor, she must die. If you've all become attached already, then better to do it now, or never do it at all. I do not need a puppet to slay targets for me, nor bodyguards to defend me from a beast. You will help me, or I will leave. Again, those are the terms. Make your choice." Perhaps it was not the right word, but something beyond the Sellswords' simple lack of cooperation was irritating the Shade here. It was of course fact that if he desired, they would be able to do little to stop him, wounded and weary as they were, and yet he showed no signs of hostility. If anything, there was a hint, just a small hint, of sadness in his tone.

Adrienne caught it, but she knew not what it meant, only what must be said next. Shaking her head slowly, she gave up the attempt to make it otherwise. "Then farewell, Tarquin, because I will not do that." The others were of course free to speak for themselves, but she couldn't offer up another sacrifice for this man's ambition. Not even if she'd wanted to.

When none of the others spoke, Tarquin nodded. "Very well. Hunt your Omen. There's someone I must speak again with. If you have not changed your minds by the time I return, I suggest you sleep a little lighter. Farewell, Sellswords." He lifted lightly into the air through the force of some kind of vampire magic, taking off into the night, heading south and east.

A long moment passed in silence before a loud cough came from the ground near them, followed by a rather agonized groan as Drayk stirred again for the first time, returning to consciousness.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Well, that certainly sounded ominous, didn't it? Anirne watched the Shade leave with a contemplative expression on her face. Knowing that such a man would be after them with only a small time delay was not the most reassuring piece of information she'd ever recieved, to say the least, but the monk tore her eyes from where he'd vanished into the horizon, marking the direction but otherwise content to let it be.

Taking stock of the immediate situation, however, she realized that there was work to be done yet. The conversation's duration had allowed her ample opportunity to regain her magicka, and two of their number were in dire need of it. At once, Anirne approached Adrienne and Vanryth, hands already aglow. She might have asked what had happened to put both of them in such a sorry state, but honestly, she knew all she really needed to. It was difficult to tell which one of them was worse off, and she'd just decided to start with Van, who seemed to be leaning a tad more heavily on Adrienne than the girl was on him, when her other patient finally decided to come to.

"Oh good, he's--" her remark was cut short by the abrupt, slightly lurching passage of Adrienne, whose expression of disbelief was so exaggerated as to be almost comincal in any other situation: eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar until it clicked shut, and she was out from under Vanryth in almost no time at all, leaving the healer to steady the Dunmer in the wake of her passing. Well, that made her choice for her, she supposed.

Vanryth stumbled as his only stablizing force skittered away and towards the sound of a racking cough. The only reason he didn't end up face first into the snow was that Anirne had luckily been close enough for him to throw his arms around. At first, he wasn't aware that he had the woman locked into a hug, only curious as to what would cause Adrienne to act the way she did. He looked past Anirne and found his answer. Drayk was on the ground, and he was stirring. During the confrontation with the Shade, he had his eyes locked solely on him. He wasn't even aware that Drayk was in danger until just that moment.

At least he wasn't in much danger now. They all were safe for the night. And with that knowledge, the weight of the world was lifted from his shoulders. He inhaled the deepest breath of the sweetest air and exhaled, smiling all the while. They were all still alive and safe now. That was a damn good day if there was one. Now that he was sure that everyone was okay, the realization that he had Anirne in a tight hug finally occured. He was hesitant at first, confused, and had his face had any blood in it he would have blushed. Still, the best he could do was point to the ground so that she could sit him down.

Anirne, slightly thrown off by the weight of an incoming Vanryth, nevertheless bore the ensuing situation with an easy friendliness, chuckling lightly at their predicament and nodding sagely, sinking the both of them to the ground as gently as she was able. Once safely detached from the Dunmer, she crossed her legs in front of her and made the hand-sign for 'healing.' This was, of course, followed up with precisely that, though she suspected that what he needed most of all right now was rest. That was probably true of all of them, actually, herself included. Still, she'd do what she could for now, and see where it got them. He laid back throwing her a thumbs up, happy for anything she could do. Happy for the moment of rest. Happy that everyone was alright. He was just... Happy.

Adrienne hadn't believed it; not until she'd turned to see from whence the sputtering had issued. He hadn't been there before, had he? No, she'd certainly left him upstairs, to die. He'd certainly been dead, Talmoro's ice lanced through his chest like some kind of grotesque elemental spear. But... "Oh merciful Mara," she whispered, paying actual homage to the deity of her parents for the first time in more years than she cared to think about. "Drayk!" Heedless of her wounds (though still undoubtedly slowed by them), Adrienne crossed the intervening distance, pinpricks of pain needling up her legs with every step.

It didn't matter. Just then, nothing mattered except the fact that he still lived. A few feet short of her intended destination, they gave out anyway, and she had to more or less drag herself to his side, wrapping her arms around his torso and holding on for what seemed dear life indeed. "Gods above, Drayk. I thought you were dead! I thought I..." she couldn't finish the sentence for the choking sob, but she didn't care. As tears went, she'd never been happier to cry.

Drayk really had no idea how he'd gotten here. He remembered Talmoro, trying to hold him off for Adrienne, really just trying to incinerate the bastard, and then nothing but ice and agony and cold, a lot of cold. He shuddered slightly at the cold, though it probably wasn't the only reason he was shaking. He was able to look around enough to see the others, Sinderion, Vanryth, Anirne. Lynly and Soren were still there. The witch was as well, but he couldn't think about anything other than the fact that they were going to be okay. He wrapped his own arms around Adrienne, content to simply lay there for a moment. It wasn't likely he could get up on his own, anyway.

"I'll admit," he said hoarsely, threading a few fingers into her hair, "walking around in this outfit nearly killed me... but I think I'll be alright. It's okay. It's okay." He said it a few more times for good measure, taking the moment to enjoy the feeling of breathing deeply, even if it was sending twinges of pain through his chest.

Adrienne's reply was to grasp him all the tighter. He didn't realize, maybe, that she'd nearly been responsibe for his death, and could have been twice. It wasn't something she wanted to tell him, now or ever, but she knew she'd have to. She wouldn't feel right until she did. Still, for now at least, she could wait, and just rejoice in the fact that she wasn't. The joke, a little on the weak side as it was, drew a small laugh from her amidst the more general sobbing, and she was quite conscious that she was probably getting the front of his robes quite wet.

Releasing him, she braced her palms on his chest, using them to leverage herself upwards as quickly as she could, Chances were, he still hurt there. She managed a watery smile. "I'm sorry," she said sheepishly. "That was probably unwise. We're both a little beaten up here, aren't we?"

Drayk had indeed winced at the movement, but in all honesty, pretty much every movement was causing him pain. He was happy enough in the moment to dull the pain. She was wounded as well, he noticed, but he could not bring himself to try and heal her. Not now. The Psijic could handle it... Drayk didn't want to risk anything happening to her, not when he'd come so close to losing her and the others entirely. "Please, have Anirne heal you, I... I shouldn't. I'll be fine, I just... might need to have Sinder help me stand up."

"All right," she replied, noting that the healer was indeed just finishing with Vanryth, or appeared to be. "I understand." She wasn't sure she did, exactly, but she knew that if he was saying this much, he'd have his reasons, and that was enough for her.

Soren tracked Tarquin's movement as he disappeared into the sky, shaking his head minutel when the fellow disappeared. Still twirling his arrow between his digits, he approached the rest of the group from the side, surveying the disaster that was currently the Sellswords with something caught between amusement and genuine respect. Still, he was never one to convey that directly. "Well, that was a bit anticlimactic," he pointed out blandly. "Still, I suppose there's a story to be had from it, eh lovely? 'The time you stood with a bunch of crazy people and faced down a vampire lord, ready to die if that's what it took?' I know quite a few men who'd make that the subject of a nice tune, certainly." Hell, he could do it, if he wanted. The embellishment wouldn't even have to be that extreme, and it shouldn't be too hard to procure a lute or lyre from someone in a tavern.

He wasn't quite sure he wanted to admit that this was within his talents, however, as it really kind of clashed with his image. The Bard's College had been a misadventure of his youth, really. "Stick around," Lynly said, "I doubt this lot's story is over yet." Upon leave of the Shade, Lynly's shoulders sagged in relief. While it would have made for a good story, she would need to be alive in order to tell it. If she had to fight against a vampire lord, being alive to tell the story was only wishful thinking. Still. She had to agree with Soren, there was a story to be had here. She couldn't say that she was disappointed.

Sinderion relaxed at last several moments after everyone else seemed to have done so, his posture visibly slumping as he let out a relieved sigh. There was no mistaking that that wouldn't have gone well, had it turned out differently. He was almost tempted to follow, sure that the person the Shade needed to speak to was the Mentor, but even for one with skills such as his, tracking a flying thing would have been nigh impossible. Besides, the point of this whole encounter was that he was needed here. They all were.

He turned in enough time to see Adrienne and Drayk reunite, and he thought he could understand why she was so overcome. The fact was, the fire mage had been nearly dead when Sinder came upon him, and if not for Anirne, he surely would be now. He didn't think that was necessarily something either he or she needed to know, though. His gaze moved further to the left, alighting upon Maya, and for the first time in a very long time indeed, the Altmer smiled. It wasn't overwhelming or particularly noticeable, just a small quirk of the lips, but unlike the sardonic thing he'd worn once before, this one was quite honest.

"Thank you," he told her simply, though why exactly he was doing so may not have been immediately clear, all things considered.

"We can still find the Mentor," Maya said, doing her best to at least look like she believed that. "We'll find another way. Skyrim's not all that big. Seen the whole thing, more or less." Far more likely would be them finding the Shade, or rather the Shade finding them, in a state where he no longer cared whether they lived or died. When that day came, Maya could only hope they were better prepared. She supposed, however, that if she had to die, this was not the worst company to go out with. She found herself smiling genuinely at the scene of Drayk and Adrienne embracing. Maya hadn't wanted any of them to die standing between her and the Shade. She was immensely relieved that, at least for now, it had been avoided.

"Back to the Manor, then?" Maya suggested softly. "I believe we could use some rest."

Sinder nodded easily, and, having caught Drayk's point about needing assistance to stand, moved the short distance to the young man and offered his arm for leverage. "Let's... go eat and sleep," he suggested to the group at large. "If we need to make more plans, we can do that, too."

Drayk took the hand, carefully pulling himself up, grimacing the whole way. "Plan... tomorrow. Eat and sleep is about all I can take right now."

Anirne, cutting off the flow of her magic, stood fluidly, grasping Van's arm and pulling him up with her. "Can you walk without aid?" she asked kindly, "Or do you require assistance?" she would, of course, if it was necessary, but otherwise she was going to attempt to support Adrienne and heal her on the move. The others were right; the sooner they were away from this place, the better. Vanryth shook his head no, and pointed at Adrienne. He signed the words for help her before straightening his back. He might not be able to bounce back like he could once upon a time, but he'd be alright. He'd walk. He might stumble, but he'd be damned if he didn't make it home on his own power... Home. He glanced around himself and offered everyone a smile, signing the words for the phrase let's go home.

Anirne nodded her understanding, patting his shoulder just briefly before she turned and padded over to Adrienne, helping the younger woman to stand, promising to tend to her wounds as they walked. It was a bit of an awkward arrangement, given their relative heights, but it was manageable.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives
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Mostly for solidarity with his fellow Sellswords, Sinderion had slept in his old room the previous night, though even he had been weary enough to sleep the whole night through, something that would have been too dangerous in the wilds outside. He woke no more rested than he usually was, but he was also without any lingering fatigue. The Beast lived close to the surface these days, and he was treating that with as much equanimity as he could. Letting go, as Anirne had put it, wasn't really what he wanted to do quite yet, but for now there was an uneasy truce between himself and his darker nature.

Up with the sun, Sinder occupied himself padding about the kitchen, doing what he could to produce something edible. He wasn't much of a cook and mostly ate meat himself, but he was familiar with the basic principles, largely from watching Adrienne. So there was porridge going in a cast-iron pot over a fire, and he was standing against the near wall of the kitchen, leaning back onto it with his arms crossed and his eyes closed, which was about as relaxed as he ever got.

He was still concerned of course-- the sheer number of things that could go wrong was staggering, but at least he knew who he needed to watch for, and the Shade's particular odors (both of them) were by now firmly fixed in his mind. For the most part, he was as satisfied as he could be with that much. Even if other things failed him, his nose wouldn't.

Maya hadn't been surprised when she was hardly able to get to sleep the previous night. There was a certain point between exhaustion and unconsciousness in which her mind refused to cooperate, but that was not the only reason. She couldn't help but take the Shade's warning to heart. The thoughts had raced through her mind. Maybe it was a trick, he only meant for them to think he was leaving for a time, when really he simply was waiting for them to separate. He would return and murder her in the night, the nights that he owned. They would need to be extra careful during the dark hours now, when he was at his most dangerous.

The witch had also felt... was unworthy the right word? Maybe it wasn't, but it was damn close. She felt wrongly about staying with them, even if it was obviously necessary to her survival. Maya had always been independent, strong enough to not need anyone to look out for her... but this Game was another matter. She was outmatched, and she knew it. She needed their help, at the very least. And the very least she could do in return was try to help them find what they sought, the goal that they had just denied in the act of saving her life.

Maya managed to get some sleep on a couch near the main hall, though the lack of sounds from the wild didn't help any. It was too quiet in here. It was good to at least be back in her own robes, if nothing else. She eventually found herself quietly wandering the manor, eventually hearing sounds from the kitchen, and going to investigate. She was unsurprised to find Sinderion up and about, as his sleep had no doubt been restless as always. She leaned in the doorway, watching him for a brief moment.

"Good morning," she began, wondering how best to go about this. Certainly not straight to the point. "Need any help?"

He wasn't surprised by her entrance, obviously. He'd once thought he couldn't be surprised by anything anymore, but then this very woman had proven him quite wrong. Sinder cracked an eyelid, just a bit, then blinked both open and shrugged. "Is it? I suppose it must be, if we're all still alive." He raised a brow, glancing over at the pot bubbling merrily on the cook-fire.

"Unless you're an expert on porridge, I think it's under control for the time being," he mused, somewhat dryly, but his tone was not unpleasant. "I'm afraid I don't know how to do much but this and roasting whatever I find outside, so..." he trailed off, finding that finishing the sentence was unnecessary.

He cocked his head to the side, though, turning his body so that only one shoulder still rested against the wall, though his arms remained across his chest. He still wasn't sure how to take... whatever it was that existed between himself and Maya, and the posture was an unconsciously-defensive one. He didn't know if he was very much off-base or not, but she seemed troubled by something, though he certainly knew not what. There were a large number of things to choose from, after all.

"...Something wrong?" he asked her, pitching his voice low to avoid it inadvertantly carrying out the open door and into the yard, where four of their number currently resided.

Maya moved into the kitchen, closer to him, though not close enough to make him uncomfortable (at least she thought). She lowered her voice as well. "Well, I currently possess the same amount of blood I had before going into the embassy last night, so I can hardly say something's wrong, but I did want to talk to you." She leaned up against the wall connected to the Altmer's, crossing a leg over the other and idly hooking her thumbs under her belt.

"There's... two things. First... I know that things haven't exactly been clear between us, and that's entirely my fault. What I did last night didn't help things any, but in my defense, I thought there was a very good chance I was going to be dead in a matter of minutes. It's occurred to me that I have given far less consideration than is prudent to what you want, and what you are comfortable with." That was probably an understatement, and in fact the first time she'd kissed him she'd had every intention of making him uncomfortable.

"I apologize for being so forward, it's... just my way. I know that what happened last night was as much for you and the other Sellswords as it was for me. I just thought we should clear the air. If you would prefer that I keep my distance, then I will do so. I do not mean to try and force anything upon you."

Well, she'd somehow managed it again. He should probably get used to that. Blinking several times in rapid successon, Sinder let his arms drop, one automatically reaching up and behind for the nape of his neck. What was he supposed to say to that? She was right, of course; he'd been more than a little uncomfortable more than a few times in the short time since he'd made her acquaintance, but that was, to his lights, as much his fault as hers. It certainly wasn't her doing that he'd been stuck living as a near-recluse for nearly half his life, and still didn't really understand how to deal with people who weren't Sellswords. Much as he'd been willing to blame her for it initially, it also wasn't her fault that he was as he was, and that was a major barrier to, well... everything.

His feelings left him... confused, was probably the right word for it. Or maybe simply perplexed. His eyes found the ceiling as he tried to put this to words that made some knd of sense. "I shouldn't," he said at last, eyes still lifted. "By all rights, I'm too... twisted to be able to foist everything on anyone." And that was maybe an insight-- his insides felt twisted, tangled, like he was having difficulty extricating himself from everything around him. It wasn't just the Beast anymore, it was the knowledge that he could die on any day, in any place, that his friends might, and that if any of them fell to their darker natures, he would have no choice but to stay, perhaps even follow. They meant that much to him. He wasn't the Mentor, he couldn't be, and he wasn't sure he'd want to be, either. Because the Mentor had left them, and he wouldn't leave. Not unless he was taken by Oblivion itself.

His gaze lowered, fixed on hers, and his arm dropped with a sigh, a not-quite-smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "But I guess I do anyway." He shook his head. "Gods have mercy, but I don't really want you to keep your distance, witch." He echoed the first time he'd spoken to her with a trace of humor. "I don't know what it means, and I can't promise it won't go catastrophically wrong. But you know that as well as I do by now, don't you?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Of course. It really wouldn't be half as exciting if imminent doom didn't hang over us at every turn, I think. And watch the name-calling, it gets me all riled up, and I tend to make rash decisions when the blood's pumping." Really, it was as if she'd just said call me a witch all you want. Her eyes certainly said it. Any remnants of her serious and respectful demeanor had faded into dust when he'd encouraged her. She pushed away from the wall and moved to stand in front of him, thumbs still hooked under her belt.

"Much better, I think. Now that we've gotten that out of the way, the second point I wanted to bring up." If it was possible, which it was, this was surely a more difficult issue than the last, which said something, certainly. "I think it's about time you stopped saying things like 'I'm too twisted,' because I think, somewhere in that heart of hearts of yours, you don't really believe that. The past is the past. You have every right to be ashamed of what you have done, and only you can decide how to feel about your past, but never be ashamed of what you are." She hoped his reaction to this would not be too negative, as she was certainly aware that this could turn ugly if she pushed too hard. She had just claimed to not mean to force anything upon him. Now she had to prove that.

"I do not think you will ever find any peace if you continue to loathe what will always be a part of you, but it has to be you that decides that. Know that I will help in any way that I can. I want you to be at peace with yourself. To be whole again." She thought that might have been too far, but the words were said now, and she had meant them.

"You're not going to let that go, are you?" he asked, though it was mostly rhetorical. They both knew the answer, and with a little more time, he was beginning to understand the reasons. Before, he'd been upset at even the mention of it, because he'd been taught that the best way to prevent the return of the incidents of his youth was to use his aversion to that part of himself like a restraint, forge it into some kind of metaphorical cage and keep the part of himself he didn't like locked inside of it. He'd made himself a will of iron, and kept himself away from temptation as much as possible, even something as ordinary as contact with other people. That was no longer an option, and as his venture with Ani had shown to him, it might not have been the best idea in the first place. In the Mentor's presence, living as he had had seemed not such an impossible task as it did now, but... circumstances were changing, and every bit of strength they could grasp was needed.

He'd been prepared, yesterday. To let it go. He would have had no choice in the matter, and he'd accepted that. In hindsight, that was disturbing, but perhaps not as much as it would have been just weeks before. "It's not so simple as saying it," he replied at last. "I understand why you think as you do, but... I can't think that way. Not yet, maybe never. I can't just undo years of effort because it's easier." He looked like he might say something else, though he was still undecided as to exactly what, when he caught the first whiff of something burning. Frowning, he gave Maya an apologetic look and went to take the food off the fire.

"It's something to think about, though," he murmured, almost as if to himself, though he didn't doubt that she could hear even so. "And the choice may not be mine for much longer anyway. At this point, I just plan to see what happens." If he did transform, he'd have to kill something. That was the nature of lycanthropy, and it was one of the reasons he was inclined to do so in the heat of battle rather than in the lone company of someone he cared about. He didn't know how easy or difficult it would be to differentiate between those he would have slain anyway and those he desired to preserve as well as he could.

A large portion of her respectfulness had returned, as she believed she had slightly overstepped her bounds as far as his lycanthropy was concerned. There were points she would have pressed, but she was able to see that now was not the time. Recent events had been overwhelming already, and this would not help matters any. "Of course," she said, bowing her head slightly. "so long as you know that I'm here if you need me." she couldn't maintain the straight face despite herself. "Or if you want me. I'm there for that, too." She gave him her typically mischievous smile as she left the kitchen, feathery robes and raven hair swaying behind her.

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Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk
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In the absence of much else to do after breakfast, Sinderion had wandered back outside, though he'd resolved not to stray too far from the grounds. At present, he suspected the others would be either taking what little time they could to relax, or else making ready for what was certain to be a long journey... or perhaps a very short one. Either way, they would not be returning to the mansion in some time, and it was perhaps best that they prepared accordingly. From the day he'd been born to an impoverished family and likely until the day he died, Sinder had never had much in the way of property. He'd simply never been able to, and by the time he might have acquired any, he was quite used to living largely by the work of his hands. Anything besides his bow and his two blades was superfluous, unneeded, and he was generally quite content to do without it.

Even those might not be entirely required. Treading lightly out into the courtyard, he passed the flattened spot where Anirne and Vanryth had been practicing that morning, and though he noted that their scents yet lingered, he knew not the exact reason for their presence there, nor did he question it. Vanryth usually had good reasons for the things he did, and he was quickly relearning that Ani always did. Reaching the tree he was looking for, Sinder hopped, catching a lower branch with both hands and pulling himself up. He contented himself with being about halfway up, and pulled his legs in underneath him. Might as well give himself a moment to get some equilibrium.

Drayk did not have the sense of smell that his Altmer friend had, and as such it took him a moment to find Sinderion perched up in the tree as he was. His skin did not agree with the decision to go outdoors into the light breeze, which even still carried a chill. A wind in Skyrim always carried a chill. He meandered slowly over towards the base of the tree, running a hand through the hair that Adrienne had shortened, trying to think of how to go about this and not produce the reaction he'd gotten out of Vanryth. It probably wasn't possible, but Drayk felt some things had to be said anyway. He was concerned for his friend, and he hoped Sinder would be able to see that this was the motive behind his words.

"Bad things seem to happen when I try to climb trees," he said awkwardly, peering up at the elf from the base of the tree. "Think we could talk? Van filled me in on what happened. I... wanted to speak to you about it."

Sinder had marked the younger Sellsword's approach, though he had to admit, he'd had no idea why it was occurring until Drayk spoke. Well, that sounded promising, now didn't it? Still, it wasn't like Drayk had no right to questions; he'd been unconscious the whole time anyway, and as such he'd certainly not been in a position to agree or disagree with the course of action that Sinderion (and the others, by their own movements) had deemed necessary at the time. It was with this in mind that the Altmer nodded simply, pushing himself out of the tree and landing in a crouch a few yards from Drayk. Pulling himself to his feet, he fixed the younger man with his customary patient stare. It was as close as he usually bothered to get to something like confirmation or assent, though in this case he added a slight tilt to his head, indicating that he would hear whatever the other had come to say.

It occurred to Drayk that he should feel a little better knowing that whatever difficulty he had speaking to Sinder, the Altmer would probably have more in replying. It didn't really make him feel better, though, as that stare wasn't particularly inviting, and he hadn't even started talking about the previous night yet. "Van told me you were the first to defend the witch," he began, doing his best to try and hold his gaze up. "I know that I wasn't really there, but... are you sure this is wise? We can't trust any of them. Maybe she doesn't show it as much as the Shade does, but she's dangerous, and unlike the Shade, she hasn't the slightest idea where the old man is. I know he's done nothing to deserve our cooperation, but the Shade is our only link to the Mentor right now. Surely we can't afford to turn him against us."

Ah. He'd wondered if one of them might come to such a conclusion. It wasn't like the line of the logic was at all unfamiliar-- Sinderion had not been immune to similar considerations, either, though in the end he'd had to decide against them. Shifting his weight slightly, the Altmer leaned back until his shoulderblades hit the trunk of the tree behind him, resisting the urge to cross his arms for fear it would be interpreted as hostile, which he was not. "No," he replied at last, "I am not sure it is wise. You speak logically, and I did consider these things before I acted." Not right then, exactly, but before the battle. He'd known something like that was due to arrive eventually, but even he had not expected it so soon.

Something in the harsh lines of his face, natural to his heritage, softened slightly, and his shoulders relaxed a bit. "Everyone we run into for the next while is going to be dangerous, Drayk. The warrior-woman is dangerous, the archer is dangerous... my sister is perhaps moreso than either of them. I'm dangerous, and so are you. Likewise... it is difficult to decide how much to trust anyone. We've all got considerations for and against us. I happen to trust Maya far more than I trust the Shade." Probably unwise, but there was a point at which it wasn't really up to him anymore. At this point, he was rather stuck with the feeling... among others.

But it was the last point that was the most problematic, and they both knew it. Sinder paused, trying to find the words he sought. The ones they'd given the Shade might be the right ones, they might not. But he didn't seek to defeat his friend in argument, he sought to put him at ease. "Perhaps we have not lost that link yet. There was something strange about the way the Shade reacted to us. Mayhap Adrienne would understand what it meant better than I do." He shook his head. "But I do not think the time to give up or despair of finding him is yet upon us."

Indeed, Drayk hadn't seen how the Shade had reacted to them, but he hadn't killed them, and for that Drayk was honestly a little surprised. He was surely capable of doing so, especially when they were as wounded and broken as they had been. So that meant he had some reason for wanting to keep them alive, beyond them being useful tools to him. For if he did not really care for their lives one way or the other, he would have just killed them to get through to the witch. So why in the world would they test that? Why would they tempt him towards shifting his stance, and changing his view of them from valuable tools to mere obstacles.

"Why do you trust her?" Drayk asked. "What has she done to earn it? From what I've seen, she's lied to us, dragged us across Skyrim to fight orcs for her, nearly gotten us killed, and is now continuing to use us as shields against the Shade. All of the Representatives are evil, Sinder. Some of them are just better at hiding that than others. All any of them want is for the rest to die, so they can win their sick game."

He paced slightly, not really knowing what to do with himself. "I'm not saying the Shade deserves to win any more than the witch does. Gods, the world would probably be better off without any of them. But the witch... I see the way she looks at you. She wants you to go back to the way you were, to make you forget who you are until all you know is... hunting, or whatever it is she does." The look on his face was a mix of pain and concern. Mostly because he knew however much he disagreed with the course they'd taken, he was not willing to go over them to go his own way.

"Look... you've become like an older brother to me since the old man brought me here. I don't want to see her do anything to you that would make us somehow lose you. So... is there something I'm not seeing here?"

"...I do not know," Sinderion replied, spreading his hands, palms up, as though in a gesture of defeat. "Perhaps. I think I would prefer it so, but I do not know. The what eludes me, so it is hardly surprising that the why does as well." In a way, the answer encompassed all of the questions, and some of the statements, but all the same, he knew it was unsatisfactory at best. And yet... it was all he had. Sinder had spent much of the past decade attempting to shut down anything resembling impulse or instinct inside himself, because those things were tied irrevocably to the bestial portion of his nature. It was no simple matter to explain his intuition now, nor what could be described in someone else as feelings. He just had them, and that was it.

He was certainly aware of the deficiency now, in an acute way he had not been when all that sort of thing had been unncessary. "I hold you in no less regard, Drayk, but we are not working with all the information here. You are correct-- we have been lied to, indirectly decieved, and manipulated. This from all quarters, not simply hers. Even now, every word that any of them speaks may be a lie." He stopped, lifting his shoulders and shaking his head. "I cannot read people well, not in the way some can. The facts are inadequate to provide me with an answer. All I have left is my instinct, and whatever the Mentor has managed to leave behind in me, whatever my family has nurtured. And.." He trailed off. He trusted Maya. He'd stood against the Shade. He would do both again, given the choice.

"All I can do now is believe. In you, in the others, in her. Maybe in myself, at some point. But I do not wish to be taken further from the Mentor in order to return to him." Metaphorically, that was; not so much geographically. Peace of mind was the same anywhere, and he wanted dearly to find it.

Drayk was forced to acknowledge the possibility that he wasn't aware of everything that was going in within the group. The witch had not made an impression on him, but if Sinder saw something different in her, he would have been an ill sort to not trust the man he'd just proclaimed his brother. "All right," he said, relenting visibly, relaxing. "Just... try to make sure it's what you want, and not just what she wants." What exactly it was, Drayk wasn't exactly sure, but the words seemed to make sense to him anyway.

His thought was cut off by a foreign call from the road leading up to the manner. "Hail, Sellswords!" Drayk turned to look down the hill, seeing the familiar face of a painted Dunmer, wrapped in his cloak as ever, though he was unhooded today. The Horizon approached rather slowly, obviously trying not to appear threatening. "Word spread of quite a commotion in the house of the Inquisitor. Perhaps we might speak of it?"

Drayk looked to Sinder, shrugging. "Round up the others? I'll walk him in." Sinder nodded, taking off to do just that.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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The Blackfeather and the Horizon had a much more civil greeting now that they both knew not to immediately fear each other. Drayk had led the painted Dunmer into the main hall, where Sinderion had quickly rounded up the group around the long table for a discussion. Invorin had allowed Drayk to seat him near the center of the table, where he was more or less surrounded now by the Sellswords and their allies, with Drayk leaning up against the wall almost directly behind him, and Maya seated across from him, leaning back in her chair with one leg draped over the other.

"I'm leaving the city today," the Horizon began, his tone soft and calm as ever, "but word of the havoc at the embassy prompted me to stop here. I understand Talmoro is slain? I had thought to find the Shade here, but it seems he too is gone." He did not seem at all surprised by that, though, and he had not asked of Tarquin's whereabouts before this point.

Adrienne, seated next to Maya, had folded her hands primly in her lap, understanding that the positioning of people in this room was quite indicative and not particularly feeling the need to add to the atmosphere. Indeed, when she spoke, it was cautiously, but politely. "Your information is good," she replied. "Tarquin slew Talmoro, and Ja'Karo made an appearance as well, which accounts for the pandemonium," this last was inflected with traces of displeasure; though in the end they'd all survived, the Feral had very nearly ruined that. Without his interference, she was almost positive they would have succeeded in their aim without needing to destroy an entire Embassy full of people who were just doing their jobs. Then again, who knew what would have occurred between Tarquin and Maya then? She felt... conflicted about the entire situation, and it was not a feeling she enjoyed.

"Is there new word of any of the others?" Anirne inquired from the other side of the table. Admittedly, she wasn't sure how much would matter-- the Shade was the greatest danger to them right now, and Rialta after that, but he was supposedly off the coast to the north.

"Ja'karo hunts the Shade, then?" Invorin asked rhetorically, seeming somewhat satisfied with the news. "That should keep him busy for a year or two. As for the others... if the Stonehammer continues north as I believe he will, he should be close by the end of the day. You are hunting the Omen, are you not, Maya?" The witch nodded across the table from him. "Well, the actual hunting hasn't really started yet, but he is my next target."

"Perhaps we might assist each other, then. Indirectly, of course." Maya sat up a little. "Oh? Do tell." The Horizon ran a hand over his shaved head before continuing. "I can tell you for a fact that Silas' ship is docked in Dawnstar as we speak. He has been off the coast near Morthal for some time, sending raiding parties to try and root out the Pact and her warriors in the swamp, but she is elusive. He fears stopping too long in Morthal, and he is not welcome in Solitude, so he rests in Dawnstar. He will not stay long, however. Only long enough to replenish his numbers."

Maya considered this for a moment. "It's probably our best shot, unless any of you own a warship and haven't told me about it." Drayk didn't seem quite as pleased, however. "Why would you help us?" Invorin did not turn around, only twisting his head slightly. "Kill the Omen, and I will help you find and kill the Pact. The Shade isn't the only one capable of skirting the boundaries of the rules."

"You have some reason to want her dead?" The Dunmer snorted slightly in displeasure. "I will not go into it, but we have history, and it would please me if that Bosmer made it no further in the game than she already has."

Soren, who was presently tipped back onto the hind legs of his chair, feet propped on the table with ankles crossed, hummed a pensive note. Dawnstar. It was almost too good, the timing. He'd been needing to head up that way for a while now, and if he made it before the next month turned, he'd be in good shape. There was someone he needed to see, and a few other people he needed to kill, and the last information he'd managed to obtain before leaving the Guild had put them up there. Old news, by now, but still worth looking into. "You know, we're still missing a few," he said offhandedly, glancing back and forth between Maya and Invorin. "If you expect us to kill someone for your vendetta and you expect us to keep you alive, it might be a good idea if we knew who to be watching for, at any given time." They knew not who hunted the Horizon, after all, and if they were to find themselves in his company for any length of time, it was best to at least have names and defining characteristics on anyone it could be. Ideas on skill and relative danger would be nice, too, but he didn't want to overtax their generous natures.

"Let's see," Invorin began, going over the information they knew. "You already know of the Blackfeather and the Omen, the Stonehammer, the Feral and the Shade, the Pact and myself. Have you heard of the Drunk?"

Maya nodded. "Tarquin told them when they first met." The Horizon nodded back. "Then you know as much as we do. The Bloody Curse, the Light, the Spymaster, and the Inquisitor are all dead, and the Master is gone, which leaves... just the Librarian and the Webspinner. Representatives of Hermaeus Mora and Mephala, repsectively. I cannot say what their locations are. I know nothing of the Librarian's target or his hunter, nor were the Argonian's strengths made readily apparent. As for the Webspinner... the Pact hunts her, but she has been far too busy evading Rialta's attacks to make any progress. I will say no more about her."

He seemed uncomfortable at the subject, and indeed, Maya as well seemed rather closed off to the idea of discussing that particular representative. No doubt there was a reason for it, but neither seemed particularly willing to dive into it.

"I should warn you," Horizon said, changing the subject, "The Omen possesses powerful Illusion magic, and is rather uniquely gifted in the art. Killing him will not be easy. No doubt he will make every effort to confront you in dreams, where he has power and control, rather than in the flesh. I would advise caution; dreams often seem very real until the dreamer passes through them. Do not allow him to turn your own minds against you."

"You speak as if everything we've done to this point has been easy," Lynly leveled tonelessly. Perhaps, a bit colder than usual, but then again, she didn't like the way the knife-ear insinuated their journey so far had been a cakewalk. Half of the sellswords about died during the last night, the only way it could be harder was if they did die. She locked her jaw and turned away from the conversation at hand, instead taking in the view she had from her window view. Vanryth was much of the same mind, though he wasn't confrontational about it. He appreciated the fact that the Horizon had come and told them the score, though he didn't approve of the Game. He'd follow along, he'd take the bait, but only because the others were so adamant about continuing. That being said, he had to keep a mind not to get to know this Horizon too well, as he may as well be at the end of his sword before the Game was over.

There was something going on with the Webspinner. It didn't make sense that they would both be reluctant to talk about her unless there was good reason. But did the reason have to do with Invorin and Maya, or with their audience? He recalled that Tarquin had told the others that the Mentor's family, his whole family, had been participants in the Game, or at least trained for it. He supposed that even a man like Tarquin had to have a mother, and wondered if perhaps this was she. It was nothing certain, but the inkiling of the idea refused to leave him, at least for now. If true, it was at least more confirming evidence that they'd done the right thing, choosing to alter the nature of their participation in this Game. He doubted that what the Mentor intended for them would have anything to do with killing the woman he'd once called his wife.

Yet there were so many factors at play, and there was no telling if his guess was even remotely possible. Sinderion was not a man without intelligence, but neither did he consider himself particularly adroit in such matters as these. In the end, it probably wouldn't matter anyway. "Thank you," he told Invorin quietly. The knowledge that the Omen may attempt to interfere with their dreams was valuable. "But if we linger much longer, Tarquin will not need to struggle to find us." Even so, he did not immediately make a move to leave, instead offering the opinion and relinquishing it, for them to do with as they liked. He was no more a leader than he was a scholar; indeed, that role was one he didn't think any of them would be too comfortable occupying.

The Horizon appeared to either not hear or not care for Lynly's words. The Altmer had spoken much more amicably, and as was natural it was to him the Dunmer replied. "I will not be lingering either. Once the deed is done, return west to Morthal. I will stay in the tavern there." He pushed his chair back, slowly taking his feet. "Good hunting, Maya." The witch smiled warmly in response, though it could certainly have been false warmness. "You as well. The deadliest prey brings the greatest reward."

He nodded assent, then turned and quietly made his way from the room. When he was gone, Maya smiled at Sinder. "Not sure Tarquin will have much trouble, regardless. We don't exactly have a history of keeping a low profile." Drayk pushed away from the wall, uncrossing his arms. "Never too late to start. We shouldn't have any insane Khajiit ruining our plans this time... with any luck."

The fire mage took a few cautious steps forward, placing both hands palms down on the tabletop. No one seemed eager to give out orders, and he certainly wasn't eager himself, but he did feel a kind of drive inside him. Perhaps it was just a powerful desire for this to be over with, the sooner the better. If making stronger suggestions to the group did that, then he was fine with it. "Let's get this over with, then. One step at a time, and the next step is in Dawnstar."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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A single day of rest was woefully inadequate considering what the Sellswords had recently endured, but they had little choice in the matter. The Shade did not seem one to waste time, and the threat of his return loomed over the group as they slept that night. The frequently appearing Horizon departed immediately, heading east towards the swamps of Hjaalmarch hold. The Sellswords grudgingly followed the next morning, their supplies restocked as best they could be, their physical wounds healing whilst other wounds continued to open.

The witch took the lead as the mounted caravan of eight set out once more. They wouldn't get very far, however, as another organization had plans for one of their newer members...




Chapter V
Waking Nightmares




The group had been riding into the wind for the past half day, something that slowed their progress somewhat and also provided more than a little discomfort, the icy-- as if there was any other kind in Skyrim-- breeze tearing at their clothes and hair and lashing at any bare skin it had the fortune to find. The change of seasons may be nearing, but as they drew closer to the north, each was reminded that these hinterlands rarely knew anything but winter regardless. Frost coated everything not yet touched by snow, and the entire atmosphere seemed brittle, ready to crack.

For the most part, they stuck to cover, as Tarquin could fly, and it would behoove them not to be spotted from above too soon before they had chance of detecting him. In the end, it might not matter, but it was something Sinder insisted upon anyway. Foliage was not so dense here that doing so further impeded them, and in fact, the trunks of trees helped break up the brutal wind that would have slammed into them unimpeded otherwise. Late that morning, snow had begun to fall, the flakes dense and fat, driven towards them by the moving air. The lycanthrope was handling his better than most, as his body temperature was naturally quite high, and he relied less on his vision than most of the others, since his nose and ears were better anyway, but even he had to admit that it was far from comfortable. Snow clung to just about everywhere, even getting stuck in his eyelashes, which only got worse when his body heat melted them and the wind sent frigid water into his eyes.

He was reaching up to wipe ineffectually at them when the wind shifted slightly, bringing a fresh set of smells to his olfactory receptors. With a sharp motion, his head snapped to the left. It wasn't the Shade, but-- "Ambush!" he shouted, loud enough to be heard over the driving gale. Reaching beneath his cloak, the altmer withdrew his sword, which he'd kept from the pieces of Thalmor equipment he'd been given, and swung his leg over the back of his horse, dropping to the snow beneath in just enough time to block a downward blow aimed at the creature's flank.

The assassins, for indeed they all wore the dark red and black armor of the Brotherhood beneath their ebon cloaks, all leapt out of cover immediately, their element of surprise ruined. Their best option now was to overwhelm the party before those in it had a chance to react properly.

As soon as Soren spotted the armor, his bow was drawn, though he scanned the faces of those present carefully. Tarquin wouldn't use such low-class fools to do his dirty work, and he suspected that the Brotherhood was here for him. Scoffing low in his throat, he thought to himself that their informational networks needed a bit of work. No competent force of less than thirty would attack him while he was with this lot, and these numbered around thirteen at best. Still, there might be some use to be found from-- ah. Perfect.

Ilyessa.

She was there, in the back, lightning lit in each hand, creeping low to the ground and using the cover of her comrades' attacks to fire off the powerful bolts of destruction magic at the group. The wind and driven snow was making it hard to aim, though, so they should be mostly safe until she got in closer. For now, there were peons to deal with.

Drayk was throwing himself off his horse the moment Sinder's call of an ambush cut through the wind and reached his ears. If he'd had more time to think, the fire mage probably would have been quite annoyed at the fact that they were being attacked by people who didn't have anything to do with the twisted game they were caught up in, but there was no time. He was focused on making sure they made it through in one piece.

The biting wind and thick snow clouds would make any kind of ranged attack difficult to pull off. Drayk had been sure to ride next to Adrienne, and knew she was beside him now, even if he didn't turn to see her through the snow. "I'll draw their attention," he said, taking his shield into his left hand. "I'll make sure they don't see you coming." He'd learned the hard way that he hadn't been capable of withstanding the Inquisitor's attacks, but these assassins were not the Inquisitor, and this time, he had his shield. He could do this. The Mentor had taught him how to do this, how to function as part of a team, without the use of fire. Not so long ago that was the way he'd fought.

The snow was sticking to the ground, but not thick enough to slow his movement overmuch, and with the knowledge that ranged attacks would be unreliable, Drayk pushed forward quickly, the fireball he threw only hastily aimed, and meant more to draw attention than kill. The first of the assassins came to meet him with dual short swords, and Drayk planted his feet, letting the first of the strikes clang harmlessly off his shield. He would not wrap himself in fire, not if Adrienne would be working closely beside him. If there was anything that could force him to control himself, it was her.

Adrienne was cold now, had been cold all day, and was about to get a whole lot colder. It was probably fortunate that she'd been working with ice so long that she probably wouldn't run too much risk of hypothermia. Tugging at the clasp that held it together she shed her sable cloak, too easily visible against the vibrant white of the snow, and drew the blade at her hip. Given that her newly-tailored robes were cream and light blue in color, she'd have much more luck staying hidden this way.

Stepping in behind Drayk, she kept herself low so as to avoid easy detection. She couldn't sneak worth much, but she was a small person and the wind in their ears was making it hard to hear anything anyway, so it probably didn't matter at the moment. The first assassin strode forward to meet them, and the ringing sound of blade on shield was her cue. While the dark-armored fellow was recovering from the rebound, she slipped in between the combatants, scoring a deep cut to his relatively unprotected inner thigh. Lynly, it turned out, was a pragmatist about where to hit people and had impressed upon her that in this as well as in other matters, the other person's dignity wasn't worth much.

His natural reflex was to counter, and it was a good one. Whipping both blades around, he slashed vertically. With a quick jump sideways, she avoided all but a nick on the shoulder from the first. The second, she blocked with her sword, though the force of it threatened to drive her to her knees. She went willingly, as this left significant space over her head for Drayk to utilize and only one weapon-hand to contend with.

The hit that Adrienne had scored gave Drayk the time and space to draw back a step and prepare a physical strike of his own. When she dropped to a knee, he pushed himself forward with the force in his legs, his shield leveled sideways such that when he punched, the steel rim collided with the hooded assailant's jaw. The assassin had managed to get his blade up, but it wasn't a match for the weight behind his blow, and with a solid crack he was thrown from his feet, landing with a softened thud in the shallow snow, both of his weapons landing in the ground beside him.

In the time that took, Adrienne had charged an ice spear in her free hand, and with the weight of the assassin removed from her, she rose to her feet and lowered the sword, sending the chilly projectile flying for the one on the ground. It was heavy enough not to be knocked off course by the wind, and impaled the fallen man through the chest, halting his efforts to reach for one or both of his weapons.

Two more followed closely behind the first, though not quick enough to save him. They split to try and attack Drayk and Adrienne from both sides, one of them a rather hefty Nord wielding a two handed sword. Drayk supposed not all assassins had to fight with daggers. The other was wielding a spell of some kind in one hand, though Drayk didn't get a good look, as his attention was mainly on the Nord fellow, who was half a head taller than he, and more muscled, too. Drayk found himself back to back with Adrienne as the assassin moved in, cutting down at him with his great steel sword.

He'd been taught not to take blows like that full on, as he risked shattering his shield, or his arm, and so Drayk sidestepped slightly, angling his shield as well such that the blade was deflected rather than stopped fully, the steel point carrying on to stick into the snowy ground. He took advantage by closing the distance entirely, ramming him in the upper body with his shield, trying to keep the distance so small that his sword would become useless. Reacting to this, the Nord decided to ditch the sword entirely, wrapping an arm around Drayk's upper body and wrestling him down, the pair of them going to the ground in a cloud of snow.

That was bad. Drayk's arm was still stuck in his shield, which wasn't ideal for a lethal wrestling match, and apart from that, this guy was bigger and stronger, too. He struggled against him, doing what he could to keep the assassin's hands away from his throat and face, shifting his weight around, trying to roll the man over, anything to keep himself from being pinned beneath him.

The mage that came at Adrienne was a dunmer woman cowled in black, the deep purple of a conjuration spell lit in one hand, a dull green orcish mace in the other. Adrienne was two steps into a bull rush when she was forced to pull up short as the spell released, triggering the appearance of a massive ice atronach. Not the sort of thing she was really equipped to deal with. Treading backwards, she shored up her position behind Drayk and reached into one of her pouches, fishing out a bright, carnelian-colored potion. Well, when you weren't enough by yourself, that was what friends were for, wasn't it?

An ice atronach would already have trouble against fire, but with this brew, it would light up like dried brush in summer, assuming she could give her friend a good shot at it. That said, it was huge, and even in this weather, missing it would be kind of like missing the broad side of a barn. Smiling, she gave the thing a toss, the glass cracking open against the hardened front side of the atronach, staining the crystalline blue of its chilly carapace a brilliant red, as though something neither blood nor fire but in between had spattered all over it. The creature was cold enough that the liquid froze where it landed, for the most part, which was a good sign.

Not so good was the fact that she felt a chill at her back where Drayk was, apparenty, no longer standing. Turning to glance out of the corner of her eye, she spotted him grappling with a very large man, and he looked to be at about the disadvantage one would expect. Well, she wouldn't be any help there, but the young woman knew something that might. She'd have to be careful with the shot, though... maybe closer was a good idea. Spell in hand, Adrienne kept half her attention on the advancing atronach and dashed forward, skittering over the top of the snow and vaulting the person-stack that had her friend on the bottom. Her hand left behind the circle characteristic of a frost rune across the Nord's broad back, and she ducked on the landing just in time to miss whatever the dunmer sorceress had been aiming at her head.

Now, to detonate. Anything should do, but... ha! Snatching up the fallen stick, she doubled back towards the wrestling foes. "Brace yourself!" she warned Drayk, then with a deft tap, hit the runed combatant on the back with the former branch. The result was instantaneous and somewhat explosive, though naturally Drayk was shielded from the effects by the body of his foe, who collapsed. That left the mage and her summon, and Adrienne offered her arm as leverage for her ally to get himself out from under the nord and back onto his feet. "The snowman there's really, really weak to flames right now," she pointed out.

Drayk got to his feet with Adrienne's help, shoving the limp form of the Nord assassin off of him. His robes were heavily dusted with snow, but there was no time to shake it off, as Adrienne was calling out an opportunity to make himself useful. "Can do. Stand back," he said, giving his own warning. He didn't expect to explode in flames, but it wouldn't hurt to be safe. His method of firecasting tended to be a little more violent than most. Adrienne nodded and took a few steps back, prepping another spell in her empty left hand. Even once the atronach was down, there was still going to be a mage to deal with, after all, and her dunmer blood would probably be sufficient to survive the heat.

When she was clear, Drayk took a step forward, to close the distance slightly between the target and himself. The wind wouldn't affect his throw very much, given the speeds he could hurl fireballs, but the visibility was a problem, and he wanted to be able to see the target clearly. Once satisfied, he lit a flame in his right palm, and quickly intensified it, the fire spreading up his arm past his elbow, ending around his bicep. With one swift hurling motion the flame left his arm and took flight, licking at the air as it flew headlong into the atronach's body. Ice and fire exploded alongside each other as the atronach crumbled, leaving only the Dunmer mage in its wake. She was preparing destruction spells for them now that her cover was gone. Drayk banished the flames in his hand, ignoring their protests, and replaced them with a ward spell. "Let's get closer," he suggested to Adrienne, lifting his shield and preparing a ward to block any incoming spells. "I'll be your cover."

"Sounds like a plan," she replied, and the two advanced, Drayk's wards surviving a few shots of ice and one lightning spell that sizzled at it departed from existence. As they drew in close enough, Adrienne ducked out sideways from the cover provided by Drayk's ward and shield, sighting down her own arm and letting fly the ice spike, which veered slightly off-course in the wind and hit the sorceress in the shoulder rather than the center of the chest, which was where it had been aimed. Still, it should serve the intended purpose.

"Would you like to introduce the nail to a hammer?" she asked with some mirth, making a motion similar to one she'd seen Lynly use when she was readying a shield bash. Driving the spike further in would likely distract the mage for long enough that Adrienne herself could maneuver behind her with a sword and finish the match.

For a moment Drayk tried to think of some clever way to respond, but the nail and hammer imagery was clogging his thoughts, and now he was just wishing he'd come up with that himself, and in the end he decided to just smile and nod, letting Adrienne be the one that was good with words. He charged forward, and the mage had just finished reeling from receving the icy projectile when the face of a shield slammed into her, causing a yelp from the further trauma and interrupting whatever spell she had in the works.

Which was, naturally, when Adrienne flashed out from behind cover, drawing the sharpened blade of her sword over the woman's ribcage on her way to the space behind, whereupon she wasted little movement planting the tip of the weapon in the space between her shoulderblades and thrusting, sheathing the slender ribbon of steel in the dunmer's torso. Planting a foot beside it, the breton pulled the blade free and plunged it into the snow to clear it of as much blood as she could for the moment. The battle was winding down around them, from the sounds of things, and it had been a much fairer fight than they got nowadays. It was nice to know they were actually getting better at this, not worse.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Ilyessa was a hellion; certainly, his information gathering had prepared him for that. The Nord woman was garbed nearly entirely in white, perhaps the only one of her troop who had remembered that black did not blend with everything, and the fact that her hair also was very close to snow-colored and her skin as pale as any nord’s meant that she was not the easiest to keep track of. They called her the Ice Wraith—clearly, it was a name she’d earned for cosmetic as well as more substantive reasons.

But she was a member of the Dark Brotherhood nonetheless, and as Soren hacked at the ice spell keeping his left leg in place with his newly-drawn sword, he supposed there might have been a time when this fact made him wary. Now was no longer that time, and he had little care for who or what she thought herself. She was a target, and he’d always thrived on hitting the ‘impossible’ mark.

Doubtless, she knew who he was by now as well. The Brotherhood boasted an extensive network of contacts and information, and he in the early days of his pursuit had not been the most subtle, the angry red of his vengeance clouding his eyes. Now, he was much more collected about it, and more vicious for that. The first two he’d killed had died quickly, too quickly, leaving him dissatisfied. His friends had suffered, his son had suffered, and every one of them deserved to suffer, too. So suffer they had. He no longer cared what he had to become to see that end achieved.

The others were doing an admirable job of dealing with the small fry, and he advanced, sword drawn, on the white-cloaked lady, sharp eyes narrowed to dangerous green slivers. He could pick out the minute details of the brush of hair against her cheek, even in this driving shroud of frost. Her pale lips were drawn back from her teeth, her own vision clearly faltering; her next shot went wide, the frost barely grazing his leg. He paid it no mind, advancing through the snow with a single-minded focus. She staggered backwards, trying to maintain distance to use her magic properly, and the next one did not go quite so awry, coating his sword-arm in a thick layer of ice. Heedless, he swapped hands, and she at last abandoned the effort and drew forth an elvish dagger, the burnished copper-gold of the blade a splash of color against the nearly all-white backdrop.

Steadying her stance, Ilyessa snarled, darting forth with the quickness one would expect of a person in her profession. Soren was quick, too, though, and the strike meant for his heart found his sword instead. He batted it away with his superior strength and slammed his frosted gauntlet into her jaw, which she clearly wasn’t expecting from him. All the information they had spoke of his preferences for stealth and subtlety, after all, but maybe a certain lovely friend of his was exerting an influence, of sorts.

Backpedaling quickly, Ilyessa only just managed to keep her footing on the slick ground, and her next strike hit, scoring a thin line into his side. His was not the first blood to coat the snow, though, as he’d willingly stepped into it so as to leave a deep gash from her right shoulder down across her collarbones. He’d avoided the throbbing, vital artery in her neck on purpose, and they both knew it. This was not going to be quick.

Some undetermined number of minutes later, Ilyessa was at last put out of her misery by an arrow between her eyes, the sable shaft with its pearlescent etching the only grave marker she’d be receiving, unless her foul order decided to retrieve her corpse before the carrion birds did. Ribbons of crimson stained the snow in wide arcs, evidence of the sheer ruthlessness of the mercenary’s quiet rage. He hadn’t yet uttered a syllable.

Plunging his sword into the snow, he cleaned it of most of the blood before sheathing it and returning to the group as quietly as he’d left. The last man fell just as he drew within audible range, and he glanced around at the other bodies, satisfied that none of them yet lived. Still without saying anything, he advanced to his horse, a dark blood bay, and pulled her out of the line of them. “You’ve got enough problems without shouldering mine,” he said simply. “Try not to die. And lovely, if they aren’t singing about you in taverns soon, I’ll be sorely disappointed.” Of course, he probably wasn’t going to be around to know in the first place, but
 well, nobody had to know that. He was actually being genuine about the ‘shouldering his burdens’ bit.

The last man to fall, did so courtesy of Lynly. She pulled her sword free and whipped the blood from the iron in a wide arc. A quick survey of the battlefield affirmed what Soren already knew, the battle over and victory was theirs. "You say that as if your problems aren't worth shouldering in the first place," Considering her hands were full of steel and iron, she couldn't put her hands on her hips to show her disapproval. A simple tilt of the head would have to do instead, as a flicker of disapproval danced across her face. Still, she couldn't dissuade him from anything he wanted to do or felt he needed to do.

She slipped her sword back into it's sheath and put her shield on her back. "Ilyessa?" She asked, mostly rhetorically. Lynly already knew the answer. Instead, she merely smiled and shook her head. "I need to do something worthy of song first," she answered. "But if you return and we meet again, I expect to hear the story," She said, crossing her arms and wearing a wisp of a smile.

"I'd tell nobody else first," the mercenary replied with a wink. Of Ilyessa, he said nothing. Nothing needed to be said, and she didn't deserve the breath. Not from him, and certainly not from anyone else.

Anirne, bleeding from a small cut above her eyebrow but otherwise quite undamaged, cocked her head at the man, giving him a long, considering look before saying anything. "Go with swiftness and silence, then, and keep your wits about you." She didn't really know what the context was behind this attack, but he seemed to be willing to remove himself from them to spare them the additional danger, something she found noble, though she was almost certain he would vehemently deny posessing any such quality. That was part of having, it, though. Either way, her benediction was a good one, as in truth just about anything she could imagine him getting himself into that involved assassins would probably benefit from that kind of thing. She was unsure if he would return, or indeed if he intended to do anything in particular, but there was a certain reslouteness and finality to the mood here that she suspected that he at least saw something terminal in it.

Adrienne added nothing but a nod, uncharacteristically without anything much to say. Drayk didn't even give the man that much, standing silently at Adrienne's side. His gut was telling him to be glad for the man's leaving, given that he'd just brought a Dark Brotherhood ambush upon them, but another part of him was arguing that he was being noble by refusing to allow them to suffer for him, and that they needed people like that on their side, even if he was a little troublesome to be around.

Maya banished the dagger she'd used to finish the last of her opponents. "You're welcome to come back to our merry band, if you like," she ventured pleasantly, "after you take care of whatever personal problems, of course. We shouldn't be too hard to find. Just follow the news of dragon and giant attacks and blown up embassies."

"Embassies? I'd hope you'd at least manage a small town next time. Don't want everyone to think you've lost your touch, after all." There was a pause, and his face grew solemn, as though he were seriously considering it, but he shook his head. No promises, not when he was as good as dead already. Besides, if he somehow did manage to survive the scrap of a plan that was already forming in the back of his mind, he wasn't sure he'd want to go back to certain death so soon afterwards. This was not his war, not his game, and as much as he enjoyed the sensation of a near brush with death, what they were in for wasn't just long odds-- it was almost certain failure. Shame; he hadn't actually found any among them that he particularly desired dead. Coming from him, that was something of a compliment.

"Good hunting, Sellswords." With a salute that might have been mocking but wasn't, he swung astride his horse and wheeled her, pointing her nose due north, peeling off a bit from their former trajectory. It was time to end his search, no matter what that meant.




The Sellswords carried on, now without one of their archers, pushing through the driving snowstorm as quickly as they could. As the Dark Brotherhood had just proven, it was fine weather for an ambush, and had they come more prepared, or encounter a group less deadly, they no doubt would have been successful. Maya found herself somewhat regretful of Soren's departure. She had not really gotten to know him very well, nor had he allowed himself to be known very well, but he was very skilled, and carried a head that stayed somewhat cooler than most of her other companions. He was a valuable asset, but simply not worth the risk of confronting yet more assassins in order to earn his services. They had enough deadly obstacles in their path already.

Speaking of obstacles, the group came upon another in the afternoon, shortly after passing a crossroads, a southern road leading down towards Whiterun, the group continuing east. It was a rather large tree tipped over the side of a small ridgeline on the group's right, the trunk thick enough to block their path entirely. The numerous branches sticking up and down along its length would make getting the horses over or under it quite impossible, and thus they would have to go around. It was no great inconvenience, as it would take all of fifteen seconds for the group to be on the other side, but it was the mere placement that put Maya on edge. The tree had clearly been felled by an axe rather than age, judging by the relatively clean slice at the base.

Just as they arrived before it a figure along the side of the road made their presence known, appearing from behind a large rock and moving to stand in front of the mounted Sellswords. She was a relatively small figure, not tall enough to match Maya but perhaps larger than Adrienne, her body hidden under layers of worn leather armor and cloth for warmth, all of which were heavily dusted with snow to the point where she nearly blended in with the tree behind if she stood still. A hood was drawn up over her head, but Maya was able to judge her as Bosmer from the skin tone visible upon her face. She was armed with a drawn bow, an arrow nocked, although the weapon was not raised at them, the arrow not drawn back.

"You're rather well armed for travelers," the elf noted, uneasy. "You with the Companions?"

Maya had to laugh at that, her voice cutting lightly through the slight wind. She drew her hood back. "Oh, but our lives would be so much simpler if we were. No, we are just what we appear to be: well armed travelers." She leaned to Sinderion beside her, speaking low enough for only him and perhaps those riding behind her to hear. "There must be others nearby. Any idea how many?"

The driving snow was making it difficult to sense things properly, but Sinder inhaled deeply anyway, eyes flickering once to the right and once to the left of the visible woman. A hand shifted to rest behind his back, subtly so as not to draw attention, and with it, he held up two fingers, indicating to those riding behind that there were an additional couple of people here at minimum. It was information he repeated verbally, though in tones just as quiet. "At least a pair, one to each side." His eyes remained fixed on nothing in particular, so as to better percieve any movement as it was occurring.

"Seems a little weak for highwaymen," Maya muttered, not pleased with Sinder's estimation. If there were only three of them, they could have simply let a group as dangerous-looking as the Sellswords be on their way, but they'd chosen to stop them instead. It put her on edge. Some of the others, too, she could tell, as Drayk fidgeted in his saddle behind her, trying to work his shield such that it would be easier to grab.

"Let's say I'm curious," the elf continued. "Care to give us a name?" Maya frowned at that, though she didn't really see the harm in it. Few people knew her by name, and those that did would be interested to know... in fact, they would need to know, so as to know not to attack her. "Why not? Some people call me Blackfeather, but I like Maya better." It had the desired effect; the elf before them relaxed visibly, and a second female Bosmer appeared along the ridge to the group's right, seemingly coming out of the rocks themselves, dropping the three feet or so to the ground, her boots kicking up a small puff of snow.

This one was taller than the other, but only slightly; she was still average height for a Bosmer woman. Her armor was leather and some scale, but the craftsmanship looked elven rather than Nordic. Her bow was nearly as tall as she was, also of elven make. Under the hood she wore her skin was pale rather than the typical bronze of Bosmer, but her eyes were alight. "Almost didn't recognize the witch under all that snow," she said, her tone carrying equal parts pleasantry and condescension. "Chasing a rabbit up in the north, are we?"

"You could say that," Maya responded, slightly less pleasantly. She turned to her companions. "This is Ilanna Falodin, the Pact, representative of Clavicus Vile. You're out a little early, aren't you?" The Pact shrugged in response. "Perhaps, but it's been quiet lately, and I never walk alone. You can come out now. The witch and I are no threat to each other... just yet."

From all around the Sellswords, perhaps twenty armed figures stirred, some rising from where they had been almost entirely submerged in the snow, others moving into plainer view from positions in the tree branches, and more still along the tops of the ridgeline. Drayk went ahead and grabbed his shield, sliding it into place on his left. The warriors were a wide variety of races, though a great number of them were either elves of beast races; few of them were Imperial, Breton or Nord. They were filthy, garbed in armor covered with the earth they'd passed over, many of them hiding their faces under masks.

"Two huh? You may have miscalcuated there, elf," Lynly deadpanned as ten times that number rose up from around them. What was once a prospectively easy battle, turned sourly against their favor in an instant. The nord was not amused, to say the least. Vanryth offered nothing in return, only a violent snort from his nostrils. Two, twenty, it didn't matter. If they wanted a fight, then they had better strike first and fast-- else the sellswords would put up a fight. Though considering the witch's and the bosmer's words, that fight didn't seem to be in their immediate future. Just as well, it was too damn cold for a fight anyway. He tightened Adrienne's scarf around his neck, allowing the warm magic to seep into his bones. Sinder did not answer Lynly, but his eyes narrowed as reply enough. There must have been concealment magic at work, though there was no mistaking the fact that his senses were hindered in such conditions as this. It displeased him immensely, but he was never an expressive man, and did not become one now.

"Now you've met my friends," the Pact said. "Might I know who yours are?"

Adrienne, aware of her role as the spokesperson of the Sellswords (minus the others, who spoke for themselves often as not), straightened in her saddle, as much a subtle bid for attention as anything else. Being such a small person, and as well-cloaked as any of the rest at present, she likely would have not garnered much otherwise. "We are the Sellswords," she said simply. She wasn't sure why this woman would have any interest in them; was it not clear that they were Maya's acquired help? Unless there was some whisper of a rumor circulating about them, in which case, they would have to be much more careful. In a way, her abbreviated answer was almost probing for a reaction, some sign that this short introduction might have meant something to the Bosmeri woman. If it didn't... all the better, really.

The Pact seated herself lightly on the snow dusted tree, seemingly quite relaxed. The introduction seemed to pique her interest, and also to come as a bit of a surprise. "The Mentor's little proteges, then? How interesting. I won't ask how they came to work with you, Maya. If it's as long a story as mine, then I don't really want to hear it. I'll bet you wouldn't want to tell it, either, standing here in the cold as we are. Be on your way. Good hunting."

The way she spoke the final two words implied that she knew, or suspected, whom Maya was currently targeting, which she supposed wasn't that great of a stretch, if the Pact knew where the Omen had fled to recover. He was east, and they were headed east. All of the other Representatives she knew of were south or southeast of their position, though there were other possibilities. There was little point worrying about it now, however. They had a mark to bring down, and she was not currently it. Still, as the witch watched the warband slip away into the marsh once more, she couldn't help but feel that bringing her down would be much more difficult if she knew they were coming.

Lynly raised her eyebrows and relaxed in her seat, sitting fairly at ease now that the Bosmer was on her way with her band. "That was... Uneventful," she stated, actually surprised. It seemed for once that they managed to bypass a fight. Vanryth grunted in agreement. Lately they seemed like a magnet for such wanton acts of violence.

"Oh, I'm sure we'll have to kill them all eventually," Maya mused darkly, gently nudging her horse forward and around the roadblock. "... Fair enough," Lynly amended.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong
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The storm did not let up for the remainder of the day, which undoubtedly slowed the Sellswords' progress towards Dawnstar. Whereas they might have reached it before darkness fell had the skies been clear, the driving wind and relentless snowfall forced them to stop for rest when the last of the light faded from where it had been hiding behind the clouds. The witch located a decent place for them to stop for the night, a very small cave carved into the side of a rock wall mercifully facing away from the wind, granting them protection from the air's icy knives, though the temperatue itself was still brutally low. After determining that there were no hostile creatures living within the cave's depths, the Sellswords set camp and posted a watch, hoping to get some sleep in order to prepare for the potential trials of the following day. The rock would not be the most comfortable surface to sleep upon, but their bedrolls would do enough to combat that for them to at least find some respite.

Their dreams, however, would be about as peaceful as the storm raging around their bodies...





Where was she now? It seemed like a good idea to follow the bronze pipe at the time. Lynly figured she couldn't get lost if she always kept it to her right. Yet, here she was, in the ass end of the dwemer ruins, lost like a poor little lamb. The torch in her hand was her only blessing, without that she'd be plunged into the oppressive darkness inside the bowels of this ancient place. Her blonde head swiveled on it's bearing, trying her best to guess where she entered this place from, and where to go next. Her cheeks puffed up in frustration, and no small amount of curses swam in her head. Sure, she followed the pipe, that wasn't the issue. It was when there stopped being pipes to follow that the issue arose. Her damn pride told her to forge ahead, that it'd be fine, she'd be able to find her way out again. Now here she stood, standing in the heart of a cavern in which the ruin opened up into. All around her she could see dozens of golden doors, each one promising an escape. She knew that most of them were lying, but to guess which one wasn't? That seemed impossible.

"Dammit." She cursed, spinning on her heel. Lynly was still conflicted on which way she should go now. Blindly walking forward got her into this mess, surely keeping pace would only make it worse. But what other options did she have? Sit down and hope some other adventurer or thrill-seeker would come along to this exact ruin? Pah, she was the only one brave enough or more likely foolish enough to delve into dwemer ruins. For what? A pack of old dwarven metal artifacts? Hah, little good they'd do her if she couldn't find her way out. Her eyes lifted skyward, at the stone roof above her head. Talos have mercy on her prideful soul. Alas, fortune favors the bold, and pushing ahead would take her mind off of her predicament. With that resolution, she settled on the direction directly in front of her and she marched.

A chill crept up her spine and the color drained from her face. The cavern was alive. She could hear the echoes of soft footfalls in the distance. She could feel the predatory eyes on her. Brutal implements clanked mutely against the sides of their wields. The rattle of ramshackle arrows in their quivers and the whisper of bows were present as well. Lynly knew these subterranian warriors, this was not their first encounter. Falmer. She thought she'd lost them back when she lost the pipe. Apparently she thought wrong. Why would she just lose them? Everything else had certainly gone swimmingly up to this point. She sighed and drew her blade out of its sheath on her back. She needed to get out of the open and into one of the corridors. They might not need to see in this darkness to attack, but she had no such advantage in their home. It'd be a sad story indeed if she was ended by an unseen arrow. Iron boots quickened their pace and the salvage on her back jingled against each other, no longer worried about the racket-- if the Falmer knew where she was now, then it hardly mattered.

They struck first. The force of the arrow knocked her shoulder forward causing her steps to stutter. She righted herself before she spilled, and now there was an added weight to her shoulder blade. It just hasn't been her day... Night? Hell if she knew, she couldn't even remember entering this forsaken ruin. Another arrow skittered past her ankles, causing her steps to shudder before resuming pace. Needed to get to the corridor at the end of this walkway. Talos, she hoped there was a corridor. He granted her that one grace as her torchlight caught the shimmering of the golden door. Finally just in time too, as an arrow whizzed past her ear. They were getting closer. She dropped her shoulder and pushed right through the door rather easily. The lack of resistance surprised her, causing her to scrabble on the ground for a step or two. She dropped her torch upon impact and she turned to retrieve when the sightless bastard fell in line behind her. Damn, she didn't know they were that close. They we already swarming over the torch by the time she readied her shield. It seemed like she was going to have to go dark.

She swung her shield just in time to intercept a roughly hewn sword. She hoped this wouldn't be her last fight.

Lynly fought valiantly, but she could not hope to match the ferocity or the numbers of the Falmer. More than once she had to abandon her stand to make a run for it deeper into the ruins. She became painfully aware that her chosen path didn't rise, but fell. She was being pushed deeper into the ground and further away from the open air. The air became thick and hard to swallow. She was exhausted by the time she came to the last door. It slammed behind her, jamming a skeleton's arm into the latches to buy herself some time. A skeleton? She hoped that wasn't a portent of her own fate. She scanned quickly, immediately noting the lack of any golden portals. It seemed she was to fight her way out from her.

A long exhale came from her lungs as she settled toward the door, slowly backing up. Her shield had a number of nicks and arrow heads protruding from it's face. Her sword was coated in a thick layer of blood. Sweat and her blood mixed on her face, obscuring her vision in one eye. Her chest heaved in response to the fighting. On her back, a number of arrows hung from her armor, a couple managing to push through to the soft skin underneath. How she hated dwemer ruins.

The door thumped, jarring the bone, splintering it. Then again, causing the spiderweb fractures to grow. She was going to have to fight. Could she possibly make it? She was in a pit, and her one exit blocked by what seemed like a hundred falmer. She never admitted being frightened to anyone before. But her, in the belly of Skyrim, alone, she could not lie to herself. She was terrified. Was this where her song ended? Another bash against the door brought her mind to the present. If she was to die here, then she would not go quietly or quickly. She'd write her own ending to her song by the sword.

The last thump broke the skeleton and threw the doors open wide. Where she stood, she could see an endless wave of the sightless creatures and her soul sunk. How could she possibly win? She shouldered her shield and slowly stepped backward until the arrows brushed against a wall. And now she was cornered. At least she didn't have to worry about her back, she thought dryly. There she awaited what she believed to be the final battle of her story. But...

The Falmer didn't enter the room. They just stood there, still as the skeletons around her. They seemed... Terrified. They trembled, some took steps backward, others hit their knees. What... Was going on?

Then something moved. It sent a tremor through the whole room, and throwing Lynly off-balance. Her eyes danced from wall to wall to find the culprit, but she couldn't find anything. They settled back on the Falmer when she realized something. Their attention wasn't on her... But behind her. She slowly turned and bore wittness to a mechanical demon. Three times her height, twice across, a lumbering steampowered warrior stood over her. And it watched her. The shock forced her back and away from it, but a loose stone caught her boot, sending her to the floor. There, she sat under the judgement of the Centurion, awaiting his sentence.

As he raised his iron hammer, Lynly realized her sentence was death.

And she screamed. But she was no longer under the dead eyes of the Centurion. Instead she was back inside the cave, the winds whipping wildly outside. "It... Was a nightmare," she told herself, though her voice still trembled. She was sitting up in her bedroll, drenched in a cold sweat and breathing heavily. It was just a dream afterall... "I hate Dwemer ruins..." She reminded herself as she laid back down, though she knew sleep would be hard found now.

"You and me both," a low voice said from the cave wall. Maya wasn't exactly curled into a ball, but her knees were tucked somewhat close to her chest, arms draped around them, her bedroll an unorganized mess around her, evidence of her own restless night. "I didn't expect the nightmares to start so soon," she said, "otherwise I'd have warned you. We must be closer to Dawnstar than I thought. Huh. Damn town must be pretty miserable by now."

They would all be feeling the effects, but to those who didn't know any better, bad dreams were normal, and unless they gathered as a town and shared their experiences, it would no doubt seem like an awful coincidence. Those who knew better, like Maya, knew this to be the work of the Omen, Silas Rialta. He would not be targeting them specifically, but the man practically oozed his power when he slept, pulling others under his sway. She wondered what his crew thought of him. Probably not much.

"The Dwemer seem like they were awful folks," Maya commented, shifting the subject back to ruins. "I can't imagine living underground, surrounded by cold stone all the time. No sense living on this earth if you don't get out and see it occassionally."

"I still wish you would have told us anyway," Lynly said. It had been too much to hope that no one had heard her yell. At least the Archer wasn't around to hear it, else she'd never hear the end of it. She sighed, running a hand over her sweat stained brow. So that was the Omen's powers. Nightmares, even at a distance. A fitting attribute to one named the Omen. She didn't see a restful night's sleep in her immediate future, at least not until this Omen was dealt with.

Lynly grunted in agreement, "Not a place to live if you're afraid of the dark," or Falmer and Machines. She wasn't planning on seeing anymore of either if she could help it. "What's really awful is the war machines they kept. Cowards, afraid to fight their own battles so they create something to fight for them-- Er.. No offense," He added for the Necromancer's benefit. She didn't lump Maya in with them, since she's seen Maya fight enough. The Witch fought along side her creations, and not behind them.

Maya huffed a single laugh, not loud enough to bother the nearby sleepers. "None taken. We who lack the pure strength to fight as you do must find other ways to defeat enemies. We're not cowards, we're simply not stupid enough to think we could beat the likes of you in a fist fight. Corpses are far better suited for taking axe blows than I am, I believe."

She was quiet for a moment, wondering if it was wise to divulge her own dreams to the Nord woman. Eventually she decided there was little harm in it. They were all friends here, after all, striving for a similar enough goal. "If it makes you feel better, I've fared about the same in my own sleep. I was back in Falkreath Hold, the place where I was born, with the others..." These ones were still very much alive, and Maya had in fact seen them just recently, before she'd departed for the Reach to intercept the Sellswords at Tarquin's behest.

Maya held her hands out, palms down, in front of her, envisioning it once more. "We had a spriggan restrained upon a slab of rock, ready for sacrifice, and the hagraven allowed me to perform the deed. My sisters pried open her chest while the hagraven countered any magic she came up with. When I could see the heart pounding in front of me, I drove the nettlebane down into it, only instead of the spriggan dying, black twisting roots burst from the heart, snaking up my arm."

That was where the dream had altered from reality. As she remembered, she had simply slaughtered the creature, the hagraven had made use of the magical characteristics of its being, and life had gone on as usual. "The others just watched as I struggled, but the roots had thorns, and dug into my flesh harder the more I tried to pull them out. The last thing I remember is being on my back with a root constricting around my throat, choking the life out of me while I was stuck staring at the sky..."

She sighed, sinking a little lower on the wall. "But there's little point in fretting over magic induced nightmares. You'll find me worshipping your dreadfully dull Divines before you find me crying over dreams. Which is to say... never." If she believed that herself, however, she couldn't say. While she was very certain she wouldn't be wearing a Talos amulet any time soon, the dream had been... disconcerting, to say the least. She was no master of metaphor, but the possible meaning had not been lost upon her.

"And me your Daedra Lords," Lynly agreed. It was their fault they were having these Nightmares, after all. Of course, considering the adventure she found herself a part of, she'd have it no other way. She tilted her head toward the witch and looked at her for a bit. "You got choked by a Spriggan?" She asked rhetorically. "I got crushed by a Dwemer Centurion," she stated matter of factly. Of course, reality didn't match the nightmare, obviously. All of her bones weren't powdered, but it wasn't too much different from how she remembered it. There had a pack of dwemer scrap on her back, there were Falmer, and there had been a Centurion. Instead of crushing her, it merely broke her arm and scattered her prizes. It had been the only battle she had ran from, and she survived because she ran.

Though, it did little to lessen the sting of defeat. She could almost still feel the ice burning her face as she dragged her broken body across the snow and to the nearest village. She hadn't been in a Dwemer ruin since. It cut her stint as a scavenger prematurely. "... One day I'll find the blasted thing and kill it this time," she revealed. If she could go back and avenge her pride, regain some of her lost honor, then she could delve back into Dwemer ruins without fear again. It'd make for a good story, and until that time, she would avoid anything Dwemer.

Maya shrugged. "Grudges never did anyone any good. Probably just get you killed. But still, if we come across any hulking Dwarven war machines, we can certainly turn them into scrap metal for you." Not that they would have a choice, given their hostile nature. "Not that we'll be trying to find them, mind you," she added. She wasn't afraid of the places or anything, but there was no denying how unpleasant such a trip would be.

"Not much chance for sleep, I know," she said, sliding back into her bedroll, "but it should help. Big day tomorrow and all."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Whatever else she may have been, Anirne was a woman of her word, and she did manage to snatch a few more hours of fitful rest from the jaws of a certain precarious insomnia, though she knew not if either of her friends had achieved the same. The morning dawned cold, but clear, and she was as usual awake before first light. Slightly more irregular was the fact that the rest of the group was the same, though given their troubled slumbers of late, it was probably something of a relief to drag oneself out of a bedroll and in doing so, reclaim one's mind. They moved with a shuffling, weary efficiency, and by the time the sun saw fit to present himself to Skyrim, they were mounted and once again upon the road to Dawnstar.

Today, rather than riding beside her brother or Van, Anirne steered herself alongside Maya. She'd decided that the witch was most likely to know the information she sought, though truly, she didn't hold out much hope that any of them would. When she inquired, her words were direct-- there was little sense in dancing around the issue, especially as time-sensitive as it was. Each day, they drew deeper into the Omen's circle of influence, a sure sign that things would go south very quickly if she did not divine a solution. "Maya?" she asked, though she doubted her presence had gone unnoticed by the younger woman anyway. "In your training and your travels, have you ever come upon a way to induce dreamless sleep?"

"Hm," Maya said, giving the question some thought. If there had been an easy way to do it, she most certainly would have performed it for herself and the party the previous night, but... come to think of it, there was one way she could help, though the Psijic woman would probably not like it. Neither would Sinderion, for that matter.

"There might be a way, although for this exact purpose, it's a little... untested. Glenmoril often perform sacrifices, and sometimes it is preferable to have the offering completely immobilized, without damaging any of the internal organs." Perhaps it was something of a morbid subject for an outsider to her culture, but Anirne had asked, and this was how Maya thought she could help. "I can prepare a potion that will render you largely inert. Cease all forms of thought, all impulses. I believe it would prevent you from having dreams, and thus prevent the Omen from invading your mind. The issue lies in the dosage. I've never been required to wake someone put under by it, considering that they've all been sacrifices, but with some time I could prepare a suitable counteragent. Yes, I think that could be done." She gave the Psijic a slightly quizzical look.

"Worried about confidentiality, are we? I understand. The idea of any man rooting around in my mind is quite unsettling."

Anirne snorted. "Were it simply my secrets, I could tolerate the intrusion. As it is, I would rather not invalidate your efforts to keep yourselves and each other alive by handing a man like that more tools he could use to kill you." Chewing her lip, the altmer woman thought it over. There were so many risks it was almost absurd. Maya wouldn't know the long-term effects of ingesting such a substance, since nobody that would have taken it would have lived much longer anyway. Dosage was an issue, and the counteragent carried all those risks and the trouble of being as yet uninvented. The benefit was that she could be exactly where she needed to when they were done and ready to flee the scene. But...

"What about stimulants? If I needed to remain awake for an extended period? As long as I am conscious, I am not concerned by the possibility of my mind being invaded." She wasn't sure how long this whole thing was going to take, but surely the plan would keep it within a day or two. She'd done her share of stimulants and hallucinogens (for research, of course), but she didn't fancy the idea of being delusional on a skooma trip when it was time to vacate Dawnstar.

"Stimulants would present their own set of risks and benefits," Maya speculated. "On the one hand, you would be awake. The downsides would be the state you would be in, especially after a day or two. I don't know how willing the Omen will be to let people on his ship, or if there will be relatively simple ways to get aboard. We may need to spend a day alone planning. You'll be a wreck physically and mentally at some point." And really, getting to use that catatonic potion again would be much more interesting, but the witch would leave that bit out.

"The potion would do nothing to hurt you, I'm sure of that. You'd feel as rested as ever upon awakening, it's simply a matter of providing the right jolt to get you back up again." She shrugged. "The choice is yours. Whatever you feel more comfortable with."

Anirne was silent for a while, considering. She'd endured worse than a few sleepless nights, but being well-rested at the end of it all, when perhaps the others would not be, was a tactical advantage she was having trouble passing up. It might be exactly then that they needed her to be at her best, because if this encounter with a Representative ended anything like the last one had, they would be in shambles. "...May I watch you make it?" she asked quietly. "The depressant? It is not that I believe you would do other than you say in this, but I suppose that I am ever the sort most reassured by knowledge. If I knew what it was I was introducing to my system, I would feel considerably more comfortable about it."

Maya actually laughed rather pleasantly at that. "Of course. It's quite unwise to allow others to mix drinks for you, of course. And then you may take your knowledge of we wicked witches back to your esteemed colleagues."

"An additional benefit, yes," Anirne agreed without shame. "But as I'm the test subject here, perhaps not an undeserved one." She smiled easily and nodded serenely. "My thanks, Maya."




The town of Dawnstar was about three hours further down the road, so the Sellswords first saw smoke rising from the chimneys at about noon. The group came to a halt at the top of a hill overlooking the town, and the unusual visitor was immediately visible in the harbor. The Omen's flagship was absolutely enormous, a three-tiered warship that was so wide it wouldn't even fit into the little bay that Dawnstar had built its docks on. The sails were drawn up where the ship had dropped anchor, perhaps a hundred feet off shore. Notably, there were several identical rowboats tied to the docks beside each other.

"His crew are throughout the town," Maya assumed, "though I doubt any of them would know me by sight; they know not to look for me specifically." That, and she didn't quite look as she had when the Representatives had met. She had been less... weathered, then. Before any more words could be said, one of the town guard came riding to meet them on horseback. No doubt the arrival of an armed group on horseback had caught his attention.

"You'll be moving on from Dawnstar if you're wise," he warned, reining his horse in and coming to a halt before them, "town's been plagued by unnatural nightmares for weeks now." He gestured up towards a tower on a nearby hill. "A priest of Mara identified Nightcaller Temple up there as the source, though he's not been able to do anything to stop it."

"The tower's the source of the nightmares?" Drayk asked, skeptical. The guard nodded. "That's what the priest says, anyway. Our resident pirate king off shore showed up and started offering sanctuary from the nightmares, says he knows how to prevent them. A load of crap if you ask me, but that doesn't stop people from rowing out there and seeing for themselves. Some of the guard, too. A few have gone off and joined the bastard's crew! Anyway, like I said, Dawnstar won't be the most welcoming place at the moment. Fair warning."

"Disguising the poison as the antidote, it seems," Adrienne murmured beneath the hearing of the guard. It was clever, if not precisely subtle. Still, something to be wary of-- the Omen was not without the ability to decieve. Turning her eyes up to the guard, she posed a question. "Those that leave... do any of them return? With or without their nightmares?" She wondered what kind of game he was playing. It didn't seem necessary to do this, which meant there was surely some benefit he gained from it. Tribute? Enjoyment? The occasional new crew member? And that was an idea, now wasn't it? There was no way someone playing the Daedric Game would let random strangers so close to himself unless he was sure they wouldn't be able to hurt him. And if his main power was manipulating dreams, something done from afar, it seemed a curious kind of confidence to have.

"Aye," the guard responded, "some of the townsfolk have returned and claim to be free of the nightmares entirely, but others don't return at all. None of my guardsmen that have left have returned. He's a bloody pirate, but I don't think he's killed any of them. They seem to have actually joined his crew. Never knew the life of a criminal was so attractive to so many. But... the town's falling apart the longer this goes on, and I suppose I shouldn't be surprised when desperate people turn to something they don't understand."

He turned his horse back around. "I should be getting back to my duties. I'd advise taking care of your business here and then leaving." Maya huffed a short laugh. "That's an idea I can agree with."

"If the Omen's offering sanctuary," Drayk pointed out, "that sounds like it could be an easy way aboard, though we'd have no idea what to expect." Maya nodded.

"Not yet. But if he's been communicating with the town, perhaps we can find and speak with a representative of the representative? In the meantime, I can head to the inn with Anirne and begin preparations on this potion." It would be best for her to lay low as well, if they were going to be trying a stealthy approach. The crew wouldn't recognize her, but the Omen most certainly would. Especially if he were able to reach in her mind.

"Coward," Lynly inserted as the guard left. "A known pirate sits in his bay, and he just watches as the Omen conscripts his guards." she said beneath half-lidded eyes. The contempt on her face was palpable. "Looks like we're doing his bloody job for him," she complained. "What are happening to these Nords? Where are their pride and honor? Is this all that the Jarl could truly muster?" She continued as they went into town.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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The group split, with Maya and Anirne departing for the inn to begin work on the ritual potion, while the Sellswords and Lynly made their way slowly into the town itself, in search of one of the Omen's crew. Dawnstar was a small town, but even for a small town it felt unnaturally quiet. Two separate things so obviously hung over it: Nightcaller Temple upon the nearby hill stood seemingly abandoned, lording over the people below and almost challenging them to approach, and the great pirate ship offshore. Rialta's vessel looked much less harmful to the untrained eye, and indeed, it was meant to appear as a potential salvation, but to the mind of someone who needed to board it and kill its captain, it was no doubt a slightly daunting prospect.

Still, this was the group that had vanquished an embassy of Thalmor warriors and lived to tell the tale, so perhaps it was not unthinkable that they could survive this, too.

Finding a pirate among the townsfolk wasn't all that hard, as some of them stood out quite plainly as outsiders. Apart from a few miserably tired looking guards, they were the only other people outside. The local blacksmith hammered away on her anvil a few houses down, but other than that, the people of Dawnstar were either hiding in their homes, or gone altogether. The pirate they came in contact with was a Redguard like his captain, a powerfully built man with a great deal of hair on his face, and none whatsoever on his head. His weapons were displayed quite plainly, a Hammerfell scimitar at his hip, along with a hatchet that looked quite capable of cutting more than wood, and several smaller knives. He stood leaned up against the wall of a nondescript villager's house, but noticed the group of armed individuals approaching him, and moved slowly to greet them, speaking in almost overly level tones, to the point where he almost sounded bored.

"Outsiders," he pointed out, "interesting. What brings you to Dawnstar?"

Adrienne, walking somewhere in the midst of the group, subtly shifted herself so as to be at the fore of the cluster when they stopped. At the inevitable question, she glanced around, as though surveying the settlement (it scarcely deserved to be called a city) for the first time. Her hands went to her hips, face cracking in a wide grin. "Well, I'd say we're here for the weather and charming scenery, but I'd be lying." She let her eyes focus over his shoulder, where the topsail of the massive ship was visible over the nearby buildings, then slid them smoothly back to his face. "We, m' good sir, are here on business. Rumors's far away as the capital say there's a beauty of a ship hereabouts, and well, that the gentleman in charge don't mind much if his crew come with... less-than-legal inclinations."

In a town this small, there was no point pretending they were actually local, and why on earth anyone would come here save for something to do with the new pirates was a mystery, especially considering all the nasty warnings about dreams and suchlike that one could hear further inland. At this point, she was making it up on the spot, but if this crew was really taking new volunteers, it probably wasn't much of a stretch, and at least it might be a way on.

The redguard's face was as hard as stone in response to Adrienne's grin and introduction, indicating that he either wasn't aware of the concept of humor, or he was in an extremely poor mood. "You are interested in piracy," he said evenly, translating Adrienne's words into as blunt a manner as possible. "Captain Rialta will wish to speak with you. You will meet us on the edge of the docks at high noon tomorrow, and board the Dreamwalker with the other recruits. Bring your weapons and whatever personal provisions you need. Is that understood?"

Seriously? Nothing? Now that was quite unnatural. Adrienne wasn't one to fluff up her talents to be more substantial than they were, but she never got nothing from a person she was talking to. Suspicious didn't even begin to cover it. Still, she didn't let herself falter, and quirked a brow, snapping off a mock salute. "Aye, aye, sir. You've got yourself a deal." Turning over her shoulder to glance at the others, she shrugged, as if to say they might as well find someplace else to be. It was highly unlikely they'd be getting anything else out of Stonewall here. Aye, aye sir? Vanryth couldn't help but hide eyes with a calloused hand.

Drayk was glad that had finished as quickly as it did. He didn't really look the pirate type, and would have miserably failed if asked a question, no doubt. Well, maybe not with this guy. His standards didn't seem all that high if he just let them through without even the slightest background check. Maybe it just didn't matter for pirates? Drayk didn't know, so he just shook his head in confusion, and lead the way back up the hill towards the inn.

Back at the inn, the group arrived to find that Maya had already procured a room for herself and Anirne. It was quickly agreed that the others would sleep outside again, so as to hopefully not be associated with the two outsiders who weren't taking up piracy. The details of their meeting were summarized to the witch and the Psijic while they continued to work over the potion. In all, it wasn't a difficult summary.

"Just like that?" Maya asked, skeptical. "You'd think he'd at least be a little suspicious who he lets on board his ship, if he knows there's someone out to kill him. I don't like it."

"They're cocky," Lynly stated plainly. She shrugged and then explained, "We're boarding their ship where they think they're untouchable. If someone causes trouble, then they have an entire crew to deal with it. Why should they be suspicious? We're entering their domain." she finished. It'd be like the witch hunting someone down in her own forest. Her tone, and general attitude about the pirates shown that she held no love for the band of cutthroats. She'd be doing Skyrim a favor by offing these pirates. "That's their mistake."

"Mm... I think it's more than that," Adrienne replied, looking somewhat troubled. "Normally, I can look at a person and at least get something, but that man... it was like staring at a blank wall." Something about it was downright eerie, actually, carried beyond what she would have considered stoic and straight into uncanny. Even so, it wasn't like they had much of a choice. She shook her head, but said nothing further on the subject.

"Then we'll be careful. That was the plan anyway, was it not?" He couldn't say that they'd gone into any of these endeavors with all the information they would have wanted, and so in a sense, this was to be expected. At least this plan seemed straightforward enough: infiltrate the ship, kill the Omen when they got the chance. Don't fall asleep. Compared to the last plan, it was simple, really.

"I guess we'll just... wait here, then," Maya said, sounding a little frustrated. "But if anything goes wrong, I'm running down there to shoot all of them myself."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero Character Portrait: Adrienne Jastal
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Maya administered her potion to Anirne after the sun went down, and it functioned as she expected it to. Anirne appeared to go into a very deep sleep, but beneath her eyelids there was no sign of rapid eye movement, or any movement at all, indicating that if any dreams were happening, which she doubted, they weren't of the intense and potentially dangerous variety that she feared. She was able to stay up most of the night herself largely out of fear of being discovered somehow should she fall asleep, and also out of a desire to simply avoid more of the Omen's mental torture techniques.

In the morning, she gradually administered the counter-agent, and while Anirne did not immediately wake, Maya was confident that it would work. She didn't doubt that it was a process that required time, restarting the body and mind like that. The risk would lie in bringing her back too quickly, and damaging something that way. Hopefully it wouldn't be necessary. When midday had nearly come around, she made her way outside to meet up with the others, who had slept in a clearing a short way outside of town.

She looked a little awkward, not really knowing what to say. It felt wrong to not even take part in what was supposed to be her own kill. In the end, she just let them go, her status as not one of the Sellswords feeling painfully apparent. She did, however, catch Sinderion's arm as the others headed towards the docks.

"You look terrible," she pointed, with some forced measure of humor. "Did something happen?"

Sinder stilled his steps forward, glancing down from the corner of his eye. "Yes," he replied bluntly, but then he shook his head. "Now is scarcely the time, however." If this was going to be another version of the same conversation, he wasn't sure he'd be remaining to hear it. Going in there with full knowledge that the Omen could induce at least some transformation in him was costing him enough as it was. It was a risk, but one he had to take, because he couldn't let his friends, his family, go in there without him.

It seemed she wouldn't be able to help here, either. Her eyes fell downward for a moment, and she let him go. "Good luck," was all she could think to say. Even be careful felt selfish, implying that she wanted him to put his own life above those of the others. Turning back towards the inn, Maya felt like hitting something. If only there was a rabbit nearby...




"Two to a row," the redguard pirate from yesterday ordered, as the "recruits" began piling into the large rowboat that had been brought to the docks for them. In addition to the Sellswords, there were four others; three who appeared to be a family, a mother and father and their young daughter who could have been no older than nine. They were no doubt desperately seeking a release from the nightmares, and were encouraged by others returning and claiming to be free. One other joined as well, a blacksmith's apprentice, a strong looking boy in his mid-teens.

There were no more questions asked here, and really no words spoken at all. Three other crew members joined the first pirate to assist with the rowing. One was a dunmer, one a nord, and the last another redguard. About halfway through the short voyage, however, the one they'd talked to yesterday called back to where the Sellswords sat.

"You should know that heavy armor like that will drown you on the seas," he warned in a dull monotone, the comment clearly directed at Lynly. She scoffed and shook her head, "Only if you're weak enough to let it," in matching monotone. She was not impressed.

"The captain will find you something more suitable to wear," he said, as though he really hadn't heard her response at all. "I hope it matches my eyes," She replied sarcastically. Now she was clearly channeling Soren...

That got no further response from the crew members. They rowed up alongside the Dreamwalker, which was as notably silent as the Sellswords' sampling of its crew. A wide rope ladder was thrown down the side, and the passengers were instructed to exit two by two. The father assisted his daughter as best he could up the climb, following alongside, and slowly, group by group, the recruits were instructed to stand in line atop the deck, facing the back cabin.

The crew turned out in what must have been full strength, for there were no less than fifty of them along the edges of the deck. Every race was represented at least once, and a good number of them were female as well, though not half. They were lightly armored at most, none wearing more than leather, and armed with a wide variety of weapons. There were a great deal of short bows among them, a few of which already had arrows casually nocked. The close quarters weapons were almost all of the one handed variety, precise blades and hand axes over greatswords and halberds.

The hatch to the lower deck was opened by one of the crew, nine of them disappearing below the surface and returning shortly, each with a wooden chair in hand. These they quickly maneuvered behind their guests, apparently to allow them to sit if they so wished. The mother and the daughter took the opportunity.

With the stage finally set, there came a pounding of boots up the stairs from the first lower deck, and a well-built redguard man appeared before them, walking with significantly more meandering steps than his crew, all of which looked either to him, or to their guests. The Omen's choice of weapon, peculiarly enough, was a short spear, the handle seemingly made of a lightweight metal, the spearhead gleaming steel. A pair of daggers in the Hammerfell style were sheathed at his waist. He was very lightly armored, less so than most of his crew even, wearing only a single leather pauldrown over his largely unbuttoned shirt. Only one of his eyes was visible beneath the headwrap he wore, making it unclear if he possessed the other or not. He seemed mostly unbothered by the cold, but it was a rather sunny day, a stark departure from the storms that had passed through recently.

"An interesting crop we have today!" he began, the volume of his voice almost startling when it cut through the utter silence. He carried none of the monotone or level sounds of his crew, quite the opposite in fact. "A lovely family from Dawnstar, a strapping young lad with his hammer, and these five... mercenaries? Travelers? Aspiring pirates? Who cares?! Welcome, welcome! Welcome to the Dreamwalker, my home. Tell me... what is it you seek? Everyone seeks something different. Tell me, and I will see if I cannot grant your wish."

He centered on Sinderion seemingly randomly, though he still kept his distance, perhaps three or four running strides away. "You there, my pointy-eared friend. What is it you seek?"

Not much of an actor, it was still the case that Sinderion could tell a lie if he had to, and honestly? Piracy and mercenary work weren't all that different. The right kind of answer wasn't particularly elusive. The altmer shrugged, turning his mouth down slightly at the comment about his ears. Normal enough. "The usual," he replied, his own volume considerably more normal. His job wasn't to catch attention, after all. "My fortune." He shifted slightly, unwilling to take a seat. It was a more vulnerable position, and until he had more of a feel for this situation, he was going to avoid predicaments so obviously laid out for him.

"And fortune you will have, if you stick around a little while," he said happily, before moving on to Vanryth. "And my, you look like a grim one. Do you like killing people? I always have a need for people who like doing that."

People were always in need of killing. He didn't particularly enjoy it, but someone was always needed to make messes... Go away. Still, it wasn't like he was going to be able to tell the Omen that. Vanryth had accepted the offered chair and looked the part of a tired mercenary-- even if it was true. He merely shrugged, and opened his mouth revealing his lack of tongue. At least it saved him the trouble of attempting to lie. However, that did not mean he had nothing to say. He can go fuck himself with that act, he signed, mostly for his companions. Unlikely that any of these vagrants knew the language. It'd taken a long time for him to extract that particular word from Anirne, and extra work in return for it, but he always knew he'd be able to find a use for it.

"You know," the Omen said, taking note of Van's lack of tongue, "you've probably noticed that I enjoy having a little peace and quiet on my ship. Yes, I think you're going to fit in just fine around here." He shifted over suddenly to the far right, standing in front of the blacksmith apprentice. "And you? You any good with that, or is it just for show?"

"Yes, sir. I mean, no sir. It's not for show, I'm a blacksmith." The Omen nodded his approval. "That's a very useful profession to have, you know. And you're to join the crew, are you? Why is that?" He struggled a moment for a response, but then came out with what was clearly the simple truth. "Lived in Dawnstar my whole life, sir, and it's brought me nothing but boredom and madness. I need to get away from that place."

The Omen gave him a few claps. "And you've already found a better one. Good choice, lad." He then swooped back towards the center, to stop in front of Adrienne. "I don't know if you've heard, but a good number of pirates claim it's horrid luck to bring a woman on board. As you can see, I've been testing the theory, and it doesn't seem to be holding up. Now, to the matter at hand. What skills do you bring to the table, m'lady?"

Adrienne, who had chosen to forego any small advantage keeping herself upright would have granted, had instead taken to her chair like a queen to a throne, draping one leg over the other. One hand lay easily on the armrest, and the other toyed absently with the pommel of her sword, clearly an idle rather than a threatening gesture. At the obvious address, she tilted her chin up to look the Omen in the eye, the smile spreading over her face quite nearly unctuous in its sweetness. "Oh, me? A little of this, a little of that." she sensed the question was hardly serious; this was more pageantry than audition, if he'd taken the bored blacksmith's boy without more than that. "Of course, a few of the things I can do are best suited for less... public appraisal." She lofted a brow, but then shrugged indifferently.

The Omen's laugh was just a single, delighted HA! He clapped his hands once to accompany it. While he did so, Drayk shifted irritably, awaiting his own turn to respond. The Omen gave no further comments to Adrienne, however, instead sliding over to Lynly. "And you, woman in the tin can. Can you beat that? That was pretty good, you've gotta say."

Lynly tilted her head, and then shrugged. She had not expected that much out of Adrienne, she admitted. The girl was quite an actor. Lynly on the other hand was not so subtle. A platinum brow rose at the question. "I can do one thing, and that much should be plain to see," she said. Her blade and shield was readily apparent on her person, and they were as much her as were her own arms or legs. "I'm looking for my glory, and a story to write. Think I can find one on your ship?" She asked. Lynly knew the answer, her story would not be written on some boat, this was but a mere chapter in it. One she couldn't help but hope would be written soon.

The Omen shrugged. "Maybe? I don't know. Suppose it depends how hard you're willing to work for it. You clearly work hard, but you don't strike me as the type that works smart. Ah, well. Maybe you'll surprise me." The last stop before the family of three was before Drayk, and the Omen gave him a rather quizzical look. "Almost at the end, now. What do you think about all this, my good man?"

"I think you're an insane, twisted fuck, that's what," Drayk said evenly, refusing to take a seat. There was a moment of extremely tense silence and stillness that followed, in which the Omen raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth as if to say and...

"Which means I've found just the kind of place I've been looking for for a long time," he followed up with, in an almost relenting fashion. "There it is! I know the jesters when I see them, my friend, and I had you picked out from the start. Now! You people. What do you want from me? The nightmares, yes?" The family of three looked absolutely terrified, but they nodded. "We just want some peace at night, and you've helped some of the others," the father said cautiously. The Omen nodded impatiently.

"So I have. Well, let's get on with this, then. The little girl first!" A few members of the crew jumped into action, disappearing back down to the lower level. One of them brought back a somewhat larger wooden chair and placed in the center of the deck behind the Omen, who promptly plopped down in it. Six of his most deadly looking servants moved to take up positions around him. Another pair of crew members returned with two golden goblets. One handed his to the Omen, the other swiftly delivering his to the little girl.

"Right, and now we drink up! On my ship, we walk in dreams, and bend them to my will." He drank deeply of his cup, draining the entire thing, and then promptly dropped it to clank against the deck. He slumped back into his chair, sound asleep. The girl hesitated at first, but then took a sip of the drink, and collapsed back against her mother's arms. A tense moment passed in silence in which the crew watched the little girl with seeming disinterest. Mere seconds later, however, she gasped awake, her parents frantically checking to see if she was alright. It seemed she was.

The Omen remained fast asleep. His guards ordered the parents to follow suit, and they did, and the same thing happened. Immediate passing out, a brief moment to wait, and then they returned with a gasp, completely fine. When all three were done, they requested to leave, and the crew granted them permission, one of them heading back down to the rowboat to escort them back to shore.

"A volunteer is requested," a deep voice claimed, bringing forth more of the dark liquid. Surprisingly, the blacksmith's boy spoke up first. "What is this for?" he asked nervously. "Initiation," the guard responded simply. "The captain will formally enter you into the crew in dreams, as is our tradition. You will drink." And he didn't really have a choice. The rowboat was gone. The crew didn't really look like they were planning on letting anyone leave who had stated their intention to join the crew. Reluctantly, the blacksmith took up the cup and drank slightly, barely able to hand it back to the crew member before he slumped back in his chair. This time he was under for about twenty seconds before he came back, not with a gasp, but with a slowly inhaled breath. But even after his eyes opened, all he did was shudder slightly, before becoming largely still in the seat, staring blankly forward.

"Next volunteer," the crewman called, offering the cup, and this time it was Drayk who beckoned for it. His heart was pounding in his chest, but he'd had enough of the charade. He wanted to get on with this. They had to play the man's game, clearly, given the sheer amount of weaponry poised on them, so he might as well get it over with. He took the cup roughly and drank perhaps a little deeper than was necessary. It was then that the idea of the chair behind seemed wise. His legs gave out from under him as his vision darkened, and Drayk collapsed forward onto the deck, thrust violently into dreams.

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Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk
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Drayk felt himself hit a wooden floor, and groaned slightly. He felt dizzy as he pushed himself to hands and knees, but couldn't figure out why. He hadn't hit his head that hard, had he? He felt a wetness under his hands, and turned them over to see them slick with blood. As far as he could tell, he wasn't bleeding. What the hell was this?

"Did you think my crew just trotted those chairs out there for your amusement or something?" came the Omen's voice from across the room. Drayk tried to push himself up on a knee, but the world felt like it was shifting beneath his feet, and he had to use his hands for balance. A few moments later left him feeling rather sick, and then he understood. He listened, and picked up on the sound of waves crashing against the hull outside. He was still on the ship, now on one of the lower decks, and it was moving. Quickly, if he had to make a guess. It wasn't a very educated one, as he wasn't exactly familiar with sea travel.

"Ah, don't sweat it, a lot of them don't sit down. You're not alone in your foolishness," the Omen continued. He was lounged in a throne-like chair at the far end of the room, which appeared to be some sort of dueling chamber. The floor was cleared completely, a deceptively smooth surface that would no doubt be slightly slick, now that it was dotted with a mixture of blood and water, misting in through the open windows along the sides. It was nighttime outside, a full moon shining in through the shutters, and the interior of the chamber was lit largely by torchlight along the walls, though a good number of candles were lit as well.

Drayk tried to wipe his hands clean of the blood, and Rialta smirked down at him. "Confused? You're not the first in that regard, either. Turn around." Drayk turned his head in spite of his innate desire to ignore any command this man gave him, and the sight his eyes fell upon did nothing to calm his stomach.

The blacksmith's boy swayed back and forth with the rise and fall of the waves. What appeared to be a throwing spear of some kind had impaled him through the throat and stuck into the wall behind him, the positioning such that his chin rested on the shaft, the gaping hole in his neck still occasionally spitting sprays of blood down onto the floor below him. He hung at least a foot off the ground, tilting side to side like some kind of horrid grandfather clock. As if that wasn't enough, his belly had been sliced open to the point where his innards were hanging down to the floor.

"You killed him?" Drayk asked, horrified by the brutality, but really not surprised. He was as twisted as he expected. Rialta waved him off in dismissal. "Bah! Hardly! I mean, in this particular dream, yes, I sliced the boy open, let his insides get a little fresh air, speared him through the throat and stuck him on the wall, but no, I haven't killed him. You saw him, didn't you? Before you so boldly followed him here? Awake and healthy as ever."

He remembered the boy hadn't seemed quite the same. Significantly less nervous, for sure. "So... what? He's your slave now, is that it?" The Omen appeared somewhat impatient with him.

"Again, hardly. He's joined my crew, as he requested. Really, it's not important that you understand. Think of this as an accounting of your skills. I like to know what my new crew members can do. And since my dreams are a safe environment for us to play in, there's no reason to hold back, is there? So let's get on it with, then. Show me what you've got!" He stood in a smooth motion from his throne, taking his spear into hand and bouncing lightly on his feet, as though warming up.

Drayk was more than willing to indulge him, taking the offensive and hurling a powerful fireball directly for him. But his ward came up impossibly fast and impossibly strong, the fireball exploding violently against it and doing nothing to the Omen. "A mage who understands the value of destruction, I like where this is going. Let's see your shield work." And then there was a short bow in his hands, and arrows were coming at him in rapid succession. He ducked down, shrinking the size of his silhouette, feeling three, four, five arrows thud into the wood.

"Come on, you can't just play defense, this isn't a siege!" the Omen taunted, firing arrows in rapid succession. Drayk pushed himself forward against the projectiles, enveloping himself in fire and charging, intent on getting the redguard in close quarters. The arrows kept pounding him until he knew he was there, and he lunged outwards with the shield, to hit... nothing. The Omen was gone, and then a moment later an arrow tore into the left side of his back, below the shoulder. He lurched forward and spun around to find the Omen on the far side of the room, now below the body of the blacksmith's boy, firing more arrows. The ship was lurched by a powerful wave, and a second arrow thrummed into his abdomen before he could get the shield back up.

"This is what happens," Rialta said in disappointment. "The enemy chips away at the defensive opponent, weakening him bit by bit, letting him drip blood all over the place until he's ready to be carved into pieces. Until he's good and weak." Drayk grimaced, and launched another fireball back at him, taking another arrow in the ribs for his trouble. It forced the Omen on the defensive, however, so he followed up with another, and another, and another, pounding away on the man's wards, closing the distance and refusing to relent.

But then when he was in range the Omen's wards exploded outward in an icy wall, extinguishing any flame left in the room and knocking away on his back to slide a good few feet along the blood slicked floor. Shards had cut through his robes and sliced his flesh, one of them getting so lucky as to cut across his eye. The blood that leaked out was enough to blind him on his left side. He shivered uncontrollably despite being only hit by the single frost spell, and found that his magicka reserves had been wasted on his offensive efforts. It was madness, he could have conjured more any day, but here he felt himself run dry.

And then the Omen was upon him, striking down with a massive warhammer that Drayk barely managed to get his shield under. The wood shattered entirely, splintered shards of shield flying in all directions, and his left arm, too, cracked under the strain. He cried out and rolled away, now trying to get some distance away from the redguard's brutal weapon, at which point the Omen was all too willing to resume with the arrows, pelting three more in rapid succession into his back.

His own blood joined the shifting pool of the blacksmith apprentice's, and after a few more feet he couldn't seem to make himself crawl any more. "Not bad. Really, I don't normally toy with opponents that much, but you've certainly got some spirit. Well, what do you think? How shall you be displayed?"

With his foot he shoved Drayk over onto his back, the shafts of the arrows twisting sideways painfully. Drayk honestly there would be more going through his head before he died. He should have thought about the Mentor, about his friends, about Adrienne... but instead the only word that came to mind was no.

No. No. No. Not yet.

A rope fell from the ceiling. Where had that come from? There hadn't been a rope there before. The loop on the end wrapped itself around Drayk's ankles, and then the slack was being pulled tight, and then his legs were lifted off the ground, the rest of his body following until he hung upside down, his head about three feet off the ground. Arrows stuck out of all sides of him, making him look not unlike an upside down straw target, used merely for practice. The Omen knelt down, upside down in Drayk's vision, smug enough to make him feel one last bit of rage.

"We've got quite a lineup to go," he said, sounding excited. "This room will be decorated quite nicely when I'm finished, I think. Welcome to the crew, mage." And then the knife flashed under Drayk's chin, a sheet of blood painting his vision red until he was released...




On the deck of the Dreamwalker, Drayk opened his eyes, and methodically pushed himself up to settle into the chair behind him, with slightly better posture than was perhaps normal for him. The Omen remained motionless in his own chair, surrounded by his men and sound asleep. Drayk made no move to even look at his friends, simply staring ahead as the blacksmith's boy did.

"Next volunteer," the crewman called, offering the cup.

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Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Vanryth was the next to raise his hand. He had intended to be first, but the impatient lad that he was, Drayk beat him to it. Van worried about him as he took his first drink, and it only increased exponentially when he fell to the deck. He could feel the seconds tick off as Drayk laid there motionless. When he finally had awoken, Vanryth felt the relief. But relief quickly morphed into something else. A pit in the bottom of his stomach opened its gaping maw. What awoken wasn't Drayk. It was the posture, the mechanical movements, the cold hard look straight ahead. That wasn't the sellsword he remembered, but was something else, something empty. That wasn't Drayk.

Van would find out what happened, and when he did, he'd make the Omen pay. He couldn't worry about if he could bring him back-- he had to believe that he could. And the only way he could do that was to play the Omen's sick game. He took the goblet offered by the crew, and drank from it. The effect was instant, his eyelids closed as he fell into sleep, his rigid body becoming lax in the chair. Just like that, Vanryth took Drayk's place in the Omen's dreamscape. What he saw took the breath from his lungs. In front of him hung Drayk, strung up by his ankles and crimson dripping from his neck. The sight threw Vanryth up and out of his chair, racing over to the boy. Not Drayk. His nightmare with Sinder had almost come true last night, and now here Drayk was. Thoughts were racing through his head, a hand clutched his mouth as he stared.

There was nothing else he could do, what could he? Flashes of his nightmare assaulted him and the pit in his stomach widened, throwing him into despair.

"I must apologize," the Omen said from his throne opposite the wall where the blacksmith's boy still hung from the spear in his throat. Rialta's voice carried only mocking tones, however. "You two appear to have been close. If it's any consolation, he put up a very good fight. I'm certain he would have killed any of my crew members in one-on-one combat quite easily, what with the raging inferno and all."

He stood and took a few steps forward, twirling his short spear like it was a baton. "We could say a few words for him, if you like. I'll let you start, since you knew him best." He stopped twirling the spear and stood looking at Van and Drayk's body, looking expectant. He was going to kill him. First Drayk, now he was mocking him. It didn't matter what words he made with his hands, the Omen wouldn't understand them. The only one who could was strung up in front of him. So instead, Van made a gesture that the Omen was sure to understand.

The Omen feigned shock. "Ah, by the Nine, or Eight, or however many are left, I completely forgot. You don't have a tongue! You must think me a horribly cruel person, and I assure you that I am not." He took up his position on the already blood soaked floor, keeping a decent distance between himself and Vanryth. "I'm about to give you exactly what I believe you seek. I say believe because I don't actually know, because you don't have a tongue and you can't tell me, so bear with me, please. This is the part of the dream where you fight me, and try to kill me, and in so doing I can take a proper accounting of the skills of my newest crew member. Sound good? Good. Come!" He bounched on the balls of his feet, awaiting Van's first move.

He could oblige with that. He took a couple of steps back from Drayk until he had reached the chair he had entered the dream in. Then he took a sword from his back, and ignited a lightning spell in his hand. If it was a fight he wanted, then it was a fight he was going to get. Van struck, though it was neither with the blade nor the spell, but rather the chair. He had slipped his foot under a leg, and in one smooth motion flung it toward the bloody pirate. Right behind the chair, Vanryth followed up with a lightning bolt and brought his sword to bare.

His reflexes were almost inhuman as he performed a neat little roll right out of the way of the chair, called up his ward to block the lightning spell, and then brought up his spear shaft to parry the sword blow, deflecting it to the side rather than fully absorbing the force of it. He backed up quickly, almost skipping backwards away from the dunmer. "Very inventive, I like it. The environment is the best of weapons. Not much to use in here, and yet you manage all the same. Good, good." From his free hand shot a spread of ice shards spreading in a cone in front of him, to test his magical defenses, and barring that, his reflexes and agility.

His reflexes and agility were still not good enough for acrobatics, despite Anirne's best intentions, so he wasn't going to side step or flip out of the way of the shards. Still, he wasn't defenseless. He drew upon the knowledge of his ancestors and called forth their wrath, draping himself in a cloak of intense flames. The flames managed to melt some of the shards before they hit him, pelting him with nothing more than frost. He didn't account for the larger ones. Two made through his cloak and pierced the leather covering his belly. The pain was sharp and cool, even within the wall of flame he had errected. However, that only ignited another flame. A grunt and a growl escaped the dunmer as he rushed the pirate, switching spells to chain lightning. He ignited the spell while swiping with his blade in the other hand. Rage had overtaken his mind, and pain at the level was just an afterthought.

Unfortunately for him, the Omen currently had access to possibilities that effectively no one was capable of in reality. His body exploded into a thick, billowing cloud of smoke that the lightning passed harmlessly through, appearing behind the dunmer with a scimitar in hand, which he slashed low and hard at the back of the left knee, aiming to remove the lower part of the limb altogether.

Vanryth was bewildered by what he witnessed. One moment, the Omen stood in front of him, then he simple wasn't disappeared literally into a puff of smoke. He was unprepared for the man to materialize behind him, it was only a split-second reaction that kept the limb attached. Just barely though, as the blade still passed through a majority of the flesh and bone, handily severing his hamstring. He tumbled forward onto his knee as pain shot up from his leg and caused him to yell behind clenched teeth. He may have kept the leg, but in name only. It wouldn't move any more. Rage melted into self-preservation, as futile as it was. He swung his sword wildly before rolling away.

He came to a stop and pushed himself to his knees, laying a level glare unto the pirate. He wouldn't give the s'wit the satisfaction of fear. He emptied his other sheath and brought both blades to bear, beckoning the Omen to advance. He wasn't about to make this easy for the bastard. If he wanted to kill him, then he'd have to work for it.

The Omen paused, looking quizzically at his kneeling opponent. And then he chuckled, quite tickled by something. "I'm sorry, truly I am, it's just... do you really expect me to come over there and fight you? It's very valiant of you to struggle so, but I'm a pirate, my friend. I don't fight by the rules." He dropped the scimitar to clang against the floor and pulled a crossbow seemingly from his pocket, placing the end against the floor and pulling the string back until it was taut. He looked up in time to see a sword flipping end over end at him, and threw up the crossbow before him, deflecting it enough to redirect it off to the side, but it did cut his pointer finger slightly.

"Bah, look what you've done!" he exclaimed, feigning agony, before quickly loading a bolt and firing, aimed for his chest but deliberately avoiding the heart. After that, though, he tossed the weapon aside. "Really, don't know what I was thinking. Bows are much quicker. I'll save the crossbow for the one who actually wears armor." He pulled the string back, but instead of firing he pulled the smoke trick again, appearing behind Vanryth with the scimitar again, snatching the wrist that still held a sword and chopping down, hard.

His vision ran red with pain, and he doubled over the missing appendage, sucking his breath through clenched teeth. Vanryth remembered the pain of losing a part of himself. Like before, the physical pain measured nothing compared to what it meant. The loss of his tongue, while painful, meant that he'd no longer be able to speak. Forever more, he'd be a mute. He'd resigned himself to that fate. But now, with the loss of his hand, it meant that the fight was over. There was no hope of winning it, not anymore. Somewhere, he already knew that when the pirate took his leg from him.

The pain was searing, and it lowered Van until his forehead touched the wet planks. He couldn't help but feel he failed Drayk, Sinder, Adrienne. He had resigned himself to death long ago, but being this close, it made hims realize something... He didn't want to die. Not like this. As shock slowly overtook pain, he sighed and straightened his posture, leveling his eyes on Drayk's body. I'm sorry, he thought, tearing his eyes from the body and to the Omen.

Seeing that Van seemed to have resigned himself, Rialta sighed, and moved to kneel before him, although still out of distance for a strike should the dunmer decide to try and continue the fight. "Really, sometimes I get tired of all the death. The suffering I inflict on others. It really takes a toll on the soul after a while, wouldn't you agree. But... let it never be said that the Omen cannot restore all that he takes away." He lowered his head as if in prayer for a moment, his tone actually somewhat reverential for once.

"Come, my scarred friend. I won't lie to you. There won't be any return from this for you. I will use your body for hunting my enemies, and it will probably perish quickly enough. But I have returned something that was taken from you a long time ago. Give me your last words, and I will relay them to whichever of your friends comes next in line."

He felt the tongue back in his mouth, but it didn't matter now. The only people he wanted to speak to were still awake, or was hanging in front of him. It was... Odd. Feeling his tongue on the back of his teeth, feeling the muscle dance around in his skull. He hated it. He wanted nothing to do with the pirate, not even if it was his tongue. As if the pirate could be trusted to pass along his words to his comrades. Still. It was a chance he was willing to take. He smiled, and chuckled, and finally spoke, for the first time since he lost it, and for the last time. His voice was raw, gritty like ground stones. But his tone held belief, he knew every one of his words to be true. "Tell my friends that I believe in them, that I stand beside them. We are a family."

"As for you? I'll see you in Oblivion,"
With that, Vanryth reached into the pool of his own blood and retook the sword. In a single motion, he turned the sword on himself and plunged it into his own belly-- taking his own life into his hands.

"Huh," the Omen said, gently pushing Vanryth's body over until he lay on his back. "Wiser than he looks, that one." He left the body to bleed where it fell, and returned to his throne, to await the next.




On the deck of the Dreamwalker, Vanryth straightened in his chair as Drayk had done.

"Next volunteer," the crewman called, offering the cup.

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Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives
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There was no doubt left in his mind: something was wrong. His friends had emerged from whatever strange unconsciousness had taken them and stood again as though they were mechanical beings, not once glancing in the direction of the rest, not flinching, not shaking themselves, not fidgeting, nothing. Like Adrienne had said bothered her about the first man. That was one thing; he trusted her, but he’d thought it might just be something unusual about that one person. But this crew, they were uncanny, and his family was definitely not supposed to be that way. Only three of them remained yet, and he would not let either of the other two face this before trying himself. Even if he couldn’t save Drayk or Van, perhaps there was some way he might give Adrienne some kind of clue. She was smart, far smarter than most people, and could read irregularities in demeanor more easily than the rest read print.

If he could help her, even just a bit, he would.

The pirate called for another volunteer, and Sinderion jerked his chin, indicating his compliance. Taking the chalice in one hand, he sat on the edge of his chair, staring into the contents for a moment, then glancing over first at the silent Drayk and Van, then more surreptitiously at Adrienne. There was no point in delaying further. Whatever awaited them inside that place, he was going to discover it soon.

He appeared, on his feet, in a chamber that must have been in the bowels of the ship. The dark floor was slick with blood, he noted immediately, testing his feet upon the surface. Slick. Part of him prodded his memory with a reminder that claws would make for much better traction than mere deerhide. He ignored it, flicking his eyes along the floor. The marks on this section made a trail
 Sinderion swallowed thickly when his own tracking led him to the first of the corpses.

Van.

For a long moment, the altmer was frozen, staring wide-eyed at his friend as though unable to truly process what was laid out in such meticulous, macabre detail before him. But his senses were ever-sharp, the part of him that was as much animal as man did not cease to exist simply because he willed it. The details were obvious: the pooling of blood, thick and blackening as it congealed indicated that he’d lain prone a while. The pallor to his normally dusk-colored skin—not a chance remained that he lived. The sword thrust unceremoniously into his innards, standing now as a mark of defiance, indicated that he’d not waited for the Omen to take his life. Knowing Van, he must have understood the conclusion to be absolutely inevitable.

The bile rose in the back of his throat, but Sinder swallowed past it, breathing through his mouth, and raised his eyes, filled with trepidation, upwards. Quickly, they passed over the youth pinned to the wall, falling instead upon the arrow-riddled form of Drayk, strung up like some sick version of a marionette, upside down for added perversity. The faint dripping sound of blood occasionally still hit the floor below, in time with a tiny ripple in the pool that had gushed from his throat.

The smell of so much death was—wait. Sinder sniffed discreetly at the air, as though afraid to disturb the silence. This was wrong, all wrong. The room smelled like blood, sure enough, but this much of it in such a closed proximity should have nearly keeled him over, not mildly irritated him. And worse
 neither Drayk nor Van smelled like themselves. It leant the setting something surreal, as though it wasn’t quite
 all there. But what could it mean?

"That one there," the Omen called, pointing at the corpse of Vanryth, "said something or other about believing and family and such, and then he cursed me, the bugger! Wonderful way to repay someone for returning their tongue to them, if you ask me. Then he took the coward's way out, and here we stand! There! Let none say the pirate Silas Rialta did not keep his promises!"

He stood slowly, twirling the spear again. "Perhaps surpisingly," he continued, "the fireball over there said less than the guy without a tongue. Though I imagine it's pretty difficult to--"

Sinderion wasn't about to let him finish that sentence. Granted, he honestly wasn't processing what was going on very well, but perhaps that was excusable, given the hot bubble of rage that was about to explode somewhere between his lungs. For some things, there were no words, and he wasn't going to waste any on this man. In fact, the Omen recieved nothing at all, no narrowing of the eyes, no building tension in his frame. The lunge was sudden, and entirely unplanned, if the fact that he didn't even bother to go for one of his weapons was anything to go by. Instead, he simply reached forward with his hands, as if to strangle the life right out of the man.

Rather than dodge the attack, which he could have done of course, given that this was his dream to play with, the Omen took his spear firmly in both hands and decided to use the reach advantage he had over the Altmer's arms, thrusting for the midsection swiftly. Barbs on the blade would likely cause it to catch on the insides of flesh rather than simply pass through, which was perhaps good for him, all things considered, as this one didn't look like one who'd stop fighting just because he got stabbed.

It was simple instinct that saved him from skewering himself, and Sinderion threw himself to the side, rolling smoothly to his feet. Something was wrong. The Omen didn't smell like anything either. He should. They all should, so why didn't they? Gritting his teeth, he remembered his steel, and drew the longer sword, transitioning into a low sweep with it even as he rose from the crouch he'd rolled into. So the captain wasn't an idiot. But just how fast was he? The elf's other hand went to his waist, where his shorter blade lay still sheathed.

Very, as it turned out. Rather than jump over or around the low sweep, he quick-stepped backwards, light on his feet his offhand darting to his own belt to hurl a pair of throwing knives at Sinderion's center mass. "Really, for a bunch of people who want to be pirates, you get awful offended when I kill your friends." Honestly, he was getting a little curious what their whole deal was, even if it truly didn't matter. They'd be his slaves in the end, so their motives were really quite meaningless.

The knives, he batted from the air with more force than was perhaps truly necessary, earning himself a shallow slice to a few of the fingers on his sword-arm in the process. Foolish. His off-hand, undeterred from its course, now had the second blade in-hand, but he didn't intend to keep it. Feinting first with the long one, a simple horizontal slash aimed for the midsection and to engage the spear, he drove the other directly for the throat, still apparently unwilling to be drawn into conversation. In truth, he was having enough difficulty just keeping a particular part of his being at bay, and simply couldn't spare the concentration required to do more than loosely gloss whatever drivel was running from the man's mouth like blood from the bodies of his friends.

The Omen parried with the spear, but when the second blade slashed up towards the throat, he employed his favorite trick, exploding into a cloud of smoke and ash, reappearing perhaps twenty feet behind where he had stood. His hand then flashed with a spell of some kind, and he disappeared entirely, seemingly gone from the room, but his voice certainly indicated he was still in the area.

"Come now, answer a question or two and we can get on with this," came his voice, still a good ways away from Sinder. "Otherwise..." an arrow was fired behind the altmer, aimed for his hamstring. "We can always just play it this way. Or a hundred other ways... but we'll go with this one for now."

Invisible... Sinderion suppressed a snarl, letting his eyes fall shut. They were useless right now anyway, and visual information just more clutter for his mind to process. He didn't need to keep looking at them. He'd expected the usual, a small respite as he focused more intently on what he could hear, feel, smell, even taste on the air, but... nothing. Nothing sharpened, nothing changed, and he still couldn't scent anything but the general impression of death. It was like he could only sense what an ordinary person would be able to... or what the Omen would be able to.

The twang of a bowstring punctuated another sentence he wasn't paying attention to, and with everything so dull, it thudded into his leg before he could even pinpoint the direction it had come from. This wasn't right. There were more minute sounds: the rustle of clothing, the deep inhale before a shot, anything. There were odors to be sifted through, and of all the things the Beast had taken from him, this knowledge was what it had given him. He would not be denied those things. It was impossible-- there was simply no going back. Forcing his body to relax, at least for the moment, Sinderion took a deep breath, and this time, it was like the smell of the room assaulted him, surely as any enemy. What had been absent before was now overwhelming, and that was more like he'd expected.

He'd also found the Omen's general direction. His smell was quite detectable, even among the others. The best advantage he had right now was that the pirate didn't know that, however. Shifting, Sinder rapidly sheathed his blades and drew his bow, taking the opportunity to yank the arrow from his leg with a pronounced clenching of his jaw. Fitting it to the bow, he glanced around warily, as though still unaware of his foe's location. Now that his sensory apparatuses were back in order, he just needed the man to move, and he'd know exactly where to put this thing.

The Omen's voice was distorted by magic, echoing around the chamber on all sides, filling the entire space, and for the moment, he wasn't moving. "I'm going to use an old favorite of mine if you don't mind. Apologies if you do, I'm going to use it anyway. We'll see how long it goes, the current record is somewhere around two minutes, but I think you've a good chance to beat it." A spell was cast, and the room seemed to temporarily darken. In one corner, a being seemingly made of shadow rose from the ground, two hazy glowing eyes the only indication of a head. From its hands seemingly floated a longsword in one, a hand axe in the other. It made a rustling sound as it moved to attack, almost like leaves being blown over hard ground. On the other side of the chamber, the Omen shifted slightly, moving sideways to line up a shot, assuming Sinderion would turn to face the shadowy attacker.

That echo was annoying, and it seemed the Omen was quite content to stand where he was. The trajectory of the arrow was a clue, but not enough of one, since it gave him only a general direction. Of course, the point was soon enough moot, because there was now a foe present who wasn’t going to hide, and he immediately homed in on that one. It seemed to be made of shadow, or else inky pitch, but this was magic, and he was willing to bet that blade would cut sure as any skysteel.

Aware that he was now flanked by two foes, Sinder decided that leaving either of them free to act with impunity was a bad idea. Whip-quick, he fired the arrow at the glowing part of the shadow-being, throwing aside the bow and sprinting in the general direction he had for the Omen, figuring that the closer he got, the more likely he was to sniff the guy out. There wasn’t quite enough room in the confined quarters for much evasive maneuvering, but he kept his path sweeping and unsteady anyway, veering about as erratically as possible while still trying to home in on the right spot. Hopefully, it would just look random, and maybe make him harder to shoot.

The arrow passed right through the head of the shade approaching Sinderion, and it jerked back violently, before falling down beneath the floor, taking its weapons with it. While the altmer was evading in the other direction, however, two more of them rose from the ground where the first fell, each with their own sword and hand axe, and they continued forward, splitting away from each other to flank Sinderion. The Omen, however, fired his arrow low again, hoping a second arrow in the legs might actually slow him down somewhat. Once the shot was away, he sidestepped along the edge of the chamber quickly, moving himself away from the corner, allowing one of the shade warriors to cut off Sinderion if he followed.

The second arrow landed dangerously close to Sinderion’s foot, and the split-second movement required to avoid being pinned to the ground with it placed far too much pressure on the injured leg, and it gave out from underneath him, sending Sinderion sprawling sideways. This motion, abrupt as it was, sent him into one of the two shadows now occupying the room, which hacked at him, surprised, catching him on the shoulder with the axe. The heavy blade of it sliced through his leathers, leaving a broad but not deep gash there. His passage through it dissolved it, and it wasn’t long before two more reformed in its place. It wasn’t difficult to figure out what was going on.

Scrambling to his feet, the altmer ignored the needling pain in the injured leg and went for his sword, bringing it up just in time to block a downward stroke from one of the phantoms. Seemed the weapon was solid enough, but he couldn’t waste time here, or he’d be torn to pieces before he could lay a hand on the Omen. Speaking of which
 the man had moved. It made most sense to pursue and try to get a lucky hit, only taking out what shadows he had to on the way. Disengaging from the one he was locked with, he hastened in the direction of the smell, though he’d have to save the breakneck sprinting for true need, as his leg likely wouldn’t handle much more of it. A ghost of a plan forming in his mind, the elf slid his short sword once again from the sheath at his waist, gripping it at the base of the blade rather than the hilt.

It was perhaps more difficult than it would usually be, however, because that thing inside him was rattling at the bars of its cage, demanding release. It did not much like these tactics, leaving enemies to trail him from behind. It would much rather tear through them all until none remained, for he supposed it did not understand the concept of foes without end. Without end
 the thought struck him oddly, but now was not the time. He did not intend to surrender so easily.

The arrow he was waiting for appeared, headed directly for his chest. Sinder made no attempt, successful or otherwise, to bat it down or dodge it, instead using those precious seconds to aim the best he could along the general trajectory of the thing, releasing his shortsword in an end-over-end throw just as the steel barb punctured his chestguard, stealing the breath from his lungs and stopping his forward momentum quite effectively, a fact which allowed all three of the shadow-things to catch up with him.

The sword flew end over end until it sank deep into the wooden wall of the chamber, quivering with the sudden halt. The Omen reappeared fully right in front of it, directly in its trajectory, but completely unharmed by it. He raised his eyebrows at the blade in the wall, before looking back to Sinder. "Nice throw." The compliment actually seemed genuine. The redguard then put a hand on the hilt and yanked it free, hurling it end over end back at him, but missing wide and hitting one of the shades instead, splitting it in two. He shrugged.

"I'm afraid I'm not as accurate." He then exploded into his plume of smoke, reappearing seated on his throne, to watch the spectacle that was sure to form before him, now that the altmer was practically forced into either fighting the shades, or allowing himself to be cut down.

Well, that was it, wasn’t it? The attack should have hit, would have hit, if this strange room worked the way it was supposed to. He put it down to magic, and the sheer power of it meant he was beaten before he even began. It meant there was only one thing left for him to do, and that was die.

He wondered if the Omen understood just how much of a gift he’d given him.

He couldn’t lay down and take it, though, oh no. That was not in his nature. Not in either part of it, anymore. But it hadn’t stopped him from desiring that end, with a painful clarity he had quite forgotten, out there, in the world, with things to live for. Complications, entanglements. He never knew how to deal with them properly. He was always struggling to find the words, or know the right thing to do. But this, this situation was the simplest thing in the world: he was going to die, and he had his choice about how.

So Sinderion did what he was fairly certain everyone in his life had urged him to do at one point or another, without really understanding what they were asking of him. He simply let go, by degrees. With the sword in his hand, he slashed brutally into the nearest shadow, sidestepping and twisting on his good foot to plunge the blade up under what should have been the chin of another. His free hand caught the incoming wrist of another, though the second weapon scored him a swipe across the abdomen, an arc of his blood spattering to join the rest on the floor. It was only fitting that he should join his family in their demise, after all.

"And what's the point in waiting, right?" he murmured to himself, nearly inaudibly.

That shrugged off another of his chains, and he could feel the thing simmering beneath him, waiting with slavering jaws for its release, eerily quiet but unmistakably present. Its heart thundered in his ears, its breaths synchronized with his until, so suddenly he didn’t have the time to think about it, his sword was pitched heedlessly for the Omen’s chair, because he didn’t need it anymore. His claws and teeth were more than enough. Because its heart was his heart, its lungs were his lungs. These teeth and claws belonged to him, though he no longer knew what that was, exactly. It wasn't Sinderion, he was sure of that. It wasn't quite the beast either, though-- though to look at him, it was certainly closer than he'd been yet.

It was just a dream, after all, and he was going to die. He might as well die violently.

Almost casually, the Omen leaned sideways to rest on the right side of his chair, the sword thudding into where his head had just been. He didn't seem concerned with it, instead stroking his chin as he paid rapt attention to the struggle going on before him. "Have you been keeping something from me, elf?" he asked, drinking in the sight with a kind of ravenous greed only a pirate could possess. He'd stumbled upon a treasure here, it seemed.

Seven feet tall, looming, wrapped in sinuous muscle and covered with a half-coat of tawny-gold fur, Sinder no longer knew how to answer. Ivory claws tore through a pair of shadows, heedless of the consequences. Two more could spawn, or thirty-- he cared not. He would meet his end, however swift or slow, with all the mind-numbing ferocity he could muster, and even on a plane of unreality, he had quite a bit to work with. Axes and swords cut into his flesh, and with nothing to feed on, recovering the damage was impossible. He didn't care. All that mattered was sinking his teeth into the next piece of skin and blood and bone, an implacable desire left only frustrated as, repeatedly, his jaws clicked shut over nothing.

But there was flesh in this room, he could smell it. Dead flesh, which he had little interest in at the moment, and living flesh, which was much more appealing. Shoving bodily through a line of no-meat things, he zeroed in on the one other living entity in the room. Too far gone to be even slightly rational, he didn’t think or plan or calculate, he just leapt, bullrushing the Omen with a ragged gait but a singleminded focus, trailng blood, his own, naturally, from his heavy limbs onto the floor.

Rialta's hand shot up, and a bright green spell burst forth, enveloping the half-shifted werewolf before him and paralyzing him in mid run. The small army of shades now behind Sinderion vanished at a thought, and it was just the two of them again, with the corpses of the others still largely undisturbed. The Omen rose from the chair and moved closer, to examine his catch. Of course, the werewolf would be entirely aware of what was happening, still able to hear and see, unless he was too far gone for even that.

"Do you even know the magnitude of the gift you've just given me?" he asked, hardly able to contain his excitement. "That tree elf bitch will hardly be able to hide from me once a werewolf is tearing apart her little warriors. You and I will go far together. Or rather, I will go far through you, at so little risk to myself." He knelt, studying Sinderion's changed form with intense interest. A thought occurred to him.

"Sadly not quite as big as that freak of a Khajiit, but a werewolf is a werewolf, no doubt about that." He actually seemed to be having trouble getting on with the deed. The paralysis spell he allowed to slowly wear off. In its place he put another spell over the wolf, instilling such weakness that even moving his limbs at all would require extraordinary effort. "You'll forgive me if I make you linger here a while longer, I'm sure..." He had clearly accepted death, considering the way he'd abandoned his efforts to avoid killing the shades. The Omen wasn't keen on letting him get away as quickly as the dunmer had.

Forgive him? If Sinder had had the energy or presence of mind left, he would have laughed, and it would not have been pleasant. Under the paralysis spell, his mind was the only thing free to move, and it had. It was actually... easier, when he wasn't spending so much of his energy trying to keep himself under wraps, and so he'd scraped the bottom of his cognitive barrel and remembered his original intent. Leave a clue for Adrienne. Something that would communicate to her that this dream wasn't responsive only to the weaver's demands. It had produced scent for him where none existed before, and he knew that somehow, she would be able to do something with that, even if he couldn't. Even if not... it was the least he could do to try.

The weakness spell buckled his knees, sending him sprawling to the floor. He had neither the strength nor the inclination to fight it. Instead, he focused everything he had left into moving just one of his arms, touching it to a particularly nasty abdominal wound he'd recieved at one time or another. The hand came away coated thickly in his own blood, and he inched it towards his head so he could see what he was doing. In the end, he couldn't make it that far; his breathing grew more ragged and harsh as the weakness seemed inclined to crush him under his own weight, much more ponderous now than it had been. Blindly, then, he drew a figure on the floor beside him, though perhaps to his benefit, it didn't appear much like something he was doing on purpose, as his fine motor control was practically nonexistant. It probably just seemed futile struggling of some kind. What resulted from the effort was a wobbly figure 8, and his arm fell still, the stamina it took to keep pulling in air all he had left to spend.

Even that would go eventually, he supposed, but in truth, he really didn't care how long that took. He was done, and the rest was up to someone else. All he had left to do was wait.

"A distraction will be necessary," the Omen was saying, pacing back and forth, "and I think the upside down fellow here will do nicely for that. A large amount of fire and a full frontal attack, followed up with a flanking maneuver executed by a werewolf! Yes, I think that will do. We'll deal with the last two, and then depart immediately. You and I will be quite the team, I think. In meantime, I think the throne needs an extra bit of decoration."

And then there was a battleaxe in his hands, the edge resting on the back of the werewolf's neck. One swift cleave downward, and it was done. He poked the end of his spear into the base, picking up the wolf head and carrying it back to the throne, dropping the axe along the way. After propping the spear against it such that the wolf head was staring at whoever would come next, he seated himself and awaited his next guest, unable to stop thinking of the future.




Sinderion followed the suit of Drayk and Vanryth, although at this point something different happened. The elf tilted his head back slightly, opened his mouth, and released a quiet ahoooo. After a brief moment of silence, the entire crew began to chuckle darkly, including Drayk and Vanryth, and Sinderion himself. When it died down a few seconds later, the silence returned in full.

"Next volunteer," the crewman called, offering the cup.

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Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong
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Lynly watched one after the other as three Sellswords volunteered for the goblet, and watched as they awoke seemingly different somehow. She watched until only Adrienne and herself were left. Considering the way the goblet was still being passed around around, it seemed to her that the knife-ears weren't able to get the job done. Now with only her and the tongue of the party left, Lynly glanced at Adrienne and shrugged, flicking her wrist to indicate that she was next. "My turn," she muttered, taking a seat. She'd seen the way the boy had fallen on his face when he drank-- she was not going to embarrass herself in the same way. She took the goblet and downed it, and like those before her, fell asleep in an instant.




And into her dreams she awoke. She was still in her chair, but that was the only thing familar. They were in a different place, but still obviously on the boat. But the change of scenery wasn't the most jarring aspect of the dream. Rather, it was the bodies of those who had come before. The blacksmith's boy pinned by his throat to the wall nearby. Drayk's hung upside down by the ankles, and his throat slit. Vanryth's missing hand and his own blade thrust inside his gut. Beside the throne, a mutilated wolf's head stood mounted on a pike, and stared at her through glossy eyes. And sitting in the throne itself? Before all the bodies and blood, the Omen. He looked pretty proud of his trophies. Her first instinct was to sit straight and stare at the destruction around her, but she reminded herself that this was all a dream. A moment ago she had been awake, and now she was not. She'd been taken in by enough of those lately, and in this one at least she had retained her sense of self.

She'd seen them on the deck. They were still alive, though not quite themselves. It brought enough peace of mind back for her to sit back into the chair, if not entirely comfortable. Lynly proceeded to prop an elbow on arm of the chair to sustain her cheeks. "Grim," she said entirely nonplussed. "So we die here and become thralls on the outside? Clever." It made sense. What better way to collect a number of loyal crewmates without having to earn all of that loyalty. Though considering the rather large number of the loyal crew. Fate did not seem to look kindly down upon her. Not that it ever did.

"I must confess two things," the Omen began, adjusting the wolf head slightly on the spear. The waves were shifting things slightly, so they soon stopped all together, and it was as though the Dreamwalker was now floating on top of a pond that had been undisturbed for years. "First," he said, "I must confess I didn't expect you to speak to me at all, after the way the last two went. You all seem to be friends, and I understand that seeing their fates can be upsetting. I do enjoy a good civil conversation before my bloodletting, so for that you have my thanks. And please, remain seated. We can speak like civil people."

He then sighed. "Secondly, I must warn you that once the fight begins, I am brutally unfair to anyone who wears such heavy armor. I can understand the draw, but really, so ugly. Not to mention it'll kill any pirate if he falls overboard on the high seas." He shook his head. "Now, with that out of the way, welcome! I have a question, if you don't mind. Who are you people? It's normally the outcasts that seek a life on the seas, hiding from the law, but you all seem to have come together. Did you murder the Emperor together while I wasn't looking?"

"Friends?" She asked, a platinum eyebrow arched. She'd never thought of it before, were they friends? This was their mission, their goal to save their Mentor. She was just tagging along for the adventure, for her story. Lynly was not so callous as to believe them to be some means to an end, but neither did she think herself friends with them. Not on the level they were in between themselves. It was likely she'd never find friends like that. The thought almost stung, but she shrugged it off. Now was not the time to be getting misty-eyed over opportunities lost. She had to get off the boat with her life first, then she could see about making friends. "Just some mercenaries, out on a task. Outcasts, as you say," she dismissed handily.

It wasn't a lie, but neither was it a whole truth. She was not so foolish as to implicate Maya in their plans so early. It seemed though the man had found a common thread between them all-- so much for subtlety. She wasn't good with it anyway. "Last I heard, the Emperor still lived, Talos bless the Empire," she said thoroughly uncaring on the man's thought of the abandoned Divine. Likely the only thing he believed in was coin and his Daedric Lord. Once again, she could do little else but shrug. "It looks like you're brutally unfair, regardless," She said, nodding toward the corpses strewn around the room. To defeat the Sellswords, and without so much as a scratch was no mean feat. Even she couldn't boast of doing near as well. "Are you trying to hurt my feelings?" Lynly snipped. She thought her armor was alright-- it kept the chill and blades out. Though it was least of her worries.

"I wasn't aware you had feelings until just now," he said. "I suppose I might start trying. But it's good to hear that there's still nine of those divine bastards still kicking. I'd heard it was down to eight now, and that worried me that people would start flocking to more interesting gods, like mine. It's a pretty exclusive club, I'll have you know. We don't typically just let anyone in."

He shifted in his throne, the sword through the top of it noticeably gone now, though when it had disappeared wasn't clear. "You're mercenaries, you say? As far as I knew, mercenaries get paid. Why become a pirate if you already have good employment, I wonder? It makes me think your intentions were somehow dishonest. Which makes you sound more like pirates, so hell if I know what you are. Come now, give me something useful and we might keep talking a while longer. Who knows, I might let you keep your mind, as I've already got quite the selection of bodies, one of which is a werewolf! Can you believe that?"

"The golden knife-ear? I had my suspicions," Though no one had told her outright that Sinder was a werewolf, it wasn't a terribly well-kept secret. Something always felt like it was crawling under his skin. He hadn't changed in her presence, and he seemed to have kept it under control well enough, so it never bothered her, nor did she have the gall to ask about it. Their secrets were their own, unguarded as they were. Finally, she removed her hand from her cheek and held both out at her side, sighing. "Does it really matter? You have no need of our stories once we become a part of your crew," Forcefully or otherwise. Out of everyone on the deck of his ship, not one did she see had a mind of his own. She wasn't inclined to trust a word out of the pirate's mouth. He was a pirate after all.

"While you're entirely right, I was being serious about letting you go. I was going to kick you off the boat and see if you could swim to shore in that armor. But, you all seem intent on dying, and who am I to deny you that? Let's begin, shall we?" "Like I have a choice?" She added, loosing her sword in it's sheath.

From the corner of the chamber behind Lynly to her right came the sound of multiple shifting legs. Up from the floor in front of the Omen shot golden spears that looked of Dwemer make, bars to separate the armored woman from her true opponent. For the moment, she was sealed in with an impossibly large spider, fanged and thick with dark, matted hair. It crawled forward, reaching more than three quarters of the way to the ceiling, but rather than immediately engage Lynly, its abdomen opened up behind it, and a swarm of smaller spiders burst from it, dozens of them, certainly more than would have logically been able to fit in the abdomen, each as large as dogs, fangs dripping with some unknown substance. Together with their mother they attacked.

Lynly turned her head in the direction of the spider and twisted her face in a simile of disgust. "The boy was right, you are twisted." she said, before reluctantly rising out of her chair. She knew eventually the result would be her demise. Though she was proud, and confident of her skills to near arrogance, the vast number of his mindless crew, and now the Sellswords in front of her couldn't be wrong. Still, her upbringing demanded she fight until the last breath. Honor and glory dictated that she not just sit in the chair and let come what may, even if it would have been easier.

Besides, just sitting the fight out was terribly dull for the story she was writing. With a loud, exaggerated sigh, she took her blade and shield from her back and turned to the spiders, just in time to bring her shield down and bisect one of the arachnids. With another fluid movement she turned her shield sideways and batted away the fangs of another spider. Far from hold her ground out in the open, she began to backpedal away from all of nasty creatures. "Spiders are nothing new! Give me something unique!" She bellowed, inserting her sword into the gaping maw of another. For all of her brave words, she really had to mind the mother spider, she didn't want to deal with it while her children could still assault her.

As if in response, the spiders mutated before her eyes, their bodies becoming covered in a hard-carapace like substance, each one sprouting an upward arching stinger from their abdomens, each capable of firing globs of an acidic substance powerful enough to burn through steel. "Thank you," She monotoned. Spiders or these monstrosities, she was playing his game with his rules. He wasn't going to let her win anyway, and the only hope she had was to last long enough to sate her own hunger. Her own part of this game was to see how far she could go before falling, to see how much punishment she could take before she fell. In way, this was as much Lynly's game as it was the Omen's. She'd find out if she was Nord enough to carry the Snowsong name.

The acid came as a surprise, catching the edge of her shield as she sidestepped. She didn't know what it was, only that she didn't want it to touch her. When it began to melt a jagged gap in her shield, she decided that she really didn't want it to touch her. It's buy her two or three direct shots if she was lucky, but she'd rather not chance it. So she kept on the move. Dodging and ducking so as not to be melted by the acid. But defense could only do so much. She managed to get close enough to one of the vile creatures in order to pierce its shell with her sword. And when she pulled her sword free from the shell, the internal acid has eaten away at the tip, taking a few inches on the blade.

Lynly beheld the melted sword and sighed again. Of course that would happen. Still, she'd use the weapon until it was nothing but a hilt, and then she'd use her shield. She stabbed another of the creatures, this time some of its acid splashing on her legs, the leather providing no resistance to the eating liquid. She hissed as she sucked in her breath through her teeth. The pain was certainly real-- though she hardly expected the Omen to spare her that. She backstepped away and shook her head. Her sword had about had it, her shield was quickly losing surface area, and there were still too many of the beasts to compensate for. Not to mention their bloody mother still lurked behind them.

"Oh, enough with the spiders, I think," the Omen said, waving his hand. Where each of the remaining ten spiders had been now stood ten seven foot tall automatons, of a make similar to Dwemer, but not of the likes seen in any of Skyrim's ruins. They were massive warriors, each carrying what would have been for any other warrior a greatsword in one hand alone, the other hand hefting golden tower shields five feet tall and wider than the width of their bodies, which were constructed out of nearly impenetrable looking bronze-colored metal. The only weak points seemed to be the joints, if she could find any way around their shields.

This was the sight that caused Lynly to freeze. Not just one of the bloody things, but ten centurions. One had nearly done her in, and now she faced down ten. Whatever sarcastic or snide responses she had left quickly froze in her throat, where then then swallowed them hard. "You bastard," she said, anger finally rising in her voice. She already had this nightmare once before, and now it was ten times worse. She looked at the massive hulking machines and then at her own sword which had been chewed down to a half of it's original length. Eyelids closing in irritation, she threw the useless blade to the ground and elected to have a healing spell to appear in it's space. They weren't as large as she remembered, but the memory was enough. If she ever found her way out of this dream realm alive, she would crush him.

Still, as the centurions began to advance, and the healing spell was working it's magic on the wounds she had sustained, she couldn't help but think of the poetic justice brought by being defeated by centurions. She wasn't going to go down without taking a few of them with her though. With her magicka well dry, she killed the healing spell and glanced beside her. Hanging beside her was the body of the blacksmith and the spear lodged in his throat. That would have to do. She turned and ripped the polearm free, noting the sickening splash of the body hitting it's own blood. "I'm sorry," she muttered, but turned to the advancing centurions. Lynly raised her shield, and slipped the spear into the melted notch and began to advance as well.

"Bah, look what you've done! Now I have to spear him to the wall again!"

Her gait began slow, but quickly increased in pace until she was in a sprint. The first Centurion brought his greatsword down, which Lynly dodged by rolling to the side. Turning as she landed on her feet, she found herself in the middle of the group. She was surrounded by centurions-- so it made her targets easier to find. She struck out at the first, spear darting past her shield and glancing off the centurion's own. She dodged out of the way of the counter attack, though the greatsword caught the edge of her shield, jarring it hard and twisting the bones in her wrist. She grunted, but paid it no mind. She was going to bring one of these things down-- then she could fall. But not a second before.

She kept on the move, the greatswords getting closer and closer to cutting her open, the edge of one actually rending through the center of her shield. Had she been an inch closer, the shield would have split in half. Sweat was pouring off of her face, but the attack left the underside of the centurion open. She thrust with her spear, aiming under the thing's arm and hoped to hit something important internally. And something important she did, as a small explosion echoed from within it's frame. It gave one last puff of steam before it fell, forever still. She must have hit the core, she thought. Still that left nine more-- which were all advancing on her. She turned just in time to raise her shield. Little good it did, as the sound of her wrist and shoulder powdering under the force knocked her shield down and buried the greatsword an inch under her collarbone. The spear clattered to the floor as she lost all feeling in the arm. Funny though, it didn't hurt...

When one of the centurions landed the necessary blow to remove her from the fight, another cast aside its weapon and shield, to seize her arms from behind, and hold her in place. The centurion roughly removed the greatsword from her shoulder, and cleared a path. The spears blocking the Omen from the fighting ground retracted, and he meandered slowly forward. "Only one other person was able to kill one of those. You should be proud. You'll make a good addition to the crew. A nice frontline fighter, I should think. I did the last words thing for the dunmer, by the way. He gargled something unintelligible at me, but I kept my word, and relayed it to the werewolf. I would've asked the wolf for some words, but I don't think he was capable of moving his tongue any more. Anyway! Your turn. Anything? I'll tell the last one."

"No words... I've written my chapter," she said with a bloody grin. Lynly had accomplished what she set out to do, she'd played his game and in turn won her own. Centurions were nothing to fear, neither were spiders, nor nightmares. She'd done her heritage proud, brought honor to the Snowsong name, and she couldn't hope for any more than that. However, she had a word for him. "I'll see you on the other side."

"Doubt it," the Omen said, before nodding to the centurions. "Gentlemen," he said, turning and walking back towards his throne. Behind him, a centurion walked in front of Lynly, taking an iron grip on both of her ankles, the other maintaining the grip on her arms. She was tilted over sideways, and the centurions each pulled. Hard. A sickening tearing sound later, and each centurion tossed a half of the body to each side of the room, before they sank into the floor, and the Omen sank into his throne.




On the deck of the Dreamwalker, only Adrienne remained in control of her own mind, and so the crewman did not call for volunteers, instead simply offering her the cup.

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Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Adrienne Jastal
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One by one, she’d watched them. They would, without fail, fall into a slumber, then wake again, all the life and vivacity she had known in them entirely vanished. What Sinderion had done afterwards was so unlike him it could be nothing but puppetry. A joke, about the part of himself that he despised so fiercely she could scarcely understand? No, that was not him at all, but it did seem right up the Omen’s alley. With each new dashed hope, defeated belief that one of her friends would pull through with the secret to defeating him, she slipped a little further into herself, leaving only the impassive mask visible.

She knew, with a certainty that frightened her, that she would not like what she saw when she took that chalice. But she could not react too much, lest she give herself and her intent away. When Lynly sat up, Adrienne knew that she was the last, and the cold fingers of doubt wrapped around her lungs, squeezing until she was sure that no air remained to her. And yet, she kept breathing. She had to—she was the only one left, and the burden of defeating the Omen was become wholly hers. It was not simply a matter of wanting to be strong anymore: her strength was a bare necessity. She was dangled out over a cliff, her only handholds her wit and whatever measure of martial talent she had managed to acquire, and there would be nobody to catch her if she fell, nobody to lean on if she stumbled.

She was suddenly, irrevocably, entirely alone.

”Well,” she said, keeping her tone bored. The act, as she had told Drayk, was a shield as well as a knife. If she was deep enough in it, she could forget what she used it for. That would be her only boon in this. Her character was selected carefully, with just enough of her own personality infused in it that she wouldn’t lose it entirely were the worst to happen. The best lies were the ones based on some small part of the truth. “At least you have enough style to save the best for last, hm?” None of the people here would react to her. They were all blank walls, but at the moment, she wasn’t acting for them. No, she was acting for her own sake.

Taking the chalice, she took a careless sip, slumping back in her chair almost immediately. It was a moment before she allowed her eyelids to flutter open. Apparently, her chair had transferred with her, which was fortunate since her knees were feeling a little weak. The urge to vomit was instantaneous, but she quieted her stomach by sheer force of will. She was staring at the severed head of a lupine creature, but unlike Lynly, she had no need to think to identify it. The eyes were unmistakably Sinderion’s.

Oh, my friend, she thought despairingly. There were still traces of his actual lineage in his face, and these she could pick out without difficulty once she knew. It wasn’t
 quite the same as illustrations of werewolves she’d seen, but there wasn’t time to linger over the thought. His body lay not far from the throne, and she could make out something on the floor, by his hand. It looked to have been smeared there by his own blood, but almost
 purposively. It was certainly not a random stain. The figure resembled a numeral, eight. The eight divines? Sinderion wasn’t religious. What did it mean, then?

She moved her eyes with apparent disinterest, shifting slightly to look behind her. The child was speared to the wall, Vanryth—oh, dear Vanryth! He lay in a pool of his own vital fluids, his sword buried in his belly. Adrienne did not allow herself to analyze the situation too much, for fear of what she would conclude. Lynly was in pieces, scattered to each end of the space. Drayk—no. She couldn’t look, wouldn’t look. Heart-wrenching was a pale word for what the scene was, but they were not dead. She had seen them all sit up, and whatever they were, whatever kind of thralls they had become, there was life yet in their bodies.

For now, she needed to remain focused. She could not become as they were, else all hope was lost, and she did not hold any illusions about her skill with a sword. If they had lost this fight, than it was hers to lose as well.

But only if she fought it the same way.

“Well it doesn’t lack for a certain macabre mood, does it?” she mused, turning towards the Omen at the other end of the room, seated in his own chair. “And I can see the appeal. Thralls are much easier to deal with than people with thoughts of their own, but I daresay you must grow dreadfully bored with only the mindless for company.” It was probably why he went to such lengths to have his fun with them here, when they could still respond to him
 in ways more or less human.

"You, my dear, have already found the only reason you yet live," the Omen, propping one blood-slicked boot up on his left knee. "It is rather dull, but then, the life that I lead is not. I find enjoyment enough in creating nightmares for the meager people, the ones too small to be of any relevance in this world." He paused for a moment, studying her.

"The one before you said the truth: it doesn't matter what you are, what you were, why you're here, what possible motive you all could have had for coming aboard my ship, but I find myself curious all the same. The two elves were practically destroyed by the sight of this room alone. They clearly knew each other, were fond of each other, I care not what else. Are you all connected somehow? Do at least try to entertain me, your life rather depends on it."

Beneath her placid face, her mind was ticking forward as quickly as she could calculate. She had forgotten to account for what the others might have said, might have done to give this man a clue to who they were. Knowing them, they weren't particularly focused on deception, and likely had reacted honestly to what they had seen. She would have been envious of that, if the opposite wasn't precisely what she needed right now. "Yes, well, they always were a bit... unstable that way," she replied, forcing herself to slide uninterested eyes over the corpses. She allowed a flicker of irritation, though, as if she were... displeased at their condition. "Those two came as a set, actually. It's almost cliche, really, the altmer and the dunmer overcoming their differences as brothers or some such." she waved a hand dismissively.

"They both grew fond of the boy, I suppose. It's something that happens to ordinary people if they spend long enough in each others' company... well, that or at least one of them ends up dead." Using the hand to gesture back towards Drayk, she still refused to look at him, but that was easily enough played off as a complete lack of concern rather than its reversal. "If you really wish to know, it's simple enough: I collected them. I needed a job done and some suitably unhinged people to do it. They got a bit attached, I suppose, and so when I wanted to shift enterprises, they followed." She sighed, but her eyes only glittered coldly. The eyes give the lie, if you don't remember to hide that first.

"I can see how that would happen," he said, eyeing her somewhat. "I wonder if they knew they were being led to their deaths in the bowels of a nightmare..." He threw his hands up. "Not that it matters now. They're little more than decorations in my nightmare at this point, as far as their minds go. The werewolf's body will prove most useful in the waking world, I should think."

Rather abruptly, he stood, and conjured a blade into his hands. It was light, long and thin, but unmistakably sturdy, and very sharp. "Shall we dance and speak? I'd quite like to see what a little of this, a little of that entails." He raised the blade and began to take light steps towards her. "Will you show me, or must I pry it from you?"

Adrienne threw back her head and laughed. Shaking her head, she rose to her feet, drawing her own sword in the process, the familiar heft the only comfort she had in this moment. Despite her show of confidence, it was hard to ignore the fact that her dearest friends were dead around her, however metaphorical she knew that to be. "Wouldn't you just?" she questioned, almost rhetorically, apparently entirely unconcerned with her impending "death." Truthfully, she was still trying to decipher the message Sinderion had felt important enough to spend his last moments writing. But she could ill-afford much distraction. Rolling her shoulders, she stretched her neck first one way, then the other, leveling the blade in her hand at a slight upward angle, recognizable as a fencer's stance, mostly.

"This is not something you shall need to pry, no," she mused almost thoughtfully. "But whatever shall we discuss? We've already covered my motives, your taste in interiors, and the rather unfortunate natures of my companions, after all. Shall we speak now of poetry, or magic? Politics, perhaps? Thievery?" She was content to wait for the first strike, and react to it, rather than making it herself. It would also give her more time to think.

The Omen chose to strike first and speak second, darting side to side suddenly as if trying to flank her, and then striking dead ahead, the first blow a sideways slash purely aimed at the blade, meant to swipe away the guard, followed by a straight jab towards the abdomen, aiming to bleed rather than outright kill. Once done, he backstepped quickly. "What are you to me? How could you best serve me? I have tools and weapons of war. My stock today has been the most promising catch I've ever had, thanks to you. But how can you help me? Why should I not call centurions to tear you in half for my amusement, like it did the last woman?"

The first blow caught, his superior strength wrenching her blade aside, but she twisted too quickly to be caught by the next one. It was hardly the first time she'd been overpowered, after all. Things like this tended to have patterns. Perhaps, had Lynly drilled her any less fiercely, her reaction would not have been so automatic, but it was, and the second strike met the air inches from her torso instead. As he stepped back, Adrienne moved forward, bringing her sword up and over to grip in both hands, aiming diagonally for his left shoulder.

"You, my dear Captain Rialta, think in the short term. I suppose my ritual dismemberment might be of some temporary amusement, but do you not find it to fade awfully quickly? Besides, I assure you that, in charge of my own faculties, I would be both much more useful and more amusing than without them. Call it arrogance if you like, but I daresay there's already a hint in what you know: I found them. I am a strategist far more than a combatant, captain, and what use is a strategist without her mind?" Eight? Eight what? Eight times? Eight people? No, no, none of that makes any sense.

"I'd like to see you prove it," he said as he parried the blow to the side and shifted sideways, nimbly hopping over the headless form of the werewolf. His smirk was something different than he'd shown before. An actual interest, to see if she was up to the challenge. "Know me for a little while, and you'll learn that I greatly enjoy a good game. A thinker's game. That's all this is. The others you brought me were no thinkers, but fighters. This is a game that can't be won with strength of arms. The harder they struggled, the tighter the noose became. None of them stopped to think."

And then he split into two people, a clone of himself moving left while he moved right. One of them lunged forward with the off hand, a lightning spell lighting in the hand, but it was extinguished as quick as it came up, a low slash coming instead. The other slashed high towards the throat darting back with a spin, sheathing the sword and drawing a bow in a smooth motion, releasing a single shot aimed for center mass.

Perhaps one of them had stopped to think, but from the looks of things, she might not have the time to descipher the thought. The copies were visually indistinguishable, and both appeared equally tangible. Adrienne chose to jump, just avoiding the lower swing and raising her sword to block the upper one. It connected with more force than she was prepared for, disarming her and sending the slender blade spinning off towards the opposite wall. Defenseless, she was about to be shot, and did the only thing she could think of: let herself fall, buckling at the knees and collapsing on the floor quite near the desecrated corpse of Sinderion. She was scrambling to her feet when she noticed: from this angle, what he'd written wasn't a numeral at all. In the moment it took her to process, she cracked a genuine smile. Mara bless you eternally, Sinderion Direnni-- I think you just saved my life.

Infinity. It was a concept that begged her to consider repetition, yes, but also possibility. The Omen said this game was about thinking. Putting those two things together, she had a rough, if workable, hypothesis from which to start. If Sinder had figured it out but couldn't act, it was probably magic of some kind, so she reached for that, willing herself back to the other end of the room.

There was no cloud of smoke, just a waver in her image, and then she flickered out of sight altogether, to appear, standing, right beside Vanryth. Looking down to him, she reached out with one hand, enclosing it around the hilt of his sword and pulling it from his body. It was too heavy for her... or at least it would have been. But with nothing more than a simple thought, it was balanced just like her own, with no change to its shape. She was still grinning, and glanced up to the Omen, winking. "Oh, now this... is going to be fun." She wreathed herself in a frost cloak, and because she could, the ice spread outwards from her feet, to coat the floor of the room in frosty white, or at certain patches, gleaming red where it froze coats of blood in place like some kind of morbid lake in winter.

The Omen watched the ice spread, looking as though he just taken a bite out of something extremely delicious. He licked his lips and grinned in pure delight. And then the ship turned upside down. He banished his clone counterpart as he neatly flipped over to land on his feet on the ceiling. Everything came crashing down, or up. The throne smashed to pieces, the spear with Sinder's head tipping over to the side, all of the mangled bodies splashing down. "The waking world is utterly dull compared to what we can do here," he said in anticipation. The arrows in Drayk's body suddenly pulled themselves out and flew in Adrienne's direction, a centurion wielding a greatsword and tower shield exploded up from below them and charged, and the Omen's bow fired an arrow that would explode in a ball of flame as soon as it hit anything.

Adrienne, unprepared for the shift, did not land quite so softly, but bounced to her feet uninjured all the same. The arrows, she noticed first, and summoned up Lynly's battered shield, deflecting them with a telekinetic sweep before launching it at the last one, the exploding arrow meeting it right around the middle, knocking the Centurion off its feet, though it still hurtled towards her. Looking around, she eventually alighted on the sword in her hand and shrugged, standing sideways and waiting. When the metal construct was close enough, she swung, batting it away with enough force for it to go sailing back the other way, a heap of metal aimed for the wall against which the Omen stood. Ice spikes drove up from the ground, attempting to entrap or impale him (she was frankly fine with either), and miniaturized dragons materialized from thin air, forming themselves into a flock and dive-bombing the captain.

What else... the possibilities really were endless, and that itself was staggering. "I understand why you are so enamoured of this dream," she said slyly, then opened up a hole in the ground beneath him, one which would spit him out again in range of her sword, which she swept in an arc, the wide motion producing five additional after-images, which resolved themselves into solidity just before they were intended to hit. And then she set them on fire. Because she felt like it.

And because he felt like it, it was all obliterated, everything reset. The Dreamwalker sailed gently along the open sea, the chamber that had been the room everyone else had died in now clean as it had started, no sign of the carnage remaining. The Omen sat comfortably in his throne, his head tilted slightly at Adrienne.

"As I said, a thinker's game. Even the weakest child can crush dragons in their dreams. And now, since the idea of us battling eternally in a dream is utterly preposterous, the only question that remains is what, exactly, should I do with you? We will leave this place shortly and return to the waking world, where we most certainly cannot perform these feats. Perhaps you could join the crew, and retain your mind. Tell me... do you know who I am? Truly? Why did you seek me out, specifically?"

"Oh, come now captain. Surely, people with minds such as yours and mine are more than capable of exercising the requisite creativity even when the possibilities are a bit more... limited." She raised a brow, reclining slightly in the chair as though she were not at all surprised to find herself in it, and truly, after that particular mind-bending experience, being surprised was rather pointless. She crossed one leg over the other and propped an elbow on an armrest, catching her chin delicately in her hand. "As for why I'm here, I should think that obvious enough. I like power, dear captain, and keeping the company of those with it besides. You imply that there is something you truly are, and if so, I know not what, beyond what I have seen. But rumors do whisper, and what sort of fool should I be to pass up the chance to meet a spinner of dreams?" She shrugged. "Consider my coming here... the testing of a hypothesis."

"My dear," he said, smiling fully, "you might actually be as cold as I am. It's very compelling, I must admit. So many allow themselves to be tied down by their attachments, made weak by them, and never realize their potential because of them. I can see that you are not one of these people. Perhaps you were sent to me by my Lady. What an interesting thought."

He rubbed his hands together. "I'd stand, but I'm afraid it's rather pointless for where we're going. And before we head back... I don't believe I ever got your name. It's not something I usually care to ask, for obvious reasons."

She recalled that the Lady he spoke of was probably his Daedric sponsor. Vaermina. That made quite a lot of sense, considering. "My name is Elyn," she replied simply, flashing a smile, "And I assure you that no, I am not one of those people." Assuming that the work to bring them back to the waking realm was well in-hand, she simply sat back and waited.

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Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Adrienne Jastal
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Maya's heart sank when the Dreamwalker's sails unfurled, and the anchor was pulled up from the water. She would have known if they'd been able to kill Omen, she would have known the instant it happened, and known to hunt the Pact instead. But it never happened. She was able to watch the ship from the entrance of the inn, and that was exactly what she'd done. She trusted Anirne to be able to get up on her own if needed. She wanted to watch it for any sign of change. And now that the great warship was beginning to leave altogether, she was done waiting. Maybe it was suicide, but it was suicide to just let them leave as well.

She shoved the door open and walked with urgency to the room she'd rented out for Anirne and herself, to find the altmer woman still sound asleep. She'd underestimated the strength of the sedative. Hastily she drew out more of her counteragent, worried for a moment that it was somehow dysfunctional. But whether it was or wasn't, it didn't matter now. She was going to use more of it. All of it, in fact. It would be a bit of a rude awakening for her, no doubt, like being drawn up from the bottom of a lake, but she was a strong woman, and there wasn't any time to be gentle.

"Get up, damn it," the witch hissed.

A dreamless sleep it had been, but the witch’s brew was doing its job, snatching Anirne from the jaws of the most restful slumber she’d had in years and yanking her with little ceremony to the world of wakefulness once more. The altmer woman’s golden eyes snapped open, and she inhaled deeply, rising to sit up with the motion. She focused quickly on the other female’s expression, reading something there that had her moving immediately, ignoring the protests of her still-sluggish limbs, though she reached the edge of the bed with far less grace than she was accustomed to.

“What happened?” she asked simply, if not without urgency.

"The ship's leaving," Maya said, standing and opening the door to their room quickly, expecting Anirne to follow. "The Omen still lives. We... have to get to the ship somehow, we have to do something." When she made her way back outside, the ship was already halfway across the bay; a few more minutes and it would be it would out of sight entirely. She exhaled in frustration. There was no way to catch it and board it, but maybe they would be able to follow it from the shoreline.

"The horses. We need to at least follow it." They couldn't afford to speculate about what had happened to the others, not now.

The news hit Anirne a lot harder than she would have expected it to, perhaps because she had not been expecting it at all. The mortality of her brother and his friends had seemed all too obvious to her, but at the same time, the fact that they yet lived, despite crossing so many paths belonging to beings that should have been able to destroy them utterly, had perhaps somehow caused her to forget that fact. She felt terrible, a surging of guilt rising from the pit of her stomach to her throat. She had sat this one out, rested in the repose of supernatural slumber, for what? To protect some old secrets? They could have used her, perhaps even used one or two of those very secrets, to—

No. She couldn’t think that way. There was a good reason the forbidden was forbidden, and she had been trained to set her personal feelings aside and think always of the greater good. Even if the casualties included the person she loved most in this world, as she expected they very well might.

Either way, it was something to stew in later, not now. Not before anything was certain. “Of course,” she confirmed, taking up her staff and slinging her pack of few worldly possessions over her back. They’d have to string the animals together, and then make haste.




The Omen's eyes snapped open as he ended his dream. Adrienne's return would not be so gentle considering that she still had her mind, but such was the nature of the magic, and the Omen did not care enough for the well-being of others to bother tampering with it. He had more important things to do now, like utilizing the new tools he'd been granted to slaughter his way through this Game.

The crew was getting the warship in motion before the captain had even risen from his chair, the mindless members of the Sellswords included, all of them heading off without a word, moving more like a swarm of bees than a crew of men and mer. They controlled the ship with one mind, and operated with unmatched efficiency and timing. The Omen himself rose from his chair and beckoned for Adrienne to follow him, all former playfulness gone from his demeanor. Apparently, he was capable of being as serious and business-minded as he was of being demented and twisted.

The Omen followed a large number of his crew below deck. There were three levels to the warship, the second of which was loaded with as many large weapons as the first. Ballistas lined each side of the hull, all of them loaded and prepared to fire massive spears at deadly velocities. The upper most level of the ship contained three catapults, two smaller ones angled off the sides of the ship, and one massive one located on the bow. A single wide, twisting staircase led from the top to the bottom, it was down this that much of the crew went. Drayk continued on past the second level and down to the bottom, passing out of sight. The Omen broke off from his thralls and proceeded directly below the helm of the ship, passing through a windowed door into what appeared to be his private quarters. The redguard that had greeted the Sellswords at the docks took up a guard position at the door, though if this was always his job was unclear. Either the Omen liked to maintain some sense of normalcy on his ship, or he hadn't let his guard down just yet.

The interior of the captain's chamber was spacious, certainly more than was necessary for one man, but it was understandable why the Omen would take more for himself, and leave so much less for his thralls. Everything was somewhat mismatched, but all of it elegant and refined, as though he'd pilfered each piece of furniture from places he'd raided, all over the world. A wide window decorated the rear wall, currently looking out over the town of Dawnstar, but the view was already shifting as the warship turned west. A massive, velvety bed was propped up on the right side of the room, and several cabinets lined the left. A writing desk was covered in various papers below the window, and a trophy case filled with various wordly treasures decorated the near wall. The center piece of the room was a large table currently occupied by a detailed map of Skyrim, with heavy notes taken all over it. If Adrienne cared to look, she'd be able to see that the Omen's notes pertained to the locations, movements, and strengths of many of the representatives, though a large amount of them were focused on Hjaalmarch. It was on the window side of this map that the Omen stopped, leaning over it and studying what he'd learned once more.

Adrienne, a bit disoriented from her reemergence into the world of the waking, shook it off and followed in the Omen’s wake, taking an independent trajectory only once they were in the cabin area. Here, she perused the various trophies and evidence of raids with some interest, parts of it genuine. It was clear he’d sailed much of the world, and she expected there was a story behind every piece of furniture, every artifact in this room. In another time, another life, really, she would have been content to listen to any and all of them with rapt attention.

But that life was gone, and in this one, she was here to kill the man, to wipe him from this plane of existence like a stain on the fabric of the world. Perhaps he’d be meeting his Lady soon enough; she didn’t care to know. Some things should remain mysteries, after all.

Tearing herself away from the cabinet of curiosities, she trailed one languid hand along the wooden back of an intricately carved chair, inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl in fantastical patterns, peering down at the map with what seemed careless interest. In reality, she was already decided that she was going to steal it when he was dead. It looked to contain a great deal of information, and that, as she well knew, made it quite valuable, indeed. Outwardly, she simply crossed to the opposite side of the table, pulling herself a chair and sinking into it gracefully. “Well, well. What have we here? Seems you’ve been busy of late
” her eyes flickered over the map, and the morphed her expression into a thoughtful one, as though she were trying to figure out just what connected all of these notes and locations.

"Targets," the Omen answered simply, "men and women and monsters that are to die, one by one. Some already have. I will explain in full later. For now, I hunt a bosmer bitch who has, up to this point, eluded me in the swamps of Hjaalmarch." He gestured to the markings on the hold. Red markings indicated ambush points, places his thralls had been hit by the Pact's warriors, and they were numerous, each of the Omen's four apparent strikes into the region turned aside by the hit and run tactics of his enemy.

"Her forces have all fallen back around this area," he said, drawing a dagger and touching the point to a circled area near the center of the swamp. "There must be a cave, or a network of them, that she operates from, in this area. But with the new additions, we should be able to push through. A strong front to draw them out, with the fire mage to draw their eyes, and the warriors to hold their attention, while the wolf slips through under cover. I have always had the advantage in numbers, but now I have the advantage in weapons as well." He looked up at Adrienne, a dark smile spreading. "Any advice, strategist?"

It was a solid plan, considering the circumstances, since he had the numbers for it. There wasn’t really much to be had in the way of additions, though she did give it some thought all the same. “How many mages do you have?” she asked, eyes fixed on the map before her. “If the resources are there, I’d dispatch your healers behind the front line to make sure it stays upright, and the more
 destructive ones can flank, and use the environment. I’m guessing if she’s lasted any amount of time already, she knows it well, but it’s a swamp. It begs to be used to trap and entangle, its water to freeze, or entire pools of it to conduct.” She shrugged—the advice wasn’t terribly specific because she simply didn’t know the resources at his disposal, and doubtless he would understand that.

"Sadly, the healers are few," he admitted, "but I should think it is offset by the fact that my thralls are capable of ignoring physical pain in ways normal men could never hope to. These guerillas fight like Argonian shadowscales in their bloody swamp. Perhaps it would be wise to freeze what can be frozen, and burn the rest..."

She glanced back down at the map, allowing an amused smile to grace her features. “Blackfeather? Webspinner? Horizon? It sounds as if you are out to kill crows and spiders and the sun itself, dear captain. I think perhaps there is a story I need to hear in this somewhere. After all, a strategist without knowledge is a bow without arrows. You could hit things with it, I suppose, but it would be rather
 crude.”

"They are monikers, all, representations of the Daedric Lord they serve. I was chosen to serve in a game in which offense and defense must be managed in equal measure. We must kill an assigned one while defending against an unknown other. And what better place to strike, than from this fortress on the sea?" He pushed back from the map, turning to the window. "It seems a strange thing for a pirate to do, but I've already plundered the world over. This is an opportunity to do something even gods would be impressed by."

He pointed back to the map with his dagger. "The Pact is simply next on the list, but I believe I know what follows. She's been busy defending against me, but she has not remained entirely idle. I've had her scouts followed southeast, past Whiterun, and down... deep into the earth. The spider you speak of is next. I expect that will be a similar challenge."

Adrienne looked suitably impressed when he revealed his part in the game, sliding a layer of keen ambition over it, as though the idea enticed her immeasurably. “My, my, but I have stumbled upon quite the endeavor.” She stood as well, pacing the room in a counterclockwise circle, hands clasped loosely behind her back, for all the world relaxed as a satiated cat, eyes half-lidded and darkly-glimmering. She lingered over a few more of his possessions, trying to find something she could use. The vial of poison currently secreted into a small pocket she’d sewn into the sleeve of this robe when she’d made it would work well in food or drink, tasteless and odorless as it was, but that would require something to put it in, and she had yet to see anything of that nature. The sword at her waist of the dagger in her boot would be more expedient, but she’d need to be close to guarantee a hit, and that would take a bit more work of an entirely different kind.

She wasn’t above seducing him, not by any stretch. To save her friends, she’d sink quite a bit lower than that, too. Sinder’s point to the Shade had been accurate enough for what it was, but she wasn’t so noble as he. It might have taken a situation like this to remind her of it, but it was true all the same. That stark realization, that she cared for them more than her own anything, was at once frightening, for Adrienne had ever been looking out for herself, but also reassuring in its solidity.

“And so, when the world holds nothing else for you, you seek it from another plane. How very
 poetic, for one who walks also in dream.” She picked up a ceremonial dagger, the gems encrusted on its hilt marking it to her to be of the make of her own homeland, and tested the point with the end of her index digit, as if idly. It was still sharp, and a single bead of her blood welled to the surface. Setting the weapon back down carefully, she raised the finger to her mouth and swiped her tongue across it briefly, rubbing her thumb over the spot thereafter. The blood disappeared, and no more broke to the surface. She shot the Omen a sideways glance.

“What do they call you? The Scourge? The Weaver? The Nightmare, perhaps?”

"The Omen," he answered. "It is within Vaermina's sphere of influence to bring omens of demise to those she chooses, and as her representative, I share in these duties, though my power is not quite so absolute."

After dropping the dagger upon the map, he slowly removed his black headwrap, unwinding it until it fell away from his bald head to reveal a wicked scar running through his right eye from the center of his forehead to his cheekbone. The iris had turned a milky white color, clearly no longer capable of sight. "And what are dreams but extensions of our realities? In my dreams I can see with both eyes only because I remember what it was like. I can create magnificent warriors of Dwemer make only because I have witnessed their like before. A dream is simply a canvas, and without wordly experiences, there is no paint. Even the imagination is anchored in reality."

Dawnstar was nearly gone from view at this point, although the Dreamwalker was sailing somewhat close to the shoreline. It was not a very long voyage they were undertaking. "It's strange," he mused, "how so few individuals mean anything to me now. It's so utterly freeing to be rid of attachments. They all turn against you in the end, one way or another." He gestured slightly towards the similar-looking redguard that stood outside his door, standing guard. "Even family. Greed makes even brothers into enemies. His poor luck for being my brother, however. I have learned that only when alone is man allowed to explore the pleasures of the world in peace."

“Mm,” Adrienne hummed pleasantly, tracing gently the lines in thread of what must have been an Imperial tapestry. “Sentiment is for artists and bards, it’s true. But I have not found every attachment to be without merit, as long as it remains free of such things as those. Perhaps that is only because I cannot rob a man of his mind. Well, not forever, at any rate.” She grinned, Cheshire and bright, the simple expression wrought with implication.

Clasping her hands behind her back once more, she allowed her circuitry of the room to carry her behind him, and she glanced out his window at the ocean for just a moment, but evidently dismissed it as less interesting than what was inside the chamber. “I would perhaps agree wholeheartedly, save one thing,” she held up a single digit, tilting her head slightly to one side and appearing to study his expression carefully as she tightened the circle, positioning herself between he and the table. It was a little too close to be strictly polite, but then that was the intent of it. “Not every pleasure in the world can be explored alone.” She took a single step back, removing herself from his personal space, but not so much that it would be perceived as a retreat. The heels of her hands hit the desk, and she leaned back against it with utmost ease.

She was quite conscious of the weights of the sword at her hip—bad idea, too obvious and not quick enough—and the dagger in her boot, which was still probably not ideal. What was an excellent choice was the knife he’d used to point out locations on the map, no more than a foot from her right arm, at present, but she resisted the temptation to look at it. She knew where it was, and that would have to be enough. It would be a very unfortunate thing indeed to draw his attention to it.

"How right you are," he said, his smile growing wicked at her implication. "And so rarely are the treasures brought to my feet. The others never parted with it freely, and they were sadly not such prizes as you are." He didn't seem to be in the mood for waiting, probably due to the battle that would arrive for him by nightfall at the latest. He maneuvered himself in front of her, pausing for the briefest of moments to make sure she did not plan on resisting, before he took her throat in one hand, not tightly enough to choke, and pushed her back onto the table, using his other hand to roughly shove the headwrap aside as he descended on her, his fingers brushing the hilt of his knife and spinning it such that the blade faced them. The table itself was sturdy enough for both of their weights.

It was only a natural reaction for her arms to spread as if to stabilize her spot on the table, but at this stage in the game, Adrienne could not afford to succumb to natural reaction unless it also served some purpose, which in this case, it did. Her right hand brushed the dagger, unfortunately not the hilt she’d been expecting, and it sliced into her palm, something which she refused to react to, instead inching the hand up and closing it around the handle of the weapon even as the prey fell wholeheartedly into the trap she’d set. That part of it had actually been simpler than she was accustomed to
 usually there was a bit more coyness to get through first. But Rialta was direct in this, and his end would be, too. His descent was met with the brutal upward thrust of his own knife, and she buried it under his chin, shoving up to the guard at an angle for his brain. “Sweet dreams, captain,” she ground out, unable or unwilling to stop the incensed hiss at the end of the phrase.

Her face lost all hint of expression as she wrenched the blade to the side, tearing it out and gritting her teeth as a hot torrent of blood spilled onto her, soaking her from jaw to chest and seeping insidiously into her clothing. It was a singularly-horrifying sensation, and she had to swallow repeatedly to avoid losing whatever she’d eaten last.

Unfortunately, she had failed to account for the fact that one’s muscles ceased to function when one died, and worming her way out from under his corpse proved to be a grim but unavoidable task, one that incited a certain degree of panic from her as the assumed character fell away and the stark reality of what had taken place here set in, setting her atremble and sputtering, wiping the blood away from her mouth with a sleeve. She’d never actually had to kill someone like this before—she’d not taken her first life until she was in the Mentor’s service, actually. None of those had been this close, this personal. The people who came after mercenaries were armed and dangerous in their own right, and while Rialta was certainly no defenseless lamb, she had rendered him as close as he could get, and slain him then. It sit ill with her, but there was no time for regret.

At last able to regain her feet, Adrienne looked down at the table. With her acting as sponge, the map was mostly safe, and she slid it from the table, folding it with as much care as her shaking hands could muster. She rummaged though his cabinets for a few seconds, long enough to find an oilskin satchel, which she shoved the paper into in hopes that getting wet wouldn’t hurt it that way, then attached it to her belt and drew her sword.

It was time to find her friends, and get the hell out of here.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero Character Portrait: Adrienne Jastal
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Drayk woke, only to find that hell was a dark place. That, or this was just the waiting room.

He was sitting, his hands wrapped tightly around something wooden, with only the slightest bits of light entering the room from the walls on his left and right. As he oriented himself, he realized that there were bodies all around him. Almost entirely men, all powerfully built, sitting four to a row, two on each side of a narrow walkway, all facing the same direction. Yes, it was certainly a line of some sort, waiting to enter the oblivion that they'd all earned in their lives.

He remembered dying. Being hung upside, his throat opened up by an enemy he knew hardly anything about, but hated all the same. His blood had been so warm when it had rushed down over his face, turning his vision red even as it faded to black. He felt... regret. He wanted to do more. He wasn't ready to die yet. There was so much that was still wrong with him, so many things he wanted to set right. Never getting the chance just made him feel... sad.

A shout of alarm came from a few rows ahead of him, and one of the men suddenly stood, looking absolutely terrified. The sight of an emotional display stirred something in him, but it felt mostly just like stress. Just sit down, fool, it's too late now, he thought. But then the man sitting next to him bumped him on the elbow, and Drayk turned to look.

"What is this?" he asked. And then a sword erupted from his chest.

It was withdrawn as quickly as it had entered, and suddenly there was a massive orc swinging his arms. A fist took Drayk in the side of the head, tipping him over into the aisle, and the orc ran through another in a mad quest to get forward. A second shout of alarm went up, and then a third, a fourth, and weapons were drawn, as people looked to each other first in panic, trying to discern in a blink of an eye what the motives of the others were. And too many assumed the worst.

As Drayk looked into the eyes of the dead man beside him, upright in his vision now that they were both sideways, it dawned on him. He was either still alive, or death was possible even in oblivion. His instinct in life had always been to ensure his own survival, and so powerful it had always been. He knew self-preservation to be the most base of human urges, and he knew he possessed that urge to such a degree as to make him irredeemable. But if he was in hell already, then it was too late.

He wrapped himself in flames to repel the chaos around him, lighting several others on fire within a second, their screams reminded him of a darker time of life, and a simpler one. One in which the only thing he ever sought was a way out. He couldn't see one here, as he rose to his feet, although the swirling flames in his vision helped matters none. But the walls of his prison seemed to be made out of wood, and he had destroyed countless structures forged of wood before. He drew his right arm back, and hurled a powerful fireball into the nearest wall, towards the ground, blowing a hole in it at least half his height.

The sea rushed in to greet him. He could see daylight, but he could also see feet of water rolling into the room, icy cold, taking him and everyone nearby off their feet and into the wall behind them in a mess of writhing flesh. His flame coak hissed angrily as it was put out, and almost immediately after an axe bit into his shoulder. He turned to face the attacker and blasted them at point blank range, not stopping to watch the obliterated body fall to the water. Instead, he turned to look for others, to see which direction they followed. They looked to be traveling up, on a staircase at the far end of this level. There were a good deal of crazed survivors between him and it, but he'd cut through them or he'd die. It was like old times again.

Vanryth woke from his nightmare under a dim light with a mop in his hand, in the middle of scrubbing the level he was on. All movement paused as he realized where he was, and exactly what he was doing. It was a slow realization, many briny breaths passed through his lungs before he returned fully to his senses. The first emotion he felt was relief, relief that he was still alive. He had always thought he was ready to die, and though the task would be hard, he would accept it when it came. His nightmare had shown him otherwise, that he was not ready, not until the Sellswords didn't need him. He wanted to live for them. Nothing else in the world mattered for them. He'd take a hundred Omens just to still be with them in the end.

The second emotion was rage. In his hands was neither blade nor magick, but a mop. His knuckles turned white as he grasped the handle, and a snarl passed over his lips. The Omen sought to use his body as a vessel for menial labor. To mop his bloody ship with. What was left of his pride would not stand for it. He lifted the mop and viciously broke it over his knee, the images of the Omen taking its place. He tossed what was left of the splinters down the deck and turned, drawing both blades as he walked. His first instinct was not to hunt the Omen down, but to find the Sellswords and ensure their safety. The next instinct, however, was rooting out the pirate's corpse. He wanted to see the body, if he couldn't possess the honor of offing him himself.

Vanryth hoped the Omen paid dearly for what he did to his family. As he strode down the length of the deck, many of the former crew simply stood out of the path of his blades. A singular large nord, bare-chested and armed only with a cutlass, took the implied challenge of the greyskin upon himself and stood between Van and his goal. A flash of the cutlass, and a grey blur, and the nord fell, leaving Van flicking the blood from his orcish blade. No challengers dared approach afterward.

When Sinder awakened, it was to find himself suspended nearly four stories off the deck of the ship, near the top of the interconnected ropes that served as rigging. Fortunately, his first instinct was to grip those ropes tightly, though he lost the easy grace his thralled self had handled them with and wound up hanging upside down rather than climbing. Considering the last thing he remembered was the touch of cold steel at his neck, it was perhaps not as badly-off as he could have been. Gradually, it occurred to him that if he yet lived when he remembered what must have been dying, then someone, either Lynly or Adrienne, had succeeded where he had failed, and the Omen was either dead or disabled.

Hauling himself upright and looking below him, Sinder discerned that there was massive confusion on the deck below. People, looking either bewildered or angry, ran about the deck, or stood dumbly, eventually getting shoved into by someone with more urgency. He studied the environment as well as he could, and spotted at last an ally. Not knowing if the Omen was alive or dead or if his friends were still about, he only had one idea: get back to shore.

“Lynly!” he shouted to the nord woman at the helm, “Can you turn us back?” They needed to
 to return. To get back. However many of them remained, they needed to regroup and go. To Anirne, and to Maya. This thought firmly entrenched, Sinderion set his jaw and began to descend the rigging, only to be intercepted halfway down by a man looking more angry than rational. The fellow was clinging to the netting with one hand and both feet, but his free arm held a wicked cutlass, and Sinder’s eyes went wide, his reflexes kicking in and rolling him sideways, keeping his mass pressed into the ropes so he wouldn’t fall. The cutlass tore through a few of them where he’d just been, and Sinder swore beneath his breath.

There wasn’t any reason to be had here, though, not with the madness below, and there was no time to try and talk anyone down. Clinging to the lines, Sinder lashed out with a powerful kick, catching the other fellow in the temple, robbing him of consciousness and sending him plummeting to the deck below. He followed much more cautiously, utilizing the network of cables until it was safe enough to jump the rest of the way. Drawing his sword, he set a destination for the helm, where he knew at least one of his allies was present. Two to find the rest was better than trying to do so by himself, and he trusted that they would find each other.

If there was anything to find.

Consciousness hit Lynly like a warhammer. She jumped when she regained control all of her facilities, turning whatever she had in her hand. In response, the ground she stood upon turned as well. It did little to ease the transition, but she had the wherewithal to stop moving her hands. Keeping them steady as she could, she took the time to figure what was happening and where exactly in Talos' name she was. The shifting tides and the smell of salt in the air told her more than enough, that she was still on the Omen's boat, and as she slowly came to realize, she was steering the bloody thing. Only moments ago she was being torn apart by a team of centurions, and now she stood at the helm of the blasted boat. This was no dream, for if it was, she'd expected it to be far more grim than her just merrily sailing a boat along. It looked like Adrienne had managed to succeed in their goal.

A commotion and the call of her name brought her gaze into the riggings of the ship, at a certain werewolf in a knife-ear's skin. Looks like he had woken up too. Good, the thought of facing down whatever came next was a terrible one, and one she didn't desire to act out unless her hands were forced. "I can turn us toward the shore!" she called back. Land was still in sight to her left, it wasn't any stretch to think she could guide the boat in that direction. What was conspiciously lacking was confirmation she could return. "Hold on to something steady," she added. Lynly was no sailor, with all that entailed. Their landing wasn't going to be the smoothest, not that she cared. After what the Omen put them through, she was gonna cause as much damage to the boat as she possibly could-- if only she knew how to make it go faster.

She grasped a hold of the top rung of the wheel and tilted it a bit to one side, gauging which way it would shift, and once she got which way went which, put a mighty spin in the wheel, slamming the boat hard to left. The immediate responsiveness almost threw her to the deck, as well as a number of the newly awakened crew. Those that weren't awake, surely were now. Once she picked herself up, and once the ship had a steady course plotted, she corrected the wheel and watched with grim delight as land drew near.

He wasn't stupid enough to ignore advice like that, and Sinderion latched onto the mainmast, gripping by the ropes wound 'round it. The ship wrenched portside, but thankfully, he was near center mass, and it wasn't enough to dislodge the deathgrip he had on the wood and hemp in his hands. The hard bank sent more than a few people overboard, but those were probably the lucky ones, and he would have been too happy to follow if he didn't have more important things to think about than his own safety. Righting himself and regaining his balance with the ease of natural talent, he adjusted his grip on his elven blade and made for the helm. Judging from the reactions of those still aboard, it wasn't going to be a simple matter of crossing the intervening distance.

The door to the cabin opened into pure chaos. The Omen’s brother was slumped against the wall, quite dead, though whomever had undertaken the deed was long gone. Peering down the hall, she could see the movement of several bodies, mostly men pounding away at each other with fist or weapon. It seemed there weren’t many mages, indeed. Fortunate, considering the conditions they presently labored under.

Taking a deep, bolstering breath, the blood-soaked Sellsword stepped into the hallway, making for the stairs. She was almost immediately blocked by the downward swing of a sword, which she was able to avoid only by scrambling backwards, an action which resulted in her unceremoniously tripping over a discarded sheath and landing gracelessly in a sitting position (partially the result of a sudden shift in the boat's directionality). This allowed her a peripheral view of several people plastering themselves to the side of the hallway, and she groaned inwardly. More bad news, then—

Adrienne rolled to the side to avoid the follow-up attack, blasting the assailant’s face with ice at the same moment as the one approaching from the side became visible. Her posture slumped with palpable relief, but she couldn’t spend too long celebrating: she was still in danger, as two more men had joined the first. “Vanryth!” she shouted, scooting her knees up to her chest to avoid a downward axe blow at her legs. That one received a spike of her preferred element to his chest for his trouble and fell, leaving two. They wouldn’t allow her enough time to get to her feet, however, and she was at a distinct disadvantage. “Over here!”

On the bottom deck, Drayk pushed himself to his feet for what must have been the fifth time. The water was coming in too quickly, and he couldn't see anything on the floor. He kept tripping over weapons, bodies, and who knew what else on the floor. Several of the benches for the rowers had come up from the floor, and one of these was carried by the current into Drayk's legs, sending him down into the shallow water yet again. It was freezing, and he shuddered violently as he pushed himself up once more, sputtering.

It was too far. His legs weren't working well enough anymore, and any fire he could summon around himself was smothered in an instant by the chill. And there were still others down here with him, either the truly crazed or those struggling just as much as he was. One of them came up behind him, and Drayk barely managed to get his shield up in front of the warhammer the nord brought down on him. The maul bashed against his shield and slide off to the side, catching the right side of his forehead on the way. It must have opened up a cut, because he soon felt warm liquid run down the right side of his face and over his eye, giving him brutal flashbacks of his only too recent death.

He struck back with the shield, knocking the man backwards a pace, and then Drayk lunged into him, placing his palm over the man's face and lighting his hand on fire. His shriek accompanied the smell of roasting flesh, and the pain took him entirely, causing him to black out and splash into the water, where he'd surely drown. Drayk stumbled and fell when the Nord's weight went out from under him, and by the time he got back to his feet, he could hardly feel his hands and feet.

He needed to go up instead of forward. The staircase led somewhere, and the roof was low. If he could blow a hole in it, maybe he could climb out. He blasted a fireball into the ceiling directly above him, splintering the wood and sending shards flying every which way, which forced Drayk to cover his head. It prevented him from seeing the large ballista that fell through the floor, and on top of him. For a moment he was smashed entirely under the water, but after a brief moment of being stunned he managed to pull his head out of the water. The great wooden and metal contraption had him straddled, and his initial effort to push it off him did nothing. Throwing one arm over the top of it, he was able to keep his head and shoulders above the water, but that would change soon enough.

Back in the middle deck, Van's stride hiccupped when he heard a familiar voice. At the end of the hallway sat Adrienne, in the midst of two men who weren't in the mood to talk. The hiccup lasted a bare second before his pace quickened. He reared back with the elven sword he had picked up from the Embassy raid, and let it fly through the air at one of the men. End over end the sword cut through the air, only stopping when it impaled itself through the breast of the first man. Not content to leave Adrienne's life to any amount of chance, he followed the sword with a lightning bolt, using the blade to send the shock through the man. He fell with a thud to the floorboards, and and Van was in a full sprint.

The other made the mistake of watching him crumple and took his eyes off of the charging elf for only a moment. When they returned, Van had closed the distance, and drove a shoulder hard into his chest, slamming him against the wall beside the stairs. The dunmer felt bones crack and break under the force, leaving the man in an unconscious pile at his feet. Finding that finishing the job unnecessary, Vanryth turned toward Adrienne and reached out a hand for her to take, a proud smile etched in his scarred features. Behind them both, a racket of crashing fire and screams echoed through the halls.

Van’s thrown sword plunged into the chest of one of the sailors, his shoulder slamming mercilessly into the other. It was hardly the time, but relief washed over her. She wasn’t alone anymore. It was one thing to know intellectually that they’d all been released from Rialta’s hold, it was another thing altogether to see one of her friends in the flesh. She took his hand gratefully and leveraged herself upright, returning the smile with a grin of her own.

But where were the others? They could be anywhere, and trying to track them down in this chaos would be like finding a needle in a—

An explosion sounded from somewhere down the hall, accompanied by the aural sensation of a crash, and something dropped in the pit of her stomach. It was an outside chance, but
 the Omen had told her there weren’t that many mages aboard, and she knew one very explosive one herself
 whatever the chances, she had to be sure. “That way,” she said urgently, pointing towards the shower of splinters still descending. “It could be Drayk.” It went without saying that even the possibility was enough, really. Still grasping her friend’s hand, she pulled him along behind her as she backtracked his progress to the hole in the floor. It was a jagged thing, and judging from the ballistae in this area, creating it had not been the safest thing one could have attempted. But here, in this roiling chaos, she could hardly blame anyone for doing so. Kneeling, she looked over the edge of the hole, hissing faintly when her sliced palm came into contact with jagged splinters. It didn’t matter, though.

What was down there was hard to make out from her spot: she could see a lot of water, a partially-damaged ballista she could only assume had fallen down the hole, a few bodies floating about, and
 “Drayk? Gods, Drayk! Hold on!” Wide-eyed, she turned to Vanryth beside her. “We have to get that thing off him!”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero Character Portrait: Adrienne Jastal
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It quickly became apparent that many weren't simply going to let her steer the ship aground. The first who reached for the wheel was the blacksmith. Lynly could see that fear drew his actions, not confusion or plain rage. Her longsword flashed in her hand and held it across the boy's neck. "Don't," Lynly commanded. The boy froze in place and held his hands out, begging her with his eyes not to go through with it. She fixed her own overcast eyes upon him hard and let him wither for a moment before she drew the sword away. "Are you still bored?" Lynly deadpanned. "I suggest you take cover and grab something heavy. I'm not turning," she stated evenly. At the command, the boy backed off and scampered away, probably deciding to heed Lynly's advice.

However, it wouldn't be long before her blade found another use. Many were the same mind of the boy, the idea of running the ship aground not so pleasant in their minds as it were heres. The crew that was on the deck, the ones that had the mind to stop her turned toward the helm in an effort to do something about her. She didn't waver nor hesitate, spinning her blade and calling an unspoken challenge. If they wanted the rudder, they could pry it from her cold, dead hands.

"I won't stand for mutinies," she explained cooly, looking every bit the part of the weathered sea captain. This was sure to make for one grand story once they got ashore.

The last of the men between Sinder and the helm went down without his head, the altmer’s bronzed sword slicing cleanly through his neck. The head itself rolled some distance away, but he wasn’t going to bother keeping track of it. He was within easy hearing of Lynly’s proclamation, and his brow puckered in slight confusion. “Doesn’t one have to be the captain to be mutinied against? I think it more likely that we are the mutineers.” Despite saying that, he shored up a position against her back, watching with eminent neutrality as a large pocket of those sailors remaining on the deck grouped up, clearly growing smarter as they reclaimed their own minds.

Hopefully, it wasn’t much smarter.

The first lunged, and Sinderion darted forward, sliding the point of his sword between two of the woman’s ribs. He was forced to duck and withdraw at the same time as another man came in high, and overextended himself after missing the elf’s head, leaving him a prime target for the armored woman next to him.

"We're awake," she explained, "That either means the Omen is dead, or he decided to let us all go. Which one seems more likely?" She posed hypothetically. "Someone needs to be the captain," She finished. Considering she was already at the helm, she saw no one else qualified to be captain. She certainly wasn't going to allow anyone else's hand, save one of the Sellswords', touch the wheel. It was enough chatting with the knife-ear for the moment, as her first opponent waited on the other side of the helm, and he didn't seem inclined to navigate around it to fight.

She leaned back out of the range of his cutlass, catching it in between the rungs of the wheel. She then turned sharply, jarring the sword out of his hand, and thrusting her own forward to end the nuisance. The body draped itself over the wheel, to which Lynly shoved off with a gauntlet. She then continued to correct her course, entirely nonplussed about the incident.

Unfortunately, Lynly was occupied with enough foes of her own, and Sinder rose from his duck to plunge the shorter of his swords into the fellow’s exposed clavicle. It may be the case that less armor was better for ships, but a large number of these pirates weren’t wearing any at all, which he found quite foolish. Even a few leathers would have been better than nothing, and waterproof besides. Well, their loss, anyway.

The numbers were a bit too large for two people to handle on their own, and even as he cut down an attempted flank on the ‘captain’ from behind, he decided they needed a way to take out a lot of them in one go. None of the other Sellswords were on the deck at present, which meant that even of every single other person that was went overboard, it would be only good news for the two of them. Without siege weaponry, they seemed to have one good option available to them: the boat itself. “Hard starboard!” he called to Lynly, preparing himself for the inevitable swing. There wasn’t much to grip here but the tiller itself, and that was counterproductive, so he dropped low, decreasing his center of gravity, and braced himself against the back side of the post holding the wheel in place."Starboard?!" Lynly called, ducking under another cutlass. She never said she was a good captain.

Was she serious? "Right!" he corrected. Captain, indeed. Now with directions she understood, she grabbed the wheel with both hands, and turned it viciously right. The ship was still just as responsive, despite it's size and the chaos. The boat pitched hard to the right, throwing the man attached to the offending cutlass to the deck and flinging him to the other side of the boat. Meanwhile, a number of the crew still on the deck were also thrown around like ragdoll, some even being tossed overboard-- which she assumed was the knife-ears' intention. She then went a step further and turned the wheel back, straightening their course and throwing whoever was still standing to the deck.

Sinderion, by dent mostly of preparedness, was able to keep himself more or less in place throughout the somewhat nausea-inducing lurching of the boat, and stood a few seconds after he was certain it was over. A large portion of those aboard had fallen into the ocean, and those left looked a bit battered, to say the least. He was about to suggest that they reorganize their defence when there was a great rumbling from beneath them, followed by an abrupt halt in their movement, and even the surefooted altmer was thrown from his spot, landing in a heap some distance away from the tiller. Meanwhile, Lynly rammed hard into the helm, taking her feet off of the floorplanks and throwing her ontop of the wheel. It then callously twisted and dumped her unceremoniously to the side.

They seemed to have run aground at last, some distance from shore proper. To get any futher, they'd have to swim.




Vanryth followed Adrienne, leaving his elvish sword behind and matching the girl pace for pace. He no longer felt the pressure in his joints, the haze of old age, nor even the entropy gained by years of hard living. He felt alive and he'd see to it that they would all leave the same. At the lip of the hole blown into the deck, he peered down into it to find out what had caused it, though he had his guess. He wasn't disappointed, though he did become worried. Drayk was indeed down there, but he was trapped under the weight of a ballista. Immediately, Vanryth pushed his remaining sword into Adrienne's hands and jumped below deck.

He landed with a splash in the frigid water, but immediately set about grabbing the ballista. He put what was left of his back and knees into the heft, putting all of his adrenaline augmented strength into the heft in an attempt to get the thing off of him before Drayk drowned.

For a moment Drayk hadn't even recognized them, and the moment scared him more than the ballista pinning him to what would soon become a watery grave. There was no time to worry about what had happened and how they were all still alive; he wouldn't be alive much longer if they didn't do something. "It's stuck on something!" Drayk managed, trying to push it off of himself, but at this point he could hardly feel his arms, and he wasn't even sure he was grabbing the right thing. The water was still rising, and in a pointless endeavor he tried to reignite his flame cloak, only to create a copious amount of steam that rose up into the hole he'd made above him. "Damn it, it's so cold..." he said, craning his neck around, trying to find what the ballista was stuck on, but most of it was underwater anyway, and with it rushing onto the ship as it was, it was difficult to see anything beneath the surface.

The moment she had Van’s sword in her hand, Adrienne was rising. She wouldn’t be much help with the pushing, and all three of them being down there at once seemed like a bad idea. They needed to think this through. Gulping in a couple deep breaths, she shoved aside any thoughts that were not immediately relevant and tried to figure out how to deal with this. Sheathing her own blade, she cast around the hallway for any help. There was none immediately present, but she did alight on an idea. Cannons and ballistae were sometimes secured in place with ropes, weren’t they? She knew she’d learned that somewhere. It minimized recoil, or something. Skirting the edges of the hole, Van’s sword in hand, she dashed off to where the other ballistae were sitting, looking for something to tie one up with.

It took her a little bit, but about a half minute-later, she found a clean coil of rope beside one of the unsecured weapons. Perfect. Reaching down, the breton had just closed her bad hand over the stuff when the ship suddenly lurched violently to the right, taking her off her feet with little difficulty and slamming her into the far wall. Stars danced in front of her vision, and she heard a wet cracking sound. The pain was blinding, and she was not so able to push through it as some of her friends were. Collapsing to her knees, she pressed a fist against the spot the pain radiated from, her other hand fumbling frantically for a potion.

Most of them had broken in the impact, but she did find one. Pulling the stopper out with her teeth, she drank as quickly as she could, sighing when her vision cleared and pushing herself with great difficulty to her feet. At least her hand wasn’t bleeding anymore.

Making her way back to the hole, she dropped one end of the rope down the hole. “Tie it around the ballista,” she said hurriedly, “then climb up and help me pull it off him! Drayk, as soon as you can get out from under it, let us know!” she wasn’t sure how long she could help hold the thing with a bruised ribcage impeding her in addition to her obvious lack of strength. There was no mistaking that most of the work would be Vanryth’s. She’d cast something to help them all, but
 hopefully it would be enough. Tying her end of the rope around the crossguard of Van's sword, she backed up a little and plunged it with all her might into the wood of the hallway's floor, taking up a part of the line herself. It would hopefully be enough to support him on his way up.

The ballista refused to budge even for him, he stopped, sensing that all he was doing was wasting energy best put elsewhere. He let go of the ballista, began to search for whatever it was stuck on at the behest of Drayk. He moved in order to search for it, but was stopped with a flash of steam assaulted his face. The sudden heat, and unexplained lurch in the ship caused him to stumble backward clutching his face, tripping over something and sending him back first into the chilly water. The shock was immediate, running the length of his bones back. He sat straight up in the water and gasped. They needed to get Drayk out of it, now. He pulled himself to his feet, dripping seawater as he made his way to the front of the ballista.

At the bow end, he reached under the water and grabbed the edge of the bow and pulled. It still wouldn't budge, but he found one of the causes. It was caught under one of the rowers' benches. He snarled and cursed inside his head, and plunged his hand into the water, grabbing the bench. There, he ignited the strongest frost spell he had and began to freeze the water around the bench, and the bench itself. Once there was a hard rime-layer formed around it, he pulled his hand out and punched it. The single punch did nothing, nor did the second or third. The forth formed fractures, and the fifth widened them. He lost count of the blows, and didn't stop until the bench was fractured enough to break. He then stood straight and forced a boot into it, finally snapping it.

Paying no mind to the blood pouring from his knuckles, he looked up at Adrienne's beckons, catching the rope as it fell toward him. He set about to tying it around the bow end he just freed, and then moved back toward the lip of the hole, jumping and pulling himself through. Ignoring the soreness forming in his body, he took his place in front of Adrienne and wrapped the rope twice around his hand, and began to pull. He then felt something seep into his bones, a spell of some sort, no doubt from Adrienne. It made him feel as if he could rip the ballista off of Drayk. Van then began to pull with all of his might, ignoring the screaming pain in his hands.

He might have been able to get out from under it if he'd been able to feel his limbs, feel if he was grabbing anything at all. As it was, he scooted out from under perhaps an inch or two, and that was it. It bought him a bit of time, as he was able to pull himself up higher, but that was about all. "I can't feel anything, Van... I can't... move right." His face had turned a pale color, and his words were growing fainter.

To top it all off, the ship suddenly lurched to a brutal halt as the front end was crushed on the side of a rock, more cracks opening in the hull to let even more water in. It was rising at a clearly visible rate now, one which left Drayk only a few moments. "Shit... no, no, no. You have to go, you have to get out of here. I'll be fine, just go, get out of here." The water had risen halfway up his neck, and he was forced to crane his head back to keep his mouth out of the water. He couldn't even see Van or Adrienne at this point, but he knew they would still be trying to save him.

”No, no, no, you can’t die, you can’t
” the frenetic phrases, repeated as a kind of mantra to keep her grip on the rope steady, came to an abrupt halt when the ship ran aground, and Adrienne once more lost her footing, this time to even more disastrous effect. Unable to stop herself, she could only yelp a warning before she slammed bodily into Van’s back, the momentum carrying them both over the lip of the hole in the floor and down below. At some point during the fall, they came untangled, which might have been good for him but probably didn’t help her any, as she landed sideways on the ballista itself, screaming when her arm took the full weight of the impact, splintering against the metal and wood of the siege weapon. Bouncing with an unsavory sound off it, she was plunged into icy water thereafter, and perhaps the only boon of the situation was that the agony of that particular sensation was enough to prevent her from really feeling the pain in her mangled arm anymore.

Her head broke the surface of the water, and she gasped sharply, inhaling air and liquid in equal parts, reducing her to a coughing, sputtering, bleeding mess. ”Ungh
” It seemed she had also lost her last weapon, her tongue, as she’d bitten down quite hard on it when she hit the ballista, and her mouth was filled with blood and seawater alike. Her vision swam darkly, and waves of nausea prevented her from really being able to tell where she was relative to either of the others. And somehow, that was all that seemed to matter. Where were they? She wanted to be near them. A very strange thought for a time like this, but the only one that occupied her all the same.

It really was too bad she was in no state to do anything about it.

While Adrienne's arm broke her fall, Vanryth wasn't so lucky. The tumble ripped the rope from his hand, flaying most of the skin from it. He didn't even had time to yell as they plunged back into the hole. It was his back that broke his own fall, as fell onto one of the hidden submerged benches. The edges of his vision flickered and sounds became muffled and dull-- at least until he slipped under the water. He breathed mouthfuls of saltwater before he worked his way back on top of the bench. It wasn't clear how he was able to do it, something about his survival instincts kicking in and forcing him somewhere he could breath. But it was all he could do to keep his head afloat, partially submerged by the water as it was.

Adrienne's groan was blocked by the seawater in his ears, fortunately enough. He wasn't sure how he would have reacted to it-- if he even could. As he laid there, propped up by the bench, he drifted between unconciousness and wakefulness.

Drayk could do little more than groan himself when he felt something land directly on top of the ballista. There was a lot of splashing, and all he could assume was that they'd come through the hole and joined him when the ship hit the rock. "No, damn it, you can't die too, get out of here," he said, panting for breath. There wasn't time for much else... the hull of the ship cracked wider, and the water rose faster still. "Adrienne! Adrienne, you have to go, you have to li--" but he was cut off as the water passed over him entirely, leaving on his icy hand above the water, reaching for something he wouldn't be able to feel anyway.

A few moments passed, the others unable to respond in any way due to their own injuries, and the scene grew still, almost quiet. The water came in more calmly now, but still just as fast. The sound of flapping wings signaled birds outside the ship passing over. At least, until the beats of the wings became heavier, pounding on the wind.

A loud splash outside the original hole Drayk had blown in the side of the ship signaled a new arrival to the scene. He ducked his head under the splintered wound in the Dreamwalker's side. His skin was gray and cold, his eyes alight, and utterly familiar. His wings were coiled tightly to his back at the moment for lack of space, but at their full length they spanned far more than his height. He took a brief moment to survey the situation, and then green light erupted from both his hands, a spell bursting out to grant Adrienne and Vanryth the strength and stamina they would need to swim ashore themselves.

"Save yourselves, if you wish," the Shade commanded. "I'll save the boy."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Maya had informed Anirne the moment she knew that the Omen was dead, the moment she knew that there was hope. Still they spurred their horses along the coastline, trying to keep the Redguard's ship in sight. It turned abruptly, and from the sounds, the witch knew that the situation on board had turned to chaos. It swerved several times on a doomed path to a large rock jutting out of the water a ways offshore, where it smashed to a violent halt.

She dismounted, conjuring her bow into her hands, and running as far into the icy water as she dared. She was almost in range, and if there was anyone she could kill to protect them, she'd do it in a heartbeat. She thought she saw Sinderion on the deck, but refused to allow her hopes to rise until she knew for sure. There were sounds of the living, but no one as of yet had departed from the soon to be doomed vessel.

The news that the Omen was dead was in a sense a relief, but it did little to settle matters, as the boat was still getting further away from them. At least
 until it turned. The movement was erratic, but the overall direction suggested that either the chaos aboard was too great for them to keep steering, or someone was intentionally running it aground. If their friends yet lived as well, the latter seemed more likely. She couldn’t say for sure, though, and dismounted even as Maya splashed forth into the water. Anirne remained ashore, the familiar thrum of healing magic called to just beneath the surface. Chances were poor that all of them would have escaped unscathed.

”I’d worry less about them and more about yourself,” a voice put in from behind. Soren had drawn his horse to a stop and leaned casually against its neck, glancing at the wreckage with the faintest glimmer of amusement. “Tarquin’s gone in after them, and we all know what that means. He did send me to tell you, though, that he doesn't plan on attacking you. Whatever stock you want to put in that is entirely up to you, of course, so if you'd rather head for the hills, I won't stop you.” He was looking a little worse for the wear, a new scar etching itself in a jagged white line from the bridge of his nose across his left cheekbone, ending an inch or so before his ear. Despite that, and despite the fact that there were dark circles under his eyes signifying a lack of sleep, he appeared rather well, all things considered, a certain vitality to his tone and his limbs that had not been present before.

His eyes, sharp naturally, scanned the deck, and the tight smirk on his face broke into a wide grin. “I can see moody blue and lovely, at least. Looks like at least one of the others is below, because that’s where your Shade is.” He shrugged. Something told him they’d be fine.

"He's here now?" Maya asked, horrified but not at all surprised. If he'd been following them or stalking them, of course he would choose now to strike, when they were at their weakest, when he'd be able to slice through them all without any effort and tear her to pieces. She scanned the area around the ship for him, not believing Soren for a second. Why choose now to return? Why did he come back at all? Was he somehow connected with the Shade? Had he been all along? The questions frantically darted through her mind like rabbits through her forest, and they were each too fast to strike with a lightning bolt.

With that in mind, she backed out of the water cautiously, not wanting to be anywhere where her feet would be bogged down like that. There were no bodies nearby, save for those under the sea, and those she couldn't reach. No, there was nothing to protect her here, nothing but her bow and Anirne. They were going to die, certainly.

"Sinder, Lynly, hurry!" she called, hoping they'd hear. She needed them on the shore immediately. The others would need to work themselves out, too. Haste was the key here. They needed to run, to hide.

And there he was, swooping low across the water, heading for the ship. The ship? He pounded his wings down hard, floating up and over the wreck, sinking down until he was out of sight. And something hit Maya. The sun was high in the sky over their heads. It was daytime still, which meant Tarquin was at a far greater disadvantage than he would be in the night, under cover of darkness. A sound of lurching wood and groaning metal emanated from the bowels of the ship, and moments later he returned to the sky, a robed male's body in his arms. Drayk, if she was correct. The Shade came in fast towards the shoreline, landing some twenty feet away from Maya, amidst the tracks of the horses she and Anirne had left behind.

Her bow was up and an arrow drawn back, aimed for his head, but the Shade ignored her utterly, instead laying the fire mage upon his back on the icy shoreline, listening for a moment for breathing, or a heartbeat. He then began to push hard on Drayk's chest several times over, before placing his mouth over the mage's. Maya frowned at the sight, but did not lower her weapon.

He’d no sooner picked himself up off the ground, it seemed, than he heard a distressed yell, barely carried to him on the wind. It was a voice he knew, though, and the urgency in it moved him to haste. “Quickly,” he told Lynly, ”we must swim to the shore.” The statement was punctuated with a much larger sound, powerful wingbeats, and Sinderion caught a glimpse of the Shade as he descended. That couldn’t be good news.

With no need for further thought on the matter, he launched himself into a run, leaping at the last available second into a swanlike dive off the boat. It minimized the impact of his entry into the water, as he was still a good three stories above the surface, but there was no way to minimize the cold. Powerful strokes carried him to the shoreline, and he regained his feet, soaked to the bone and saved from clumsy shivering perhaps only by the greater adaptation and natural body heat of the beast, which was unusually quiet otherwise at the moment. It wasn’t something he devoted any time to thinking about, though, sparing no time to shake himself off before he appeared at Maya’s side, glancing at she, Anirne, and the oddly-reappeared Soren before he beheld the Shade and Drayk’s limp form.

He knew what was going on, he just didn’t understand it.

Lynly picked herself off of the deck with the help of the stuck wheel and leaned on it as the knife-ear ran to the edge of the railing and dove in. Of course they'd have to swim, nothing could be handed to them. She sighed and made her way to the railing herself, and watched as the elven form swam toward the shore before cursing. "Bloody pirates were right,"' she muttered, fiddling with the straps that kept her armor in check. Had anyone else been on board with her, she'd never admit that statement out loud. Not only that, but the Shade had made an appearance as well, because why wouldn't he? She mouthed a steady stream of curses as her iron and fur plate came off and thudded onto the wood beside her.

She then sheathed her sword, and tightened the straps that held both it and her shield to her back. If the Shade was here, she'd need them both very soon. Satisfied (as far as she could be, the situation was far from great) she hoisted herself onto the railing and dove in behind the elf. Shock of the ice water struck first, and when she reached the surface she couldn't keep her voice to herself. She yelped, but then gritted her teeth, pulling herself along the surface of the water with wide breast-strokes. Nord heritage saw to it she wouldn't freeze to death immediately, but it was still damn cold.

She pulled herself out of the water with heavy strides, sopping wet. Lynly looked worse for wear, but she was intact. The tan tunic she wore under her armor was darkened with moisture, the braids in her hair frayed to no end, and a bruise was beginning to form on her cheek where she smashed into the wheel. But she was alive... For now. The Shade was still there-- but then again so was Soren. She glanced at the man and then shrugged, "Welcome back." The tone was completely deadpan, like she didn't just run a ship into a rock.

"Why thank you, lovely. It's actually quite nice to be back. You lot make raiding the Brotherhood headquarters look like a lark, what with all the dripping and the panicking and such. I would have made my entrance more dramatic, but I'm afraid there's little competing with him on that front," the assassin replied, tilting his head in Tarquin's direction and smiling. "I actually think he rather plans it that way." If he was at all concerned with being overheard by the vampire in question, he made no indication of it.

At least she didn’t have to endure the pain of it for long. Adrienne felt herself enveloped in some kind of restorative magic, knitting together the bones and restoring the vitality to her flesh, and when her eyes cleared, they centered almost at once on Tarquin. He was, after all, rather hard to ignore. The words he spoke, she heard, but didn’t process as quickly as she might have liked. In the end, though, she did understand, and nodded. They had no other choice, and something
 something seemed different about him. She sorely hoped she was not imagining that.

”Thank you,” she said, unable or unwilling to hide the sheer relief and gratitude in it. Whatever his motives, they had little option but to trust him, and so she would, at least for now. This marked one more of many occasions on which he could have killed them if he wished, but the newly-whole state of her arm spoke to different intent. She may not have him figured out yet, but she felt that she wasn’t going to die today, and neither were her friends.

She waited until she knew Van was conscious and ready to swim before she struck out of the hole in the hull. Magic or no magic, she was exhausted, and swimming, though familiar to someone who’d grown up near the ocean, was not exactly what she’d most like to be doing right now. Vanryth managed to roll himself off of the bench thanks to what spell the Shade weaved-- though he despised that fact. It was little consolation that this spell wasn't a rage spell. He slowly waded through the flooded deck toward's Adrienne and placed an arm over her neck, jerking his head toward the hole. He'd rather not stay longer then necessary. Choppy as the waves were, they made it, pulling themselves ashore sometime after Sinder and Lynly had done so. Adrienne was shaking with the cold, and probably incapable of moving much, but she was there all the same, and took a few lurching steps towards Tarquin and Drayk before she forced herself to stop. There was nothing additional she could do, anyway, and she settled for wrapping herself in her own arms, trying to stay warm in the impossibly chill air.

Once on the shore, Vanryth didn't move much. He waded out until the land was dry enough and then collapsed to his back. He was still alive, though just barely. He was more exhausted than anything, and his back was still in pain. He tried not to think of the Shade just feet away.

Drayk returned to them with a fit of coughing and a small tide of seawater coming out of him. As soon as he was revived the Shade turned him over such that he would not choke on the water again. When Drayk was capable of turning his head enough to see his savior, he shouted in alarm. He had not yet seen the Shade in this state, and it was obviously quite alarming. He tried to push himself up, but his body was still so cold he could hardly move. To assist, the Shade backed up a few paces from him. "Use your flame cloak," he commanded.

"What?" Drayk practically croaked, and the Shade nodded. "Just do it. You'll see." He paused for a second, before slowly igniting the spell in his right hand, and casting it over himself. The flames swirled around him for the briefest of moments before he howled in agony, writhing on the ground for a few seconds before putting the spell out. Still, once it was done he was able to roll over onto his front and start crawling towards Adrienne and the others.

"He'll live," the Shade announced, as if he were an authority on these matters. He was breathing heavily himself, his chest rising and falling in motions that seemed almost exaggerated, but it could clearly be seen in his eyes just how tired he was. He sighed, seemingly glad to finally stop moving, and took a knee, shifting back into his human form, where he immediately lifted the hood of his dark cloak over his head. He exhaled with what could only have been relief.

"Put the bow down, Maya," he said gently. She looked at him as though he were insane. "Not a chance, Tarquin. You can't possibly think a show of mercy will get us to lower our guards. We're no fools."

"I'm aware," he said tiredly. "I mean to to take these ones back to their Mentor. The situation has changed. Now... can we speak in peace? There's been enough death here, I think."

Adrienne was back in motion the second Drayk coughed, dropping to his side as the Shade backed off, though she kept her distance until the flame cloak had extinguished. ”Oh, thank
” she trailed off. There was no thanking the nine for this, nor Mara, nor any of the Daedra certainly. This was something that Tarquin had done of his own free will, and her gratitude was his. She glanced up at him, then over at Maya, who still had her conjured bow pointed at him. ”Come on, Drayk
 let’s get you off the ice
” she murmured quietly, helping him up with what little strength remained to her. She almost felt bad that it was her, since she was utterly frozen, but as usual, his comparative warmth was welcome.

The revelation about the Mentor put a hitch in her step, and her eyes went wide. What about the situation had changed so much in such a short time? ”Please, Maya, let’s hear him out. He didn’t have to come here, in the middle of the day, and drag us out of there, but he did. We owe him this much, at least.” He’d appeared when he was weakest, and though most of them were more battered than he was, he would not have known it would be so when he set out for this place. It was exposing as much vulnerability as someone like Tarquin could have.

Anirne, meanwhile, had crouched near Vanryth, the most worn-looking of those who remained. The light rustling chime and soft light of healing magic encased her hands as she tried to ease the aches. The surface injuries themselves were gone, and what he mostly needed was rest, but she was trying to stave off any long-term effects of the wounds he’d sustained. She said nothing, though she did mark the change in the Shade’s demeanor with calm interest.

Maya knew that she didn't want to. He was so weak now, and although they were heavily battered themselves, they would be able to beat him, and she knew it. He'd made a mistake, he'd allowed himself to present a weakness, and they needed to take advantage of it while they could. If they didn't, he'd only come back later, in the night, at the height of his power, and then they wouldn't be able to stop him even at their best.

"I don't owe him anything," she murmured, but she lowered the bow all the same, snapping her hand shut and banishing it with a hiss. "Say what you will, Tarquin."

"Thank you," he said, taking a few slow steps towards them so as to not have to shout. "I went to seek out my father after leaving you at the embassy. I... wanted to speak with him. To understand why he abandoned us, for a start. And perhaps to understand why he valued you all so highly."

"When I originally took him from you, I delivered him to my mother, the one called the Webspinner in this game. She was... more agreeable then. She took him, held him, questioned him, I assume. I don't know. But something changed from that time to the time I returned. She was... inconsolable. She turned me away entirely. I was unable to reach your Mentor."

He lowered his gaze somewhat, speaking more softly now. "Either he is dead, or something has happened that my mother strongly disagrees with, I know not. She has lived... a very long time. Her mind is not what it once was, and being forced into this game has done nothing to help that. It is time she know peace. You will help me end her life, and we will find my father together."

"No," Maya said at once. "I'm not going anywhere with you. I don't care if you're as docile as a rabbit. We'll get to your mother when we do, but we'll do it without you." To that, the Shade nodded, understanding. "I would not attempt to force myself upon your group again. I will respect that. Who is your target?"

"The Pact. She's nearby. We saw her on our way here." It piqued the Shade's interest. "My mother captured one of her warriors. She should be next in line. Deal with her. I will travel to Ivarstead in the Rift, and you will meet me there when you are done. Is that agreeable?" Maya looked uncertain at best, clearly not eager to enter into any kind of arrangement with a man who was capable of, and supposed to, kill her on sight.

It was quite a lot of news to process, and frankly, Adrienne wasn’t sure how to feel about most of it. What they were being asked to do wasn’t really outside the parameters of the Game at all, but the nature of the request was puzzling all the same. Still with Drayk leaning somewhat heavily on her person, she met the Shade’s eyes over the intervening distance and tilted her head to one side. ”Are you sure?” she asked softly. ”When first we spoke, it seemed that much of the disdain you carried for your father was gained because he left you and your family behind. Are you certain that the only solution to this is to assist us in slaying your mother?”

She wished to find the Mentor, oh how she did. And she knew also that the death of the Webspinner would eventually be demanded of them, in one form or another. They couldn’t have all prepared for this game expecting otherwise. But as she had learned, there was a vast difference between knowing that harm would come to someone you loved by your actions, and actually seeing it. Perhaps Tarquin had intellectually accepted that his mother, however far gone she was, was going to die. But
 that was different indeed from causing it, or witnessing it. She was unable to prevent her curiosity at the change in his demeanor, and however foolish it might be, she was feeling sympathy for him, something she would have expected him to disdain. But now
 things seemed different. And despite what he’d explained, they didn’t quite know why.

"I am sure," the Shade responded. It seemed for a moment that he might leave it at that, but he decided to clarify somewhat. "She has held only fragments of her mind for many years now. I believe even these are gone now. It... would be a mercy. And it is where I took your Mentor, so it is there that any of us will find answers."

He paused for a moment. "You... have not seen what she has become."

Sinderion was pretty accustomed to being confused. He didn’t always understand people very well, having missed out on a number of very important developmental years and spending them as an animal instead. So naturally, he wasn’t all that surprised when he didn’t understand what in the name of Oblivion the Shade was getting at. Adrienne’s question seemed misdirected to him, but then she knew much more about people than he did, so it was probably his error rather than hers. The answer was just another layer of the situation that he didn’t quite get, but he supposed it was easy enough to imagine what someone with so little sanity was like. Actually, it was painfully simple, given personal experience. Yes, he at least could see the decision to end her as a good one, if even those closest to her believed her beyond saving.

He felt
 torn. Part of him wanted to rush there right away, recover the Mentor (or his corpse, which he wasn’t sure any of them would be able to deal with), and get out of this twisted game. The other
 the other was siding with Maya even against his better judgement, urging him to see it (and her) through to the end. More exposure to the Shade was making that less likely, but it didn’t seem that there was much of a choice. He’d found them so easily, he could do it again. Probably better not to cross him without need.

He sighed, the sound heavy. ”Then we should begin hunting the Pact as soon as we can,” he said, glancing at his prone best friend and Drayk and Adrienne, the younger siblings of his patchwork family, leaning on one another to remain upright. It was a grim thought, that they would once again be forced to fight so soon, but it was becoming the reality of their lives. “I doubt it will be long before she realizes she has new hunters, and we are the logical conclusion.” Especially considering their meeting days ago.

There was no working around it for Maya. They needed to hunt the Pact, and soon, either way. It... could actually prove beneficial. If the Shade was telling the truth (which she so strongly wanted to believe he wasn't), then she would know the exact location of her hunter, be able to hit her next target freely, without looking over her shoulder for pursuit. If he was lying, than she was only lowering her defenses. But if he still truly wanted her dead, and the Sellswords with her, surely he would have done it by now...

"Fine," Maya said, relenting. "We'll handle the Pact, and then meet you in the Rift to deal with the Webspinner. Maybe some of the others will deal with each other while we're at it."

"We can hope," the Shade said, nodding. "Good hunting, Maya."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Chapter VI
The Darkest Places




They split up as soon as they reached Dawnstar, the Shade leaving in a typically hasty fashion. The Sellswords were understandably slower to move themselves, still exhausted from their escape of the Dreamwalker, most of them also still plagued by wounds of varying degrees. There was little time to wait around, however, and so their healer had to do her work while in motion. In all, it was not the ideal setting to depart in search of a target who, as far as they knew, could be just as dangerous as the last one.

Drayk was in a sort of stupor when they reached Dawnstar and began to gather what little they had unpacked, preparing their horses for another departure. He had wreathed himself in flames several more times over the course of the walk back to town, and only on the first attempt did he fall to his knees in pain. After that, the feeling truly began to come back to his limbs, and what followed of course was the overwhelming sensation that his entire body was being stabbed in every conceivable place from the inside out. He'd had to stop for a few minutes, until he was capable of controlling his legs without falling down. After that, only slight assistance from Adrienne had been necessary. Even that was really just because he wanted to stay close to her.

He didn't know what had happened aboard the Omen's ship, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. He remembered dying in a nightmare and having it feel like reality, like the time the Inquisitor had ran him through, or the frost atronach had smashed him against a wall. In all, he was tired of dying. What he knew was that someone had broken through, someone had killed the Omen, and freed him again. After that, he'd lived the shortest of all his lives, dying under freezing water and crushing weight, weight that was far greater than a simple ballista.

His friends had saved him from the Omen, but it had been the Shade that saved him from the water. It was perhaps the strangest conclusion there could have been to the situation. He'd been able to listen to the conversation afterwards, but it left him feeling only more confused. They were now working with two different representatives, one of which was supposed to be trying to kill the other. The Shade's change in demeanor only muddied the waters further. His feelings that they should abandon the witch and go with the side of strength were only reinforced, but he knew it still wouldn't go over well. But wasn't it the only way this could end? When there were two? Why would they take the losing side, after surviving so much together. They could make nice all they wanted, claim to be in an alliance, a truce, but it had to end eventually. There were no pacts between representatives. None that would last, anyway.

With the horses ready, the Sellswords heaved themselves up, and rode out of Dawnstar. The day had gone well into the afternoon by this point, but time was of the essence, if they were to catch the Pact unawares. It would likely be vital to their survival, considering how effectively she'd been able to sneak up on them earlier. Maya took the lead, one of the few among them not so physically and emotionally drained, though she was certainly not without issues plaguing her. Now wasn't the time for it, though. The others weren't ready to listen, and she wasn't ready to speak. First she would need to decide how she actually felt, and that was far easier said than done.

But it seemed they wouldn't even have time to think about their troubles, as pounding hooves ahead of them signaled a rider approaching. They were not yet fifteen minutes outside of Dawnstar, but the man riding towards them was clearly a cloaked Dunmer. The Horizon pulled his horse to a halt at the head of their column, taking in their battered appearance.

"We've caught a break, Sellswords," he announced. "The Pact moved to reposition as soon as her scouts relayed news of the Omen's ship departing. I followed them. They've taken up a position in a Dwemer ruin not far from here, expecting a full frontal assault from the Omen's improved forces. I know this ruin. There is a rear entrance we can use to slip around behind them, and avoid the traps they've planted. But we must hurry. She may move again when she learns of what happened to Rialta."

"Of course it's a Dwemer ruin," Lynly sighed as she pulled her own horse alongside Maya's. She of all people would understand her reluctance. The nord then spared the woman a tired look, but shrugged. Diving headfirst into a dwemer ruin after leaving her armor behind, and after the whole ordeal on the boat, left a bad taste in her mouth. Caught a break, the ashskin said, they'd caught nothing. The Sellswords never catch a break. Still, she relented and dropped her eyes before looking back, "I'm behind you," she told the witch. She could only hope that they could take out a lone scout first so she could don what pittance armor he had.

Sinderion made the distinct choice not to occupy himself thinking overmuch about anything that had happened recently. If there was one skill that constantly fighting off an internal monster had given him, it was the ability to compartmentalize. His mind, on good days, worked rather like a large house, with rooms and labeled doors into which he could shove those thoughts he didn't really want to deal with at the moment. Everything was properly sorted, arranged, and kept together. What he'd faced in that room with Rialta was hurriedly placed on the 'later' room, for unsorted material that could not be dealt with in the present moment.

Of course, few days were good days for him recently, and so for now he was simply glad that the doors weren't being thrown open, their contents spilling out into his consciousness like a flood of water. That a few stray ones occasionally had to be ignored was something he could deal with easily enough.

He was in much better physical condition than most of his comrades, again, and it was beginning to wear on him psychologically. Seeing them in such a state while he still had full, fine control of all his movements was taxing in an entirely different way than dealing with such fatigue would have been, and it was hard to know which was worse. He was, after all, accustomed to pain. In his observations, he had not missed the massive bloodstain on Adrienne, nor had he failed to identify the smell, even diluted by water as it was. He knew which of them had killed the Omen, which of them had saved them all. He just wasn't sure how to feel about it, and that question, too, was banished to the uncertain relam of 'later.'

Of more present concern, and more immediate remedy, was the lack of equipment some of them were dealing with. Lynly was the most noticeable, without any kind of armor, and he couldn't do anything about that. Van appeared to be weaponless, and Sinder could only presume he'd lost both his blades somewhere on the ship. This led the altmer to an easy conclusion. Sure fingers untied the leather cord that held his scabbard at his belt, and he withdrew the long elvish blade, sheath and all, from its place at his side, holding it out to his dunmer friend wordlessly. The situation hardly required words, after all. He'd be fine with the shorter of his blades, and his bow.

Well, well, this just got more interesting as things moved along, didn't it? Their little melodrama was endlessly amusing, at least to him, though he was somewhat disappointed that this would be the second time in less than a week that he was pulling the 'infiltrate fortifications from a hidden entrance' schtick. Well, it had worked pretty well the first time, leaving him with only a few grievous injuries, a new scar on his face, and an empty quiver. So hell, why not? He was a little curious about lovely's reaction to discovering that their target was in a Dwemer ruin, but for now, he refrained from asking about it. It was really too bad they couldn't avoid ruining the ship: keeping it going in the right direction would have given their deception a much longer shelf-life.

"Ambushes are so much more fun than sieges, anyway."

”You would think that, wouldn’t you?” Anirne replied neutrally, drawing an arm across her brow. Healing on the move was not the simplest of maneuvers, but she’d managed to acquit herself well. The Sellswords were entirely free of broken bones, open wounds, and potential infections, though she could do nothing for their fatigue. That was something that had to recover on its own. In an emergency, she could transfer vitality directly, but the fact was, she had not enough to go around, especially not after all the work she’d just done. Rolling her shoulders, she adjusted her seat on her horse and glanced around.

She was worried about all of them, but for some reason, something drew her eye about Adrienne. The girl had been quiet, very quiet, having said nothing at all since asking her question of the Shade. From the amount of blood on her, she’d clearly been very up-close to some measure of death, and though the Psijic had no idea what had occurred on that ship, it must have been bad, from the mood hanging over them all. Adrienne, though, observed her surroundings with dull eyes, and moved little, classic signs of shock. It seemed that now that they had been given even a few moments in which their lives were not in the balance, whatever had been keeping her sharp was gone.

If Anirne had her guess, Drayk’s proximity was helping, but not much. There wasn’t anything she could do for that, though, and she’d just have to keep an eye on things, and hope that the youngest of them could snap herself out of her daze when the time came once more to fight. If she couldn’t, they would all suffer for it.

"We'll get this over with quickly, then," Maya said, half to Lynly and half to Invorin. She wasn't happy trusting the plan of another representative, but the Horizon was either a very good liar, or he was actually intent on seeing the Pact dead before her time, even if it meant he wouldn't be the one to kill her. But she did have one question for him, before she threw herself back into the fire at his suggestion. "How did you know what happened to the Omen and follow the Pact and her warriors?"

He smiled, eyes gleaming. "Azura grants sight that isn't possible with mere eyes, my lady. Now, we should be off. There's little time to lose." Maya shook her head as she put her heels into her horse. That wasn't something she was called often.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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It was a very little door.

That was Maya's tactical analysis of the situation thus far. Even so far as doors went, this one was small. Not so much short as it was thin, a dull bronze wall with a golden handle, only wide enough for one person to stand in at a time. Even then, someone wider than Maya might have had to turn sideways. For a back door, it had a very fitting appearance.

They were currently crouched down behind a low, foliage covered hill, the largely barren bushes obscuring them somewhat from view in the event that the Pact had sentries over here. If she did, it meant this way was covered as well, so Maya strongly hoped there were none about. She doubted her ability to see them if they were, given that even Sinder hadn't been able to sense them when last they crossed paths with the Bosmer who was now her target. The huntress in her told her it was a very good thing there were no tracks here, as it was an obvious sign that no one had been here recently, but the suspicious side of her expected the Pact's followers to know how to cover their trails very well.

"So where's the front door?" Maya asked the Horizon, who lay in the snow next to her. He pointed to their left. "About a mile that way. It's a large network of tunnels under there, some that go very deep. This entrance should be beyond the reach of twenty some warriors, but caution never hurts." Maya seconded that. She felt no better about entering a Dwemer ruin than the majority of the party did, no doubt. It wasn't only the living beings inside that had the potential to ambush them, after all. The constructs defended themselves, with deadly traps and automatons. It was all metal on stone, and worst of all, it was loud. Sneaking up on her wouldn't be easy.

"Well, there's no point in waiting," Maya said, pushing up off the snow and making her way towards the door first. The rest of the group followed one by one, with the Horizon taking up the rear. Maya was tempted to conjure a weapon, but her daedric creations gave off more light than she was willing to create in a dark interior, so she held off. Weapons were situational as well. She'd be just as likely to need a dagger as a bow when inside these ruins.

The handle was actually warm to the touch, and Maya pulled it down, the latch releasing with a heavy snap. She grimaced. Sounds like that would get them killed. Damn Dwemer and their love of metal and stone. The door itself was quite heavy for being so thin, and it swung open gracefully, allowing Maya to pass inside. The others would need to enter one by one behind her. When Invorin passed through the door, he slowly pulled it shut behind them, and they moved into darkness entirely.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust, but even before they did, she noticed something different. Dwemer ruins were supposed to be loud, weren't they? Their steamworks were famous for still being functional, for continuing to run long after their makers had disappeared from the world, but this place was utterly silent, save for the breathing of her companions, the creaking of armor, boots on the hard stone. Visually, it looked much like other Dwemer ruins at first, bronze pipes extending along the stone walls, vents traveling through spaces the Sellswords couldn't see. But none of it was moving.

"I hate it here already," Maya murmured darkly, starting forward. "Let's find this bitch and get the hell out of here."

"It took you this long?" Lynly muttered. Distaste was readily apparent in everything about the woman. Her speech, the hitch in her shoulders, her plodding footsteps, the naked sword and bare shield in her hands. She had pulled both off of her back as soon as the door was in sight, and would not put them back until it was far behind them. In a stark contrast on how she was on the Omen's boat, she looked unsure, almost skittish once again. Fortunately, there were no ambient sounds of the ruins-- else she would be fidgetting even harder at every odd whistle or strange whine.

Thanks to the sword and shield she was loath to replace, Lynly had to traverse the passage sideways, though a little price to pay for what small peace of mind it brought her. Not only was she back in a Dwemer ruin, something she hasn't returned to in some odd years, but she was missing a vital piece of herself-- her armor. She was walking these wretched halls naked, not armored to the teeth as she envisioned. Her teeth were clenched, and her knuckles were white as she kept her eyes pointed toward the darkness and on the back of Maya's head.

"I agree," Nothing would please her more than doing their job and getting out.

Sinderion followed immediately after Lynly, his larger frame requiring him to angle his body a bit to fit inside the door, but he was able to right himself again thereafter, sliding his single remaining sword from its scabbard noiselessly. As the other was in Vanryth’s possession, he had only this one remaining to him. It would do. He inhaled deeply, but the only things of note that had been in this passage for a long time would seem to be his friends and the Horizon. Everything else smelled like stale air, rust, and metal, as though the passage had been disused for a very long time.

It was also utterly silent, and that seemed wrong somehow. Given how easily his nose had been fooled before, he half-expected the Pact and her guerrillas to appear at any moment, and his every line was pulled taut or coiled as he moved, ready to snap this way or that at a moment’s notice. He was also utterly silent.

Soren snorted quietly, unslinging his bow as he followed the moody one into the passage. Someone the size of a Nord wasn’t going to fit through there without a bit of adjustment, but he’d crammed into smaller spaces before, for lesser reasons, actually. He wasn’t sure what the big deal was—mostly you ran into giant clanking machines in ruins like these, and those at least you’d be able to hear coming. As for the Pact’s soldiers, well, he did like ambushes.

Anirne was next to file in, figuring that keeping herself centrally-located would be useful, as everyone was currently in range of her magic. Not that she was sure anything was going to happen, of course, but the possibility was enough.

These were not, perhaps, the oldest ruins she'd been in recently, but they did seem quite ancient. She had a deep respect for Dwemer ingenuity, but some of the measures they'd taken to produce it... well, the Falmer immediately came to mind, those poor, twisted beings that were all that remained of a once-noble snow elf people. A shame indeed, for the height of their civilization had been a glorious one in its own right, steeped in magic and ascetic tradition. There were theories among her compatriots that it might even have been similar to the way of life the Psijics practiced now, though she knew not nearly enough of the relevant information to have an opinion on the matter.

She stepped as quietly as she could, but neither she nor the still dead-eyed Adrienne behind her were trained for stealth, and the minute scuffs of their feet on the stone ground seemed far too loud in this blanketing silence.

Vanryth was posted not far behind Anirne, and though he was whole once again, he certainly didn't feel like it. His limbs were leadened and his mind clouded with fatigue. Not to mention the mental affects on what had just transpired on the Omen's ship. Then, he didn't have time to let it get to him, and it all happened so fast that it didn't start to register. How close they had come to losing everything again. Drayk once again almost met his end. Adrienne was a ghost of what she once was, and he was as mechanical as any one of these dwemer's constructs. He was so very tired of this game they played, and it was beginning to cost them more than their lives.

Drayk knew the heavy silence and ancient corridors should have made him tense, especially with the possiblity of ambush lurking around every corner, but it really just made him feel more tired. Element of surprise or no, this felt like a very bad idea, wandering into a fight with a fresh opponent while they were so drained. But did they really have a choice? If they waited until the Pact was prepared, it may not matter how well rested they were.

He'd noticed the bloodstains on Adrienne by this point, but there had been death everywhere on that ship, and they'd killed men before, so it had not yet occurred to him that the look in her eyes was something more than simple exhaustion. He stayed as close to her as he was able, not knowing if there was anything more he could do to help right now. They couldn't afford to keep speaking as they got further in, for risk of being detected before they were ready. Not that he would have known what to say, anyway.

They passed a small side room, the first branching of paths they'd seen since entering the ruin, but it appeared to be a dead end, a mess of more Dwemer technology that had stopped functioning. As for the environment itself, Drayk had little opinion. The lack of sound and functioning equipment meant all the defense systems would be non-functioning as well, right? That meant they didn't have to worry about enemies, or--

A loud click rang around the hall as Drayk felt the floor under him give slightly. He looked down to see a square plate at his feet, depressed by his weight. A pressure plate. He looked around for what it was supposed to trigger, soon locating the three holes on the wall that were connected to the trap. Nothing came out of them, confirming his theory that they had little to fear from the ruins themselves. He exhaled to release the tension in him, his adrenaline temporarily pulling him out of his stupor.

"Good thing this place isn't active, I suppose," he murmured ahead of him. The witch nodded her agreement from the head of the group. "Still, try to avoid those if you can, for the noise more than anything. Why do you think this place is like this, Inv-- wait, where'd he go?" She took a few angry paces back, eyes urgently searching for the Dunmer that had been bringing up the rear. No sooner had she done that then a very loud snap echoed down the corridor, followed by several smaller ones. The pipes on the walls began to hiss and vibrate as the ruin came back to life.

Drayk had yet to move, and a trio of bronze spears shot out of the wall at him. He cried out in surprise and barely got his shield up in time, the weapons smashing into the wood hard enough to push him backwards into Adrienne, his lack of balance taking him to the other wall. They retracted as quickly as they'd come, the pressure plate on the floor raising once more. Behind them about twenty feet, thick metal bars sprang up from the floor and barred their way back, the action following one last snap, this one coming from the room they'd just passed.

"No," Maya hissed in frustration, running back until she reached the bars, to find the Horizon standing on the other side. Maya conjured her bow and drew an arrow back, aimed right at his forehead. Despite their different positions in the order, the Horizon took up a more ready stance, lighting a ward spell in his left hand, his right hand now wielding... a bladed staff, something he certainly hadn't been carrying around with him prior to this point.

"You can't kill me, Maya," he reminded her calmly. She spat back at him. "No more than you're trying to kill us?" He shook his head. "I certainly don't intend for you to die, not yet. The rules are the rules. Still, that doesn't mean you and your companions can't enjoy an extended stay down here, while stronger alliances cleave through the field without fear of their hunters."

"Stronger alliances... oh, you can't be serious!" she called. He was already backing away into the darkness, headed back towards the entrance. "What do you get out of this? Are you just wrapped around her little finger, is that it?" He laughed genuinely at that. "That sounds like something you'd try, Maya. But no. I have played my part, now Ilanna will play hers." He passed beyond their sight entirely, turning a corner and disappearing.

"Damn it!" Maya said, smacking the metal bars with her bow in frustration. They responded by sending a powerful electrical shock up her arm, causing her to yelp in pain and jump back. She then banished the weapon, turning to the others and shaking out her arm. "Looks like we might be down here for a while..."

Adrienne seemed to bring herself around a little as she was bodily hit, the domino-impact with Drayk sending her skittering off to one side. She stumbled, regaining her feet, and alarm registered dimly on her facial features, but she didn’t react nearly quickly enough to do anything, and in the end, her face visibly blanked again somewhere in the middle of the argument between Maya and the Horizon. She should have seen this coming. Were not plots and scheming precisely her forte? She was hardly in the state of mind to really think much about any of this, though, and in the end she found it difficult to care.

So they were being locked down here with no immediately visible means of escape? Well, at least he couldn’t kill them. It was no worse than anything that had happened to them over the past weeks, and it was quite a lot better than some of it. They could get some rest, at least


Anirne frowned at the new set of bars. That was
 inconvenient. Glancing over at the others, she took in their exhausted faces, and figured about the same thing: perhaps being down here would give them a chance to sleep. And she doubted very much either Invorin or his ally would be expecting them to make it out of here anytime soon, which meant that when they did—and they would, these places always had exits—they would be able to surprise them. The Psijic was not one for vengeful thoughts or hatred, but she did not take well to being attacked from behind, and something violent flashed behind her eyes for a second before disappearing.

“Well
” Anirne replied to Maya, “Maybe. But maybe not. No dwemer was fool enough to build himself a home with one exit and a set of bars on with a trigger on the outside. There’s another way out; it’s just a matter of finding it. At least this way, you can get some rest. And depending on where this place goes, there may be some equipment in it for those of us missing certain crucial pieces.” she smiled at Lynly and Van. They could look at this as a horrible mistake, or as an opportunity. Both were equally true, but Anirne chose to look on the bright side.

There wasn’t much choice, after all.

Treachery from a Representative? Who would have guessed? Soren watched the metal bars erupt from the floor with detached interest, humming a note to himself as Maya approached them to yell at their dear Horizon, who was now spouting off some nonsense about stronger alliances. Stronger alliances? Just who did this man think he was? To the mercenary’s knowledge, neither the Horizon nor the Pact had yet managed a single kill, and the Sellswords and their darling Blackfeather had been well on their way to three before this minor hiccup. And that was if you didn’t count the Inquisitor, which was perhaps being a little unfair to them, considering.

“Have I mentioned that you all have the best luck with people?” he asked sardonically, though he could quite easily perceive that none of them were in the mood. It wasn’t like he cared what mood they were in, and he at least was perfectly at ease for the moment. This Game, it provided him with no sense of urgency, no grim specter of doom. It never had, but now he was free of such things entirely. He was, after all, a dead man. Any living he did after this point was entirely extra, a bonus, if one would.

“So it seems.” Sinder replied in a monotone, choosing not to react overmuch to what had occurred. Anirne was right—there had to be a way out of here. It was just a matter of finding it. And, well
 it meant he wouldn’t have to watch them go into a fight with yet another Representative so soon after the last. That was a bit of a relief, even he had to admit. What had occurred on that ship
 well, he might be able to compartmentalize, but it would have to be dealt with eventually, and he doubted he had endured the worst of it. Drayk had almost died, and Adrienne
 he wasn’t really sure what had happened to her, but he didn’t like that glassy look to her eyes.

That sounds like something you would try, Maya. Sinder shifted uncomfortably, not pleased with the direction of the thought, and flicked a brief glance at the woman in question. Was it really such an outlandish possibility, that she was playing them, playing him like a harp? His brows furrowed. She certainly had been, at the beginning, telling them nothing of who the Bloody Curse was and what they were about to step into. She was fully capable of continuing the ruse, of changing it as she needed to, but... he didn't want to think she would. He should, though. He was naturally suspicious, and it had served him well before. Clenching his jaw, she shook his head slightly and banished that thought, too, to the mounting stack of things he would have to ponder later. First and before all else, they had to get out of this ruin.

While Maya went back toward the bastard fetcher behind them, Vanryth traded places with the witch and surged forward, Sinder's elven blade flashing in his hand. There were plenty of bodies to handle the Horizon, and what else come from behind, but only the warrior between them and anything that decided to assualt their front. Lynly's shield came up and pointed toward the open end of the tunnel, blade lightly resting on the edge. Vanryth took up a position beside and behind her, a lightning spell crackling in his hand and the sword raised. If anything chose that moment to attack, then they would have to get through both of them. Van couldn't help but not be surprised at their sudden change in sitiuations.

Soren was right, though he believed it was more luck in general, but this certainly wasn't a new thought. They'd have no luck if not for bad luck, and this certain reversal of roles only managed to further prove it. Moments passed, and nothing attacked, letting both the warrior and the dunmer ease up on their weapons, though not entirely lowered. Both had been in enough of like situations to understand that it was that single moment where you lowered your defenses that everything went to Oblivion. "Hah! Rest. You say that like I'll be able to sleep in this blasted ruin," Lynly bit harder than was entirely intended.

The comment about finding equipment though did raise an interesting thought. If they could find an old dwemer armory, maybe she could find an intact set of armor. While dwemer metal was heavier than what she normally liked, she wouldn't complain if they had found any. Lynly wasn't the one to look a gift horse in the mouth after all. It'd do for temporary armor. Vanryth agreed with a grunt, he didn't like the idea of sitting in a cage resting while another Representive could come finish them off at their leisure. He was nobody's rat. "Let's at least get out of this tunnel first," Lynly spoke. She was quickly becoming claustrophobic.

"Right with you," Maya said, taking the lead again. She feared the Sellswords were all so drained they'd simply sit down and fall into comas if she let them rest. And they couldn't rest yet.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero Character Portrait: Adrienne Jastal
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The keener eyed of the party took the lead, to better be able to warn the others of impending traps. After yet another near escape for Drayk, they weren't willing to take any more chances. Several fire traps were bypassed, one that shot poison darts from both walls simultaneously, and an elaborate trap in which the entire floor would rise to the ceiling to crush an unlucky adventurer into a fine paste. The passageway rarely turned off to the side at all, and hardly opened up. It was seemingly just a long, dark corridor that occasionally took the Sellswords further down, never back up.

They passed a few Dwemer automatons on the way, but nothing hostile. The spider workers paid them no mind at all, just clicking along tending to their routines as if there were no guests in their halls. No dwarven sphere warriors came to halt their progress, and certainly no hulking centurions came charging after them. After a time even the traps ceased, and though they weren't very willing to let their guards down, it actually proved to be a somewhat peaceful walk. It was not encouraging that the passage only ever led them deeper into the earth, but they weren't being attacked relentlessly by Dwemer constructs, and that in of itself could be seen as a victory, considering their recent string of bad fortune.

"There's something up ahead here. Do you hear water?" Maya asked the group at large, quickening her pace somewhat. The tunnel continued down into darkness, but there was a small bit of light ahead of them, and most certainly the sound of water crashing. Maya jogged until she reached the end of the tunnel, where she stopped abruptly, somewhat floored by the scenery.

It wasn't quite on the level of a town or city... an outpost might have been the right word for it. Dwemer towers stood in what was a massive underground cave. Looking up, Maya could see the surface far above through a gaping hole in the rocky ceiling. Moonlight was streaming through, where it hit some kind of crystalline object that was built atop one of the towers. It reflected silvery light all around the cavern, giving a serene feel to the interior. To the back left of the cavern from where Maya stood, a waterfall gently poured its contents down below, where a large pool had gathered, its waters steadily flowing away from it across the floor in a stream that was almost strong enough to be called a river. It flowed under the rock on the other side of the cavern, passing out of sight.

The four towers themselves were unoccupied and hollow, open-air circular platforms in the middle of each connected by wide bridges. Each had a spiraling ramp coiling around the outside that led down to the ground and the water below. And on top of it all, despite the harsh conditions on the outside, it was warm in here. Not uncomfortably so, but the Dwemer machineworks served to heat up the air to a temperature that was at the very least comfortable. In addition, the way onward was immediately visible; one of the towers had a bridge that connected to a great set of double doors on the far side of the cavern. There appeared to be no other way inside.

"This is... this is something, I'll give it that," Maya said, slowly making her way over the first bridge to the nearest tower. It felt peaceful here, and that was so much more than she could say for anywhere she'd been recently. When they reached the first tower, Maya dropped her pack and assorted gear to the stone and turned to the others. "We'll rest here until we're ready to move on," she decided. "I don't think we're likely to find a better place."

Looking over at the waterfall, Maya decided it was far too tempting to ignore. "I'm going to go clean up," she said quietly. She gave Sinder a small squeeze on the shoulder as she left the group, meant more to be reassuring than anything, though she felt that the group needed a lot more than a little reassurance at this point.




Sinder nodded slightly in response to Maya’s statement, but it was relatively easy to see that his thoughts were elsewhere. In a way, he personally would have much rather kept walking, as he was still not short on stamina and would prefer not to crack open the door that led to all the things he’d promised himself he would think about later. But that was an entirely selfish way of thinking, and his friends needed to rest. With resignation, then, he decided that he should deal with the most urgent matter first, and that was Adrienne’s continued state of unresponsiveness. He recognized it too well
 he’d been the same, for a very long time, after the Mentor had first brought him out of his years-long shift. It was shock, pure and simple, but unfortunately, she, unlike he, did not have the luxury of lingering in it until she was ready to emerge
 if she was ready to emerge. They needed her, and she needed to do what he’d had to do: lay whatever troubled her out in the open, bare it for someone else to see so that she was forced to look at it as well.

It was his hope that she would be able to do what he’d not quite managed, and accept it, also. He was willing to bet that whatever had happened in that dream and after it had been entirely necessary, but that didn’t mean it would be easy to come to terms with it. Pursing his lips, he approached Adrienne, and Drayk, who hadn’t been far from her since they left the ship. Feeling quite like a bastard, he said the words anyway, because they had to be said. “Adrienne? We need to talk
” he softened his visage as well as he could, but Sinderion didn’t emote well as a rule, and the angularity of his face was much more suited for harsher expressions.

About as soon as everyone had decided that they were allowed to stop, Adrienne had done just that, sinking to the floor and putting her back against a low wall in the vicinity. Her face was paler than usual beneath the flush generated by the ambient heat, and she looked as one sick, eyes half-shut and unfocused, legs tucked beneath her and the crown of her head propped against the stone wall. Her limbs felt leaden, and she swore she still smelled and tasted blood. She’d
 well, it wasn’t the first time she’d gotten literally dirty in her recent line of work, but it might be the first time she’d felt dirty. The causes the Mentor chose were just, and she’d trusted his judgement infinitely further than her own anyway. Since then, they’d just been fighting for their lives, against people who didn’t give them much of a chance to choose otherwise.

On some level, she knew that it was really the same with the Omen, but none of the other lives she’d taken had been so
 personal. Over an edge she’d danced on for the better part of her life. All she’d ever had to redeem herself in her darker moments of guilt was the fact that she’d never used her skill with subterfuge and deception to take a life. That had been it. The only piece of her that still wasn’t stained black as tar.

Now it was just red instead, and drying as darkly as her robes were.

Sinder’s voice registered dimly, and she lifted her head enough to look up at him. He seemed serious about something, but then, wasn’t he always? She wondered if he’d hate her, if he knew how she’d done it, used that chance he’d given her. She wondered if Drayk would hate her, or Van. Did it matter? It mattered more than anything, but for the same reasons, she owed them the truth. Nodding weakly, she gestured for him to sit as well. “Yes
 I suppose we do. Where would you like me to begin?”

Vanryth once again found himself on the ground, though this time it had been of his own accord and not because he simply couldn't stand any more. Rocks and dirt made terrible pillows and blankets, but the fatigue had been nagging at him, eating away, begging him to stop after the next step. Now that the steps had halted, and he sank into the ground, he found sleep an hard fought affair. Despite the days of nightmare filled nights, despite the day's ordeals, sleep would not find him. He couldn't just drift off like nothing had happened. And so, he just laid there for moments, minutes, until Sinder spoke. He listened, first to him, then to Adrienne. He was slow to sit up, but he pulled himself into a cross-legged position, hands hiding his face. He'd listen, he always had.

Drayk had known this was coming, and hadn't wanted to be the one to bring it up, but they needed to. The others had drifted off elsewhere in the ruin, and for once the Sellswords were left to themselves. If there was ever time they'd be able to open up as the family they were and find a way to help each other, it was in a private setting like this. Drayk didn't know if he'd be talking any more than Vanryth would, be if he judged something to have a possibility of helping Adrienne, he'd do it in a heartbeat. For now, he took a seat beside her, making sure not to encroach on her space, but staying close enough that she'd know he was with her. They'd get through it together. They always had.

Sinderion sat, crossing his long legs beneath him, and looked at her for a few moments, remaining silent. Then, at length, he spoke. “Wherever you think it begins.”

Adrienne almost could have laughed, save that such expressions were still a bit beyond her. “It began too far back to recount everything,” she said wearily, “but you want to know about the Omen, and I can tell you that.” Adjusting her position, she shored herself up against the wall and took a deep breath. “As it turned out, I had just as much control over the dream as he did. I guess you must have figured that out somehow, Sinderion, and the clue you left helped me. I was
 invulnerable, almost. It went back and forth for a bit, but eventually it came down to convincing him that I was more useful with my mind than without it.”

She shut her eyes, the images of ice slicks and flying dwemer constructs and little dragons still almost as vivid as they had been then. “I deceived him into believing I was a strategist, that I could help him, even without knowing just who he was.” Remembering something, she reached down to her belt, untying one waterproof satchel with fumbling hands. Extracting the folded map, she handed it to Drayk. “He had this. I think it’s all his notes on the other Representatives. Maybe it will have something useful, I don’t know.”

Drayk took the map, but he didn't unfold it, instead tucking it into his robes for the moment. "We can take a look at it later." If it did have information, it would only force them to think about what they were headed into, what new horrors they'd have to go through. That wasn't what this was about, not really. As it was, they couldn't keep going, not like this. That last fight had broken them, and if they didn't find a way to fix each other, they'd just be walking to their deaths.

She nodded. “Right.” It was probably better if she finished this story in one go, else she might lose the courage required to tell it, which was already fading as she got close to the part she most hated. Bending her knees, she hugged them to her chest with both arms and rested her chin between them. “After he let me out of the dream, the Omen took me to the captain’s quarters. He explained the Game, and how he was hunting the Pact, that sort of thing.” She’d been relatively sure he was quite enamored of the sound of his own voice, but then, that had only made things easier, once he warmed to the subject matter.

“After that, I
 um, well
 I guess the right word would be seduced.” She looked resolutely at her feet. She’d used to be so proud of that ability, to make people dance in the palm of her hand exactly the way she wanted with a few well-placed words and some simple manipulation of body language. Now it made her vaguely sick to think about. “I made him drop his guard, and then I stabbed him. With his own knife.” She tugged ineffectually at the neckline of her robes with a hand, indicating the large bloodstain. “That would have been when you all woke up.” There. It was out. Maybe not in all its most gruesome detail, but they hardly needed that. They could figure it out well enough on their own.

He could tell it was costing her no small effort to tell them these things, and though her tone didn’t seem to waver, her shame was palpable. It was probably the reason she looked so ill. Unfortunately, he didn’t have much to offer in the way of comfort. He was not the Mentor, nor did he attempt to be. Like Anirne had known with him, he knew he could offer no real absolution for her. He didn’t see much of a problem with what she’d done, considering why she’d done it, but to say that wouldn’t help, he was almost sure. It would be like someone telling him that he was forgiven because he hadn’t been himself. An empty assurance that would do her no good at all.

He couldn’t take away that shame, but he could share it. “I halfshifted,” he said quietly. “In the version of the dream I was in. I knew what was going on when I realized that nothing smelled as it should. As soon as I’d thought it, the scent came, and I knew we could change the dream. But I didn’t have the magic, and I knew I couldn’t win, so
 I gave up. I stopped trying, and the beast won.” He put a hand on Adrienne’s head, something he vaguely remembered his father doing when he was a small boy. “I couldn’t stop that part of me from resurfacing, either. The part I hate. But what is here, now, in this place
 it’s not the beast. Not just the beast. And the person sitting in front of me is not a poisoner or a liar. It is Adrienne, who used to poison and sometimes must lie.”

That might not have been
 exactly what he wanted to say, but for him, it was actually rather eloquent. None of them were innocent, and at times, they’d all been anything but good. But
 that was only part of the whole now, right? He glanced at both of the others, hoping for some help, as he wasn't really sure he'd managed this whole thing properly.

Since they were all talking about their expriences within their nightmares, Vanryth let out a long, drawn out sigh and signed, though he was careful not to meet any of the Sellswords' eyes. I took my own life. Drove my blade into my stomach and ended it myself. The gestures were short and curt, and once finished he propped his elbows on his knees. He was just as useless in his dreams as he was on the outside, and now he found out he was too much of a coward to accept dying. He went in believing that he as okay with death, that it'd be a simple release, but now he feared it. Whatever the reasons he feared it, leaving his friends, the pain, the nothing it was still there. He didn't have time to think of it before, but now that they were talking about it, it was all he could do.

Sinder had lost himself again in his dreams, Adrienne was ashamed of her past and how she used it. What a mess they were. It pained him that he couldn't help, not when he couldn't help himself. It was not so simple as taking a lightning bolt for Adrienne, nor was it as instinctual as bringing Sinder back from the brink. This was out of his grasp, out of all of their grasps. It would take more than just talking to heal these wounds-- if they ever healed. They won't if they continued on the path that they were on. The game was toxic for all of them, each representive that they take down, takes something from each of them. Everything was murky, uncertain, even the Mentor's fate now firmly in the horizon.

If only they could just stop go back to how it was before the game, before the Mentor left them. Now he was being used as a carrot, dangling in front of their faces. He hated this game, hated the Daedric Lords for playing it, hated the Gods for allowing it. He was angry, but too tired to do anything about it. We do what we must. For the Mentor. For each other. It's because of you we still breathe. he signed, and finally allowed his hands to drop to his sides. A sorry sort of comfort that must have been.

As usual, Drayk didn't know what to think. The things Adrienne and Sinder spilled were... terrible, signs that they were slipping. Omens, though he was absolutely loathe to use the word, but what else could they be, but dark signs of things to come? And yet... Drayk wanted to confess something, he wanted to be ashamed of something, he wanted to share the weight that they carried, but all he could think of was that he failed. He'd gone into the dream with his typical hot head and paid for it with his life, then awoken from the dream and immediately panicked. Doing so would have cost not only his life, but Adrienne's and Van's too, if the Shade of all people hadn't shown up to rescue them. But what Drayk was ashamed of, he couldn't admit. Not to them, not now.

He hated the words that came out of Adrienne's mouth. He hated what the skills from her past life did to her now that she recognized them for what they were. He wanted her to stop, to never, ever use herself in that way again. But there was no denying that she had saved them only because of the part of herself that she hated so much. He wanted Sinder to resist giving the beast control, to not let the witch get close enough to him that she could convince him it was a good idea, but he couldn't deny the power it would give them if he could only learn to harness it. They were such dark powers, but the power itself was so tempting, when the lives of those they loved were in the balance.

And Drayk? He sat here, watching Adrienne and Sinderion and Vanryth resist their darker natures, and all he could think about was how much he wanted to give in to his. How much he thought it would help him. How he was starting to think that the key was giving up control. He was tired of losing, of just surviving. And what a hypocrite he would be to demand Adrienne and Sinder hold off their darker sides, while also making a case for giving in to his...

He had to leave. He wanted to be alone, quite suddenly. He stood, trying to avoid their eyes, and silently walked away, heading for the ramp that would take him down, away from here. How badly he wanted to let himself fall...

Adrienne managed what was perhaps the weakest smile of her life for Sinder’s words, but at least it wasn’t false. Maybe
 maybe there was something to what he said. She’d never thought him some mindless, destructive animal, though she had acknowledged that there was a part of him that was quite close to being just that. Perhaps it was the same. Maybe she wasn’t wholly reprehensible, but she certainly felt it. It was something she couldn’t decide at the moment, and all that mattered was that he wasn’t condemning her. She might ordinarily have resented the tears gathering at the back of her eyes, but she felt so exposed at the moment, like a raw nerve, that she knew it was nothing she could stop. The initial shock was wearing away, and with it the last of the protection she had from facing what she had done.

She fixed her eyes on Van’s signs, still able to read and understand them despite the fatigue in her mind. And
 wasn’t that something, too? He could talk to them now, in a way he hadn’t before. She could understand him without the need to read, and reply. It was something so impossibly small, stacked up against all they’d lost, but
 could she build a wall out of those things? Could it be enough to keep the despair at bay? If at least the people she loved most could accept her—encourage her to be better, yes, but accept that sometimes, they would all fail—then maybe


Any paper tower she might have built herself incinerated in silence when she felt Drayk move beside her. He stood, refused to look at them, and walked off. Adrienne swallowed thickly, watching until even the sound of his footsteps had faded away, and then some. But he didn’t return, and she knew it must surely be her fault. She must be so despicable that she bore no tolerance anymore. It was how she felt, so she couldn’t blame him for feeling the same, really. Of course, that it wasn’t his fault but hers may only have made things worse, and the unshed tears didn’t stay unshed. She shook, heaved an ugly sob, and moved forwards, latching onto Sinderion like the contact was the only thing keeping her anchored in the world, squeezing as tightly as her frail arms—not a warrior’s arms, never—would allow her, burying her face in his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled between wrenching heaves of irregular breath. “I’m s-so sorry. I—you—you were all dead. I—I had to pretend not to care. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry
” It was repeated like a mantra, at least until it dissolved into incomprehensibility, and she was practically delirious with it. All that she would have expressed if she could have upon seeing them so—in pieces, strung up, beaten, punctured, dead, beheaded, gone
 it left her now, in a tide so great no amount of her composure would have sufficed to stem it.

She felt lost. She wanted to go home, forget about this Game, forget about all of it. Forget about who she’d had to become, about all they’d suffered, about how raggedly it tore her when he wouldn’t even look at her, but she couldn’t. This wasn’t a dream anymore—and she had so little control over her reality that she really, desperately wished it was. Gods, she couldn’t even control her breaths anymore! “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry
”

Sinderion, quite frankly, didn’t know what to do. He understood where Vanryth was coming from—in a sense, he’d done the same thing, only indirectly. He could even respect Drayk’s need to leave, in a way. These were not easy things to hear. But he didn’t like what it did to Adrienne, and he remained as still as he could when she hugged him around the middle, dissolving into heart-wrenching sobs and needless apologies. No
 didn’t like was far too mild for how he felt about it. He despised this utter helplessness of his, that when this young woman, who meant so much to him, was in such distress, he could do nothing at all, save wrap his arms around her and move his hand in what he hoped were soothing circles on her back. She was shaking, trembling, against him, and he could offer her nothing more than this. He could offer none of them anything, except his pitiful assurance that, come what may, he would care for them still. They would be his family, still.

Taking deep, steady breaths so that she could match hers to his and regain some control of her lungs when she was ready, he propped his chin on her head, ignoring his customary discomfort at human contact because this was Adrienne, and Adrienne mattered, he shot a serious look over her at Van. He said nothing, because nothing needed to be said. It was clear enough in his face. This has to end. How they were to end it, he knew not. But he did know this: he would do everything in his power, and some things that properly shouldn’t be, to see it done. He would run his body to the ground, tear his mind apart, and watch everything he’d struggled for crumble to dust, if that was what it took. Vanryth didn't return the look. He had since buried his face into a palm, and saw nothing but the blackness. He couldn't even push Adrienne's sobs out of his mind. But they needn't even exchange looks. He understood.

It needed to end.

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Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives
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The waterfall had temporarily drowned out the sound of sobs, but when Maya started heading back towards the towers where they'd dropped their packs, she paused. It was... harder to handle than she thought it would be. How had everything become so complicated? It had been... well, not simple, but simpler, back when she'd been hunting her first target. Deceiving the Sellswords. They'd been tools then, but she'd gone and taken an interest in them, and a few turns of the moon later and she was feeling pain when they did. Certainly not to the same extent; she was not their family and probably never would be, but she couldn't deny that she wanted something better for them.

She pulled a comfortable dark blue tunic over her still dripping mess of hair, leaving her robe tied off around her waist, her legs largely bared now that she had foregone her high moccasins. She spied the Psijic meditating atop one of the towers, the one furthest away from where the Sellswords were consoling Adrienne. Or at least, most of them; she spotted Drayk storming away as far as he could get, idly flicking sparks into the stream.

Maya made her way up the circling ramp to where Anirne sat. The witch sank against one of the walls with not nearly so good of posture as the altmer, considering going back to the waterfall, if only because it was much quieter here, and there was no way to block out the sobbing. She turned to look, and saw that it was Sinder doing his best to comfort her. He was a whole other issue entirely, one she was even less sure about.

"I've had to remind myself lately that we're fighting for two different things," she said softly, gazing back down at the waterfall. "They fight so they can find their Mentor, and I do it because I was chosen for it, and never really had a choice in the matter. This... shouldn't be her burden, should it? I suffered nothing today, and they were broken..." Maya thought many things of herself, but she'd never thought herself particularly wise. Anirne struck her as a woman who was significantly better in that regard. Perhaps she was looking for some other insight she couldn't see.

Most of the conversation between the four Sellswords had been at too low a volume for Anirne to decipher. She did not, after all, possess her brother’s ears, for all the similarity in appearance. This had been her intention: to give them as much privacy as such a setting would allow, whilst not straying so far that she could not be found if she were needed. She was not far enough, however, to be spared the distinct sound of someone crying who’d just had her heart torn in half. It stirred Anirne’s own sorrow, and this, she accepted. She felt deeply, and this was no exception, but even the tugging in her heart paled in comparison to what that child (for indeed, the youngest among them were scarcely more than children) endured right now.

It was making meditation impossible, but that, too, she accepted. None should be entirely at ease when someone was in that much pain.

She opened her eyes at the sound of Maya’s approach, tilting her golden head slightly to one side as the woman spoke, casting her eyes down to the water below. Anirne focused on the sight of the mourning Sellswords, etching the details of their faces into her mind. Adrienne was wrapped around Sinderion, he folded down to meet her crown with his chin, and Van beside them, either unable or disinclined to look. Anirne swallowed, taking in the witch’s words with melancholy clearly etched over her face.

“Would it be so terrible?” she asked quietly. “To forget?” Turning, she met Maya’s eyes with her own. “Your obligations need not be your reasons. It is true that you would be forced to participate regardless of your will. But why let your reasons be chosen for you, as well?” She glanced back down at the three visible Sellswords, and sighed, draping her arms over her knees. “Tell me: do those look like people who fight only for the sake of finding someone? If all they fought for was their Mentor, then why would they share their pain so? Why would they be so intent on one another? They are not so cold as to use each other like simple tools to get what they truly desire.” She paused, her expression growing soft.

“No, they fight just as much for each other as they do for him. I suspect they see themselves as having no more choice than you do, but their reasons are their own.” She smiled, just slightly, not a truly happy thing, but more like a sympathetic gesture. “The burdens that have been thrust upon all of you are unfair. But I think it would be also unfair to say they’d been broken just yet. Her tears will end, and then they will stand, and move forward.” There was still hope for them, Anirne truly believed that. The escape from under that crushing weight could not and would not come from outside the eight troubled souls in this room. It would come from within, if it came at all. She supposed she could only hope it did.

"I hope so," Maya said, before falling silent for a time. For a moment, she envied what the Omen had done for himself. He had people who were nothing to him, mere vessels, as his only allies. It didn't wound him as well when they fell in battle. They felt no pain themselves, no emotional torment at what they were forced to do. In all, it must have been a very emotionless experience. It was undoubtedly the easier way to go through something like this.

But perhaps not the better way, coming from the viewpoint of someone who actually wanted to enjoy her life. Company was... important, to Maya. Perhaps not the most important thing, but it was... invigorating, to struggle alongside people she was slowly coming to care about. Perhaps that was why it had pained her so much to escape from it altogether for once, and let others suffer on her behalf. They had their own reasons, of course, but it didn't change the fact that they were in this alongside Maya. It had become something more than an alliance of convenience.

"I don't think I could ever be a part of the family they have, though," Maya said with a degree of certainty. She hadn't been through what they had, hadn't been united under the good will of a man who hadn't displayed any of it to her. "I don't know who this Mentor was to them. He was different when I knew him. I certainly never loved him. If there's some way for me to get out of this and for them to get what they need, I'll do it in a heartbeat, I just worry that there isn't..." She didn't know what the end of this game would have in store for them, if they should even reach it alive, but Molag Bal had a way of removing happy endings.

"I... care for Sinder. I'm sure you've noticed," she said, changing the subject slightly. She didn't need Anirne's approval or anything, but she didn't enjoy the way things just sort of... hung in the air, with these Sellswords. Unresolved issues, because no one here knew how to resolve them. "I want to help him," she said simply. Help him what seemed to be the obvious question, but Maya wasn't certain Anirne would like the answer to that.

Anirne smiled, a touch of melancholy in it. “I couldn’t be part of it, either, and I’m blood-related to one of them.” That was just a fact about their lives. “But that’s not to say I can’t be something else, perhaps even something important.” The Sellswords would always have each other, she was sure, but she was also certain that even that, great and mighty bond though it may have been, would not on its own be enough to carry them through this.

For some things, there were no easy answers, and Anirne could only nod when Maya confessed that she was unsure that their goals would align forever. There was a real possibility that they would not, that circumstance would force the Sellswords to make a choice—a real, impossibly-difficult, insidious choice. Or, perhaps worse in its way, they may have no choice at all. It was not a day she wished to see, and yet, surely something of this nature was coming. There was little point in denying that according to the rules as they knew them, either the Shade or the Blackfeather, two Representatives who had both hurt and helped the Sellswords and who were both bound so tightly to this Game that they could not escape, would be dead by the end of it. Their Mentor’s role only complicated things further, and muddied the waters until they were opaque even to her.

“It seems to me that the future could hold many things,” she said at last. “And it is true that many of them do not bear contemplating for long. But one does not get from Solitude to Summerset any other way than one step at a time.” Well, unless one used a gate, but she wasn’t going to say that—it would rather undermine the point of the metaphor.

The mention of Sinderion provoked a tiny huff of frustration from his sister. “I expect you are not finding that easy, are you?” If ever there was a difficult person to help with anything, it was he. Entirely set in his belief that he was irredeemably wicked and holding on by the thinnest and most tenuous of threads from showing them all just how wicked that was. She’d make no attempt to deny that some of what he’d told her of himself appalled her, but Anirne knew better than most the difference between which feelings were worth keeping and which ones to let go of. “I would that I were the kind of sister who could tell you what the right answer was, there, but I am not. We are not strangers, he and I, but we are not as we once were, either. I can guess, though, that making him understand those things will be a matter of time, and patience.” If only they were anyone else, in any other situation, all of this would be so simple. But they were nobody else but themselves, all of them, and each had much to overcome. The circumstances only made things worse.

What had their Mentor been thinking, bringing them to this?

"I had meant to speak with him when we found a place to rest," Maya said, before turning to glance towards Sinderion, still comforting Adrienne, "but now is obviously not the time." She sighed, and pushed herself to her feet again. "One thing I do know is that I won't be letting them fight battles without me again." Granted, it hadn't really been a choice. The Omen would have recognized her quite quickly upon her approach, and they'd have been doomed. But maybe that just meant in the future that those kinds of plans would no longer fly with her. They fought together, whatever that brought.

"Ugh, let's talk about something else," Maya said, somewhat berating herself for allowing the mood to stay as it was. They needed a change of pace, that much was clear. "Do you know Alteration techniques, well enough to teach them? I figure I should probably start expanding my repertoire." Considering that her opponents included vampire lords, dragon commanders, werewolf beasts, and other monstrosities that were not fit to speak of, it made sense that she try to improve her skills a little.

“A worthy thought,” Anirne mused, accepting the change in topic with equanimity. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t dealt with worse in more scholarly discussions—the trains of thought of some of the people she knew were well-nigh incomprehensible. She liked to say that she knew four languages: the common one, ancient Ayelid, sign, and scattershot intellectual. This was nothing as bad as that, and she wasn’t one to linger on the unpleasant unless she felt she really needed to. “As a matter of fact, I do. I suspect you would like to begin with the spells for augmenting one’s defenses? Stoneflesh, and the like? Detect Life and Detect Dead would also serve well.” Since they couldn’t count on all of their foes being strictly
 alive.

"That sounds like a good place to start," Maya said. Since it seemed she would be staying a while longer, she took a seat again, closer to Anirne this time, though her posture was a poor imitation of the Psijic's at best. "I've never had any talent at healing, figure having some ways to avoid injuries in the first place could save me some trouble."

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Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives
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It was nice to find some water that wouldn't freeze her toes off again, and so Maya was making the most of it, sitting at the edge of the pool with her legs in the water up above her knees, her robes tied off around her waist again. She'd been worried about the Sellswords last night, and it had kept her from getting a good deal of sleep. That, and thinking about how they would get out of here, and what it would bring them through. This place was... not what she expected from a Dwemer ruin. The traps had been there, yes, but eventually even those had stopped. The workers had all just gone about their business, and this place was... peaceful. Perhaps she'd been around too much death recently, but the idea of being someplace they could rest in peace, someplace that wasn't the Mentor's manor, wasn't settling in easily. Nor was it for Lynly, she could see. Poor woman was anxious as all hell in these places, and Maya couldn't blame her. But they hadn't even seen any signs of Falmer, and the Dwemer seemed content to let them wander these halls in peace.

Her doubts about the Sellswords were squashed rather soundly when she turned to look a small ways further down the little river running through the cavern, to see Drayk and Adrienne... enthusiastically mending the damage from the previous night. The sight brought a small, genuine smile to her face, and she shook her head, looking away, to see Sinder approaching. She kept the smile up for him, nodding her head in the direction of the younger Sellswords.

"You know... I think they'll be okay," she said, before she fell back to the earth, placing her hands behind her head. She sighed, staring up at the light streaming through the hole in the rock far above them.

Despite everything that was raging outside of this place, everything that was presently wrong in their lives, and everything they’d endured already, he at least wouldn’t have minded staying. The environment wasn’t any more than moderately hostile to them, and that was something rather new, at least new in this endeavor. He’d forgotten what it felt like to sleep a night through, but apparently emotions exhausted him in a way physical exertion did not, and he’d not woken even once over the course of the night, not until sunrise. He’d stretched, raised a brow at the now-familiar sight of his sister trying to beat some flexibility and health back into his best friend, and trod down to the river, intent on dunking himself in the somewhat-tepid water. When you had a nose that could differentiate day-old dirt from two-day-old dirt, you bathed as often as possible so as not to drive yourself crazy.

His plans were temporarily waylaid when he discovered that the riverbank was currently quite occupied, Maya dipping her feet in the water at one end, and Drayk and Adrienne
 Sinder averted his eyes. He was going to pretend he hadn’t seen that, though honestly, it was considerably less awkward for the fact that even his socially-oblivious self had seen it coming for a while. Hoped for it, actually. They both deserved whatever happiness they could wrest from the cold grip of this whole affair.

The comment drew a soft smile from Sinderion, and he nodded once. “I hope so,” he said, tones low enough to not carry over to the people in question. Selecting a spot by the bank of the river, he settled there, folding his legs beneath him. “And you?” he asked, then realized that alone might draw more parallels than he actually intended to ascertain. “That is
 how are you holding up?”

"I can't complain, I suppose," Maya said. "I'm uncertain of the future, but I don't think any of us could currently claim to be otherwise. Physically I'm fine. A bit of lingering guilt, but your sister helped me out with that a little."

She pulled her legs from the water and turned to face Sinder, leaving them dripping under her as she sat cross-legged. "I've decided I'm not okay with using strategies like we did for the Omen. I won't have you fighting my battles for me anymore, not after what almost happened." Her gaze fell from him, down to her hands, which she folded together in front of her just to have something to do with them. "There was a moment, back in Dawnstar, when I saw his sails unfurl, and I knew he was still alive. There was no way for me to know what had happened to you and the others, and I tried not to think about it, but for a moment there, I felt alone again. It was the way I'd felt when the Game had first started, before Tarquin directed me to you. I'm not sure I could have gone back to that. Not after all of this."

It was that line that lingered there, where she was with this group, fighting alongside this group, wanting to be a part of this group, but knowing that something down the road could put them at odds. She was attached, she knew that much, she'd been attached to them long before she'd realized it, but that instinct in her to look out for herself, to prepare for the worst, was starting to tell her that she was wrong to let the bonds between them become so strong. It told her how much easier it had been when she'd been deceiving them. She didn't much care for it, but that didn't make it go away.

Sinder was a little uneasy with the direction of the conversation, but then that might have just been the fact that he was uneasy with conversation. No, the fact that she was alluding to that unfortunately-large problem that had been put off but not solved definitely had something to do with it. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say here, or indeed if there was anything to say that wouldn’t be empty reassurance or flat-out lie. He wasn’t a terribly-skilled liar. He could hardly make himself sound confident about the truth, so that was no surprise, either.

“Well, considering how well we didn’t do without you, that seems like a sound strategy,” he replied, though whether this was a poor attempt at humor or the frank fact of the matter was something even he didn’t really know. Gods knew they all had their foibles, but that ship had been a disaster. A bigger disaster than the Embassy, and that was saying something, considering that most of them could barely walk after that incident.

He considered a moment more, deciding that the central problem was too big for him this morning. It might always be, but there would come a time when he had to face it anyway. Right now, thankfully was not that time. So instead, he said something else. “I
 appreciate your concern. For them. Not too many people in their lives have much cared about what happens to them.” At least, he hoped he was reading that right. Invorin’s words still lingered at the back of his mind, and they’d infiltrated the space in his brain dedicated to observations regarding this woman. Everyone he knew had such a space, but few of them perplexed him so.

He pondered it a moment longer. “Then again, I suppose none of them ever really lived with the knowledge that the people they knew would be actively trying to kill them one day.” He’d thought it odd that the Representatives seemed to mostly know each other, to varying degrees, and more than one of the had referenced the Mentor-as-Master as well. ”Did you know, when you met them, what would happen?” It seemed rather cruel, really, more than it would have been to set them all on strangers, especially since no few of them seemed friendly with one another. Had it just been a chance to form alliances, as the Pact and the Horizon had? To allow those with a gift for speaking a chance to take advantage?

His question took her back to the beginning, which honestly hadn't been that long ago, but it seemed like an eternity, back when the Representatives were first gathered. From the beginning they'd looked down on her, gave her little chance. Those who wanted to demonstrate their abilities had their little pissing contest outside, and those who were more interested in strategy discussed, and looked for potential openings in the others, ways to mutually benefit. Maya had done her fair share, more than she had been comfortable with, but looking at the result, it seemed to have paid off.

"We had already been introduced to the Game when we were brought together, but the order hadn't yet been set," Maya explained, seeing no reason to keep it from Sinder. She wanted him to better understand what she had been through... but at the same time, she distinctly wanted to avoid him understanding everything she'd done. It was in the past now. It had served its purpose, and she wasn't planning on doing anything of the sort again.

The thought occurred to her that she was doing exactly the same thing now, but she swatted it aside. "We'd been trained as well. These were the weeks just before the Game was to begin. Our Lords knew that not all of our strengths lay in combat, and so it was deemed only fair to allow us to mingle before we knew which among us we were to kill first." She pulled her knees up towards her chest and wrapped her arms around them lightly.

"It was... a manor, in the mountains between Skyrim and Cyrodiil, that we were all brought to, for a week. We stayed in separate quarters, just the Representatives and the staff that ran the place. And we... got to know each other. Most of us, anyway. Some kept to themselves, refusing to speak to anyone, just watching. I suppose I should have seen the Horizon's move coming. That was the only time he could have made an arrangement with the Pact before the start of the Game, though I don't doubt they've been communicating since. They're probably together now." She idly ran a hand into her thick mass of dark hair.

"I was too busy learning all I could about the others, I guess."

Ah, so that had been it. All of them were brought together to integrate? That simply spawned further questions, probably too many. Sinder leaned back on his hands, closing his eyes for a second to try and sort through his thoughts. “But if everyone was there, how come nobody’s met the Drunk? Did he spend the entire time invisible? And is that why nobody will speak of the Webspinner? The Shade says she is mad—it must have been obvious. And
 when was this, exactly? It doesn’t seem to explain why everyone knows of the Mentor, and so many of us. Just how long have you been playing this Game?” The Pact had seemed mildly interested upon learning their identities, and more than one of the others at least recognized it. But they’d never been to that mansion, and if the meeting was as recent as it seemed, there was little explanation. They were a largely-insignificant group of four mercenaries, raised to it by a man who had abandoned the Game. Why would anyone care to know of them?

"The Game only started... a week or two? Before we met. The Master... " This was where it got tricky. They bore such a love for him, for the influence he had upon their lives, but whatever he became, he was not when Maya knew him. When she had known him...

"The Master trained all of us, in one form or another, years before the Representatives met. Everything I know about Conjuration I learned from him, among other things. I don't know what he did for the others, but... he has lived longer than any being has a right to, I know that. The power he holds, but refrains from using... I would not have dared defy that man, for fear of the consequences. I think... I think he has done this before. Training others for this Game. Only, I don't think he ever had to participate, him or his sons or his wife. When he was confronted with the reality of being a part of it... he must not have been able to do it."

She swallowed, thinking back years and years ago, when she'd still been a teenager, receiving training from a man that she was absolutely terrified of. "When he was done training us... he left. Years before the Representatives ever met. To change himself into the Mentor, to... save, the four of you. We all knew him, what he did, and where he went, but he was just a bad memory of grueling preparation for slaughter for most of us. The Gathering was only a few weeks before the Game began."

Maya shrugged. The Master was an unknowable man to her, someone who had lived far too long and held far too much power for one individual. Maybe he had tried to redeem himself in his recent years. Maybe he had something else in mind. If they survived long enough to get to the bottom of this, maybe they'd find out.

"And as for the other questions... I don't know why no one saw the Drunk. We were assured everyone would be there. But that's all that was required, was being there. He could have been hiding, like you say, I don't know. He obviously wasn't interested in making any friends. And the Webspinner... we met her, but she was... afflicted. If she was the Master's wife, she's lived as long as he has, I would assume. Maybe it was the grief of losing him, or something Mephala performed on her personally, but... when we saw her, she had taken on a more literal form of the Lord she represents. I'd... rather not think about it. We're going to be finding her soon enough, and... well, we just rid ourselves of the nightmares. I'd rather not have them back so soon."

They would come anyway, she knew that much.

His imagination immediately produced a few ideas, and he pushed them aside. She was right enough about that—there would be plenty of time to be horrified in the future, perhaps. It was odd, to think about the Representatives as ordinary people, plucked from their lives by the lords of the Daedra, trained to play such a Game as this, and then brought together in one place. How did one even interact with those who would be either one’s killer or their victim? He couldn’t imagine it as anything but surreal. “What was it like? Meeting them all? Are there any alliances you have, like the Pact has with the Horizon? Could any of them be turned against each other out of order, if necessary, the way the Horizon was against us?” He didn’t tend to think in such terms, but it was a possibility worth contemplating, anyway. He had trouble imagining anyone getting along with some of them, but of course there would have been loners as well.

"I don't know how to best describe it," Maya said, her feelings from that time bubbling up again. "I think it was different for all of us. Vodrin seemed to be enjoying himself. He and Rikka wrestled on the grounds one evening, just for the challenge, though I think everyone that watched thought they were trying to kill each other. They had to call it a draw." She almost seemed to remember the event fondly, until it occurred to her that it had been her personally who had finished the Bloody Curse.

"I wasn't really... respected. No one really considered me a threat. They judged me weak just from looking at me. I suppose I've since shown Rikka, Talmoro, and Silas how wrong they were." The Inquisitor hadn't actually been her kill, but she'd escaped his wrath, something he undoubtedly didn't expect her to be able to do. Hircine wouldn't have had it any other way, she knew. The thought... still sat ill with her, but she was getting used to it at this point. "Aeneas and I, that's the Light, we were the two lowest appraised by the group, but Tarquin was always looking out for his brother, so it was mostly me that received the harsh treatment. Vodrin... sometimes stood up for me, with that stonefaced humor he sometimes has."

She sighed, thinking back. "As for alliances... I don't think there are others that still matter, that we haven't seen. Vodrin and Rikka saw eye to eye as warriors, but Rikka's dead now. Tarquin and Aeneas were brothers, but Aeneas was the first to go. I'd bet Silas and Talmoro had an arrangement of some kind, for all the good it did them. Ja'karo made no friends. The Pact and the Horizon seemed to be keeping to themselves, but obviously they connected at some point. The Librarian never really spoke to anyone. The Bard," she actually laughed once, "the Bard spent most of the time singing love songs to one of the tavern wenches... the servants were told not to interact with us, I think, so she tried her damnedest to ignore him..."

A distant smile hung on her face for a moment as she remembered that. "It was... easily one of the strangest, and most difficult weeks of my life."

Part of him wanted to ask if she thought he was stupid. He was not oblivious to the fact that Maya was
 well, charming was a mild word for it. And if being acquainted with Adrienne had taught him anything, it was that that, combined with being perpetually underestimated, was a dangerous skill all its own. There was no way someone as smart as she was hadn’t come out of that week without quite a bit of useful information, at the very least. But the rest of him, softheart that he was, just felt badly for her. Whatever the difficulty had been, he imagined it must have been considerable, and he was inexplicably angry at the other Representatives for treating her with so little respect. “I doubt very much that any of them has managed two targets so quickly,” he pointed out, a hint of irritation threaded in his tones. “I expect the rest will come to fear your tread eventually.” He wasn’t sure he liked the thought, but
 the Beast certainly did.

And in a few days time, she'd have more under her belt... but for now, they had some peace. They needed to enjoy it while it lasted. As the questioning seemed to be ending, much to Maya's relief, the look of wistfulness on her face was replaced by one much more mischievous. "You came down here for a bath, didn't you?" She chewed her bottom lip in thought for a moment, before lunging forward, grabbing him around the middle, and throwing them both into the water.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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When the Sellswords were at last ready to depart their temporary sanctuary, there was one thing that yet remained: the map that Adrienne had recovered from the Omen's chambers aboard his ship. Drayk had nearly forgotten it amidst all the other events that had occurred in the meantime. When he had remembered it, however, he had been significantly more excited to look at it than he had expected, his higher spirits today no doubt a result of what had happened by the river that morning. The Sellswords gathered atop the tower most had slept upon, packed and ready to set out, where Drayk pulled out the map and spread it open across the smooth floor.

Adirenne, seated comfortably close enough to Drayk that their shoulders and knees were in frequent contact, took a closer look than she’d had time to before. The red ‘Xs’ seemed like the obvious place to start. “Nothing too new with these, I think,” she said, pointing at the one nearest her, which happened to belong to the Inquisitor. From what she could see underneath the large crosses, nothing he’d known about the deceased players was of any relevance now, either, though some of the things connected to the Spymaster’s death led into what must be Stonehammer’s route, and
 “The dragon,” she said, pointing to all the places on the map where Vodrin and it had both been sighted. “He must be able to command it directly.” It had shown up to wreak havoc in Markarth, after all, but with all the seemingly-random dragon attacks recently, she hadn’t seen any reason to think it might be the same one. The sightings indicated differently.

Anirne’s eyebrows ascended her forehead. She currently sat on the opposite end of the map, examining it with curiosity evident in her features. She was tracing the Horizon’s route, noting all the coincidences with the Bard. Perhaps the latter was trying to off his hunter first? Perhaps he simply enjoyed being chased. One note, however, immediately intrigued her. “What is this Staff of Souls?” she asked, unsure if it was a nordic cultural reference she did not know, or something to do with the Game, or something else altogether.

"An ancient relic," Lynly answered, coming to a crouch to better examine the map. Vodrin's path didn't escape her notice, neither did the path of the dragon. If the man and the dragon were truly together, then it explained why Vodrin showed no haste when it attack the Imperial caravan. Her respect of the nord diminished somewhat with that realization, as she him using the dragon as a tool instead of grabbing what he wanted by hand. The idea that Maya was doing to same thing with the Sellswords and her necromantic constructs was lost on her, but the man was a nord, and she was not.

She tilted her head in thought, trying to remember where she heard the story of the Staff of Souls before she nodded and continued. "My father told me about it once. He was in some treasure seeking band and they searched for it, but never found it. Supposedly it's dwemer in nature. Very old, very powerful. He spent the better part of a year scouring these ruins to find it," she then tapped the Horizon's name on the map and added, "Looks like he beat my father to it. We'll find out what it does eventually, then." Lynly's voice dropped into something of irratition, as the thought of the weapon being used on them was anything but a pleasant one.

Vanryth grunted in agreement, but at this point in the Game, he expected no less. Instead of brooding over it, he instead tapped at the throat of the world, specifically at the words "Spider's Lair." It seemed to be the perfect name for the Webspinner's hide out, and explained why the Shade wanted to meet them at Ivarstead.

The idea of discovering firsthand what something called the “Staff of Souls” did was not at all appealing to Sinderion, but he brushed aside the displeasure. There wasn’t anything they could do about it now, and they had so many problems that contemplating any of the non-immediate ones for any significant length of time was stupid. Van called attention to the Webspinner’s lair, or what might have been it, and Soren replied by tracing the path of the Pact’s scout, followed, doubtlessly, by one of the Omen’s thralls. “Lost around Ivarstead. I’m guessing the Pact has an idea where she’s headed. She’ll probably beat us there, though maybe we’ll get lucky and she’ll die in the attempt.” ‘Lucky’ being, of course, a relative term. Here it just meant they wouldn’t have to deal with a three- or four-way disaster like the one at the Embassy.

“Nothing on the Mentor, the Drunk or the Feral anywhere.” he noted, which made the pending search for any of them more difficult. “But I’m guessing Tarquin was honest about where he was keeping the Mentor,” he continued, indicating the spot with the most frequent comings and goings of the Shade, which matched what he’d told them of his father’s hiding place. He noted the scribbles regarding Maya—it would seem they’d been watched. He didn’t think they’d been followed after the manner of the Stonehammer, though; the notes were too intermittent for that.

Good. If he’d failed to detect a constant shadow, he would have been incredibly displeased with himself and inclined to start running larger circles around their encampments every night. He might do it anyway, seeing how good some of this information was. For all that the Omen knew, he bet someone like the Bard knew more. It wasn’t explicitly attached to Maya, but there was another spot on the map that caught his attention. “Friends of yours?” he asked her, placing an index digit on the aptly-labeled ‘Witch Coven’. Whomever they were, they might be in danger, if someone thought they were sheltering the Blackfeather.

"Home," Maya replied with a tinge of sadness. It frustrated her that someone like the Omen knew where they were. The Glenmoril had never been most traditionally warm of families to grow up in, but to say they hadn't protected her, and helped become as strong as she was now, would be an outright lie. She'd certainly kill anyone who threatened them merely because they might be harboring her.

"I think they'll be fine. Tarquin's the one hunting me, and he knows right where I am. That, and if he's true to his word about putting this aside for a while, they should have nothing to fear. They're tough women, besides." Tough, but certainly not invincible. Lynly knew that well enough. Maya had to keep reminding herself not to hold it over the woman's head. They'd brought it on themselves then, grown too bold, too reckless. Her true family, that Falkreath coven that was circled on the Omen's map, they knew how to take care of themselves. They'd move if they thought they were in any real danger, which Maya had already warned them of before she left.

Maya was more interested about the spot in the northeast corner of the map. She pointed at the spot labeled as "The Library" from where she stood beside Sinder. "That must be the Argonian's hideout," she speculated. "I was always curious where he went. Probably the least talkative of them all, that one, save the Drunk of course, but I figured that just meant he knew what he was doing." More than that, he'd had that look in his eye, like he'd known so much more than anyone else there. She wouldn't doubt it, between the man's name and the Lord he represented.

If that name was anything to go by, there had to be something on that island that would of use to her...




Packed and armed and equipped with all the knowledge they felt they could get from the Omen's map, the Sellswords departed from what was possibly the only sanctuary they'd see for some time, taking the bridge opposite the one they'd come in on, Drayk pushing his way through the great double doors that were their path onward. He then immediately fell back more towards the middle of the group, letting the more sharp eyed take the lead as before. They hadn't run into any traps for a while, but there was no sense risking it.

The corridor the far doors led into were much like the last: long, straight, and not going up. These ones at least weren't going down though. Pipes steamed and hissed along the lengths of the walls, the occasional dwarven spider worker scurried along without paying them any mind, and no traps barred their way. Maya scratched her head in frustration as they neared a corner.

"You think these damn people would make it a little easier just to get--oh, well that's great." She had turned the corner, and thrown up her hands at what she'd seen, which was a spiraling staircase, twisting tightly around in a narrow radius... and only going down from here. "Do you think maybe we should turn around? See if the way back isn't blocked anymore?"

"Doubt it," Drayk said. "Unless someone came along and unblocked it, which I doubt would happen. No one but the Horizon and probably the Pact knows we're here." Maya sighed in return. "So it's further into the depths, then? Lovely."

And down they went. The width of the stairs forced them to go in single file, the lack of light in the staircase forcing a mage to keep a light conjured at all times just so they could see their own feet. About five minutes in Drayk started to get a little dizzy, spinning around and around in the same direction all the time, and nowhere, not once, was there someplace to get out. The ruins just seemed to be going down, and down, with seemingly no end point, until...

"There we go! No more blasted stairs," the witch said, gratefully passing under a doorway that led into a much larger space. It was no natural cavern; the dwemer had walled this place in entirely, with pipes and whirring gadgets covering almost every square foot of surface area. The staircase had kicked them out into a massive, square room, but opposite them, on the far wall, or rather built into the far wall, was a massive, perhaps thirty foot tall set of doors, completely blank in design, but strangely white compared to the darkened shades of the construction around it.

In front of this door was also something that was thirty feet tall. Dwemer centurions could reach impressive heights, but none of them came close to this one. It was a small colossus of gears and dwemer plating, with a big enough body to carry a small army of smaller dwemer automatons, especially in their condensed form. Its arms were almost entirely hidden under gear-connected plating, some of which looked quite sharp. If Drayk had to guess, he would've speculated this thing had multiple weapons at its disposal. At its top was a head that seemed disproportionately small for its body, styled in the fashion of a common Dwarven helmet, staring blankly ahead.

But for all that it looked imposing, it didn't seem active. It was just standing there in front of the door, completely motionless. A spider worker or two was crawling in and out of pipes on the walls, but apart from that, the Sellswords were the only ones moving in the room. And perhaps more promisingly, there was a second, smaller door to the colossus' left, in the corner. It too was closed, but looked significantly more moveable than the great doors behind it.

"Right, so... we should probably talk about this before we try anything," Maya suggested. "I... completely agree," Lynly quickly added, taking a conspicous step backward. At least it wasn't moving... Yet.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance it will just behave like the rest of the things around here and let us not-aggressively walk past it, is there?” Adrienne asked, tilting her head to look up at the top of the gigantic construct with a faint smile. Granted, the expression wasn’t one of happiness or amusement, more like the kind of thing that came from a no-other-choice appreciation of gallows humor. “Otherwise
 if it attacks, I can ice the floor under it. Bigger they are, the harder they fall, or something like that?” Of course, where and how something like that fell would likely be important, lest they find themselves crushed under tons of dwemer metal. Lynly grumbled behind the girl, and added her two bits, "Yes, let's joke about this. It's hilarious. Maybe it'll die from laughter." She said coldy.

“Well, if you can’t joke about your impending death, there’s not a lot left to laugh about around here,” Soren pointed out pragmatically, though he did assume a serious expression afterwards. “You know, that might be the first good option we have, though. Nothing else around here has bothered us. It would be unfortunate to provoke it if we don’t have to
 or very fortunate, depending on how you look at it.” Truthfully, though
 that thing was made of armor. He didn’t have a lot he could throw at that.

“The joints would be the weakest points,” Sinderion added, sweeping a glance down the construct. "I don’t know how well any equipment we tried to use on it would survive, though, and I believe such things are quite resistant to magic as well.” The archer snorted.

“Oh good, it’s made of armor and resistant to magic. What are we supposed to do, talk it down for tea and biscuits?” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling, but it wasn’t really anyone’s fault in particular. “It’s probably slow. If that door opens, we could outrun it if we must.”

Lynly had been rubbing her brow, flying back and forth between anxious and outright anger. Why did the damn thing have to be here of all places? Why in Oblivion's name was it so big? She wished the Dwemer were still alive, just so she could hurt them. Damn them and their machines. Picking herself up enough to actually contribute to the conversation instead of just snipping at the other's suggestions, she began. "Look it's legs. It's gait would be massive. Damn things are faster than you'd think," Lynly pointed out from first hand experience. "Maybe a couple of us would get through that door if we ran, though certainly not all of us." A rather pessimistic tone had seeped into her voice, and her tone was just a couple of decibels above a growl.

"Sinder's right," She continued, "The joints are the weakest points, though that's not saying much. That's like saying a cave is the weakest point in a mountain," she said frowning. "If we are to fight it-- which I don't intend unless absolutely forced then the sure kill would be the core inside of it. Good luck getting to it without getting powdered though," She replied, pointing at the tiny gaps in it's armor. If the Omen's dream taught her anything, it's how to kill one. The armor she now wore meant nothing at all against the sight of the mechanical behemoth, and what comfort she had derived from it had all but melted away. "Talos save us all, why in Oblivion's name can we not get a breath!" She snarled, perhaps the first time the Sellswords ever seen her Nordic Temper in full display.

"Well..." Drayk said, his eyes still a little wide when he was looking at the colossus, "I don't think we can go back. That door's gotta be our best shot, right? Maybe we can just... get there quietly? Slip on out without pissing it off?" Lynly laughed out loud and followed up with a stern statement, "Because that always works."

“Be wary even passing it at a distance,” Anirne advised. ”The advanced models like this are usually equipped with at least a steam cannon, though they prefer to engage up close.” She paused. ”You should know that I’ve never heard of any this big, except
 there are stories about Centurions with flame cannons. Please, whatever you do, be very careful
”

"Lynly," Maya said evenly, "Not helping. Come on... just think about the glory if you brought something like this down. This guy's nothing. And that's only if he decides to mess with you. If he doesn't, we can just sneak on out of here. Easy, right? Just... don't panic. Panic will get us killed." Lynly grunted in reply, "I'm not panicking, I'm just being a realist." When had anything ever gone right for them?

"We really can't afford to be realists right now," Drayk said rather gently. "It's a little too depressing." He huffed a breath out, adjusting his grip on his shield. "Let's get this over with, before we lose the nerve." Ever the vanguard, Drayk went out first, the others falling in behind, giving the colossus as wide a birth as possible while still inching closer and closer to that door in the back corner.

But no one really ever thought that would work. It was as though they passed over an invisible line that spread across the length of the room, and suddenly every valve on the colossus hissed with releasing steam, and gears started grinding against one another. The legs kicked into action one at a time, each rising and then pounding the ground beneath them, shaking the entire room when they did. The body twisted at the waist to face the group, the right arm sliding outwards in the form of a massive blade, the other rearranging itself into a large cannon, both of which leveled themselves at the group. The little head on top of the massive body angled down to look at them, and it spoke. Its voice was deep, a very guttural, grinding sound, and it was loud, only amplified by the fact that it echoed around the entire chamber.

"PERFORMING ANALYSIS. REMAIN STILL. MOTION WILL RESULT IN TERMINATION."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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It was of course Lynly who was the first to stop dead in her tracks. Not only was the giant machine deadly-- it spoke too! It told them to stop, else face termination, but something told Lynly that it was going to terminate them either way. Her mind was a flurry of reactions. Half of her wanted to bolt for the stairs, the other half wanted to stand her ground. Both halves were cursing their luck, the dwemer, the Gods, Daedra Lords, the Horizon, the Pact and whomever else she could think to blame. However, the only words that found their way to her lips were, "Shit, shit, shit!"

So much for the quiet approach. They had seconds before the thing turned on them and they were terminated.

“I think I had a warmer reception at the Brotherhood hideout,” Soren agreed, and despite the gravity of the situation, there was mirth in the words. To be fair, it should probably be expected of him by now. He had snuck into said fortress, and he was here entirely of his own free will. Clearly his relationship with immanent death was much more cordial than that of the average man. They were practically friends, even. Though
 “And lovely? As much as I greatly enjoy and take partial credit for the extraordinary amount of snark-and-panic whiplash just oozing from you right now, I would like you to remember that you are not here by yourself, and you are not going to die today, all right? I just decided to start a new chapter in my life, and I hate premature endings.”

If this thing wanted him to remain still, Drayk could do that. He could certainly do that. In fact, he wasn't sure he was capable of running at the moment. The only movement he made was to first check to see that Adrienne was somewhere in the vicinity of behind him, and then crouch down behind his shield, and brace himself. Not that his shield would be any use against that sword, but it felt a tiny bit reassuring all the same.

Maya had her bow conjured, trying to pick out a weak point, any weak point, but it really seemed entirely pointless. Arrows weren't going to do anything to this behemoth. Probably very little that they had would. She doubted they'd even be able to make it slip on anything like they'd brought up. Those legs looked incredibly sturdy, how they'd pounded into the ground. It just... held still, though, looking at them with its puny little head, weapons bared and mere seconds away from obliterating them. And she could have sworn it was looking at her specifically.

"ANALYSIS COMPLETE. REPRESENTATIVE DETECTED."

The torso rotated and re-arranged itself to look straight ahead once more, the sword retracting back up its arm, the cannon covering itself back up with metal plating.

"I don't..." Maya began, not yet ready to banish her bow.

"... What?"

"Does that mean..." Drayk ventured, wanting someone else to finish the sentence. He felt like he'd jinx it or something.

Even Vanryth provided a sound, which could only be interpretted as pure confusion.

“Now, I’m not an expert or anything,” Adrienne started slowly, watching the construct rearrange itself, “But I’m pretty sure it just decided to spare us because Maya’s a representative. Do you think it would answer if you asked it something?” The question was directed at the representative in question. “Like
 maybe why it’s here, or how it knows who you are?” "... Or we can leave," Lynly suggested.

"Gonna have to go with Lynly's suggestion," Maya said, before finally banishing the bow. She took no more than two careful steps towards it, as though each one had the potential to destroy them all, which for all she knew, probably did. "May... we pass?" she ventured carefully.

"NO," it bellowed, causing Maya to wince. There was a terrible silence for a moment, and then it continued. "THE CONDITIONS HAVE NOT BEEN MET. RETURN TO THE SURFACE THROUGH THE SIDE PASSAGE." It held out its left arm then, and a single Dwemer spider worker crawled along its length, having crawled out of the construct's body. It clambered all the way to the end of the thing's finger, and then dropped lightly to the floor, before scurrying across the floor to the smaller door in the back corner of the chamber.

A vent on the wall opened, and the spider worker disappeared inside. Moments later, the door swung open. It took a second for Maya to connect the dots, but when she did, she gasped and covered her mouth. "Oh! You thought I meant the big doors behind you! I definitely meant the surface, that's where we want to go. Thank you, we'll... go now." She turned to the others and shrugged, shaking a little. "What conditions?" Lynly asked, though she looked like she wasn't going to stick around for answers. As soon the doors opened, long strides pushed her past Maya and toward the doors, hopefully into somewhere with less dwemer and more open air. The resulting booming voice caused a stagger in her step, and then quickened it.

"THIS SENTINEL DETECTS ADDITIONAL REPRESENTATIVES. THE CONDITIONS HAVE NOT BEEN MET."

Through the side door Lynly would be able to see down at the end of a short corridor, a large circular platform with a single lever situated at its center. While curiosity may have compelled some of them to stick around and ask the colossus additional questions, the desire not to be crushed into paste was too overpowering to ignore, and the Sellswords found themselves filing through the side door and down the corridor.

"I'd just like to say that I knew no more about that than you all did," Maya said as they all piled onto the circular platform at the end. The witch pushed the lever, and was pleased to discover that it was indeed a lift. Grinding gears accompanied the rising of the platform, and slowly but steadily the group was returned to the surface level. After a ride long enough for Drayk to grow tired of standing and take a seat, the lift lurched to a stop to let them out into a tiny passageway in the rock, too dark to see in without magical lighting. They followed it to a rock wall, and a lever on the side of the passage. Pulling it down moved the rock wall down in front of them, spitting the group out right on the outside of where the Horizon had trapped them in.

"So there wasn't a front door," Maya said when she pushed open the thin door that they'd all squeezed in on their way inside, stepping back out onto the snow. The group had barely made it outside, however, when Maya sighed, and gestured to the top of a small hill near.

"Oh look, more visitors." A red headed Breton man stood on top of the hill, lightly clothed for how sharp and cold the wind was. He stood there as if waiting for them, which was likely, considering that he'd gone and taken the liberty of rounding up all their horses and letting them follow him around. Perhaps they enjoyed the sounds of the music he was playing on his lute. When he spotted the Sellswords, the Bard gave an exaggerated wave and a jovial looking smile, before quite simply skipping down the hill to meet them, the group's horses meandering along in his wake.

"Hellooooo!" he greeted with a low bow. "Would you be interested in a story? It's called 'The Handsomest of Bards and his..." he visibly counted them with a waggling finger, "... Eight Deadly Friends!' It's a marvelous work, and only just beginning!"

Sinderion raised a brow. Evidently, this was the Bard. Of course, now that the man was in front of him again, it was not hard to recognize him as the one that had been inside the bar in Riften, where they’d found Anirne and gotten themselves into a fight. Unless he was remembering improperly, he’d never stopped performing, though admittedly, Sinder hadn’t been paying much attention to what he was actually singing about. Probably a mistake, considering. In the end, however, it was Soren who took the obvious bait first, figuring that there was no reason he shouldn’t. “Sure. Does it end with the grisly double murder of the Pact and the Horizon? Because that sounds like a story we’d be really interested in hearing.”

"End?" he asked, seemingly affronted. "With a murder? What kind of terrible story would that be? A terribly terrible one, I say. No! This story has the grisly murders put somewhere in the beginning to middle areas. And while I can't speak for the currently-dead and future-dead lady, I can say that this spoon-eared dark elf you speak of will be the first to go, yes."

He strummed a non-sensical chord on his lute. "This is chapter one, this part with me standing here and you all standing there. The epilogue saw our handsome bard following the poor elf across half o' Skyrim. For all his sight, the man's really quite blind. ANYWAY! The backstory to the frontstory is that this man, the handsome one before you, was given a task, and given rules by which to go about it."

The next chord he played was quite terrible, but it fit well enough, honestly. "RULES! You'd think they were mad, trying to give a man like me rules. So I decided the hell with it. I'm going to play their game backwards. A bit of asking around, and our mohawked friend is first up. Quite convenient that he just tried to screw the hell out of you people, I'd say. You can help me be rid of him!"

The altmer’s brow furrowed, and he stared blankly at the Bard for a second. Most of that made sense, but
 “Currently-dead? Future-dead? Who is currently dead?” He looked at Maya, as though she might have some answer that eluded him. Who knew—maybe a week had given her some kind of mastery over Bard-speak. If anything could give one a mastery over Bard-speak. His patron deity was the god of madness, after all. The only thing one could reasonably expect of him was that he’d defy your expectations
 and that threw one for a logical loop no matter how it was looked at. For all Sinder knew, he was using a completely different syntax now than he had last time the two had seen each other.

Maya shrugged. "Must be the Pact, but I don't know why." The words gave her a few suspicions, ones she figured she was foolish not to have earlier, but perhaps she'd air them later.

He also certainly wasn’t in any position to take any kind of deal. While yes, the Horizon had betrayed them and left them to rot, it wasn’t any worse than they’d endured from some of the other Representatives, and counted as downright mild compared to parts of it. If he hated with the same vicious abandon every last one of those players who meant him some form of harm, he’d have no room left for anything else, simple as that. He knew they needed to meet up with Tarquin in Ivarstead, but there was no point in doing so if the Pact was still alive, and Maya would know if the Webspinner had killed her. As nothing of the kind had been announced, he chose to assume that she was alive. But if she was
 she may well be in proximity of Invorin, so there was a chance that they’d encounter both at once
 in which case, they’d need all the help they could get.

Even if that help was wholly unpredictable enough to want to play the damn game backwards.

Adrienne was fairly sure she was delighted. Maybe it was just the fact that, despite the part where they’d been betrayed by the Horizon and locked in a ruin where they were almost killed by a giant Centurion, she was still in a pretty good mood. Maybe it was because she liked riddles and word games. Maybe it was just because the Bard’s sense of humor was clearly, while more than a little daft, much more lighthearted than the Omen’s. Sure, they’d have to kill him eventually, maybe, unless someone else did so first, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be courteous to him now. Smiling, she tried to think of how best to put her question in his terms. “And where is the tale of the Handsomest Bard and his Eight Deadly Friends to be set?” she asked, assuming he had more current information on the Horizon’s location than they did.

"And now we get to the kidney of the matter," he said, growing suddenly dramatic and trilling a pair of low notes. "Our villain follows the Pact he has made, and he goes south, towards the very lungs of the world. If he should make the entire trip, I cannot know, but this is not the important itty bit. What is important is that he go to Windhelm. I know not how he should get there, but I am thinking that he will not be leaving."

He stopped playing suddenly and smiled broadly at them. "I have a contact in the old city, a most beautiful fair maiden. She is most cold, and has cruelly spurned my advances thus far, but she will still help us, for she has a most beautifully pure heart, and knows a noble cause when she sees one. Bring the Horizon to Windhelm, and seek her out. She will know what to do. Or perhaps she won't. I've spoken for her heart and her fair face, but I can't yet speak for her brains. Lass won't even talk to me! But she's got the important bits at least, so for this story... she is the beautiful fair maiden."

"May the Eight Deadly Friends know the fair maiden's name? Or should we expect her to find us?" There were probably too many good-looking women in Windhelm for that to be of any use as a criterion, though... was he trying to imply that she was also mute? If divining the plan took this much effort, she didn't really want to know how troublesome executing it would be. It sounded like he wanted them to (without him) go after the Horizon, probably kill the Pact on the way if they could, then bring the unconscious or at least subdued Invorin all the way to Windhelm. That was going to be a pain.

"I played all my songs for her, even the good ones, and she wouldn't give it to me," the Bard said sadly. "As cold as she is beautiful, that one." But at this point, Maya was willing to make her way to the fore, as she was beginning to suspect something.

"Wait a minute..." she said, putting her hands on her hips and giving the Bard a half-smile. "Are you talking about that servant girl at the Gathering?"

He nodded pleasantly. "Aye, that'd be the one. Works in Windhelm, she does, under that nasty drunkard of a father she's got. Someday I'll rescue her from that place. It'd make a fine prologue to this story, I should think."

"This is quite a way off our trajectory," Anirne pointed out. It was hard to say how long the Shade was willing to wait, but she was going to suppose that he didn't have infinite patience. "Unless we can use on Invorin what you used on me, Maya, we should not risk holding him captive for too long." It all seemed awfully convoluted, truth be told. Then again... what about this whole thing wasn't incredibly complicated? Trying at least for some useful information, she ventured a question. "If everyone was playing the game backwards," she tried, "who would be after you?" Whoever they were, they were probably safer than most at present.

"Lady, if everyone were playing the game backwards, I'd be playing the game forwards, and the Horizon would be after me. Come now... you look like a smart lady. What school did you go to? Certainly not the Bard's College, I should think. You should try sometime! Really, they let just about anyone in these days." With that, he turned ninety degrees and began walking, idly playing his lute. The horses remained behind. Anirne was pretty sure that answer wasn't correct, but maybe to him, it was. At any rate, she chose to let it drop, a small shake of her head the only sign she gave by way of reaction to what was surely a veiled insult.

"Until we meet again! Say hello to the fair maiden for me!"

"It's not like we have to do what he asks," Maya reminded, "though the idea of giving the Horizon what he deserves is awfully tempting. In any case, he said Invorin went south with the Pact, so we might be able to find him easier than we think. If we can get a hold on him, we might as well go to Windhelm. It doesn't really matter what order the other Representatives die in, I suppose."

Confident that would be the last of the day's unexpected events, the Sellswords mounted their Bard-brought horses and started off again, finding the road quickly and heading off for Ivarstead, hoping to make up some lost ground.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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In slightly higher spirits than was perhaps normal, the Sellswords took off for the south, making good time through the Pale. It was late afternoon by the time they had gotten moving, however, so for the first night the group was forced to make camp just past the crossroads between Whiterun and Windhelm. The road to Ivarstead was long, and the possibility of catching the Pact low. She had already gained a day's advantage and more, and was presumably unburdened by the lingering fatigue that plagued some of the Sellswords.

They continued south the next morning, arriving under the shadow of the hill upon which the city of Whiterun stood by midday, and turning east at the crossing over the White River. After a brief rest at the Ritual standing stone, at the request of Maya, they continued on, following the course of the river east, bending south as it did, passing into the southern reaches of Eastmarch until the road split again, and the group followed the Darkwater River south instead.

The day ended with the Sellswords camping under the mountains separating them from Shor's Stone and Riften, just after crossing the Darkwater. They pushed through to the final part of the journey the following morning, turning southwest and climbing until they reached the crossing over the Treva River and Lake Geir. Ivarstead was just a short ways further along, a small town sitting under the shadow of the massive mountain peak known as the Throat of the World.





There was no sign of the Pact, the Horizon, or any of the train of warriors that were following them, along the entire route to Ivarstead, but that was not unexpected. They could have even taken another route, as there were several methods of reaching the Throat of the World from that far away. Maya had thought to take the group through Riverwood and down through Falkreath Hold before bending around, but decided the temptation to visit home again would have been too great, and they couldn't afford the delay. They'd lost a great deal of time already. The Pact had surely already reached this place, though she was not yet dead, that much Maya knew. If she had already attacked the Webspinner, and succeeded, she could not know.

"Suppose we should try the inn first," Maya suggested, and the eight of them pulled their horses to a stop before the rest stop, the Vilemyr Inn, as the sign pointed out.

The Shade was found sitting at the bar when they entered, but upon seeing the Sellswords arrive, he immediately rose and headed towards them. "Took you long enough," he muttered, though he seemed to be at least trying to contain his disdain for their tardiness. "The Pact and the Horizon passed through yesterday, and will have found the entrance to my mother's lair by now. No more waiting. We'll plan on the way." He made his way through them before all of them had even entered the bar, and led the way back out into the street.

He scowled at the sunlight, but ignored it, raising his hood and carrying on. "The Pact arrived, and yet you seem unhurt. How did she slip past you?"

Soren personally could really have used a drink, but when it became readily apparent that they were not going to be stopping for one at the inn, he shrugged and unhooked the flask from his belt, taking a nip of the strong liquid inside before offering it to Lynly with a raised brow, largely expecting her to decline. She didn't, taking a quick draught before handing it back to him. Tucking it away again, he kept walking, for all intents and purposes undisturbed by the hurried nature of their departure. “How else? Deception. The Horizon had led this lot to believe that he wanted the Pact just as dead as they did. Sadly, he locked us in a ruin instead. As if we were just going to sit there and wait until it was convenient for them to kill us.” Realistically, it was probably just a delay tactic, but even that was only just effective, and it was about to come back to bite them—hard, if the more vengeance-inclined in the group had their way.

“I’m guessing the matriarch is not up the mountain,” he hazarded, “Which means we’re going in?” More caves, probably, though he supposed the entrance to a lair could also indicate a building somewhere on the mountain. It seemed unlikely, however, given who they were dealing with


"Yes," the Shade responded. "The entrance is around the base of the mountain, perhaps an hour from here if we move quickly. From there we'll enter the caves, and follow them down." He made no comment about the deception. It was possible that he had already guessed as much, considering the Horizon's arrival alongside the Bosmer. It was also possible that it didn't matter anymore, and they had more pressing issues to worry about, like how to move ahead.

The Shade led them to the edge of Ivarstead, taking the dirt road down the hill rather than the bridge that would lead them to the seven thousand steps up to High Hrothgar. It was a steep decent, but he moved quickly. "The Pact will have reached her by now. She still lives, Maya?" The witch answered in the affirmative. "Then we do not know what to expect. She could have been captured. A captive hunter is better than a dead one in this game, my mother would know as much. She could also be waiting for a better moment to strike. Assaulting the Webspinner in her own lair, surrounded by her servants, is not wise."

"It sounds like there's a particular reason for that," Anirne ventured mildly, following the steep slope with a little more caution than the Shade took, though she was no old woman yet, and kept her balance quite well. "Perhaps there is something we should know?" She recalled that the Pact had been reluctant to speak overmuch of the Webspinner, and she was guessing there was more to that than a simple desire to keep potential foes from information. In fact, nobody had said much of her, save that she was mad. Perhaps Maya had said more to someone else, but she knew the group at large was not well-informed about what they were dealing with. Stealthy guerillas were one thing-- if the altmer had her guess, this Representative and her servants were quite another.

"Are you familiar with Spider Daedra?" the Shade asked. "Priestesses of Mephala warped into her image. In this cave they will be at their deadliest. The spiders can move quickly through their holes, dropping down behind you for an attack before retreating just as quickly. They aren't physically overpowering, but in their own environment they will outmaneuver us. They'll fight from range with debilitating poisons and lightning, only risking close quarters after their opponent has been weakened. My mother has hundreds of them at her disposal in her caverns."

He glanced back towards the Psijic woman and the rest of the party. "Aside from that, it will be extremely dark, almost impossible to see without magical means. They will try to separate us if we fight them in there. Anyone who becomes cut off from the others will not last long. As for my mother herself..." He turned back to the path in front of them, taking the group into a rocky region, vaulting over low boulders and using the trees to steady himself. "She is faster than all of her brethren, and significantly more powerful. To engage her on her own ground would be to seek death. She must be drawn out."

"And how do we do that?" Drayk asked. The Shade glanced back at him, giving him a knowing look.

"Burning her out would be one way."

Drayk frowned, and shook his head. "I couldn't burn out an entire network of tunnels, not without... no, I'm not doing that." A few days ago he would have willingly offered to let himself go and scorch the spider from her hole, but now, with what he had to protect, and the risks to the happiness he had only so recently found... he wouldn't do it. There would be another way.

"And besides," Maya offered, "We can't kill the Webspinner until we kill the Pact, and we can't kill her until we find her." The Shade nodded.

"That's true. And I have a feeling that we'll find her once we draw my mother out. In the meantime, the priority must be the Mentor. This is where I took him, so this is where we'll have the best chance of finding him. We don't need to go in there with the intention of killing everything we see."

“Seems a fair notion,” Adrienne replied neutrally. She was in fact immensely relieved—something had constricted uncomfortably in her insides as soon as burning was mentioned, and had not relented until Dom’s firm denial. Good, that was good. There were bound to be alternative ways of getting what they wanted, and though she did not know what a spider Daedra looked like, the troubled frown that creased Anirne’s face was more than enough reassurance that she really didn’t want to encounter one, much less all hundreds of them. She had the distinct feeling that this was going to be just as much a nightmare as what Rialta had put them through
 only this time, there would be no waking up when it was over.

She noted the part about staying together with some unease. She didn’t doubt the truth of what Tarquin said, not even a bit, but that was the worrisome part. It sounded like they were dealing with a warren of tunnels entirely unknown to them—the chance of someone getting cut off by accident or canny foe was great, especially if they were ambushed. They would need light, but
 “Unfortunate, that being able to see will also make us that much more easily seen.” It was an advantage she did not think they could forgo, however. The creatures within would have adapted to the dark, and with the exception of Tarquin and Sinder, the rest of them would probably be twice as vulnerable without their eyes.

It was clear that only one who knew of this place would be able to find its location, as the Shade led the Sellswords seemingly at random around the side of the mountain, sometimes down, over streams running down its side, over boulder-strewn hillsides and along sheer cliffs. After around an hour of trekking through the wilderness, they came upon it.

It didn't look hardly any different from any other cave, seemingly just a hole in the side of the mountain face, slapped onto a steep hillside dotted with large rocks, thick trees and dense foliage. Behind them some ways was a cliff of some thirty feet, a small stream running over it and falling into a small pool that had gathered at the bottom. This ran eventually to join with the Darkwater some ways to the northeast. They weren't quite high enough to be standing in snow, but the sky had become overcast at this point, darkening their surroundings somewhat, and threatening snow.

The scenery was utterly still, the mouth of the cave seeming to beckon them in. "This is the place," the Shade said, pointing out the obvious.

Sinderion sniffed at the air, and his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “The Pact’s warriors are definitely around,” he said quietly. “But the smell is faint.” It could be a day or two old, by now, and there was nothing precise in the odor to tell him the locations of any of them, so as a warning it was likely just telling everyone what they already expected.

Soren, absently tracing his new scar, raised a red eyebrow. “Four, possibly five representatives. And that’s assuming your wild wolf-cat doesn’t show up. Sounds fun. Is there a plan for this death-revel, or are we just going to improvise?” He sounded rather like he’d be completely fine with improvising, but then that was probably expected by this point. He doubted there would be much to plan—they simply didn’t know much about what they were in for, or in what order. They had to kill the Pact before they killed the Webspinner, but minions were fair game for anyone, including the Shade, who was probably the only person guaranteed not to die in this mess. Assuming Ja’karo hadn’t tracked him here, of course. It was all so deliciously possible.

“What could we possibly plan for?” Adrienne asked, half-rhetorically. “We know nothing about how the tunnels and caves are laid out, nor where inside anyone might be.” It was a bit hopeless as far as plans went, and maybe that was for the best. If they weren’t committed to any course of action, they would be more adaptable to the situation as it changed. “We’ll need your ears and nose, Sinder.” She managed a half-smile for her altmer friend, but then she suspected he already knew that. Anirne remained silent, staring into the entrance as though contemplating something. She offered no verbal contributions, though.

In the end, they had no choice but to blindly march forth, with the intention of first, finding the Mentor, and second, driving the Webspinner from her hole somehow, so that the Pact might be driven from hers, and both of them might be slain. The Shade led the way up the hill and into the mouth of the cave, the Sellswords at his back.

The immediate interior did not open up, as some of Skyrim's caves did, but instead remained narrow and low, as though they were indeed passing through some kind of throat, being swallowed by the world itself, and immediately it became very dark, such that magical light was required to see much of anything. The walls were still stone and rock, but as they progressed their boots began to stick ever so slightly on each step.

"It will branch off in several directions soon," the Shade warned. "Follow my lead. Do not attack what you see unless attacked first." Drayk shifted his shield slightly higher up his arm, face locked in a constant frown as his eyes darted about, convinced they were about to be set upon from all sides. But they were still together, and together they were a powerful force.

Several paths opened up to them, as the Shade predicted, but Tarquin ignored them, staying to the center. Some of them were wide enough to fit all of the Sellswords, others little more than holes in the wall that they'd need to crawl to pass through. The webbings covering the walls and floor were becoming thicker here, their steps sticking more effectively. The light occasionally caught a spider as large as a hand along the sides of the walls, but they darted along the webs and into a hole as soon as the light touched them.

Holes began appearing overhead as well, large enough for bodies to pass easily through. The Shade seemed to have an idea of where he was going, but even he had slowed, either due to trying to remember the way, or from the stickiness of the walls and the floors and everything around them. Drayk's scowl deepened. This would make movement difficult. Yet another disadvantage. As if a lack of sight wasn't enough.

At last Tarquin held up his hand, indicating for the Sellswords to halt. "Something comes." They could hear it now, clearly, the scuttling, a tapping on the wall, clicks against the hard rock of the wall in between the increasingly frequent webs. "She wants to be heard," the Shade informed them, indicating that the Webspinner's priestesses were quite capable of approaching without sound if they chose to.

She drew into the light slowly, uncomfortable with it at first. Two spined, hairy legs pushed themselves forward, testing it. Six others followed, and a creature that was an even split between woman and spider came into the eerie glow of the magelight. She was no greater in height than Tarquin was. The human part of her ended at the waist, and shifted to spider, spindly, muscled legs carrying the light body. She did not look physically imposing in a powerful sense, but there was a strength in the legs, at least, that implied a great amount of agility, especially in these warrens they called home.

Her body from the waist up was entirely naked, her hair disgustingly greasy and falling in ragged clumps about her skin, which was pale as a corpse. Her fingernails were several inches long on both hands, and looked as deadly as knives. Her face was largely hidden by her mess of hair, only cracked lips and brown teeth visible. Her hands clutched, of all things, a shortbow, made of some kind of black, gnarled wood, the string unsurprisingly wound of spider's silk. A small quiver of arrows was belted around her waist. She looked at none of the Sellswords, not that they could see her eyes, but her head was angled downwards all the same.

"The mother sends me to welcome the children," she rasped. "She knows why you come, and she will speak, if you will hear."

Not a particularly inviting welcome, is it? Soren thought, just stifling the snicker that threatened. It was probably wisest to keep his mouth shut, and though honestly he rarely gave thought to what was wisest, he wasn’t exactly here for himself, so he wouldn’t snipe at the creature and ruin the Sellswords’ chances at finding the man they so desperately needed to see. He could see through the cast of the light that Blue was actually looking a little green about the gills, and it wasn’t that hard to guess why. The air was stale, and that creature looked filthy. He didn’t really want to think about how it smelled to someone with a wolf’s nose.

Unfortunately, Sinder didn’t get that luxury, and the stench was almost enough to put him on his back, as though it had slammed into him like a wall. Not that the sight of her was nay better. He’d not encountered a spider Daedra before, and he was now absolutely certain that if this was the last one he saw, he’d still have seen one too many. He also had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t going to like the Webspinner much, if her servants looked like this one did. He attempted to take a breath through his mouth, but abruptly clicked his jaw shut again when he discovered that the stench was thick enough to taste. This was worse than the entire village full of dead orcs—at least that had been outside, not in a cramped warren of caves with scarcely any circulation. He wasn’t so sure at all that the others would be able to rely on him to sniff out the Pact and her minions; not if everything down here was this bad.

Adrienne was torn between shock and disgust, but thankfully, she was able to not look like it. A quick glance at Sinderion revealed that he might be ill, but he seemed to be keeping himself in check all right. Soren didn’t appear to have changed much, but he wasn’t talking, which was admittedly a bit abnormal for him. Anirne was placid as ever, as though she’d been expecting something of this nature. Maybe she’d seen a spider Daedra before, who knew? Adrienne glanced at the Shade, almost as though for confirmation, but this is what they’d come for, after all: to talk to the Webspinner and find out where the Mentor was, what had happened to him.

If they were lucky, they would trip over the Pact and Horizon’s bodies on the way. If not
 well, that was a problem they’d deal with when it showed itself. “We will,” she said, inclining her head politely, though she was unsure if the creature could even see it. The magelight bobbing about above her head cast the room into an odd relief, and distorted the shadows in the room a bit. If anything, it gave the Priestess an even more menacing aspect, one that the Breton tried gamely to ignore. “But where are we to go?”

Neither Vanryth nor Lynly made any move toward their weapons, both just crossing their arms and waiting to be led around like puppies. Though quite different, both had come to expect the worst out of every situation. And though one welcomed the worst with open arms and a naked blade, the other wondered how it would try to tear his little family apart that day. Neither were the optmistic sort. Lynly added nothing but a sigh, the thought of heading deeper into the spider's nest not a pleasing one. She believed that the allegory of a fly trapped in a web was an apt one, but one that they couldn't avoid. So she resigned herself.

"Down," she answered definitively, as if it provided adequate directions in this place, "into the hollow, where the mother awaits. She has but two conditions..." from down the tunnel, and from behind the Sellswords, other spider sisters made their approaches known, until there were a dozen at least, on each side, the majority of them remaining out of reach of the light.

"First," the envoy rasped, "the blood of the mother is to remove himself from this place." At that, the Shade quite literally growled his displeasure. "Why? Why won't she let me see her?" But the spider sister recoiled and shook her head. "We are to inform you only of the mother's intentions and her conditions. She will speak to those she wishes, and no more. The blood of the mother is to leave now."

Tarquin ran a hand through his hair, looking like he might try pulling it out. He turned to the others. "I guess I don't have a choice. You'll have to go in without me. I will await your return outside." With that, he made his way through to the back of the group and vanished into the darkness behind them, the spider sisters stepping out of his way as he went. Drayk took a deep breath to steady himself. There went their guide out if this went south.

"And the other condition?" he asked. At that, the spider sister raised herself up high enough on her legs so that she could angle her abdomen towards the group, the end of which presented the mucus-like substance that would form webbing. "The mother will not have you walk to her. You shall be delivered, or you shall not see her at all. That is the condition." At that, Maya groaned rather loudly.

"You want to wrap us like some meal to be taken to your lady?" The spider sister's silence answered in the affirmative.

“Oh, Oblivion no,” Soren deadpanned, staring at the priestess with a look that rather demanded to know if she thought she was serious. Making themselves vulnerable like that was insane. “Bad idea, people. I for one do not want to get eaten, thank you.” He also didn’t want to be useless in a cave full of representatives and their flunkies, and he definitely didn’t want to have to rely on Sparky to potentially burn them out, considering the wary looks he’d occasionally seen the others throwing his fire. This was a shitty idea, and he was going to make sure they knew he thought so.

Sinderion was quieter about it, but he couldn’t help agreeing. “Surely she must understand our position.” he said. If the Pact got killed while they were being transported, well, that meant Maya was about to be delivered, largely helpless, incapacitated, to the very heart of her next target’s lair, where the Webspinner would be completely free to kill her. Even that estimation of the situation somehow assumed that the woman’s intent was honest, and that she wouldn’t kill the Sellswords just for being there. Still
 “There may be no other choice.” The words tasted like ash and dust on his tongue.

“If she does understand our position, then she knows we’re not in one where we get to make demands,” Anirne replied to her brother. She eyed the sticky substance with obvious trepidation. There was absolutely nothing about this situation that she liked. She’d been attempting to keep track of exactly which passages Tarquin used on the way in, and she may have a decent guess as to how to get back out again, she really didn’t want to count on it, but with the Shade forced to leave them, they hardly had a choice. Though honestly her visceral reaction was not so different from Soren’s, she didn’t express it as such.

Adrienne nodded her agreement. She wanted to ask why this was necessary, but the way they’d responded to Tarquin, she knew she had precious little chance of trying to fish the information out of them. “What do the rest of you think?” she asked. It was not lost on her that Maya was probably in more danger than the rest of them, but she also knew that the woman would refuse to leave with the Shade
 which honestly may be just as safe as being alone with him, really.

"I think this sucks," Drayk said honestly. As far as the Sellswords went, they were effectively placing their lives in the hands of someone whose own son claimed to be insane. The witch was the only one who had any measure of protection, and the witch was the one Drayk was probably least concerned about in this group. He'd be able to burn his way out of a web wrapped around him quickly enough, but he wouldn't do that for the others. He wouldn't risk that. They'd be counting on the mercy of a woman who led a sisterhood of spiders, of all things. And if the Pact somehow died, they would hardly even be able to count on that much. But the Mentor could possibly be in here.

The speaker had called them the children. Surely the Webspinner took an interest in them because the Mentor had found them and trained them. The Shade had taken an interest in them for the same reason. They wanted to see something from them, was that it? It wasn't much of a hope, but wasn't it worth going on? For the chance of finding what they'd been seeking all this time? "If this is what it takes to reach the Mentor, though, we have to do it."

"Do not resist," the spider sister warned, moving closer to them. "We will deliver you to the mother unharmed, as is her wish."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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They moved onto the Sellswords with alarming speed, hands and legs grabbing for them. It took every ounce of Drayk's self control not to struggle against such a disgusting creature taking hold of him. His arms were forcefully moved to his sides, two of the spider's legs putting pressure behind his knees, and before he knew it the priestess had tilted him over sideways, the legs possessing a surprising amount of strength and dexterity. She hovered over him, raising herself up with the rear legs while the front ones began to turn him about.

It was warm, and for once Drayk didn't really like that. He quickly began to grow dizzy as the spider spread her webbing from the abdomen and around his torso, immediately binding his arms into place at his sides. The substance was thick and gooey when it came into contact with him, but almost immediately began to condense and solidify. Around and around and around he was spun, the spider priestess shifting him from side to side so that the webbing might cover a larger area of him, until the webbing had nearly reached his shoulders, and went all the way down below his knees.

At last she stopped, and Drayk felt quite sick. The interior of the tunnels were spinning around him, but he was vaguely aware that all of his companions were as he was: wrapped in webbing, and in the clutches of a servant of the Webspinner. Without warning, they began to move, vanishing into the darkness. Some went forward, others ducked into side passageways. Drayk had the pleasure of being pulled straight up first, the spider servant pulling herself up through a hole in the ceiling. Everything was plunged into darkness, and Drayk felt a powerful urge to light up his flame cloak, burn his way out of the web, and kill this horrific thing carrying him along. He resisted, but only barely.

Without any kind of sight available to him, it was impossible to know where he was going, and the spider sisters had made a point of separating them, carrying them to their destination along different routes. Drayk could not even hear any of the others, only the shuffling sound of spider legs running over webbed walls and floors. The priestess carried him through tight tunnels at varying angles, once even carrying him along the ceiling of something, if the force of gravity was to be believed. She dropped down through holes in the floor to land lightly below, and indeed, much of their time was spent going down, deeper into the earth. The trip itself, however, only took a few minutes. The spider sisters were very efficient in their movements.

One of the spider sisters had mercifully cast a magelight spell to rest against the ceiling in this larger chamber they now entered, so Drayk was actually able to see most of his surroundings, albeit quite dimly. The floor was a wide and open area, absolutely covered in spiderwebs save for circular holes in the ground, some larger than others, all of them seemingly tunnels that led elsewhere in the caverns. Several other tunnels presented themselves behind where Drayk had entered, and he saw some of the others being hauled in through these currently. A single, massive spider hole was situated against the far wall. Drayk swallowed.

The spider that had been carrying him roughly dropped him on the ground on his face, though Drayk was aware of a trailing thread of webbing extending from his upper back. Craning his neck around, he was able to watch his spider sister crawling up the side of the wall, the trailing webbing behind her eventually becoming taut, and pulling Drayk into the air. The spider came to rest above one of the holes, on the ceiling directly above Drayk, dangling him from a thread extending from her abdomen. The others followed suit, until all eight of the group hung over holes into deeper tunnels, arranged in a sort of half-circle across from the largest spider's hole in the wall.

Her legs emerged first, as her servant's had, but these were much greater. First two, and then two more, and then four more. And then about twelve more. The spider that emerged, if it could still be called that, was massive, filling up the entirely of the gaping hole in the wall, thick black hair covering the majority of the body as well as a kind of hardened dark carapace. But where the spider sisters had been the upper body of a woman and the legs and rear parts of a spider, the Webspinner was more of the upper half of a woman perched on top of an entire spider. With the location she was situated on top of it, she almost could have been riding it, but if one looked closer, the woman had no legs. Her body melted into the spider's, and they were entirely one being.

And the spider was the most horrific thing Drayk had ever laid eyes upon. It had eyes, so many eyes, there must have been a hundred of them, dark red in color, peering every which way, a dozen of them locked onto each of the eight unwilling guests in her hall. And below them all were razor sharp teeth, dripping saliva into her webs, clicking together at random intervals. The abdomen itself remained somewhat hidden in the blackness of the hole behind her, but it was easy to guess at its size. This creature would not have been able to fit in the main hall at the Mentor's manor.

The woman herself, if one was able to ignore the monstrosity beneath her, possessed a kind of ghostly beauty, one that her servants entirely lacked. She too had her body uncovered, her skin a pearly white, her hair silky and seemingly clean where the others had been matted and tangled. It sank down below shoulder level, and did not cover her face as the others had. Her eyes were closed and unseeing, but her features were undeniably noble, and strikingly beautiful. But Drayk couldn't manage to see any of this as beautiful, no matter how he looked at it. This was a nightmare, plain and simple, but it was one they could not wake from.

"You have arrived," the Webspinner said, in a voice that sounded like a whisper, and yet one that echoed throughout the chamber, "at the center of the web. I am what once was Phaedra Aurelius. I am now simply a Webspinner, and I see the threads that bind you. You have come far, and suffered much, to reach this place. But it is not I you seek..." her voice trailed off, to allow one of them to address her, if they were bold enough.

Sinderion was not in much condition to answer the sort-of inquiry at present, as he was rather pointedly concentrating on steadying the breaths coming and leaving him through his nose. There was a faint tremulousness to them that signaled either a great amount of fear, or something quite a bit worse. If only he was merely afraid. Alas, fear wasn’t even on his mental map at the moment, as the red blotches of rage were beginning to obscure everything else. He was confined, trapped, and the strength in his altmer limbs was not going to be enough to free him. He would know—he’d spent much of the trip to this place attempting to thrash in his bindings, an instinctual struggle more than a rational one. The beast did not approve of allowing himself to be bound so. It would much rather have killed its way through these tunnels, until it found what it wanted or died.

Actually, the fact that the smell was still retch-worthy was helping him at this moment, as the feeling of illness was at least fighting for dominance with the feeling that he must get out. Outwardly, it would be difficult to tell, but a tremor had picked up in his body, echoed in the sound of his breathing. He swallowed several times in quick succession, and tried to focus on anything but the feeling of being trapped. The Webspinner was a mighty distraction, perhaps, though it was a cold comfort at best.

Soren, on the other hand, had sighed heavily when the Sellswords acquiesced to being so transported, and muttered something about having nobody to blame but themselves when they died here. Presently, he was testing the tensile strength of this spider silk a bit, having slipped a small knife from his belt as he was being wrapped up. Thus far, he was having absolutely no success freeing himself from the silk prison, if one could call it that. Seeing as he had come here for the Webspinner, more or less, he wasn’t really interested in answering the implied question. He’d leave that to one of the talkative Sellwords, or better yet, the mute one. That would be interesting to watch. He wondered idly if the massive horrific spider-woman could read lips.

Lynly never thought herself the clausterphobic type, but now encased in layers of webbing and strung up from the ceiling, she was beginning to second guess herself. She fidgetted against the sticky silk, unconsciously hoping it'd give way, but of course it did not. She was not in a good mood, and it was because of that she plunged herself in silence. She would not speak unless spoken to, and even then tersely. To her, they had played right into the Webspinner's trap, and had no one to blame for it but themselves. The Webspinner herself was horror of what was maybe once a person, and Lynly couldn't help but wonder at the kind of insanity would make someone turn into a spider.

She was agitated at their certain turn of fate. Something held in common with the dunmer of the party. Vanryth on the other hand was not defiant, but rather resigned. He was doing this for the rest of the Sellswords, and for the Mentor, so whether or not he wanted to do it was moot. The fact remained that he had to, there was no other choice. When the Webspinner was revealed to him, his eyes widened from the shock and then returned to their normal size, perhaps with a bit of reluctance as well. If they ended up fighting the creature, how would they fare? They had survived the Stonehammer's dragon assault, the attack on the Embassy, and even the Omen's trail, but all times just barely.

He wondered if now was when their luck ran out.

Anirne was perhaps less bothered than she should have been by the fact that she was currently cocooned in a mass of gooey spider silk. In fact, her worst thought about the whole endeavor was that it was somewhat disgusting, and would be rather hard to force out of hair that was, with time on the road, looking to descend past her hips quite shortly. Hygiene had never been a particularly speedy process for her, but it had seldom been unpleasant, either. She supposed she should simply be glad that magically extricating herself from this mess would not be much of a problem.

That
 the Webspinner only somewhat resembled the spider Daedra she’d seen before, and frankly, the Psijic did not much relish the thought of attempting to slay her. Granted, she rarely relished in slaying anything, but she did not often prior to her return to Skyrim believe she would have quite this much difficulty even making an attempt. With that many eyes, and that many legs


Adrienne was internally quite a bit more sickened and horrified than the stoic monk, but as usual, she clamped down on the feeling, trying to arrange her features into something pleasant. Perhaps fortunately, she had the kind of face predisposed to that kind of thing, whereas she would have had to expend great effort to seem intimidating at all. The Webspinner seemed to be
 prompting them, to say something, ask after the Mentor, but Adrienne sensed that this was a conversation that was only minimally in need of participation from anyone else. It was also probably going to be like trying to walk on thin ice: one misstep (and it was going to be hard to tell what qualified) was going to plunge them all into something quite horrific. Perhaps the hole beneath her was that something.

Licking her lips to try and make speaking a bit more natural, even if her diaphragm did feel corset-crushed by this webbing, she tried to pay as little mind as possible to the obvious struggle Sinderion was undergoing on her left and do what she did best: talk. Her friend would not benefit from anything she could do for him at the moment, after all. “We seek Lucius Aurelius, known to us as the Mentor,” she offered. The name tasted strange on her tongue, as she’d never even known it in her time with him, but it would probably be how the Webspinner knew him. Using familiar terminology seemed a small courtesy that might mean nothing. But it also might mean a lot—it was hard to say.

The Webspinner's sudden wail of agony was couple with a ear splitting shriek from the great spider, its maw opened and teeth displayed in each and every direction. The legs stompted about her immediate area, and the entire cavernous room shook slightly. She breathed heavily when the wail had passed.

"MENTOR!" she cried, burying her face in her hands. "He who took my Lucius, my dear Lucius, away from me. Years ago he left, despite my cries, despite me falling on my knees and begging him not to go. My dutiful son brought me a man that looked like him, felt like him, but it was... not... him." She fell silent for a moment, before she took slow steps towards the immobile Sellswords hanging before her, her voice returning to a whisper.

"I do not know if he even knew me, this man who looked like my Lucius. The grief, it has done so much to me. I sought to end it. Spoke to my Lady." And then she screamed again. "TAKE MY MIND, I said... Let me feel not the pain of this world any longer! Make me into an instrument of your power, but please, PLEASE! Remove the thoughts from my head." She was clearly weeping, tears streaking down her pale face.

"I was made into this... the one who would listen to the whispers, and see the threads that bind mortals to one another, all of us connected in the greatest web of all... but she did not take my mind. She did not take my grief. Only when I remove the others, when I bring her the glory she seeks, will she release me. And I must do this, I must be the last. I will be born anew..."

She turned around entirely, moving back towards her hole. She gestured mournfully to the side wall, and one of her spider sisters fired off a magelight spell to hit it, revealing a large web separate from the rest, the center of it broken and hanging limp, the web useless and destroyed.

"But you came not for me. You came for him," she whispered, turning to face them. "I cannot deliver him to you, for he is mine no longer. He was taken from me again, taken by those he has always answered to, even if he thought to ignore the call. They have taken him to a place where few mortals are capable of following, and fewer still are brave enough to do so." She sighed, her voice heavy with her grief.

"They have taken him to Coldharbor."

Apparently, Mentor had been the wrong word to choose. Anirne found herself wondering just how sudden this change had been on the part of their teacher, and what exactly had made it come about. It certainly hadn’t been at his wife’s behest, nor that of his oldest son. Perhaps the younger one had something to do with it? Perhaps he believed he was protecting them all from their fates as pawns in the Game of Shadow? Well, that had clearly backfired, whatever the case. This woman, whatever she might have been before, was nearly mad with grief and loss, the younger of the children was dead, and the Shade, well
 she wouldn’t call him unmoved, but he was hardly forgiving. Perhaps what he’d done for the Sellswords was the only good thing to emerge from the entire mess, and they
 they might not last. It was a grim reality to confront, and she desired deeply to believe in them, but this kind of news was bound to strike them with devastation.

Coldharbor
 Adrienne had learned her lore well enough growing up that she knew what that meant, and she stared at the broken web, not bothering to disguise the mounting sense of horror she was feeling. It welled, thick and hot, in the back of her throat, almost choking off her ability to speak. Sweet, merciful Mara
 the Mentor had been taken to the domain of Molag Bol, the Daedra lord he’d defied to become the man who’d saved them all. She swallowed past that rising bile, forcing her eyes to move from the broken web to the spiderlike lady, and though she didn’t really want to, she pitied the woman. She’d lost a husband, and a son, and her other one wanted to kill her. It was a mercy, probably, but that didn’t really take the sting out of it. She’d lost most of what she was, transformed into this creature, and the one thing she’d wanted to lose, she still seemed to keep, at least a little.

It was
 she found herself struggling to imagine misery on that scale. But she was trying to envision it anyway, because even that was better than thinking about what the Mentor must be enduring right now, at the hands of the Lord of Domination. A shudder ran down her spine, largely absorbed by whatever she was coated in. “Who took him from you?” she asked softly, though her mind screamed us. “Daedra, or something else? When were they here?” Why didn’t you save him? Why couldn’t we save him? Ugly thoughts, and thoughts she knew well enough to reject, lest they gain insidious purchase in her mind.

"Had I stopped them, child, I would have suffered the same fate as he," the Webspinner said, more answering the woman's thoughts than her words. "Daedra have no more power here than elsewhere in this plane. But while this Mentor of yours was given to me, he was never mine to keep. He was not my Lucius. He suffers justly now, for his betrayal."

"So how do we get there?" Drayk asked, not caring for the woman's opinion on what was just or not. "To Coldharbor. How do we reach the Mentor?" He didn't quite know what this Coldharbor place was, but from the way she had described it, it was no earthly realm, no place mortals could walk unhindered. So there would undoubtedly be difficulties in reaching it at all. But they would not let it stop them. He couldn't let the man he owed everything to suffer at Molag Bal's hands. Any happiness he now had, any chance at a future, was because of him, and regardless of what he'd done before he turned away from sin, he deserved better than what he was getting. He had to believe that.

"You would lay down your lives for him, search for him to the ends of the world and beyond. You are truly the false children, if that is true. The way to Coldharbor is not known to me, if there is one for those who dwell in this world."

Drayk exhaled in disappointment, but the Webspinner carried on. "If such a way exists in this plane, and in this land, it would be found at the Library. It is a place of forbidden and forgotten knowledge, far to the north. There you may find the way. The means, however, I suspect will only be available behind the great doors, and past the Sentinel. You know of the place I speak of."

So there was a way. Now they just had to have the will, right?

Lynly sighed, her answer about what would drive a woman to do their to herself rather forthwith. Insanity caused by grief. But it was still insanity, and they had their lives in the hands of someone who was no longer in touch with this world. And the Sellsword's Mentor had left as well. Things were becoming better the longer they stayed strung up. Vanryth's head drooped at the news. The Mentor was no longer here, taken to Coldharbor of all places. The despair was tangible on his face, though hidden by the shadows. If he knew his friends, then they would certainly wish to travel there. A thought confirmed by Drayk. And why not? They were so close now, following right behind him. They had always been right behind him. Would they still be behind him even in death? The thought was a grim one, but one he couldn't help but have.

“Oh, good,” Soren drawled. “So they only get the prize after they’ve killed everyone standing in the way. No worries, then.” He was quite sure that ‘Sentinel’ was not going to let them through while other Representatives were still detected, so to speak. It also meant they’d need either Maya or Tarquin in order to access the thing in the first place. At least, if he had his guess. He usually did, but not always. At least he was making some progress on the webs now, sawing through the first few layers of the stuff and giving his arm more room to move. Getting out would be easier, with that small favor.

It figured that nobody did him favors besides himself. Then again, wasn’t that exactly the way he wanted it to be?

Sinderion, still much less than pleased to be in this place, was at least distracted enough by the news to think about something other than how much he wanted out of his confinement. “The Library,” he murmured, glancing at Maya. That had been marked on the Omen’s map, and she’d told him of a representative called the Librarian. Hermaeus Mora, if he remembered properly. That was where they needed to go, then. But
 before they could go there, they needed to get out of here, and it was not immediately clear how they were going to do that. What were the chances they would just be allowed to walk out? And what of the Pact, and the Horizon? The Shade had brought them here to kill this woman, his mother, and it was unlikely he’d much appreciate them walking out again having failed to do that. But how he was supposed to handle this half-addled himself was not immediately coming to him.

"Of course," the Webspinner continued, "there is no guarantee you will reach any of these things at all. There is no guarantee you will ever leave my halls, in fact. If you are to do so, it would be together, but I see that the web that binds you has weaknessess..."

She strode forward on dozens of legs, two of which reached out, one snaking around Drayk's midsection, the other around Adrienne. "These two share a bond as vital as their own heartbeats, these false children. Their joy is the greatest thing they have known, and yet their fear is just as powerful. If one falls, the other will follow. He wonders what he would become if he lost her. He would be nothing but the insidious nature within him. He would give in to it, and become as I am, a ruined vessel, of grief and power in equal measure. He fears this."

Drayk glared as well as he could at the Webspinner, but she spoke truly. It wasn't so hard to fathom. Any of the Sellswords would be racked by despair if one of them fell, but he knew he could not bear to lose Adrienne specifically. He would give up if that happened, allow himself to be lost to his power, forget all of this that had happened to him. That was the reason why he couldn't let it happen.

Adrienne swallowed thickly. She wasn’t sure she had anything to say to that. If Dom died, well
 it was a possibility she didn’t care to contemplate. She would die, too. That was simply the end of it, and the rest was tormenting herself with hypotheticals, with might-bes and wherefores. It wasn’t going to achieve anything. Even knowing that didn’t help the lurching feeling of an irregular heartbeat and a choking uncertainty. Was she strong enough, to survive all of this, when her loss would be his as well? It placed a value on her life that she’d never expected there to be. She’d always just been
 a tool. For her own ambitions, or someone else’s, channeled through her, taught her from the cradle. Tools were disposable. Valuable, sometimes, but disposable. They all broke with time, and she’d known that, always. She’d known it when she’d chosen to be one. But she couldn’t break him. She wouldn’t.

The Webspinner released the pair of Sellswords, moving then to Anirne, dozens of eyes looking up at where she hung before the spider. "You are among those that are not the false children. You... you would seek to mother them. You need these threads, you feel. To replace the bonds that were cut, that were split upon your ruin. And you wonder how you will have to leave, not if you will have to leave. Can you watch the children fall? Perhaps it would be best never to have them at all..."

Anirne, for once bereft of her stoic silence, gave the Webspinner a stricken look, as though she’d suddenly grown an extra head, perhaps one that resembled somebody dear. How could she possibly know
? But that was the wrong question, wasn’t it? The real question was why she still couldn’t get over it, the fact that she could not have something she’d never really even wanted. Why did it seem like such a keen loss, still? Was she ruined? Perhaps by this woman’s standard, she was, and considering what the Webspinner was, that was a rather grim pronouncement on her condition indeed. Her arm sought reflexively to move to shield herself, or that vital part of herself that would never work again, but the webbing prevented it, and the altmer woman made a small, almost unconscious noise of frustration.

It was true. What in her life hadn’t she left? What hadn’t she ruined, somehow? When and how would she leave this, too? Would it be to naught but smoking embers, as she’d left everything else? She could say nothing to defend herself, only shake her head, as if trying to clear it of the traitorous thoughts.

She moved back and away, sliding sideways over spider holes to stop before Sinderion, sighing as if weary upon reaching him. "The doubt in you is almost overwhelming, child. You find certainty in defending those you love, but at what cost to yourself, you wonder? And this false child wonders about his parent. Where the younger one sees only the life that was saved, that happiness that was brought as a result of action, you see the inaction, the omissions that spanned years of your life, and you wonder, if ever so slightly, that the one you go so far to save is not worth saving at all." A dozen eyes narrowed at Sinder, as if drinking more of it in.

"And there is yet more. The webs between you and the witch have changed greatly over a short period of time, and you begin to wonder about this. Suspicion where you wish there was trust, a fear that you are being pushed into something that is not truly of your will, that she desires the beast, and not the man who fights against it. You wish to know, this I can see, but do you wish me to tell you?"

The accuracy of the words might have been painful enough on its own, but Sinderion was an intensely private person, and to have all the little tendrils of doubt that he harbored somewhere close to his heart so exposed absolutely lanced him, as though impaled with one of Adrienne’s ice spikes. He swallowed several times, trying to force down the bile that rose in the back of his throat. He hadn’t wanted the others to know that he doubted the Mentor, even a little, and certainly did not wish Maya to discover in this way that he doubted her. Even if he did. He’d only just accepted it himself, growing weary with the constant efforts of keeping his doubts at bay. In this, they were even stronger than his violence, his all-consuming need to hunt, and for all that less useful.

He stared straight ahead, unwilling or unable to meet anyone’s eyes. “You may know it,” he replied, “but it is not for you to say. Truth or lies, I don’t want to hear it from you.” Part of him desperately, frantically wanted to know, and would have taken her up on the offer, just to put his reservations to rest once and for all, either way, but that part was thankfully comparatively silent in him. Must he always be in parts and pieces? Would he never just be free to feel something wholly? Without reserve? He couldn’t remember the last time he had.

"If she has not given it truly by now, will she ever give it truly at all?" the Webspinner wondered. "If the truth was not harmful, there would be no reason for it to hide." She lowered her head and moved away. Sinderion scowled, but did not reply.

"And you," she said, shifting over to stand before Soren, "you confound some of the others as to why you remain. You have come to a place few mortals dare to tread, and you have done so with little thought of personal reward. The false children care nothing for gold and glory, and you will find none of this traveling with them, but you find this acceptable. You find yourself returning simply because... you have been through something with them now. You have stepped into something so far beyond you, and you find your skills to be a great asset to them."

She leaned in slightly closer, as if to examine his face better, but her human eyes remained closed all the same. "But you cut apart the threads even as you attempt to spin them. It is the severing you fear, and so you seek to never allow yourself to be bound to them in the first place. Perhaps you do not realize that this has already occurred, whether you wish it or not..."

A brief scowl flickered over Soren’s face, but it morphed into a too-wide grin, flashing a straight row of teeth. “Never was too big a fan of spoiling the tale, lady, but go ahead if you want to. Maybe they’ll believe it coming from you. Maybe I will, even. But don’t count on it.” The severing, was it? Oh yes, he hated the severing. Hated it with black arrows and years of his life dedicated to vengeance, because that was better, easier, cleaner than growing attached to something else. If there was one thing his fuck-up of a father had ever taught him, it was that love and regard were weaknesses, to be avoided at all costs. He was right, but everyone slipped up sometimes, Soren more often than he might have liked. It was
 nice, feeling useful and part of something more than just himself. But he could only give himself a facsimile of that, because the severing was too much for a second effort. To say nothing of what came after.

"Your very body is a monument to your disregard for your own life," the Webspinner said once she'd moved in front of Vanryth. "You have already thrown it away in defense of this family you have earned, but you feel such pain now. You lose parts of yourself with every battle, every wound taken on behalf of an ally. What happens when your body is not enough? When one of them falls solely because you are too weak, too slow, to spare them the pain, that you might take it unto yourself? Will you still carry on when one of them is dead and you, by some cruel miracle, are still alive?"

Vanryth merely stared at her with tired eyes. Who was she to tell him something he already knew. The battles, the game, they were taking their toll not only on him, but all of them. He had taken in their pain for himself, to save them from, as he would do time and time again until he was nothing. That was it wasn't it? He'd wear his own body out so that theirs may be in one piece. They were still young, they still had a chance at a facsimile of happiness. It was simple. He wouldn't have to carry on, because he would die before any of the others. It wasn't even a question in his mind, he would trade his life away for one of theirs if it ever came to that, without hesitation, without regrets.

The Webspinner came before Lynly next. "You came to join this group with greed in your heart, and this you regret, but you no longer feel you carry it. You sought personal glory, a great story you might write about yourself someday, but you've seen their plight, and become a part of it. There are so few threads that bind you to them, and yet you remain, to test the waters they insist on wading into. They are a family you can never be a part of, so tight are their bonds. You ask yourself what it is truly that you seek now, if not your own glory?"

Lynly stuck her jaw out in defiance, but said nothing for a time. While whatever drivel dripped out of her mouth may have been true, that did not mean the words were fit for her tongue. She was talking about what Lynly felt inside, and she had no right to put them to words. True, she began this journey for glory. It was also true that nothing kept her tied to them, not like they were tied to each other. She was just there like a leech, claiming their travels for her own. Questions of her own would bubble to the surface in time, but now, she would not give this spider the satisfaction of her own self-doubt. "I stay because I must," She said steadily, evenly.

Last of all she stopped before Maya, who glared unblinkingly at her. "To respect the wishes of your greatest bond here, I will refrain from speaking of all of your thoughts, that you might deliver them yourself. There are others I might choose from."

"Like the other, you fear the ties being formed, even though you know you need them to stay among the living. You doubt them, each and every one, and the uncertainty that comes with the end of this Game. You fear that something will turn them against you, and so you inevitably prepare for that day, the day in which it will be clear what their eventual choice will be. You seek power with a ravenous hunger, that you might become strong enough to survive on your own, that you need not fear the pain of betrayal or the sting and grief of loss."

She reached out and touched Maya's cheek with the palm of her hand, looking away with her eyes still closed. "You know where to look for what you seek, child. Now you simply wonder if you have the will to use what you will learn, and the doubt that any of it will truly be worth it. But I will keep you from the pain of these futures if I can. In death, you will know no suffering."

She moved back, turning to the group at large. "The bonds among you are strong, but between individuals they are but threads, or not yet built entirely. What happens when you are faced with building these webs, or perishing? When tested, will you bond, or break?" The spiders holding them from the ceiling shifted at the Webspinner's gesture, holding the group in pairs over separate holes below them.

"Into the tunnels you will go. If you falter, you will die. Subdue the witch only." And their threads were cut. Drayk and Anirne fell into one, Soren and Adrienne into a second, Sinderion and Lynly into another, and Vanryth and Maya into the last.

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Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Maya was unlucky enough to hit the side wall rather than the back wall, which only slammed her side into the bottom much harder than she would have preferred. She grunted from the blow, but the lack of shooting pains meant that nothing had been broken. Small comforts, right? She rolled sideways around and around a few times before coming to a halt at the beginning of the level passage. She'd hardly taken a breath when the form of Vanryth slammed into her from behind, rolling her over a few times more, ending up face down on rock, dirt and web.

She knew she should have been thinking about other things, but the one question that came to mind was why did the Webspinner even give her a chance at escape? As pitiful as their odds were, why give her any amount of freedom? It was true, the Webspinner would (hopefully) not know of Maya's near position to her in the killing order, but it had been generally agreed upon by the Representatives that it was far better to contain and enemy than avoid them. Keep them harmless, and keep them in sight. Here she'd been given an opportunity, and Maya planned to make good on it.

Maya was well aware of the fact that she'd spoken perhaps only one or two words directly to the Dunmer she'd been paired with. There just... hadn't been any reason to. It was what she was telling herself, anyway. The Webspinner's words echoed in her head, about her fearing ties being formed between her and the group. But whether she feared ties or not, she'd need to figure out how to work with Vanryth in order to avoid getting wrapped up again.

The dagger she conjured into her hands sliced cleanly through the web upon its manifestation, and she carved up along the side, an awkward movement of her arm, but effective, all the same. She clambered out and to her feet, shooting off a quick lightning bolt down the tunnel. It lit up in a flash, and Maya was able to see that it went at least a hundred feet out in front of them, with several possible turns they could take. Whichever one went up would be the one they'd turn on. Her dagger lit the nearby area in a dull purple glow.

"Shall we go find the others, then?" she suggested, looking back to the Dunmer. She didn't much fancy the idea of being on her own down here. If she could just kill a few of these things, though, she could start turning the numbers around.

The already irritated expression of Van only intenfied when her rolled into Maya, spinning him out of control off to the side somewhere. Concerning partners to be paired off with, there were others higher on the list than the witch, though of course it was better than being stranded in a cave alone, he supposed. Hearing the witch cut herself out of her webbing and sprinting off, leaving him tied up. He sighed and shook his head, not knowing why he expected her to help him. With that, he dug into his bag of tricks and ignited his Ancestor's Wrath, incinerating the webbing around him. It also made him a bright red target, but the spiders probably already knew where they were.

Vanryth drew Sinder's sword and strode forward, the flame cloak still swirling around him and casting far more light than the conjured dagger in her hands. It was enough light to illuminate his hands enough to say Behind you. Surely between the two of them, they could find the others and make their way out of the tunnels. As for the others, he had the faith to believe without a doubt that they'd make it. They couldn't not make it, that wasn't an option in his head. They all needed to be alive, if not well, by the end of this.

Sadly, Maya wasn't the best at deciphering the sign language that the group used to understand Vanryth only, and she squinted through the flames at the sign he gave her, thinking for a moment before she reaized that he'd said behind you, at which point she immediately turned around and sent a small storm of electricity surging from her fingertips, to hit absolutely nothing. Pausing, she searched the darkness in front of her intently, wondering why Van would try to trick her like that. Or maybe he had seen something, but then it had scampered off. That was probably it.

Vanryth sighed and shrugged. While he regained the ability to communicate, he forgot that he also lacked the tone of voice to imply that he was following her. He'd have to remember that. "If you see something, just kill it, don't warn me about it," she grumbled, moving forward, keeping her right hand against the wall. Considering she had magicka to spare and a few potions to refill it, she sent another lightning bolt down the hall, immediately tensing her body when one of the Webspinner's spider sisters was illuminated for a split second, clinging to the roof above their heads and wielding a short bow. She fired off another shot, but by the time the hall was illuminated against by the flash, she had dropped down to the floor, crouching low and firing off a shot.

The arrow hit Maya in the foot of all places, sticking in between the bones on the top and causing her to yelp angrily, just as much of her lower left leg went largely numb, and she teetered over to one side, bracing herself against the wall. Well, at least they weren't trying to kill her just yet. No doubt Vanryth wouldn't find much comfort in that. He was not so protected by the rules of the Game.

With the halo of fire still buring around him, Vanryth fired off a fireball alongside Maya's lightning bolt, both missing their marks. When the spider returned fire, the arrow struck Maya instead of him. In the foot, effectively pinning her where she stood. It was an accurate shot and he cursed his odds with such a sniper. Still, he enveloped both of his hands in fire. While the spiders could see in the dark, he was not so lucky-- a constant stream of fireballs would set to even the odds. He just hoped the witch had enough magicka potions for the both of them.

He also hoped that his reserves outlasted this spider. He fired off two fireballs down the cave, one after the other in attempt to hit the spider. Likewise the spider fired off an arrow chest height at the dunmer. Both combatants dodged, Van ducking and the spider throwing herself to the side. They both fired off another volley, this time both were too slow to outright dodge either. Vanryth took an arrow to the shoulder for his trouble, while the spider had a fireball slam into her midsection. Vanryth's shoulder, and resulting arm went numb from the poison, killing the spell in his hands as the Ancestor's Wrath around him died. At that, Van shot a look at Maya, wondering if she was going to do something or watch him fight her battle for her.

While Vanryth and the spider priestess were trading blows intended to be more lethal, the witch had conjured up her bow, summoning an arrow as she pulled the string back and taking aim, leaned up against the wall to brace herself. When the Dunmer's second fireball connected and temporarily lit up the space around the spider, she loosed, her aim true as ever, and the glowing purple arrow cracked through the skull of the creature, sending her down in a heap. Pleased with the kill, Maya darted forward, staying low, limping on her injured and wildly unstable foot until she was nearly at the spider-woman's side, at which point she called her necromancy to her fingertips, letting it flow into the slain priestess.

With a wheezing breath she rose from death, taking hold of her bow once more and following Maya back to Vanryth. She noted that he was hit. Deciding to tend to her own injury first, she snapped off the shaft of the arrow lodged through her foot, which was quite easily done considering most of the limb was numb, and she then pulled the projecticle out, tossing it to the side. Reaching into her bag, she grabbed a small vial of red liquid, uncorking it and down about half of it. Feeling surged into her leg again, the needling sensation causing her to grimace, but it soon passed.

"You'd best get that out," she said, gesturing at the arrow, before offering the other half of the potion. "Special brew of mine. Should wipe out the poison."

If facial expressions could convey sarcasm, Vanryth's would be dripping with it. No, he wasn't going to pull it out, he was just going to let it sit in his shoulder and fester. The numbing sensation felt nice. With a grimace, he grabbed the shaft of the arrow and ripped free, now glad for the numbness. He tossed it down the cave and took the vial from the witch, downing the rest of it. He grunted as the feeling in his arm returned, tingling and all. With that all out of the way, Vanryth turned down the cave and began walking, taking his turn at firing spells off down the hall.

"Let the dead person go first," Maya suggested, ushering her undead slave out in front of her, to pass Vanryth. "They make for good shields, and these ones will shoot back, too." They retained a good amount of their physical skills from when they were alive, certainly enough to aim and fire a bow. This spider priestess was big enough, and the halls narrow enough, that they could effectively use her as a shield if they walked behind her, or perhaps send her in first if they feared a trap.

The spider sisters didn't seem intent on waiting for the trap, however, as they had only just started on a turn up an incline when a pair of arrows whistled by them, one flying over their undead shield's right shoulder, the other thudding into one of her front legs. She made no indication that she was in pain, only returning fire immediately with her own weapon. Maya did so as well, firing arrows over the spider's shoulder down the narrow hall, the thud followed by a light shriek her signal that she'd found a mark, if not a fatal one.

"Push forward," she commanded to her servant, and the spider-priestess rumbled forward while firing arrows, allowing Maya to follow up behind in her wake. These things were uglier up close, but significantly less troublesome to deal with, especially if someone like Vanryth got his hands on them.

Vanryth took up a spot behind Maya and her spider servent, to better allow the witch to fire unimpeded. Every now and then even he'd poke out from behind and fire off a fireball, in an attempt to be useful. The three of them pushed forward at Maya's behest, both firing off their respective weapons while Vanryth waited until they drew close enough. While the witch was a strong mage in her own right, she didn't have the raw strength and ferocity that Van possessed. Strength that would come in handy if they got close enough to spiders. Unfortunately that was not the case.

Instead of coming upon the spider like he thought, a spider came upon him. The must have passed a hole from above, because Vanryth felt something behind them. Whether it be unconscious hearing or an uncanny instinct, Vanryth twisted just in time to take a dagger to his side instead of under his arm-- where all of the vital organs were. The numbing sensation was instant, and though it killed the pain, it slowed his reaction down as well. He turned around just in time roll out of the way of the incoming dagger. That also meant he was open to fire from the bow wielding spider. He quickly tried to close the distance again, just as an arrow embedded itself into the rock where he was once. He fired off a fireball in the direction of the spider, only to find she had shifted her position to the left some.

Vanryth grunted and threw himself at the spider, rolling around on the ground with it. He could only hope that Maya could take care of the archers as he tangled with the one with the dagger.

Maya got in close behind her spider-shield, before one of the sisters landed a nice shot through the her forehead, and she began to disintegrate into ashen remains before the witch. May darted out from behind her decaying cover and unleashed a storm of lightning at the two archers, both hands spraying it wildly around the entire cavern, lighting it up brilliantly in a flashing show of dancing shadows. The pair of them were burned, shocked, and stunned by the attack momentarily, which allowed Maya the time to charge up to the one on the left, conjuring her knife into her hands.

She grabbed a hold of her arm and swung herself up onto the spider sister's back, before pulling her head back by her filthy, disgusting hair and sliding the knife around to the throat. She cut deeply across, opening up the neck and letting the woman's dark blood pour out in front of her. As she swayed about, the other went to fire a shot, but Maya ducked down behind this new cover of hers, the arrow thrumming harmlessly into the meat between her and the other archer. As soon as the first spider sister went down, a spell was in her hands, and she rose from the dead again.

She immediately directed the undead spider to leap upon her former ally, and this she did, enveloping the second archer in a thrashing swarm of legs and filling the hall with shrieks. Maya jumped in on it, stabbing into the second spider sister's abdomen repeatedly, sending blood shooting every direction, until she moved no more, and Maya's undead servant removed herself from the kill. Dispatching her dagger, Maya drew the bow once more, pulling the string back and aiming back towards where Vanryth was, in case he needed assistance with the last of these three.

A snap echoing throughout the caverns signalled that an arrow was unnecessary. Vanryth kicked the lifeless body off of him, neck twisted at an unnatural angle and breathed deeply, trying to will feeling back into his side. The knife wound was deep, and his entire left side was numbed, but he still had control of it if very loosely. Enough control to break a spider's neck at any rate. He laid on the ground, trying to recuperate some of his stamina before Vanryth attempted to stand again. It was difficult to manuever behind the spider in order to get into position to deliver the killing blow, and the effort used caused him to stumble somewhat to his feet.

He dragged himself over to where Maya's bow illuminated her and gave her a tired expression. He then pointed at the wound in his side, wondering if there was anything she could do for him.

She lowered the bow, taking note of the wound. She reached into her pack, offering another vial. "Last of the poison curing variety," she said. Hopefully they'd get a chance to rest so she could recover her supplies after this. He took the vial, and noted to himself not to get stabbed any more.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero Character Portrait: Soren Ivarsson Character Portrait: Adrienne Jastal
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The undead spider sister leading the way, Maya and Vanryth made their way up through the tunnels largely unimpeded for a while, the enemies seemingly having receded for some reason. She wondered if the others were getting hit harder by them instead, though why they'd lighten up on a few of them, but not others, was beyond her. Nothing these things did made any sense, after all. But if they wanted to give her an easy way out, she'd certainly be willing to take it.

They were just coming around a three way intersection when the twang of a bowstring briefly preceded an arrow cracking through the skull of Maya's minion, dropping it in a heartbeat and causing it to fall into ash. Maya quickly reconjured her bow into her hands and drew back the ethereal string, aiming down the hall where the arrow had come from, only to see Soren and Adrienne lit by a magelight. She released her breath, lowering the bow, before looking sadly at the pile of ash near her.

"I was starting to like that one..." she said slightly jokingly, before she realized the joke really wasn't all that funny, considering what the Webspinner had said to her. That put a sour note on the whole thing, didn't it? "You two fare alright?"

Soren and Adrienne had needed to fight their way through about a half-dozen more of the spiders, though those kills had been relatively clean in comparison, with the magelight considerably narrowing their stealth capabilities and his eyes able to pick out the real from the erratically-moving shadows. Still, there was no mistaking that both of them were somewhat worse for the wear. He treaded in front, figuring that they were more likely to encounter something in that direction than from behind, leaving the Sellsword to make sure nothing dropped in on them from behind or above.

When he caught sight of one of the spider sisters rounding a corner, therefore, he didn’t bother to stop and ask questions first—he just fired, the shot landing dead-center of her forehead. He was prepared for more of the same, but what followed her around the corner was not more of her sisters, but the witch and the mute. Funny, he never thought he’d be pleased to see the tongueless wonder, but there it was. He didn’t replace his bow on his shoulder, but he did amble over to remove his arrow from the pile of ash. Undead servitor, it seemed. Shrugging, he twirled the arrow back into his quiver. “Sorry, beautiful, didn’t mean to kill your pet. Well, actually I did, so I guess you’ll just have to find it in your heart to forgive me.” He glanced back at Adrienne for a moment, then shrugged again.

“We’re alive, aren’t we? Seems all right enough to me.” Given the way this path intersected, it looked like there was only one route that none of them had yet tread, and it might be the closest thing they had to a way out.

Adrienne had tensed like Soren’s bowstring when he fired the arrow, a spell halfway to her hand before she recognized that they stood not in the presence of enemies, but allies. Thank the gods for that—she’d had no idea what had become of them. Smiling wanly at Maya, the youngest Sellsword made her way over to the oldest while Soren and the witch exchanged quips. She managed to grow her smile a bit as she reached Van’s side, wrapping her arms around him for just a second, then stepping back to sign. It’s good to see you. They didn’t have time to dawdle, however, and she knew that, so she faced the other two, then, expecting that one of them would probably be more suited to lead the quartet forward than she was.

Vanryth had actually managed to chuckle at the turn of events. Sure, the loss of the spider thrall was unfortunate, but finding some more of their allies-- especially Adrienne-- in one piece elevated his mood a bit. It was a fair trade off in his mind, a spider thrall for the archer and Adrienne. He returned the hug, and replied to her with his own sign, And you. Now with a little bit more heart, that only left them to find the others and get out in one piece-- as if anything was that easy for them. Thus far, things seemed to be going rather okay, considering, but that wasn't bound to last. They were never that fortunate.

Considering that they weren't allowed to kill her, it seemed wisest for Maya to go first, and she felt comfortable enough doing so, now that they had Adrienne's regular magelights to illuminate the way. They moved largely unimpeded throughout the tunnels, though quite a few times unidentified noises caused them to search in vain for a source, and honestly, Maya was glad they weren't finding any. She couldn't help but feel that there was a bad reason that everything was going so well. They would soon find out.

The way up opened into a large, cavernous chamber, wide with a tall ceiling, and deep as well. The first thing to be noticed was that the ground in here was significantly more mushy than elsewhere, and Maya felt her moccasins sink a few inches into some unidentifiable muck beneath her. Ignoring that, however, what was more alarming was what Adrienne's magelight revealed, and that was the eggs. The cavern was filled with them, hundreds of them, all the way to the back of the chamber, where their only exit appeared. No other routes out of the room presented themselves. They would have to go through in order to go up, and out. The eggs themselves were large, just above knee-height, and quite round, not the usual oval shape of an egg, but slightly more spherical. Worse, most of them were quivering slightly, the brood inside them clearly close to matured, and ready to hatch. Maya turned slowly to face the others.

"Best move carefully. We don't want to awaken their... oh. Ah." Her eyes had drifted upwards after turning around, to the wall above the entrance where they had come in. On the wall was likely the largest frostbite spider in Skyrim, and clearly the mother of all these children. Her eyes narrowed on the intruders in her den, before she took slow steps down, her venom dripping from her fangs. "Move," Maya hissed urgently as the spider leapt entirely from the wall, all eight legs landing deftly among the eggs without breaking a one of them. The witch had been forced to dive entirely out of the way, knocking over and heavily denting one. At that, the frostbite queen shrieked in anger, and all of the eggs started quivering much more violently.

Many began to hatch, with gooey spiders the size of large dogs crawling out of them. Even right out of the egg, they were of the same mind as their mother: kill the intruders. Maya wondered if the rules of the Game would protect her from these things. Most likely not.

“Remind me when we get out of here that no amount of arrows is too many,” Soren said to nobody in particular. He’d been a few steps behind Maya, bow drawn and arrow nocked, but this situation was looking like one in which he would be of numerically-limited use. He figured his efforts were better spent on the big one than the little buggers, as frankly, a good dose of fire would be able to kill them en masse. Their mother, on the other hand
 well. He’d have to see how that turned out.

Straightening, he fired the first arrow, puncturing one of the outside eyes of the frostbite spider, though naturally, it would take a fair bit more to kill something that size. Actually
 “Anyone want to bet that I can’t hit all the eyes?” he asked, a half-cocked grin taking up residence on his face as though it belonged there. Really, though, if you couldn’t see the fun in this sort of thing, you were in for a hell of a lot of misery, and he didn’t really want that for himself. The Sellswords were miserable enough on their own without him being mopey, too.

As soon as his second shot was off, so was he, Soren peeling off to one side and away from the majority of the hatching monsters. Maybe the dunmer would be able to set fire to a broad swath of the things, as he doubted Adrienne’s ice would be much use here. They weren’t called frostbite spiders for nothing, after all.

“No bet,” Adrienne replied, though honestly she was more busy trying to figure out just what she was supposed to do than really paying attention. It was enough that she’d seen him shoot before—the man didn’t seem to know how to miss. If he wanted to blind an eight-eyed spider, well
 she supposed a blind spider would be easier to deal with than one that could see. Maybe.

Her most instinctual magic was not going to help here here, so she summoned her familiars instead, the twin birds taking wing and diving in and out amongst the smaller spiders, the flames that lit their bodies occasionally catching here and there. More than anything, though, they were additional targets, and that was going to be important when they were so overwhelmed. She had only the most basic of fire spells in her repertoire, but it was going to be more effective at the moment than all the advanced ice magic she could muster. Even if it did feel contrary to her nature and uncomfortable by this point.

Hesitantly, she called the magic to her fingertips, tightening her grip on her sword in her other hand. She didn’t have anything that would really do much to the big one, so she decided to focus on a wing of the spawn, releasing the steady stream of flame from her palm and swinging the slender blade down to stab into anything that looked like it still had fight after catching on fire.

Ah, now this was more along the lines of what he was expecting, a mother frostbite spider and her brood. Because the day was threatening to relent on them. Still there was no time to curse his luck, for all the good that's ever done him. He ignited both hands into flames spells, opting to aid Adrienne in her pest control. He let loose a steady gout of flame and moved his hands the full 180 degrees in front of him, burning a large swarth of the spiderlings. Vanryth figured that if he kept burning at her children, then mother would turn on him sooner or later, but decided to cross (or burn) that bridge when he came to it. Until then, he was going to make sure he immolated as many of the tiny bastards as he could. It wouldn't do to have them nipping at their heels the entire fight.

As soon as Maya got to her feet there was a slimy spiderling flying towards her face, having performed a rather remarkable leap off of the ground. She tossed a mean lightning bolt its direction, and it quite completely exploded, goo and slime and guts going every which way, spattering her as well. She was tempted to groan her displeasure, but there really wasn't time for that right now. She conjured her bow back up, which conveniently was not capable of running out of arrows, considering that she could just conjure more.

"Do you want any help with that?" she tossed Soren's way, quite seriously, as she put a pair of arrows into the big spider's abdomen. Blinding the spider was probably the best idea they had as far as getting around her fangs and legs went, but bleeding her from a couple dozen arrows couldn't hurt, either. The spiderlings natural inclination seemed to be to wisely run from the fire, thus attempting to swarm Maya and Soren rather than burn at the hands of Adrienne and Vanryth, and while the mother spider was currently barreling down on the one who had put out one of her eyes, if the others killed more of the little ones, she'd likely change her mind.

One of the small ones jumped onto Maya's back as she was turned towards the queen, and while these ones didn't have any venom quite yet, they still had teeth, and this bit down where her shoulder met her neck on the right. She grimaced, dropping the bow and using both hands to pull the spider free and throw it to the floor, blasting it with another bolt of lightning and blowing little spider chunks everywhere. Discarding the idea of the bow, unless Soren wanted help with the eyes, she charged a spell in each hand, and moved deeper into the cavern, her feet straining for purchase in the muck. Staying in one place would only get them overwhelmed.

“Not if you can keep the small ones off me,” he replied, and though there was obvious levity to his tones, he was just as serious about it as she was. The fire seemed to be chasing the dog-sized insects away from those who wielded it, leaving them to attack Maya and himself in their haste to get away. He had bigger problems, however, and let off two arrows at once, watching them thunk into adjacent eyes, which was not enough to stop the big one’s forward progress, towards him. So it was with a smirk and a mocking salute that the archer rendered himself invisible, pulling a triplicate of arrows from his quiver and padding softly over the squishy ground to the dunmer.

“Got a light?” he asked, winking back into visibility at Van’s side and holding the arrowheads out in fan-formation. “I think burning punctured eye sockets are a little more fun than ordinary punctured eye sockets; how about you?” Almost casually, he drew back one of his legs and kicked—hard—at a smaller spider that was trying to duck under the older man’s magic to get at his feet.

Adrienne was having some moderate success catching spiders on fire, but it was nothing extraordinary, and frankly had they been trying to swarm her instead of Maya and Soren, she would have had a problem. Which of course meant she did have a problem when he demonstrated a trick she hadn’t seen since they fought the Bloody Curse and rendered himself invisible. With its target gone, the large spider turned to those who had been killing its young, or in this case, herself.

It moved entirely too fast for a creature of its size, Adrienne thought, though after that she was doing more reacting than thinking, throwing herself to the side and out of the spider’s trajectory. She landed with an uncomfortable ‘oomph’ on a pile of eggs, cracking several, and these were not nearly so ready to hatch as their brethren. Her hands, arms, and midsection came away covered in something slimy, though at least it didn’t seem to smell like anything
 to her. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what Sinderion would be able to tell her of it.

But the thought of her friends reminded her why she was here at all, And Adrienne steeled herself, throwing a small ball of fire at the spider more in hopes of irritating it enough to keep it from turning on the other three than anything else. She wasn’t much of a fighter at close range, but she was quick enough, she hoped. If she could just keep it busy until Soren could do whatever he was planning, they’d be
 well, she wanted to say okay, but honestly was unsure of the truth of it.

Vanryth bit off the groan induced by the pun, but otherwise heeded the words of the Archer. Flaming arrows should do much more damage than regular arrows, or at the very least piss it off a little bit more. Because that's exactly what they needed to do right now, was to make it angrier. Either way, chances were the thing was going to be mad at the end of the day. With his stint as the archer's light concluded, Vanryth strode forward, flames still barreling out of his hands. He moved in Adrienne's direction, hoping to add his strength to hers so that she wouldn't have to garner the attention of the spiders all by her lonesome. To further drive home the point, he kicked unbroken eggs on his way, covering the offending foot in fluid he didn't care much to think about. It wouldn't be long before his magicka reserves were rendered empty.

“Excellent,” Soren murmured, quite pleased with his trio of flaming projectiles. Turning his bow so that it was mostly parallel to the ground rather than perpendicular, he nocked all three simultaneously and focused on the massive spider, currently distracted by Adrienne’s fire. Drawing back, he released with a musical twang and a slap as the string smacked into his wrist guard. His satisfaction with the shot manifested as a tight little smirk on his lips, and Soren disappeared again even as the three arrows thudded, one after another, into three adjacent eye sockets. It was entirely left-side blind now, and it wouldn’t be too many more eyes before the right side followed.

By this point, he could light more arrows on fire just by using one of the many burning patches now scattered around the area, the handiwork of the mages among them. He’d never considered himself as such—a mage was someone who burned or froze or healed or what-have-you. But he was an illusionist of some talent, and there were times when it didn’t matter if something was real or not. Reaching deeper into the wellspring of his magicka than he usually bothered, he formed it into a Call to Arms spell—something between cruel and kind, perhaps like hope itself. It would make them stronger, faster and more skilled than they really were, by convincing them of its own truth. The coming down from that was always hard, but he was more concerned with surviving the next few minutes.

Aiming the spell for Maya, Van, and Adrienne, he released it with a whisper of sound and grabbed another arrow from his quiver, holding it to a burning heap of eggs near him and waiting for it to ignite. He still had an eye or two to put out, after all.

The spell had such an effect on Maya as to make the spiderlings seem utterly inferior in every single way, and honestly a waste of Maya's valuable time. It was starting to make her quite angry, actually, and so she uttered harsh words with every lightning bolt from her palms that spattered spider-bits all over the place. "You--little--shits--aren't--even--worth--resur--recting!" An eyeball from the closest one had the bad fortune of flying up and hitting her near the mouth, and the witch tried to ignore how utterly covered in absolutely disgusting filth she had become.

Eventually the spiderlings seemed to actually take the hint, and they scurried off elsewhere, leaving Maya with an opportunity to make an attack on the mother. She banished the lightning from her hands and called forth a single dagger instead, propelling herself towards the spider's abdomen. The mother had just about arrived on Adrienne when Maya struck it from behind, leaping full-on onto the abdomen, plunging the dagger as high as she could get it and letting her weight carry her down, slicing a large rend in its side that spewed all manner of entrails on the already mucky floors of the cave. Maya fell on her rear with a wet thud when the attack ran its course, and the spider staggered sideways in pain, halting its attack on Adrienne long enough for her and the others to land blows of their own, and hopefully finish this thing off. Maya couldn't be rid of this place soon enough.

In tandem with the brutal hit Maya delivered, Soren made good on a tacit promise, and two final arrows, both alight with fire, found homes in the frostbite spider’s eyes, rending it entirely blind in addition to crippled by what amounted to a disembowelment of gargantuan proportions. He had to admit, the woman had style. “I do believe this thing could use a funeral pyre
” he said offhandedly, glancing at Van. “Since the sparky one isn’t here, perhaps you’d do the honors?” That was directed at Van. Technically, the creature wasn’t quite dead yet, but another shot of something flaming and dangerous would probably do the trick.

A grunt was his only answer, as it was the only answer Vanryth could give. He then walked forward, igniting a fireball and charging en route. His step quicked until he felt there was enough distance closed between the elf and the spider. He certainly didn't want to risk getting his by one of her flailing legs if he could help. He stopped, sliding a distance in the muck before loosing the fireball. He followed it with another from the other hand, though that one was just an extra measure. Better to have two and not need one than to have one and need two. Both fireballs slammed into the things face, further igniting it and sealing it's fate in a fiery explosion. It reared back, its legs flailing wildly before pulling into themselves and stiffening, where it fell onto its back-- dead. With the deed done, he nodded and exhaled, happy that the ordeal was over with.

Maya scrambled away from the flaming corpse of the frostbite spider queen. Thankfully, the last of the little ones scurried away when the mother was slaugthered. Now that she thought about it, she was certain the spider priestesses used this room, and these spiders, for something, but now that she thought about, she really didn't want to know what that was. She pushed herself to her feet, making a hopeless effort to rid herself of the filth she was covered in. A bath was definitely in order for all of them, very soon. "The way through is in the back. Let's get the hell out of here."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Drayk had thought to feel relieved upon seeing a light at the end of the tunnel, but all they found at the end was the Shade.

He was immediately put on guard by the fact that Tarquin had shifted into the true form of a vampire lord since the time they last saw him, and they found him sitting upon a rock just inside the mouth of the cave, eyes watchfully scanning their surroundings. He turned his head to take note of the approaching foursome, before looking back out into the wild. "Just the four of you?" he asked, masking any emotions. Drayk frowned worriedly. "You haven't seen the others?" Tarquin shook his head, at which point Drayk immediately turned back towards the tunnel and began making his way in. He certainly wasn't leaving them inside, not any of them. He couldn't do what he had to if he had doubts, and not knowing the whereabouts of those he felt closest to was the best way to put doubt in him now.

He'd no sooner gone ten steps, however, than a rather foul stench, and not one that pervaded the rest of the tunnels, filled his nostrils, and he looked up to see Adrienne, Vanryth, Soren and the witch coming up to greet them, all of them spattered or covered in a mix of unidentifiable fluids, entrails, and muck. Disgusted as he probably should have been, all he could feel was relief, that all of them had made it. He quickened to a jog until he reached them, stopping to give Adrienne a brief hug before he quickly checked her over for injuries, doing the same for the others afterwards. He himself was dusted at this point by ash, the remains of what charred webbings had remained on him, but they were all so filthy at this point it didn't really matter. What mattered was their health, but they all seemed to still have it, so Drayk breathed slightly easier. He clapped Vanryth briefly on the shoulder before accompanying them back to the mouth of the cave.

Maya did not hide her relief at seeing Sinder and the others in one piece, but words for them would have to wait. As much as she wanted to leave, their job here was not yet done. They'd learned the Mentor's location for the Sellswords, but they'd also learned that finding him was now tied up in ending this Game, which meant they had just as much reason to want all but one of the Representatives dead as she did. At least two of them could die here and now, if things worked out for them. She approached Tarquin, still making a conscious effort to ignore her filthy state, as well as trying to stay calm despite the man's current vampiric state. "Anything happened out here?"

"Nothing moves within sight," Tarquin replied softly, "but our enemies are still here. She's patient, this one. She will not strike until she knows she has the upper hand, and she's attempting to force us to give it to her. You all spoke with the Webspinner, I'm assuming? Did you learn my father's location?"

“You could say that,” Soren replied, shaking his head. His hair was plastered uncomfortably to the back of his neck with an unknown quantity of that viscous gunk, and he peeled the tail away from his person with a vaguely-disgusted look. It was all somewhat rank, but nowhere was worse than where it touched bare skin. Still, it could be worse. At least he wasn’t sticky with his own blood. “Though honestly I’m not sure if Coldharbor’s more a place or a state of mind, if you take my meaning.” For this Mentor of theirs, it was probably both, honestly.

His eyes certainly took their time adjusting to the light, even though it was dimmer out than it had been when they went in. Had it been so many hours? Time was a slippery thing, definitely moreso in caverns where one could not see the sun. He glanced around, noting that everyone seemed to be present and accounted for, if a little worse for the wear. “Would you look at that? We’re not even dead yet
” Contrary to his usual sarcasm and dripping disregard, he actually sounded faintly surprised, and there might have even been a note of genuine pleasure in it, if only a very small one. He’d rather expected some casualties from an endeavor like that. Then again
 they weren’t done yet.

Upon emerging from the cave, Sinder took stock of everyone else, noting with relief that the other four had made it through, despite lacking a healer between them. He’d been worried about that, when he and Lynly found Anirne and Drayk together. Not that having them both had done him a whole lot of good; it was obvious in the lighting that his boots were badly scorched, and his trousers had evident smoke-stains on them, though of course, this was but a hint of the now-blistering burns on his legs. Satisfied that nobody else needed help any more than he did, he shot a silent look at his sister, and nodded subtly down at his feet. She’d get the hint—at least, he hoped she would. He did not desire to spell it out in the hearing of everyone. He had made his own choice, and he’d make the same one again. Nobody else needed to worry about that.

He inhaled deeply, and his brows abruptly drew together. He glanced over at Maya, but found himself unable to look at her for long, and his eyes slid to Tarquin. He could maintain his silence if he wished, and that might be for the better, in the long run, but
 he found it was not in him to do it. The man had saved his friends, and that deserved something in return. “The Feral is near,” he said quietly, scanning the area outside of the cave opening.

"Wouldn't seem right to exclude him from the day's events," Lynly deadpanned, running a hand through her sweatstained hair. What little remained of her braids framing her face were broken with the hand, giving her a more battleworn visage. Though if she was tired, she didn't show it. Adrenaline was still pumping through her veins, and she'd need every last drop before the day was done. The Pact, the Horizon, the Shade, the Feral, and the Webspinner, and certainly not least of all-- the Sellswords-- all in one place. It was a powderkeg, waiting to explode. She'd be lying to herself if she didn't admit she was curious to how it would all play out. Bloodily, if she had her guess.

The Shade frowned upon hearing of Coldharbor, though if he was surprised, he did very well to hide it. Nodding, he stood. "I suspected he might come to this place. Another vulture, it seems. We've only one way to flush them out." His eyes flickered towards Drayk, who didn't seem surprised the attention was turned on him.

Adrienne had leaned heavily against Drayk for a moment, more from relief than any need to support her balance, but drew back when she realized she was still covered in muck and had no desire to plaster him with it. He smelled like ash, which wasn’t really surprising, considering. That might be somewhere on her, too, considering the recent bout with the giant spider. She was pretty sure she’d never appreciated fresh air quite this much before, and there was no mistake that she dreaded going down there again, but she would have to.

“What advantage is she waiting for that she could possibly hold over her target?” she asked of Tarquin. “Those tunnels are
 unmistakably the Webspinner's, and she doesn’t lack for servants. She has plenty of advantages over us...” The girl spread her arms out to either side, indicating their collective state. It didn’t get much more haggard-looking than the Sellswords were at the moment. In fact, away from the source of the Webspinner’s strength, if Adrienne were the Pact, she would have attacked now, save for the presence of the fully-transformed Shade. Killing Maya now would put her in his direct line of fire. But did she know that?

But in the end she sighed. They really didn’t have much choice but to deal with the problems as they arose—planning in a situation this volatile just wasn’t going to work. It made her feel worse than useless; her mind really was her best quality, and she couldn’t put it to that much good use with so many variables floating around in the situation. She almost wanted to laugh when Sinder told them that the Feral was also around, except that there was nothing even remotely funny about it. It was just so fitting, that they’d never find even the smallest of mercies, and have to fight for every inch they took. And now it seemed they would be relying on Dom to burn everyone out of the tunnel network. She did not make an effort to hide her apprehension at that.

Anirne almost managed a smile at the reappearance of the rest of the group, but the Webspinner’s words were still bothering her. She’d been right, of course—the Psijic had always felt that she would have to leave them eventually, but it had been something she could dismiss, a thought she could lock away and allow to fester beneath her notice for as long as possible. Now it was free, and wreaking havoc on the organized neatness and tranquility of her thoughts. She noted Sinder’s glance, and though she raised a brow in slight confusion, she complied with the unspoken request and lit a healing spell, directing it at his legs and feet. “Your mother is
 astute, even in her madness,” she pointed out. “It is possible that the Pact is just as harangued by her forces as we were, if they’re underground already.” Done, she cut off the spell and straightened from her crouch beside her brother. It was perhaps too optimistic a thought for the situation, but still, it wasn’t at all without warrant.

"I don't expect that they are," the Shade speculated, glancing around at the trees, the ridgelines, the foliage, the likely hiding places. "I expect that they're out here somewhere, waiting for us to bring their prey out where she is more vulnerable." Drayk grimaced at the thought. They'd only had to face them in small numbers in the tunnel, but if he flushed them out they'd be up against the full strength of whatever remained, plus the Webspinner herself. They would have the Pact's guerillas to contend with, and to top it all off, the Horizon and the Feral seemed to be in attendance as well. Quite the battle.

"I intend to see my father again regardless of where he is, but that can't be our concern right now," the Shade said, before nodding slightly to Drayk. He hesitated for a moment. Back in the tunnels all he'd wanted to do was kill every spider inside, but now he was free of them and surrounded by friends again. The prospect of going back in wasn't the simplest one to face.

"I'm going back in," he said, as if that weren't clear by now. "I'll come back out with the Webspinner." The look in his eyes was pained when he glanced at Adrienne, knowing what they'd discussed, how he couldn't let himself do this anymore, but if there was a better option, it wasn't apparent. "No one should follow me in, no matter how long I'm gone for."

Adrienne swallowed tightly. She didn’t like this, not in the slightest, and she allowed that to play clearly over her features, refusing to hide it like she hid everything else. There was anguish of a special kind in the look she shared with Dom, but she wasn’t able to just let him go like that. Instead, she caught his arm as he moved, placing herself in front of him and standing on her toes to touch her lips to his, just briefly. “Ten minutes,” she countered, voice solemn and eyes serious. Her words were meant only for him, but she had a feeling Sinder at least would be able to hear. “We promised we’d do this together, and I meant it. If you don’t come back to me in ten minutes, then I’m going to you.” She half smiled, touching his cheek and then backing away and to the side to let him go forward again.

No, she didn’t like it at all, but she believed in him, and she wasn’t going to leave him behind.

"Pull me up again when I stumble," he said softly to her before letting her go. She only made this more difficult for him, but that was good. He didn't want this to be easy, to be painless. The pain meant that he still knew this was wrong. Leaving her behind to shamble back down in the darkness was one of the more difficult things he would do in his life, but he would still do it. He trusted them to not let him hurt anyone, to somehow bring him back to his senses when he allowed himself to lose control utterly. Only when he had first reconnected with fire had he let control go this far, that day they fought against a dragon. And he was planning to go much further, as far as he could possibly go, as it would be necessary to drive the spiders out of this hole.

Vanryth approved even less, and he didn't even try to keep it out of his face. His crossed his arms and painted a disappointed look on his face. He tolerated the fact that Drayk used fire based magic on a daily basis, for the sole reason that they needed all the help they could get. It was a necessary evil in his eyes, though what Drayk was suggesting was like prodding a sleeping giant. He had faith in the boy, more than he had in himself. He believed that one day he could gain complete control over himself. But it had to be a process, easing slowly into it. Not throwing himself headfirst in a cave ignited in a wreath of flame. Van was worried that he might lose himself in the heart of the flames. He wanted to believe that he wouldn't, that he'd come out on the other side no worse for wear. But he was a realist, the cards they were dealt was never that good.

Turning away from his friends and facing the cave, he lit a fire in his heart and a blaze in his hand, and walked in. The Shade quietly observed the entire exchange with what appeared to be an air of solemnity, but once Drayk was out of sight, he began to move slowly down the hill.

"I expect we'll want to stand back from the entrance."

After perhaps a minute, Maya conjured her bow as quietly as she could, so as not to startle anyone. It was uncomfortably quiet, the sensation of not being alone out here quite palpable. She wondered where they were hiding. They could only kill her in an act of self defense, but the rules the Princes had put forth for the Game did little to calm her nerves. A stray arrow would kill her just as dead, and she doubted how great a consolation prize someone's eternal damnation for breaking a code of conduct would be.

And the Feral was here as well. The witch noted that the sun still hung in the sky, and would for several hours yet. She wondered if the Khajiit would fare better against Tarquin this second time around, in the light of day. It certainly couldn't hurt his odds. That she found herself conflicted on desiring his death seemed strange to her. If the Feral killed him, would it not remove all doubt as to who to support from the minds of the Sellswords? Would it not ease her path to the end of this? The witch wondered why her feelings seemed to be getting the better of her lately. Recent events had made her more emotional than she thought she was capable of. She wondered how Tarquin hid it so well. Practice, no doubt. He'd certainly had enough time in his life.

The minutes passed. Five, then six, then seven. Tarquin avoided standing under the shade of any of the trees, but the sun was clearly bothering him. He'd removed the clothes from his upper body so as not to ruin them upon the transformation to this form, and the sun's rays glowed upon his mottled grey skin, and there was even the faintest hints of a black smoke rising from him, as if he were very slowly burning. She'd begun to wonder what it would feel like when the ground began to shake ever so slightly beneath their feet, barely noticeable at first, but enough to make Tarquin and Maya's eyes shoot to the mouth of the cave. "Ready yourselves," Tarquin advised, as though they hadn't had time already.

Soren backed off with the rest, shaking his head faintly at Adrienne and Drayk, though not with derision. They were pretty good kids, really
 wait. Where the fuck had that come from? He must be getting sentimental this close to thirty. He wasn’t sure he was ready to be such an old man yet. Somehow, even with that utterly horrifying thought in mind, he couldn’t quite bring himself to reject the initial one. He knew his Rolf was the only reason he was even capable of having such inclinations, and he’d never blame his son for any of what he left behind. Muttering something vaguely irritable under his breath, he drew his bow again, running a hand absently along the curve of the elfin construction. Funny, that he’d actually received it from a bunch of orcs. He shrugged one shoulder to adjust his quiver over it, filled with some arrows he’d managed to scavenge, but there weren’t a lot.

He was somewhat surprised then to feel the quiver get heavier, and he glanced over his shoulder, noting with interest that the moody one had added what arrows remained to him to Soren’s stock. At the mercenary’s arched eyebrow, Sinderion shook his head. “You’re a better shot,” he said simply. Well, there was no disagreeing with him on that, but he didn’t quite have a thanks in him either, So Soren just nodded. It seemed to be enough for the elf, who drew his shortsword, now armed only with it and a bow he couldn’t use without ammunition. If it bothered him, he made no sign of it, however, settling into something of a ready stance beside the witch, who had a conjured bow of her own in one hand. It was only a matter of waiting, now.

Beside Van and Adrienne, Anirne flicked a concerned glance at Tarquin, given the smoke that was exuding subtly from him, but he seemed less concerned about it than she was, which meant that she probably shouldn’t worry about it either. Indeed, there was plenty of worrying to do without that matter on her mind as well, and she reached into her pockets, pulling free a couple vials of magicka restorative. She suspected most of them must be low on such things at the moment, but she found that she actually rarely needed them. A happy coincidence of heritage, talent, and enchanting skills saw to it that her regeneration speed was enough to see her through most anything without running dry. Vanryth was not so fortunate, and downed the potion eagerly in thanks.

Pressing one into Adrienne’s hand, she gave the other to Van, closing his fingers over it wordlessly. They were the only ones she had left, else she would perhaps have checked if Maya needed one as well. As it was, she had nothing more to give than that, and transmuted her skin to ebonyflesh, lighting a spell on one hand. In the light, it was evident that her version of the alteration spell was more literal than the average, and indeed the majority of her honey-colored skin turned a shiny black, as though ink had been spread over it. Had this situation been less
 dire, there might have been a dunmer joke for Van in there somewhere, but she pushed the thought aside, trying to calm herself and attain the meditative state she preferred to enter battle in. It was not proving easy.

Next to her, Adrienne, who’d pocketed the potion, was faintly atremble, and it was not difficult for Anirne to guess that she was counting the minutes with a focus usually reserved for alchemical reactions or enchantment. It was actually vaguely disconcerting to watch, but she certainly could not blame the girl for her anxiety. It was a situation that was almost impossible for an outsider to grasp, but
 she knew something of anguish. Adrienne’s sword was drawn, a white spell letting off a cold steam in her right hand. It was Vanryth who placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, and squeezed, giving her an encouraging smile. Drayk would do fine, they all would. Despite their circumstances, they were all still alive, and together. That counted for something, considering what they had seen.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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A few moments later, the Webspinner herself burst from the mouth of the cave just as the flames did. She was slightly too large to fit cleanly through the doorway, but she hit it hard enough such that chunks of rock were sent flying through the air a hundred feet away. She was airborn for a brief moment as her momentum carried her down the hill, but she soon hit the ground heavy on all her legs, shaking the ground with the force. The carapace covering her body had now extended up to envelop the womanly portion of her, hiding her from sight and from weapons, but her wail, and the screams of her spider lower half could be heard clearly.

A massive, swirling tornado of fire whipped through the air around her, with the Webspinner directly at its center. It reached out with a radius of perhaps twenty five feet, and climbed upwards into the sky above any of the trees in the area. It would be difficult to see among all the sudden chaos, but the Webspinner was the source of the flame because Drayk had somehow managed to grab onto her. He currently held a death grip where one of her rear legs met her abdomen. The Webspinner hurtled towards the stream directly ahead of her out of the cave, but in her current blindness from fire she smashed her right half into a tree. The force was enough to nearly pull the trunk out of the ground, and it was enough to dislocate Drayk from the Webspinner. They split from each other and rolled the rest of the way down the hill to the stream and the small waterfall at its end. The fire and the spider were due to blow through the line, or at least some of it, of the Sellswords waiting below.

Both Drayk and the great spider fell over the edge of the short cliff. The Webspinner splashed down into the pool at the bottom, dousing most of the immediate flames that afflicted her, but Drayk landed on the nearby shore, where he immediately rose to his feet and hurled a massive fireball into the center mass of the Webspinner, keeping the tornado twisting around him all the while. Even his eyes themselves were on fire, bright orange glowing masses replacing his former gaze. Back at the mouth of the cave a veritable horde of spider priestesses had followed the Webspinner out, some trying desperately to roll about and smother flames, others luckily unafflicted, and charging down into the light to support their lady.

Maya was forced to sprint and dive to the side to avoid the massive, flaming, rolling form of the Webspinner, else she be smothered under her weight. She scrambled quickly back to her feet and watched with no small amount of awe at both the incredible size of the creature, and the incredible power that the fire mage was displaying. The horde of spider sisters charged out behind her, and she put her first arrow through the chest of one, but there were probably a hundred of them, maybe more. And then... nothing met them. Maya snarled, shifting her position to the sides of what would soon become the battlefield, conjuring back another arrow. First, she shouted out, trying to get her voice to reach over the din. "We brought you your present, bitch! Now come out and take it!"

But nothing yet made its presence known, and so the burden of fighting the small army of spider sisters fell to the Sellswords for the moment. That would be complicated, considering that the Webspinner had just performed a impressive and intimidating leap back up to the top of the small cliff, so as to avoid any more of Drayk's fire. She moved with startling speed for something of her size and strength, stabbing out with four, five spear-tipped legs at a time, the hundred eyed spider attempting to feast on anyone who came within range. Tarquin went to work on the sisters rather than the Webspinner, cleaving through the first few of them with brutal efficiency. Maya resurrected one in his wake. They'd sorely need the help, after all.

Anirne, seeing Tarquin and Maya heading for the sisters as they both must, bit down on her lower lip and made a decision. Someone had to engage the Webspinner, and the options were somewhat limited with the Pact still out of the game, likely waiting for the Sellswords to tire so she could swoop in and clean up the remainders. It was solid strategy, which of course meant they had no way of turning it to their advantage. They would simply have to outlast
 everyone else. Glancing around, she tried to pick out her most likely allies against the massive spider-woman. Maya and Tarquin could not risk killing her on accident, Soren was armed for range, and Adrienne
 seemed to have temporarily disappeared.

There was no time to ascertain what had happened, and she called to the rest. “Sinder, Van, Lynly!” She jerked her head at the Webspinner. Hopefully, that was all that needed to be said on the subject, otherwise this plan would be short-lived indeed. Loping towards her, Anirne, launched the bolt of lightning in her hand, taking her staff from her back and swinging for one of the load-bearing legs at the woman’s side. Her stance was primarily defensive, though—there was simply no way this was going to be easy or quick, and she needed to keep herself and the other three in working order while they fought.

Anirne only told Lynly what she already knew. She was going after her. The Webspinner was the largest challenge presently available, and her pride wouldn't allow her to take the easy route by culling the priestesses. Besides that point, the Webspinner was the Pact's target, and since the coward bitch refused to show her face, Lynly was going to do the next best thing. She would steal her target, and when she'd managed to find enough backbone to show herself, she'd steal Maya's. The Pact would pay for locking them up with a Centurion. Sword clanged upon shield in response, stating that Lynly understood. When Anirne went for one leg, Lynly mirrored the action on the other side, swinging her shield at one of the Webspinner's many jointed legs. Meanwhile, Vanryth went between the two women, firing off a gout of flame aimed for her center. He'd see to it that he finished the job Drayk started.

Sinderion was with his sister and the others at once, and took a beeline behind Vanryth, using the cover of the fireball, and the Webspinner’s subsequent effort to, well
 probably eat his friend, honestly, as an opportunity to get underneath her, ramming his shortsword into the softer underside of her abdomen and allowing the force of his dive and the extra torque from rotating his body to slice a line into her more vulnerable areas.

Her reaction was immediate, and no sooner had he landed hard on his back then a pair of her extra limbs were flying towards him, no doubt attempting to skewer him to the ground. Sinder tucked into a backwards roll, flipping his lower half up and over his head and shoulders and landing on the balls of his feet. It was enough to avoid the worst of the damage, but not all of it, and one of the legs caught him in the shoulder, puncturing cleanly through his leathers and stabbing at least a few inches deep into the flesh of his bicep. His breath hissed out from between his teeth, but there was no time to stop—more limbs were already incoming at the failure of the first pair. Thankfully, she was blind down here and he could see, and he tried a few more stabs, aware of the risk involved.

He was sadly correct, and on about the third gash, she managed to spear him right between his collarbone and the muscle that ran from his neck to his arm, pinning him to the ground. He was in serious need of a distraction, or she could take her time finding something more vital.

Anirne, seeing the Webspinner attempting to shuttle Vanryth into her jaws, dodged the spearing foot aimed for her, deciding that the limbs were not a likely avenue of attack—they were simply too well-armored. She needed to draw the woman’s ire, at least long enough for her friend to fight himself free of her grip. Pulling another attack spell from her arsenal, she flung the ice spike hard for the spider-half’s head, dancing in closer than strictly necessary to make herself a more appealing target.

It worked, and though Van was still uncomfortably close to her jaws, her attention was now riveted on the Psijic, and two legs shot straight forward for where Anirne was standing. One, she batted away with her staff, and the other skittered over her modified skin without puncturing anything.

The thought of getting eaten by an oversized and quite frankly insane spider woman was not a pleasant one by any means. Vanryth's fireball only seemed to piss her off and direct that anger directly at him. Something shiny caught the sun at one moment and then slammed into the woman's head the next, wrenching her gaping maw away from him, and instead turning its ire toward Anirne instead. Vanryth stepped backward quitely and quickly to get out of the heat and looped around toward Sinder, careful with any stray legs that might attempt to pin him down in much of the same way.

He just managed to reach his friend when a leg darted toward him out of the corner of his eye. Instead of impaling him as well though, the nordic warrior intervened, throwing her shield up and having the sharpened leg bury into the shield. Lynly then ripped upward with her sword, but instead of cutting the leg like she planned, she only swatted it out of thr iron. She grunted her displeasure and demaned that the elf, "Get him and go," swatting away another leg with her sword. She hoped that Anirne could deal with the head full of razors while she swatted at legs-- at least until Vanryth got Sinder up.

Vanryth nodded his understanding and gripped the Webspinner's leg with both hands, wrenching as hard as he possibly could, hoping to free Sinder before they all ended up dead underneath her.

Adrienne had to stumble back and out of the way also, almost knocking into Van as she did, but thankfully, the flaming Webspinner avoided contact with any of her friends, though she nearly choked on her breath when Dom went over the cliff with her. Unthinking, she ran to the edge, looking over with dismay and noting that he’d landed on the hard surface of the shore. The Webspinner looked to have displaced most of the water in the pool, but before she could reflect any further on that, the spider was making an enormous leap, and Adrienne had to roll out of the way so as not to be landed on.

Unfortunately, she was closest to the woman, and when the first of too many chitinous limbs came at her, she made a very fast, very foolish decision, and rolled herself off the cliff to escape.

The fall was perhaps fifteen or twenty feet, something that she might have been able to simply conclude in a roll if she’d accurately gauged it first. She’d had no time to do any such thing, and had simply pushed herself off on guts and against most well-meaning rationality. There were just times when you had to be brave and couldn’t think too hard about what you were doing, lest you snap out of it and convince yourself, rightly, that your actions were absurd and should not be undertaken. Now was one of those times, and she wasn’t going to let things happen that way. She couldn’t.

The water broke her fall, but it was shallow enough that her back still hit stone pretty hard. It was actually mostly a blessing that she’d fallen horizontally, else she might have broken her legs. Submerged for several seconds, Adrienne fought her way to the surface of the water and then her feet, sputtering a little, flinging her hair out of her face. There was no time to catch her breath, though: she had a fire mage to catch. Stepping out of the water and onto solid ground, Adrienne went with the most slapdash plan she’d ever come up with, and hoped it would be enough. Pulling from deep in her magicka reserves, she called the ice to her, forming it around her in a shroud. Given the water currently soaking her clothes, hair and skin, she was soon covered in sheets of it, the frost crawling up and down her clothing and skin alike, until she was pale as death and her lips were turning faintly blue.

She wasn’t as powerful as him, but hopefully, she wouldn’t have to be. She did not need to defeat him or smother the flames herself, she only needed to reach him, make him see that he needed to do it. Don’t think about it too hard, just do it. Pull him up, like you promised. Adrienne took a deep breath, then ran, heading for Drayk, who by now was trying to climb a nearby path to get up and presumably in range of the Webspinner.

“Dom!” she shouted, but her voice was lost over the roar of the fire and the din of the battle. There was just too much going on, and standing here at the fringe of his tempest was only starting to melt her cloak at the edges. That settled it: there was just no more time to think about it. Sucking as much air as she could into her lungs, Adrienne held her breath and plunged headlong into the fire, running as fast as her legs would take her.

When Drayk reached the top again his blazing eyes found the rear of the Webspinner facing him, and he unloaded another brutally powerful fireball, closing the gap such that the tornado began to hit the edges of the great spider again. He was clearly not thinking about, or even seeing, the people already engaged with the creature, and was seemingly intent only on ensuring the Webspinner's death. He didn't have the slightest idea that Adrienne was desperately trying to close the distance behind him.

Tarquin was already covered in the blood of the spider priestesses, and he was doing excellent work keeping the majority of them off the others who were trying to combat their leader. The near constant stream of arrows coming in from Maya and Soren were no doubt helping, and they hardly had to aim, so many were their targets. He rended most of them apart with his bare hands, lifting off with powerful wings to drop down where they were not so concentrated, before shredding a few more of them. The effort was clearly taxing him in the sunlight, but it was not wasted effort, as the bodies of their enemies were already strewn across the side of the mountain.

At first opportunity, Soren had deftly swung himself into one of the nearby trees, perching himself on a low branch so as to have a view of everything going on around him and a better pick of targets. Those four had their hands full with the Webspinner, but there wasn’t much he could do unless they presented him with a particularly-devastating shot, so instead, he focused on taking down the spider sisters that sought either to interfere with the battle raging there, or the ones attempting to blindside either Maya or Tarquin. He could put a sister down with a single shot, but he only had a finite amount of ammunition. Hopefully at some point he’d be able to jump down and pirate a quiver or two from the dead ones. Until then, he was content to do what he did best: snipe.

Fire was too gentle a word for what she’d stepped into. It was honestly more like something someone would call an inferno, and had it not been for the fact that her ice was magical rather than mundane, it would have all melted immediately. Maybe it did anyway—it was kind of hard to tell, as numb as it had made her. She counted this a blessing even if it made her feel awkward and clumsy, though, because it meant the pain of her endeavors registered on a lower level than it would have otherwise. She was dimly aware of the ends of her hair catching fire, but there was simply no time to think about that.

So Adrienne kept moving, even as the last of her frost cloak sizzled away into nothing, leaving her with what natural water had frozen to her body and her willpower. And her will to get out of this whirling torrent of flames was quite high indeed; the only trick was getting it to drive her forwards rather than back. She couldn’t see where they were, but she was gaining ground on him, numbed limbs or no. One of her sleeves was being eaten by flames, so she yanked tearing it off and tossing it away just as she thudded blindly into something—someone.

“Dom!” she shouted again over the roar of the firestorm, but it was impossible to tell if she was heard or not, so she lunged instead, wrapping her arms tightly around his middle and inadvertently bringing them both to the ground when her legs failed to support her efforts anymore. “Dom, stop! Stop, you promised. Come back.” She couldn’t even tell if she was frozen or burning anymore. It wouldn’t matter, if she couldn’t reach him. Struggling with her positioning a bit, she took hold of his face with both hands and made him look at her. Merciful Mara, his eyes were
 this was bad. She didn’t have a name for the fear that seized her then, but she didn’t really have the time for it either, the tiniest of blessings in a situation that would have otherwise overwhelmed her.

“Gods above, please don’t do this. Come back. I’m here, but we have to meet in the middle, remember? Please
” It was as true as it had been on the days she’d said it: if he fell, she’d have no choice but to fall with him—and she’d burn for it. But she really did love him just the same.

As much pain as everyone else was in, Drayk felt nothing but bliss. The fall out of the cave and down the cliff felt like nothing to him, and he relentlessly pursued the target he had locked himself on, unaware that anything else even existed, unaware that anything else even mattered to him. The Webspinner hastened to move away from his tornado, allowing Vanryth to remove the leg from Sinder easily enough. She surged forward, halted by the tree that Soren was perched in with enough force to pull up some of the roots, shaking it violently enough to knock the archer out of it if he wasn't prepared. That would, of course, cause him to fall down on the Webspinner.

Drayk was about to give pursuit when something thudded into him from behind. It was a minor inconvenience at first, but then the arms wrapped around his middle. He knew that touch, he knew the way she felt against him, but his mind smothered the thought, because it brought as much pain as it did joy, and the flames gave him only pleasure now. But she wouldn't let go, and together they fell to the ground. Her voice was a muffled banging through a thick wall inside his mind, but it was enough to make the tornado lurch and sway wildly, momentarily struggling to remain together. He needed to get away from this, he needed to be alone with the fire, and destroy this foul creature...

But she turned him to look at her, and he couldn't look away, though he wanted to, so badly. She couldn't see these eyes, these eyes that were full of nothing but a consuming fire, eating him, and now eating her as well. Her voice was pleading, and it was like daggers into his belly, but somehow he remembered that the pain felt good. The tornado spun out wildly, no longer being pulled towards the center of his body, and then burnt out altogether, leaving the ground around them charred and blackened. His eyes returned to their normal light brown hue, and he ended up on his knees, facing her with a drooping head and sagging eyelids. Thick, black smoke wafted heavily from his chest, shoulders, and back, and his faces and robes were spotted with ash. He'd returned to himself, but the effort had cost him just about everything he had left.

"You pulled..." he said, his words trailing off, but he tried again. "Meet you in the..." There was no succeeding this time. His eyes closed softly shut, and he tilted over to the side, thudding heavily into the dirt and beginning to roll and slide back down the hill he'd just come up from.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Thank the gods. Granted, the amount of pain she was slowly realizing she was in, coupled with Dom’s lack of consciousness and slow tumble down the hill, seemed like scant things to be thankful for, but at the moment, she could not help but be grateful all the same. She was far too weak to stop his descent. In fact, she was realizing, she was far too weak to do much of anything at the moment. A quick inventory of her condition yielded almost no good news. The arm she’d had to tear the sleeve away from was a uniform angry red, blisters already starting to form along its length. The rest of her wasn’t much better, though her wet clothes and ice magic had provided some protection, enough that perhaps the burns hadn’t breached more than first layer or two of her skin.

Unfortunately, that meant they had not burned away her nerve endings or destroyed her ability to feel pain, and now that the adrenaline of her idiocy was ebbing, she was acutely aware that, while this meant she would survive, and probably with only minimal scarring, she was in more pain than she had been since the Embassy. The flames had abated, but her body was still on fire, and not the good kind. She could feel a dull throb underneath the more expected burning, in tandem with her heartbeat. It was too much, and she was no Van or Sinder or Lynly, made and trained to endure pain like it didn’t matter. She screamed, harsh and ragged and only when she realized that the inside of her throat must also be burned did she trail off into a pained whimper instead. Everything hurt, and she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t anything for the agony of it.

The sound had one good consequence, perhaps; it caught the attention of Anirne, currently in the process of firing off a healing spell at the newly-freed Sinder. The disorientation of the Webspinner would not last forever, though, and the altmer woman was forced to make a choice: go tend Adrienne, or continue to provide support for that confrontation. Hoping that the others would manage a few minutes without her, she broke into a sprint, covering the intervening ground in long strides and ducking past a few spider sisters in the process.

Sinderion grunted when the limb came out of his muscle, and the relief of a healing spell was almost immediate. The shadow over his head receded as the Webspinner did, but not before he raised his good arm and planted a rune on her underside, to the left. His sister’s magic was as good as ever, and he rose more or less intact, just as a hoarse scream ripped through the air. Adrienne! It rebounded around in his skull, and he almost flinched, more from the thought of her in that much pain than the actual volume. But Anirne was moving faster than he reacted, for once, and she would actually be able to do something about it.

Grinding his teeth and trying not to think too much about what had happened, he noted the absence of heat as Drayk’s spell had guttered out, and suspected that this meant they might be one or two members down for now. They had to keep at the Webspinner—there was no other choice. He did not enjoy the thought of both her and the Pact on the field at the same time, to say nothing of the Horizon and the Feral as well. Grasping Van briefly on the shoulder in thanks, Sinder turned and bounded off after the spider, shortsword reversed in his hand.

Soren, on the other hand, was becoming intimately acquainted with the giant spider. She was inadvertently taking down his tree, and the situation was less than pleasant as a result. When he guessed her trajectory, he slung his bow over his shoulder and braced himself, taking the impact to the tree without falling out. He could feel it creaking underneath him, though, and knew it would likely fall regardless. Gauging his jump, the mercenary sprang from the branches, landing in a more or less steady crouch on the creature’s abdomen and drawing his sword.

“Great,” he muttered to himself, “Now what am I supposed to do?” There didn’t seem to be any immediate vulnerable spots for him to attack, and he was willing to bet staying on wasn’t going to be the easiest task in the world either. He needed to think fast.

Vanryth stood motionlessly beside Sinder for the moment the scream echoed through the hills. Every muscle in his body willed him to turn and run to help her, but the rational part of his mind was still in control. It told him that there was nothing he could do, he did not possess Anirne's healing magic. He'd just take a pair of hands away that were better suited to deal with the Webspinner than mending any injuries. The best way he could help both Adrienne and Drayk was to focus on the monster in front of them. He could help by making sure she wouldn't reach them.

So it was in Sinder's shadow that Vanryth raced off to meet the spider, his own sword flashing in his hands and a flame spell in his hands. Not to be outdone by a bunch of elves, Lynly was already ahead of them both, crouching behind her shield. Presently she was considering what would be the best course of action to assist Soren, who in his infinite luck had managed to land on top of the Webspinner. "Look for some place soft!" she called, getting a spiderleg in return for her aid. As the only part of her body that was visible behind her shield was her forehead, that's exactly where the leg went, opening a thin line from one end to the other. She cursed as she took a step backward, swatting another attempt as she did.

"And for Talos' sake, find it quick!" She demanded.

Higher on the hill, the spider priestesses were beginning to try running from the Shade, realizing the futility of their fight against him, but he was far swifter than they were out of their tunnels, and he pounced on as many as he could, snapping necks and opening throats, doing his best to remain efficient in his kills, as he was clearly heaving for breath at the moment, slick with blood, not all of which was the spider sisters'. Maya had found herself no longer shooting at all, but instead crouched down and scanning the trees and the rocklines like a hawk, wanting just a simple glimpse of her true enemy here, anything to go on, but the Bosmer bitch still refused to show her face. It seemed they would have to wear down the Webspinner even more.

Anirne reached Adrienne not long after, forcing herself for the moment to ignore what was going on behind her in favor of setting to work on the girl immediately. She was badly burned, what seemed like just about everywhere, and it wasn’t too hard to guess what she’d done to earn them. The healer would have had a lot of sympathy for that, had she the time, as it was, she didn’t and set to work immediately. The worst burns were on her bare right arm and one side of her neck and face, and so she started there, willing the pain to subside and new skin to replace that which had been reddened and blistered. She noted in passing that more than half the length of Adrienne’s hair had been burned away entirely, and the ends were ragged and singed despite still being damp from her fall into the water.

That and the ice might have been the only things that saved her, really. Once the worst burns were treated as well as she could in the moment, the skin was still angry and red in their wake, but it wouldn’t scar much if at all, which was the most important of Anirne’s secondary concerns, the primary one being getting her up and moving again. The rest of the burns didn’t need immediate attention, so she dulled the pain they produced only, knowing that time was short.

“Adrienne,” she said, voice insistent, “Can you stand?”

The young woman groaned, but she wasn’t in nearly so much pain anymore, and she thanked Mara for Anirne’s presence. Her skin felt funny, like it was stretched too tightly over her body, but it was bearable, and she managed to get her feet underneath her and leverage herself upwards. Immediately, she looked down the hill. “Dom, he
 we can’t leave him exposed like that.” It was possible that someone would kill him as they passed, just to make sure he didn’t interfere, and that was too horrible to contemplate.

Anirne chewed her lip, thinking it over. “All right,” she said after a couple of seconds. “You go help Tarquin; he could use the support. I’ll take care of Drayk.” She wasn’t sure how much she’d be able to do, but at the very least, she could drag him off the path and out of the way of the crossfire.

“You don’t say, lovely. Really, I thought the idea was to strike at the strong bits and hope it did something that way. I don’t suppose I’m also to ‘not get hit,’ perchance?” Soren would have rolled his eyes if he wasn’t presently using them to attempt what she’d suggested, less because she’d suggested it and more because it was obvious. His best bet was probably the juncture between front and abdomen, actually, and so it was for that he went, springing up the back of the spider and plunging his sword into the joint in the carapace there.

The Webspinner’s reaction was immediate, and she once again moved hastily, this time in an obvious effort to dislodge him, which, considering how erratic she was being, had a very good chance of succeeding. Soren held onto his sword for dear life, but he could feel it loosening in the stab wound, and knew it wouldn’t hold forever. It was time to jump off this runaway carriage under his own steam, before his trajectory was decided for him. Quickly assessing his surroundings, he threw himself left, dragging his sword down her side for as long as his momentum would allow, then pulling the blade free before he could get stuck dangling halfway down.

He hit the ground with a grunt, his knees absorbing most of the impact, but did not count on being knocked forward into a sprawl by a leg. It wasn’t long before a strong pair of arms was dragging him to his feet, though, and he straightened in time for Sinderion to speak to him. “Rune on the abdomen. Shoot it.” And then he was off again, to engage that spider with nothing more than an overblown dagger. If Soren wasn’t just as crazy, he might have judged him a little for that.

As it was, though, he sheathed his sword, drew his bow, and aimed for the rune, glowing in a tell-tale fashion. “Get clear” he shouted to the other two, and then he let fly. The explosion was pretty impressive, but there was no time to watch. The next arrow thudded into the forehead of an incoming spider sister, and he rolled his shoulders. This was almost getting manageable again, which with their luck meant that something horrendous was going to happen soon.

Soren had inflicted a decent wound upon her, and a steady stream of dark blood was falling from her side, but judging from the size of her, she had a lot of blood. The rune's explosion caused her to stagger sideways for a moment, and some of the carapace in the area looking somewhat weaker now. It also had the effect of renewing the Webspinner's rage, and she returned to the offensive, leaping forward on top of anyone she could, stabbing down with her legs and attempting to drag anyone she caught into the maw of her lower spider half, which chomped hungrily for something to consume. To make matters worse, spider sisters were coming down the hill to hit them from the other side, though they had mercifully stopped emerging from the tunnel. Tarquin was unable to hold the tide entirely now, though he continued on, shredding to bits those he could get his hands on.

While not exactly bright to begin with, things certainly dimmed even moreso. There was still a lot of fight to go on, and Vanryth felt that their limits were steadily approaching. Not only had they to contend with an even angrier Webspinner, but some of the priestesses were getting through, one of which Van pelted in the face with a fireball. They might have been quick in the caves, but outside he could see, and they weren't nearly so dodgey. Not counting that, but the Pact was out there somewhere, and so was the Feral. The odds were stacked against them, and it wouldn't be long before it would all topple with them most likely underneath it all. Dammit, he hated their luck.

Meanwhile, Lynly was hating her own. The "anyone she could" just so happened to be Lynly through a fault of her own. She had strayed too close to the Webspinner trying to find an angle to attack. That of course left her to being staggered by the explosion triggered by Soren. By the time the ringing left her ears, the Webspinner was baring down on her. The sheer weight of the monster forced her back to the ground, and it was only due to her shield she was saved from being digested. Instead of flesh, the Webspinner's jaws enclosed around the the rim of her shield, while smaller legs was desprately trying to shovel Lynly into her mouth.

She could feel the tips of the sharp legs pierce into the dwemer armor and poke at her shoulders and thighs. It was all she could do to push back against her shield, much less swing her sword or do anything useful besides not getting eaten. "Dammit!" She cried, wishing that she could at least try to fight back.

A vial of acid cracked into the face of the spider sister making an attempt to get past Tarquin, and Adrienne didn’t waste the opportunity, ducking in under the woman’s guard and drawing her sword across her throat, deliberately not thinking about how it kind of reminded her of what she’d done to the Omen. That was a place she did not need to go right now. Unfortunately, her desire to not get caught under the spurting of blood from the vital artery she’d severed carried her back out without enough attentiveness, and right into the axe of the next sister, who caught her on the ribcage of her already more burned side. Adrienne choked on her breath, but whirled in an arc, her momentum parting the sister’s head from her shoulders.

Her shoulders burned with the effort, but she didn’t stop trying, even bleeding from her side as she was. She was almost as low on poison and acid as she was on potions, and she decided to save what else was left. Her wound pulled wider as she took off after a runner, swinging astride the sister as one would a horse of comparable size and plunging the slender blade into the back of the human half, causing it to erupt, coated in red, from her chest. The priestess went down, and Adrienne with her, and she was longer in getting to her feet than she would have liked, having to work her way out from underneath the corpse. The numbing agent meant she wasn’t sure if she was breathing deeply enough, so she’d have to be careful until it wore off. Her body could process most nonlethal poisons faster than other people, as Madame Madec had been adamant that she sample the goods, so to speak. She certainly owed the woman her thanks now, perhaps.

Turning to face back up the hill, she conjured a dagger for her off-hand, deciding to take a leaf out of Sinder's book for the moment and save what of her magic she could. It was not far from her mind that things were going to get worse before they got better—if she survived that long. But for now, she simply had to fight her way back towards Tarquin, and do what little she could to stem the tide of sisters trying to get past him and at her friends.

Meanwhile, Anirne had jogged down the hill to Drayk’s unconscious form, and frowned upon realizing what she already suspected: he was unconscious from exhaustion and severe magicka drain, not any injury she could fix. Looking around, she decided the best she could do was get him well away from the body of the confrontation. Huffing with the exertion, she managed to get him over her shoulders in a rescue carry, but she wouldn’t be able to take him far. Spotting a small cluster of trees with some undergrowth, she decided that it would have to do and shuffled towards it, laying him amidst the brush. She rearranged the branches as well as she could to cover him and sent a quick prayer to the ancestors, for all the good it would do, then hurried back out onto the field.

It was looking considerably worse than when she left it. Anirne sent a lightning bolt cracking into the weakened part of the Webspinner’s carapace, but it was evident that if Tarquin and Adrienne didn’t get more help, they’d have more than one oversized spider to deal with, and they couldn’t handle that right now. The Psijic drew her staff from her back and braced it against the ground, attempting to pike a charging sister. It worked after a fashion, and the woman was impaled through the chest, but the staff snapped under the pressure, and the electricity stored within discharged into the nearest target—Anirne, knocking her prone on the ground, body convulsing with the voltage of it. Even when it came to a stop, she didn’t move, and it was hard to tell whether or not she was even conscious—or alive.

Soren wasn’t doing too badly at culling the sisters that managed to pass the front line consisting of Tarquin and now Adrienne as well, putting them down with arrows to the head, mostly, but when Anirne collapsed, he tsked low in his throat and had to reposition, taking up a spot in front of the downed woman. “You owe me for this, sweetheart,” he muttered, more to himself than her, since he honestly had no idea if she could hear him or not. Unfortunately, the spill Adrienne had taken and the time it took him to move meant that there were now more bearing down on them than he could properly kill.

So he once again shouldered his bow and drew his sword, clotheslining the first sister that tried to dart past him with it and almost dislocating his own shoulder in the process. The next ones came in a trio, though, and despite the fact that he managed to avoid the first swipe, the two afterwards scissored him, biting into his waist on the left side and the elbow-joint of his leather armor on his right. The arm went numb immediately, and he switched his grip to his off-hand, glad that it was almost as dexterous as the dominant one. His injuries, however, were both slowing and weakening him, and had it not been for the massive distraction that was a body flying overhead, he might not have survived it.

As things went, however, he downed two of the three in their distraction with efficient swipes in the throat region, and the third almost matched the style, had he not moved a few inches to the side. Instead, she severed the muscle connecting his right arm to his shoulder, almost all the way through. The arm would be entirely useless until healed, and the two people capable of that were not currently in a position to do it.

Sinderion, upon ascertaining Lynly’s condition, essentially went in after her, winding both strong arms around her waist in an attempt to pull her out of its jaws. He could feel himself gaining some ground, feet planted firmly in the dirt and body bowed with the effort of the tugging, but he did not account for the fact that the Webspinner could reach her front with more legs than she was presently using. His grip slackened considerably when one of the others impaled him in the middle of his back, emerging on the other side by a good few inches.

The man’s breath left him in a painful gust, and the arm pulled, taking him with it until he lost his grip on his ally altogether and found himself lifted off the ground and hurled through the air, his new wound trailing blood after him like a macabre crimson ribbon in the wind. He landed hard and gasping for breath, and he was further hampered by the fact that his state was making it much easier for the beast to fight him. It could save his life, and if he was pushed much closer to the edge of death, it would, just as it had three times before.

Lynly yelled in pain as the elf yanked from behind. It felt like he'd rip her skeleton out before the Webspinner decided to relent. The spidery legs had dug in deep into the four points, two in her shoulder and two into her thighs. She could swear that she could feel the appendage tickling her to the bones, and there was naught she could do about it until someone else had a bright idea. She prayed that it would be better thought out than simply pulling at her. That meant Van would have to come up with something with a little more finesse. Dammit.

On the other side of the coin, Vanryth did stop himself from repeating Sinder's mistake, if only just barely. He had been in midstride when the Webspinner ripped the man from the warrior and threw him. It'd been enough to stop him and reevaulate his tactics. He came up with another, though it was perhaps even less favorable than the initial one, if that was possible. Instead of rushing forward, Van branched off to the side and began to pelt the weakened side of the Webspinner with whatever Fire magic he had left in reserve. The result was the desired, if not the optimum one. At the licking tongues of flame, the Webspinner dropped Lynly into a heap and turned, narrowing all eyes at the offending Dunmer.

It was about as subtle a tactic he was capable of, and his just reward was a number of legs attempting to skewering him. Thanks to Anirne's constant hounding of him to train, he managed to get a couple of good dodges in before the Webspinner caught up to him. A leg swept backward toward an unsuspecting Van, smashing him across the side of the face and sending him into a downward pirotte, face first in the ground. Then she decided to further the assault, and impaled him through the shoulder blade, picking him up, and throwing him in the same direction she did Sinder. After that, everything became a blur, and the sounds were becoming a garbled mess.

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Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives
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With a twang of her bowstring another spider sister fell to the dirt, but Maya looked over the battlefield with worry. The Webspinner was tearing them up, and the fire mage looked to be entirely out of commission. If only Adrienne hadn't seen fit to bring him out of it so soon, the damage he could have done... there was no point thinking about now, though. She was well aware of the fact that she hadn't suffered a wound yet in the battle, staying on the edges as she was, but there was certainly a reason for this. She had to be at the top of her game to be able to bring down the Pact, she knew this, and as much as it pained her to watch the others take these wounds, they'd only be set back further if she failed. That, or she'd be dead, and she didn't much want that.

But as much punishment as the Sellswords were taking, the Webspinner was struggling as well now. The minor wounds were beginning to add up. She had hardly slowed, but the keen-eyed witch was able to spot something different about her. The sort of shell containing what had been Phaedra Aurelius had cracked slightly at the top. She didn't know how, as most of their weapons had negligible effect, but if someone could get back on top of the spider again, perhaps it could be pulled open. Maybe then the Pact would show herself, and claim the prize she'd done so little to work for. "The shell containing her!" Maya called, hoping they would still be aware enough to hear her, at least someone. "Pull it open, it will make her vulnerable!"

Anirne’s muscles, forcibly contracted by the backlash from the breaking of her staff, finally relaxed enough that she was able to regain control of them, and she came back to awareness quite suddenly, the pain abating long enough that she could make out Soren standing in front of her, downing the last of what looked like three spider sisters with one hand, the other useless by his side. Pulling herself to her feet, Anirne soothed the remaining pain with a small wave of healing energy, then pressed another of the same directly into the archer’s mangled shoulder. “It will be very tender,” she warned, “but it will work.” His other wounds, she left for the moment. There was no telling how much longer this battle would go, and they seemed to be impeding him less.

Maya’s shout reached them both, and Anirne exchanged a glance with the archer, than darted hers to a cluster of trees near the Webspinner. A small smile graced her lips, and she shook out her arms and legs. “Time to try and turn this around,” she murmured. Without a weapon, she wouldn’t be weighed down in her ascent, and they needed to be quick about things. Judging the angles as best she could, she prayed her training would be enough and decided to try channeling her brother’s absurd agility, just for a little while.

With a hop and a bound, the Psijic launched herself into a sprint, fast approaching the tree she wanted. A few feet from it, she jumped, catching hold of a low branch and using her momentum to swing herself atop it in a smooth movement. The rough bark tore at her hands, but she had much more important things to worry about, like making the next leap. Backing up so that her back pressed against the trunk of the tree, Anirne tested the surety of her balance and then made another running start, springing off the branch just before she thought it wouldn’t be able to hold her weight anymore. It cracked under the pressure, but it did give her a moderate amount of lift, and she went sailing through the air towards the Webspinner’s back, landing in a sprawl, which soon became a scrabble to stay on, her hands struggling to find purchase on the smooth carapace.

But she managed it, and moved forward in a crouch, lowering her center of gravity to try and remain upright. The shell Maya had mentioned was right in front of her, and indeed appeared to be cracking. Anirne fitted all eight of her fingers under one such crack, wrenching upwards with all the strength she could muster. If this didn’t work, she was going to shatter it with electricity.

The shell gradually pulled apart as Anirne applied all the effort she could, and when it became clear that it was going to fail, the Webspinner herself burst forth from it in full force, swiping viciously at Anirne with claws for fingers, screaming her displeasure. She'd only managed to get a few attacks off, however, when there was a twang of a bowstring, and not from Soren, Sinder, or Maya. It came from the treeline to the north, on the opposite end of the clearing from where Maya was crouched. The arrow whistled through the air, and with a resounding crack it punched through the Webspinner's skull. Immediately her body went limp, and she tipped over to lay against the body of her spider half... which was still quite functional, if severely wounded.

Maya traced the path of the arrow backwards, and saw a glimpse of the Bosmer woman she was looking for. The Pact turned and took off into the forest, and Maya bolted out across the battlefield, taking down one of the remaining spider sisters with her bow as she went. She spotted Sinder injured, and pulled a healing potion as she ran. She ran such that he would be in her path, stooping to place the potion in his hand. It happened to be her last one. "Sinder, I need your help with this." He was probably the only one who could keep up with her right now, and chase down the Pact, to defeat her and whoever she was with. She didn't look back after handing him the potion, sprinting off after the Pact, expecting that he would follow now that the battle was largely in hand.

But the battle was not largely in hand, for as the Webspinner fell the bounding black form of a werewolf emerged from the treeline and made off quickly towards the now kneeling form of the Shade. He looked quite simply exhausted from the battle in the light, and only managed to put up a slight defense when the Feral blasted into him full speed, carrying him across the width of the battlefield and into the woods on the other side that Maya had taken off into. The sounds of a vicious struggle ensued, and considering Tarquin's current state, it likely wouldn't end as well for him here as it had at the Embassy. Sinder was likely the only one who could reach the fight in time to really help. If he left to assist Maya, the fight against the Feral would likely fall to another.

Later, when he reflected on this decision, it would occur to Sinderion that there were reasons for it. He knew they were there—even then, in the very heat of the moment, when he saw the two paths he could take, he knew there were solid, decent reasons for doing what he did, reasons accounting for his allies and his enemies and any number of possibilities. Reasons assuring him of what he did know, and forgiving him for what he couldn’t hope to guess. But they weren’t why he did it. Not in the least. His reasons, the logic of the situation, those possibilities stretched out in front of him, the paths that his feet could tread—these barely even registered in his mind. He simply acted, a creature of his instinct at the very edge of his understanding.

Hurriedly uncorking the potion, he downed its contents in a single swallow and threw the vial to the side. His wound closed, the torn places inside him becoming whole once again, but no concoction could lift the doubt that lay heavy in his chest. He doubted so much, and he hadn’t stopped doubting since he’d recovered enough of his mind to understand what he’d done, what he’d become.

But it went even further back than that, didn’t it? He’d doubted himself as a child, too, growing up next to a sibling who seemed incapable of doing anything less than perfectly, much less wrong. It wasn’t only himself he doubted anymore, either. He questioned the honesty of both the Representatives he’d had cause to ally with, he questioned just how much longer his friends would be able to keep hold over themselves. He wondered how much longer any of them would be alive, and if any of them would die with regrets that weighed even heavier than his. He didn’t doubt that she was keeping things from him, that they both were, but it pressed harder into his sternum when it was her. It hurt more. Put plainly, she hurt him more than he thought Tarquin was even capable.

It would be easy, to let her forge ahead by herself and find her own fate. All he’d have to do was choose differently, act for other reasons, throw his lot in with the stronger and let it see them through to the end they all sought. Nothing in Sinderion’s life had ever been easy, though, and he saw no reason to take that road now. In fact, he saw no reasons at all.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, though he knew not to whom, and dashed into the woods behind Maya.

The rustling of leaves behind her told her that Sinder was following, but Maya had expected no different, after all. Whether she had meant to or not, she'd done her job well. Even at these speeds she could track the Pact. The Bosmer had made little effort to cover her trail, seemingly in a great hurry to be gone from this place, which immediately made Maya suspect a trap. With Sinder here, she'd be willing to spring it. She was a natural at moving through the wild, and her hair whipped behind her as she vaulted over rocks and ducked under low branches, bow still in hand. A snap of warning was all she had before the first guerilla showed his hooded head and aimed an arrow at her.

A timely duck sent it sailing over her shoulder, and the conjured arrow she fired back found its mark between his eyes. He was resurrected before he touched the ground. "My team," she said, a strong desire to kill more flowing through her. The hunt was on, the chase was in full swing. Her prey would not elude her this time. Another popped up, but she was put down by arrows from both Maya and her minion, who was keeping pace nicely behind her. Soon enough they came upon a clearing in front of a steep downhill, the entire area spotted by large rocks. Surprisingly, Maya only saw four of the Pact's warriors remaining here, in addition to the Pact herself, and the Horizon. The Dunmer was garbed in robes as ever, but in his hands he held a magnificent looking swordstaff of Dwemer construction, a long, shining golden blade at the end of a solidly made straight staff.

Had they actually tried pushing into the Webspinner's lair, and been rebuffed after all? There were so few of them left, and the Pact did not seem unburdened by wounds, though she certainly still looked capable. An arrow hissed over her shoulder and struck the brain of her minion, turning him to ash behind her. Maya ducked down behind a boulder, waiting for Sinder to do the same nearby. "Can you handle Invorin for me? The Pact is mine." She reached quickly into her bag and pulled out what remaining poison she had, the substance she'd used on Anirne, to put her into a comatose state. "Just hit him with this."

Sinder found Maya’s side within moments of pursuing her, his longer legs matching her stride with a simplicity effortless enough they might have practiced it. Without arrows, however, he was content to duck around the attacks from the archers and allow Maya and her undead minion to deal with those. When they reached their destination, he dove behind another stone, though at this point he would have just as gladly kept on running.

The spoken request was enough to jar him a little, and his brows drew together. “As you wish.” He could feel the adrenaline in his system, the Beast rattling eagerly at the bars of its cage at the prospect of a good fight. A fight with a mighty Representative, and a traitor as well—its bloodlust was so thick in his gut that he almost shared in it. He had to remember not to slay Invorin, else his choice to come here be rendered entirely moot. All he had to do was use the vial. “Remember that there may be others I cannot sense, and be careful.” Tipping the contents of the vial down the blade of his shortsword, Sinder noted that there was still some of it left, and very carefully dipped the tips of his fingers as well. He felt there was something else he should say, but then his chest constricted again, and Sinderion was silent, expression stern and grim. He was ready to move on her signal.

Just before darting out, Maya cast an oakflesh spell on herself. Something she'd learned from Anirne not long ago. She certainly couldn't get the level of protection the Psijic could with her ebonyflesh, but it was better than nothing. Had there been time for more words, she might have mentioned how being careful wasn't a habit of hers, but she decided to just prove the point by charging out and sending a lighting storm at the three enemies on the right, trying to get them down into some cover so she wouldn't be pelted by arrows as soon as she showed her face.

It worked well enough, and the first arrow flew through the space between her arm and torso, the second skimming off the oakflesh of her right shoulder. The Pact's arrow deviated the least, hitting her just under the ribs on the right side and quickly knocking wind from her, but the adrenaline was more than enough to keep her charging ahead. Her own first shot landed true, punching through the throat of the fur-garbed warrior on Ilanna's left, but the bastard didn't die immediately, and Maya could not resurrect him just yet. She ducked down behind a second rock to dodge the Pact's second arrow, and by that time the pawn had passed, so she raised him from the dead, feeling the wear it had on her magicka reserves. Not empty yet. There was a reason she'd saved herself for this.

The sudden rising of their ally provided the distraction she needed, and when the two of them turned to put him down again Maya charged out, blasting a lightning bolt into the last ally on Ilanna's right, the shot powerful enough to blow right through his chest, and send him stumbling down to the dirt. With an angry growl Maya discarded her bow into oblivion and conjured a dagger instead, diving into the Pact in a full on tackle, and the pair of them tipped back over the edge, going down the steep incline in a violent ball of murderous intent.

The archers on Invorin’s side of the fight were not so hampered, and as Sinderion charged to bring the fight in close, both were able to fire. The first went a bit wide of his left ear for no other reason than that he’d moved, but the second was unerring in its trajectory, and he was forced to swat it out of the air, his blade snapping the shaft in two and sending them spiraling off in different directions. He didn’t break his stride, though, and as a result, the first attack sent his way by the Horizon—a full-blown blizzard—was impossible to avoid, even if he’d been of a mind to do so.

He couldn’t go around, so he’d simply have to go through. Angling his upper body forward slightly, Sinder plunged into the area affected by the spell, feeling at once the tearing lash of thousands of ice particles, stinging his skin and impeding his forward progress, seeming almost to sap his momentum from him as he went. It was much more tiring than simple running, and hampered his senses besides, but he dug in and kept pushing forward.

His trajectory, however, was thrown off by the white-out conditions inside the spell, and he emerged not right in front of Invorin as he’d intended, but rather beside one of the archers, who seemed equally-surprised to see him. For all that it was difficult for him to see in the area of the spell, it was equally challenging for them to shoot, if not moreso, and his exit therefore left his foe considerably flatfooted. Wasting no time, Sinderion slashed with the shortsword, dropping the man, and jumped into a roll, coming up on the right side of the other, into whose chin he slammed the pommel of the blade with enough force to crack the jawbone.

That one down, too, all that was left was the Horizon himself
 but he was not immediately in sight. Sinder whirled, following his nose, only to be hit full in the chest with the origination point of yet another blizzard. Mouth twisting into a snarl, the altmer made to slog through this one, as well, but not before he caught the glint of something golden from the corner of his eye. Bending backwards, he missed decapitation by mere inches, rebounding to his feet and reversing his grip on his blade. This was not going to be easy
 and he honestly doubted that he’d be able to manage it. But by this point, he was long past backing out of the attempt.

The Horizon’s follow-up was just as swift and unrelenting as his initial thrust, a brutal jab for Sinderion’s stomach, one that the altmer avoided by jumping back on light feet, resetting his balance in the process and making him much more ready for the next attack, which turned out to be a roundhouse kick, aimed high for the side of his head. Sinder caught Invorin’s foot in his free hand, but even as he thought to twist and drag the man to the ground for a grapple, the dunmer planted his staff in the ground and used the extra leverage to catch him in the chin with the remaining foot, a hit that dazed Sinder and sent him stumbling backwards.

It was with nearly-supernatural agility that his foe recovered, spinning his staff in several figure-eights to build momentum and lashing the blunt end for Sinder’s kneecap, catching the side of the joint rather than the center when Sinderion moved, pivoting to the side and taking up the offensive, aiming for the dunmer’s ribcage with his shortsword. As though that were part of the plan, Invorin’s staff was there to catch it, and there were more than a few sparks as metal clanged loudly against metal. Sinder hissed and backflipped away from the horizontal sweep that followed, but Invorin pressed, catching him in the chest with the blunt end of the spearstaff.

Seeing a chance, Sinder moved to duck in under his guard and strike using the shorter range of his blade, but the diagonal slice up the Horizon’s torso was blocked, not by the long staff, but by a hand-spear of no more than two feet in length. The staff itself seemed to have disappeared. Disoriented, Sinderion attempted to backpedal, but not before the triangular spearhead caught him in the bicep, slicing through his armor and flesh alike. Shifting his sword to his other side, the altmer lunged, a swift, brutal flurry of blows aimed for various and random places on his foe, but each and every one was turned aside, not with speed he couldn’t match, but with what seemed to be an uncanny perception regarding his choices, almost as though Invorin knew what he was going to do as soon as Sinder himself had decided.

Already feeling the stamina drain from earlier, Sinderion was soon breathing heavily through his nose, but Invorin seemed entirely undamaged, much less ragged than the Pact had appeared when he’d laid eyes on her. His answering cascade of hits was not nearly so easily-avoided, and Sinder came away with a half-dozen new bleeding wounds, including one cut to his brow, uncomfortably close to his right eye and now dripping blood into it, the red liquid diluting by mixing with the thin sheen of sweat that had formed over his body.

Sinder swiped at the blood, clearing most of it out of the way, but Invorin took the opportunity to attack, as the altmer expected him to. He couldn’t predict much beyond that though—the man kept switching the form of his weapon, so that it was a matter of fractions of seconds for his tiring opponent to adjust for range and shape, something which was clearly making matters much worse. Blood streaked his dark leathers, dripping lazily onto the snow underneath his feet. To make matters even more dire, he could feel the physiological changes beginning in him—a mixed blessing if ever there was one. Though it undeniably made him more than he was: stronger, faster, more durable and more brutal, it also carried a certain kind of animal violence that he was keen to contain, a violence that urged him for more risk and greater reward.

When he lunged, the beast demanded he bite as well, but Sinderion was not enamoured of the idea, and with only the slightest hesitation, he struck low, instead. This time, Invorin’s block was only fast, not preternaturally so, though Sinder’s own reluctance cost him, and the end of the spearstaff punctured his side, likely at least nicking a lung, if the wet sound of his breathing was anything to go by. Another leg up for the monster, and he could feel its malicious nature leaking through into his own thinking. His pearly claws dark with Maya’s poison, Sinderion slashed first with them, and then with the blade—both attacks blocked, but only just barely this time. Invorin was beginning to sweat as well, just small beads of liquid on his forehead and over his nose, but they were present.

Still, this could not become a contest of endurance: Sinderion just didn’t have enough time left before he bled out. Coughing, he dislodged a thick globule of blood from his own lungs, spitting it out to the side. Even a momentary distraction was a disadvantage, and Sinderion knew it well, but the beast could be cunning as well as clever, and it urged him to pour the last of his strength into his shaking legs and lunge, to drive his foe to the ground and see just how fast he was, just how much it mattered that he could read his thoughts, when teeth were buried in the soft flesh of his throat. Let him speak his traitorous lies without a windpipe!

Invorin tensed, defending himself against that possibility, no doubt, but Sinderion shoved the thoughts aside and did something else instead—he lunged, but brought himself up short, slashing with the sword. For a moment, it looked like this would be just as useless as the rest of his attacks, that his mind hadn’t changed fast enough, but then the monster reached out with his free arm, raking its claws down the left side of the Horizon’s face. Sinderion slackened, shoulders slumping with the effort of even remaining conscious, but the dunmer fell first, rendered unconscious and nearly comatose by Maya’s poison.

It was too much, though, and Sinderion fell after, sprawled onto the snow and still bleeding steadily, and the world went dark around him.

Maya's knife hadn't made it to the Pact's heart, her wrist caught by the elf's hand as they first began tumbling down the hill. A powerful swipe knocked it from Maya's grip, and it dissipated into the air. Each used one hand to firmly secure themselves to the other woman as they rolled and rolled, and for Maya the only constant in her world had become the pretty elf in front of her who she had come to so desire to murder. The Pact pulled a knife of her own, but Maya threw a quick headbutt and smashed the woman's hand against a rock they passed, leaving both women utterly unarmed, though Maya was still quite capable of conjuring weapons.

Eventually the incline leveled out, and the pair came to a splashing stop at the edge of a treeline, in a small stream flowing into the Darkwater. Maya had been unfortunate enough to have her fall ended by slamming her back into a rock, and a crack accompanied the failing of one of her ribs. With a brutal punch to her jaw Maya's world was sent spinning again, and she felt herself pushed sideways and onto her back on the damp banks of the stream. The branches of the trees spun in circles above her, but she could see a humanoid shape, and so she blasted at it with lightning. Judging from the reactionary scream, she hit it, and she heard Ilanna hit the ground beside her. With much effort she threw herself over and on top of the elven woman, conjuring a dagger in mid fall and aiming to plunge it right down into her throat.

The strike was caught just as the tip pricked skin, and Maya pushed down with all she had to try and open the archer's throat, and she was making progress for a short moment before the Pact had the idea to reach down and grab the shaft of the arrow sticking out of Maya's midsection. She twisted first, and the pain shot through her body, and then she pushed, and Maya groaned softly, the pressure of her attack relenting. Again the knife was twisted out of her fingers and tossed away into oblivion. The Pact surged to her feet and brought Maya with her, pushing her back until she slammed up against a tree, before she smashed her knee twice into Maya's side, crunching already broken ribs. The witch doubled over and sagged heavily into her opponent, gasping in a futile effort to get her breath back.

The Pact pushed her over to the side, and Maya fell to her knees, bracing herself against the ground to stop herself from falling any further. Rage and desire to kill had dulled pain somewhat, but the Pact was making a ruin of her torso, and she wasn't built as powerful as someone like Lynly was. Still, she'd never been one to play fair, so her next move was to ignore the pain and pull the arrow entirely from her side, stabbing directly down into the Pact's foot. She yelped out in pain as Maya rose to her feet, launching a dual casted lightning bolt into her chest, the best she could muster. Not enough to kill her, but it blasted her across the shallow stream to the opposite shore. The witch blinked the tears from her eyes and conjured her bow, pulling back the string and loosing, but she wasn't as fast as she should have been, and the Pact darted to the side, still surprisingly agile. Two more shots left the bow, and two more hissed into fallen leaves and grass, before the Pact made her way off into the woods.

Cursing, Maya gave chase, cradling her side slightly and high-stepping through the stream, slowing and trying to listen for her as she pushed through the bushes, following her trail with a slightly wobbly field of vision. She wouldn't go far, she had an arrow in her foot, and she was injured. The ranges were close in here, though, and Maya was unsure whether to keep the bow or switch to a dagger, or just go with her spells. Not that she had much energy left for spells, though. Even reconjuring the bow would be difficult.

A small rock, of all things, was what ruined the fight for her. It cracked off the bark of a tree, and Maya turned her aim on the sound, pulling back the string and preparing to fire, just before she realized her foolishness. With a tree branch of all things the Pact emerged from behind her, smacking the witch viciously across the forehead with it and sending her spinning, all sense of where her opponent was gone. The next blow whipped into her stomach, and she doubled over, choking on a cough, the taste of blood flooding up into her mouth. She felt herself pushed up, and the last blow came in the form of a drop kick to the center of her chest, sending her through the air and landing hard on her back, rolling over several times before she ended up face down on the edge of the water, the first ragged breath she took bringing up no small amount blood, which she coughed out. She tried to move herself, but both her arms and legs only wobbled slightly without lifting her any.

The elf stooped down, snatching a handful of her hair, whispering into her ear in her own ragged tones. "Better luck next time, witch. I'd rather have you than a vampire lord or a werewolf. Try not to die here, dear." A smack with a rock to the back of the head put Maya out cold, her head falling back into the muddy shoreline, and the Pact went limping off into the woods.

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Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Soren Ivarsson Character Portrait: Adrienne Jastal
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Lynly had slowly worked her way back onto her feet, but all it would take was a stiff breeze to knock her back down again. She leaned heavily on her sword as her shield hung limp from her arm. She had been pierced in all four limbs, not to mention the blood dripping from her forehead and into her eyes and making her way back to her feet was a difficult task. Finally, her shield fell from her arm and a ball of shining light replaced it. She disliked healing in the middle of a battle like this, but the alternative was wading into battle heavily wounded and perhaps even dying. She'd rather risk it and win instead. The spell igniting and energy was sucked out of the air and into her hand, flowing throughout her body and healing some of the damage.

A psijic mage she was not, and she didn't have the massive reservoir of magicka Anirne had-- only enough to deal with minor or moderate wounds at best. She'd still be bleeding, but maybe it wouldn't hurt so much. Right after she ignited the spell, she felt Soren shore up beside her, against the spider monster in front of them. For that's all it was now, with the Webspinner dead. That was one less problem to deal with, but added another to the mix. She'd now have to clean up the Pact's mess, and that pissed her off. Not only did she steal their kill, but she didn't even have the good graciousness to finish it and left it to them. If the woman wasn't dead by the time Lynly finished here, she would be soon.

With more energy than she had moments ago, she released the sword that was stuck into the ground, and gripped Soren's shoulder rather harshly. Whatever pain he may have felt was gone in less than a moment, replaced by the warmth of a healing spell. It wasn't to last long however, as two combined spells sapped her magicka reserves quickly, leaving the both in less than optimal shape, but it would do. It'd have to. She didn't think she'd have another chance for a healing session. She picked up her weapons and once more leveled the shield in front of her, noting the ragged and torn edges of the disk-- teeth marks. She'd make both the spider and the Pact pay yet.

"Ready?" Lynly asked, the Spider turning its many eyes and all of its rage on them.

With Anirne on her feet and headed off in Tarquin’s direction, Soren noted that he’d have to head there too, eventually, but for now, only Lynly was left with the Webspinner, and, stalwart Nordic defender or no, that wasn’t something she should be allowed to attempt on her own, not in the state they were all in. Drawing his sword again, Soren shored up a position beside her, refusing to wince when she gripped his inured shoulder too tightly. Her magic finished what Anirne’s had started, and the muscle was back in working order, the other two wounds he’d sustained closing up enough that he could safely ignore them for the moment.

The mercenary cracked his neck to both sides, rolling his shoulders to regain some of the feeling in them lost to the spider sisters’ poison, and nodded. “Lovely, I’m always ready.” As he said it, he flickered and disappeared from sight, but when next she heard his voice, it was from the same spot. “I’ll be right beside you.” It would help, however, to do some damage to the spider without it being able to pinpoint his location. He had no shield, and wore only light armor, after all.

She raised a solitary eyebrow and deadpanned only a couple of words, "Well then. Charge," before dashing forward to meet the beast. While Lynly had been slowed considerably by her own injuries, it was much of the same story for the spider. It was far more sluggish than it had been when the Webspinner still lived. Good to know that everything they had done had not been in vain, and they had bled along with the monster. All they had to do now was to drain the last bit without losing the rest of theirs. It sounded simple in her head, but would prove to be difficult in practice.

The warrioress began her assault not in full, but instead opting to angle around the creature, but stopping abruptly as a leg pierced the ground in front of her. She jerked and and adjusted her angle just as another fell to where she had been. Once again her angle shifted and she found herself running straight ahead toward the face of the spider. Wary of what happened last time, Lynly raised up her shield and blocked two legs in quick succession before loosening the shield around her arm. She stopped on a dime and spun as another leg sailed past her, and at the zenith of her spin, she let go. The shield twisted end over end until it slammed into the spider's mouth, occupying that hazard for the moment.

Whatever Soren was doing, she hoped he was making good use of her distraction to position himself.

A chuckle escaped into the air at Lynly’s left, and indeed, Soren charged, not bothering to quiet his footsteps, since hers were loud enough to cover the sound of his own passage naturally. Lynly was pulled up short by a leg, and he had to duck another, this one sailing over his head in an attempt to get at her from the side. He trusted her to handle it, and he was going to do his best to make it easier.

Veering sharply, he wove between another pair of legs, daring to pass the head close enough to generate a breeze the spider would feel once her shield stopped its mouth for the moment. Ducking under the creature, he plunged his sword up and into the softer underside, drawing a line parallel to the one Sinderion had left earlier, this one longer, and with a great tearing sound, some of the carapace gave way, spilling arachnoid guts and ichor onto the snow behind him. The spider, clearly in a great amount of pain, flinched noticeably, stabling weakly at him with a pair of legs that he managed to avoid.

“Now, Lynly! Finish it!” Whether he’d used her proper name on purpose or not was unclear, but it was certainly evident that this was the best chance they had to finish this ordeal.

He didn't even need to finish the sentence. She was about to parry an oncoming leg before a jolt of pain yanked the leg wide over her shoulder. All of its eyes turned and twisted in their sockets, as whatever Soren did managed to get all of its attention. Now with the path clear, Lynly followed the path her shield paved moments before. She ran toward it largely unaccosted, and it only tried to defend itself when it was clear that it was too late. Lynly reversed her grip on her sword, taking it with both hands and shoving it into the spider's face.

It cut through a number of its numerous eyes running through the face parts. It reared back in pain, nearly pulling Lynly's arms out of their sockets, but she held fast and pulled herself on top of her shield still sticking out of the creature's mouth. All the while she pushed the blade in deeper, as resistance was building the further she went. The twisted the blade, ripped it from side to side, stirring it, anything to cause the maximum amount of damage. She could feel the thing try to screech, but its mouth was still full of her shield.

So it was in silence the thing died, falling back to the ground and throwing Lynly from its face. She landed with a hard thump on her back, but she didn't stay down for long, quickly rising to her knee and angling the blade downward at the slain monster, just in case. After moments passed without movement, she was finally satisfied the damn thing was dead and stood, walking forward to retrieve her shield from its mouth.

Well, that was that. The spider fell, and Lynly with it, though thankfully not underneath it. Soren shook some of the gore off his sword, then used it to point at a specific spot in the treeline. “Moody and beautiful went that way,” he informed his companion. He may not participate overmuch in camp talk, but he did a lot of watching, and he knew Lynly would care about that, to some extent. For his own part, he was going to see what he could do about Tarquin and the two other women in the group.

“This was fun, lovely. We’ll have to do it again sometime.” Lynly tilted her head toward the treeline and groaned. Couldn't she just enjoy a hard won battle anymore? "That would mean surviving this first. Try not to get eaten and I'll try not to get shot in the face," She said, hefting her shield and making her way toward where Soren pointed. He only grinned in reply.




Adrienne’s eyes went wide when the Feral seemed to fly by overhead, taking Tarquin into the treeline in a full-body tackle that was bound to hurt. She had no idea what kind of help she could possibly be in a situation like this, but she had to do something. She couldn’t just let him die, and that seemed the likely outcome if nobody intervened. At least she could be another target for a little while, and she’d just have to hope that she didn’t get mauled to death in the process. Burned, axed, then mauled
 it would have a certain bizarre poetry to it. She must be a fraction harder to kill than she’d always thought, if she wasn’t dead yet.

It wasn’t going to be enough to make a difference, probably, but it did make her feel a little less useless for trying. Now wasn’t the time to hesitate. Cutting down the spider sister that remained to her, she took off after the pair of Representatives as fast as her tired legs could carry her, lulling another flask of acid from her belt. Distraction—she could do distraction. Maybe. She burst through the line of trees, arm at her side to toss the vial, sword in her other hand.

Anirne, seeing that the arrow had done its job, moved to be as clear of the spider as possible, jumping the twelve or so feet to the ground, only to watch a dark figure sail by overhead. “Tarquin!” she shouted, but the warning was much too late. The Psijic watched Adrienne dispatch her last foe and run after them, but she knew the girl would just be in danger on her own. Deciding quickly that she had to help, Anirne ran, scooping up a spear one of the spider sisters had been using on her way. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

The struggle Adrienne stumbled upon wasn't going well for Tarquin, who had been placed firmly upon his back and was desperately attempting to stop the raking claw strikes of the vicious Feral. Eventually Ja'karo decided a different method, feigning a claw strike before lunging down with his teeth, jaws clamping down around Tarquin's right bicep and sinking in deep. He yelled out in pain, trying to force the creature off of him, but the werewolf planted both hands firmly upon Tarquin's chest, and with the raw power only a werewolf could possess, he pulled, and ripped.

There were several loud pops, followed by a horrendous sound of tearing flesh, and Tarquin's right arm was torn completely off, the limb caught in the snarling teeth of the Representative seeking to murder him. Spitting out the limb off to the side, Ja'karo returned to work, but surprisingly was met with both of the Shade's feet kicking up into his jaw. He staggered back only momentarily at the moment Adrienne arrived, giving her time for one good shot before the Feral's attention would undoubtedly turn to her.

Adrienne took the shot for what it was worth, throwing the acid vial into the Feral’s snarling face, hoping that at least she’d be able to blind him and thereby stand a slightly greater chance of not enduring what Tarquin just had. She almost couldn’t believe it—he’d just torn through the Shade’s entire arm, like it was nothing. And here she was thinking she was going to survive this. Bile and dread rose up in her throat in equal measure, making it hard for her to breathe, but Adrienne steadied herself, rising to the balls of her feet and taking a two-handed grip on her sword, just as Lynly had taught her to do. Her advantage was only that she was a small target, and she had to make the most of it.

The acid resulted in a howl of pain from the Feral, and indeed he was temporarily blinded by the attack, but as with any werewolf, he had other senses to rely upon, and he used these to locate the new attacker. Specifically, the scent of her blood, and sweat. It was quite different from that of a vampire lord's, and in it he caught her location, turning sharply. He launched two raking strikes of his claws, though the first actually came in away from the scent of the blood, coming in on Adrienne's right, meant to occupy her guard and draw it away from the already wounded area, which was the target of his second strike, with the opposite claw.

The first attack was parried, her sword sliding into the juncture between his second and third fingers. Even the force of the feinting blow was enough to have her trembling just trying to hold it off. Her limbs were weak and her reactions slower than they should be, a product of the injuries she’d accumulated over time. Perhaps she should have been clever enough to see the second strike coming, but even had she been, she would not have been quick enough to react, and his claws raked viciously into her side, tearing at the wound already present and creating four new rents in her flesh, causing her to stagger backwards.

She almost ran right into Anirne, who leveled her newly-acquired spear over the girl’s shoulder and for the Feral’s nose, more or less. She was considerably taller than Adrienne, and her weapon had a much longer reach, so she was able to hold steady as she struck, seeking to drive the werewolf back and force him to recalculate before attacking again. Even a couple of seconds could make all the difference. She’d need to spend a few trying to stem the bleeding of both her allies, as well, but that would simply need to wait.

It was undoubtedly the poison the spear was coated in that warned the Feral to shift his head away from it, given that she was going directly for his nose. It struck him in the right bicep instead, and Ja'karo paused for the briefest of moments when much of that arm went slack, though his fingers were still immediately able to move, implying that either the poison on that particular spear was weakened, or he had a natural resistance to it from his wolf form. The other arm snatched and grabbed at the spear, first ripping it from his limb, and then yanking it sharply forward, lunging as he did so, giving a mighty swing of his arm, and attempting to at the very least knock back these new attackers, or preferably send them flying.

He then turned back to Tarquin, who had risen to his feet, stump of a right arm dripping blood, but there was a determined strength in his eyes, and he flew forward, ramming his good shoulder powerfully into Ja'karo's chest and bashing him back into the trunk of a tree, where Tarquin landed several brutal knife strikes into his torso before Ja'karo regained control, stabbing claws into the vampire lord's chest and heaving him at least ten feet down the hill.

Anirne did not attempt to wrestle Ja’Karo for control of the spear, instead letting go when he wrenched it from her control. She couldn’t afford to be pulled forward, standing just behind Adrienne as she was, and when she saw him lunging, she reacted immediately, wrapping her arms around the smaller woman and reversing their positions with a quick step—meaning that the Feral’s claws dug into the flesh of her back and sent them both sprawling to the ground, but did not injure Adrienne any further.

From her spot on the ground, she dredged up more healing and tried to use it to dull the pain of their wounds and stop the bleeding. Her back receded to a painful throb, but it wouldn’t kill her, and the tears in Adrienne’s side seemed to clot enough that at the very least she would remain alive and conscious, but at this point, the Psijic could promise nothing else.

Leveraging herself to her feet, she assisted the small Sellsword in righting herself as well, launching a quick lightning bolt for the Feral and encouraging Adrienne to precede her down the hill after Tarquin. Anirne took a brief look back at the Shade’s severed limb
 but the break was far too jagged for her to have a hope of properly reattaching it. There was nothing she could do save try to help heal the stump when they managed to kill or drive away the werewolf khajiit.

The lightning spell made the Feral lurch forward slightly, growling angrily. Then, considering the Shade's condition, he turned to face the two mages pestering him in full, with the clear intent of being rid of them entirely rather than simply shoving them aside. The one-armed vampire could wait.

Dark green eyes alighted on the women’s predicament, and Soren sighed to himself, plucking the last of Sinderion’s arrows from his quiver. Hm. Not as well-balanced as his; he’d noticed that earlier, actually, but it was better than shooting nothing, he supposed. Likely, the altmer didn’t even make his own, but that wasn’t a mistake the sniper would ever make. Knowing your arrow was just as important as knowing your bow. But he could make do—this was what he did best, after all.

“Someone really needs to put the mutt down,” he muttered to himself, drawing back until the fletching of his arrow brushed his cheek. Hard to find a better feeling in the world than that, really—like the touch of a lover to a man like him. Hell, wanton destruction was much more his lover than any woman ever had been. Sighting down the shaft, Soren released... and knew immediately that it was going to hit too low. “Godsdamn inferior arrows, I swear to Sanguine
” Sighing through his nose, he started up the hill, sword in-hand, unsurprised when the arrowhead buried itself above Ja’Karo’s sternum, just below his neck, rather than in his eye, as it had been aimed.

Anirne knew an opportunity when she saw one, and didn’t waste it, and for the sake of variety, she sent a massive ice spike at the Feral, one that she saw was matched by the small woman beside her, Adrienne remaining standing just long enough to see it hit before collapsing to her knees, her magicka utterly spent. She still had the vial Anirne had gifted her, but she wasn’t sure her body could take anymore artificial recovery just now.

The Feral was knocked back by the three attacks in short succession, and though he quickly removed the projectiles with his claws, the damage was done, and growling in frustration, he realized that his moment had passed, and that it was time for him to leave, else he risk an untimely end at the hands of Tarquin's allies. He crouched low, turned, and darted off into the woods, disappearing under the setting sun. Behind him, Tarquin Aurelius had returned to his normal form, incredibly remaining on one knee. He looked surprisingly smaller without his strong arm.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Apparently, what they’d mustered was enough to convince the Feral to leave, and Anirne for one felt absolutely no inclination to follow him. It was enough for now that they were still alive, though in all honesty, she couldn’t say that was true of all of them. She hoped so, and now that the actual fighting was over, she had to push down the coil of anxiety that settled in her stomach. She’d lost track of so many of them


Something pressed against her hand, and she glanced down to see that Adrienne was attempting to return the vial of magicka restorative she’d given to her at the beginning of the battle. “Please
” the girl murmured, “Help them.” It was all she was able to say before she lost what balance remained to her and collapsed onto the forest floor. From her breathing, she was probably still conscious, but too exhausted to move. It meant that she would be okay for now, at any rate.

Tipping the vial back, Anirne swallowed its contents, sighing in relief when she felt much of her magicka return to her. Her robes and natural regeneration would take care of the rest in time. It was time to make the most of it. Glancing down the hill, she spotted both Tarquin and Soren, but judging from the fact that the archer still had all his limbs, the Shade was in greater need of help. Refraining from asking uselessly if he required any assistance, Anirne simply started to heal him. It was a shame about the arm, truly, but she supposed any words to this effect would be pointless, and she remained close-lipped on the matter, focusing on stemming the considerable bleeding issuing from the stump and closing the rest of his Feral-induced wounds.

"Do either of you know where the others went?” She inquired softly, stepping back when she’d concluded her work. She had no nose nor ears for that sort of thing, nor did she possess the sniper’s sharp eyes. Sinder, Van, Maya, and Lynly were still out there somewhere, though, and there was a chance that one or more of them could be in a condition just as serious as Tarquin had been. She dared not contemplate anything worse.

"I saw Maya headed for the woods on the other side of the clearing," Tarquin answered, very much short of breath. He was a mess, but for all that, he seemed to be taking the loss of his arm rather well. His gaze drifted somewhat blankly to the massive and lifeless form of what had once been his mother, before he looked down, and away. "I know not where the others are. I... should sit." He did so, moving slowly over to the nearest tree and sitting down beneath, grateful for something to put his back against. He took a few slow, steady breaths. "Thank you for battling Ja'karo on my behalf. I... have done little to deserve it."

Anirne glanced in the direction Tarquin had indicated, nodding slowly. “You are welcome,” she said simply, then jogged off in the direction of the trees.

Soren only shrugged, taking his own seat where he stood, aware of acute pain in his sides and a dull ache in his shoulder. Since there was pretty much nothing else he could do for anyone, he freed his bow and empty quiver from his back and lay on a relatively clean patch of grass. “Yeah, well
 I didn’t do a lot to merit a rescue from the Brotherhood, so whatever. It’s not always about what we deserve.” Folding his hands behind his head, he decided to stay like that and wait for the others to return. It shouldn’t be long, if Anirne was at work.

Across the field, Drayk was half-stumbling, half-crawling out to see what he had done, and what he had missed. The evidence of his fiery rampage was immediately apparent, the large trail of charred and blackened ground stemming from the mouth of the cave down to the cliff edge, and burned bodies of the spider sisters, and the Webspinner herself. Physically he was mostly unhurt, though there would be some nasty bruises, but the fact that he had only suffered that much left him wondering with no small amount of dread what the others had endured on his behalf.

"Adri..." It didn't take long for him to spot her collapsed, and for the moment he was ignoring anyone around her, aware of only the fact that she was on the ground and completely motionless as far as he could tell. The effort of moving as quickly as he could denied him any chance of using his voice, but he was able to shamble relatively quickly over to her location, collapsing haphazardly to his knees, taking both of her shoulders in his hands and pulling her to him. Tears flooded to his eyes when he realized she was alive, though they certainly would have either way.

"I'm... here," he huffed, sliding his arms around her and wishing he had some magicka left to heal her more completely. He had wasted it all in his madness. "You're okay. We're okay. I'm okay. You're okay." He said the words with as much force as he could muster, trying to make them true. But there was no hiding the burns she had, even if they had already received healing magic, so the tears leaked freely down his face, into her hair when he pulled her to him. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't want to hurt you, never wanted to hurt you, I just couldn't stop it on my own. I'm so sorry, Adrienne..." He was a weak man, and she had paid the price for it.

Adrienne’s dark eyes cracked open when she was moved, and a wan smile crossed her face when she realized just who held her. Her grip tightened weakly around him, and she rested her head against his shoulder. “’S
 okay
” she murmured, and her eyes fell shut again. This time she really did pass out, simply from the weight of her exhaustion.




Lynly ran as fast as she dared to the treeline, which was somewhere between a hobble and a sprint. The pain in all four corners of her body was becoming more pronounced as the last bit of adrenaline drained out of her system. What replaced it was a massive amount of soreness, that would only multiply in the morning. Her vision was also blurred, and with the din of battle no longer to blame realized some blood had ran into her eyelashes. Her breathing was deep and heavy as she went, so she paced herself. She'd never find Maya or Sinder if she just ran through the trees. She needed to be smart about it. She had neither Maya's tracking ability nor Sinder's nose, but she had a warrior's intuition and that was the best she could do.

She strode into the trees with her shield raised and eyes darting to every tree. Unsure if the pair had missed any of the Pact's men, she was unwilling to just make a perfect target for some lucky archer. She made her way further into the forest as quick as she cautiously could. She was no tracker by any means, but by the way the pair seemingly charged through the forest with reckless abandon, it made it a simpler task for the far more levelheaded Lynly. Crushed grass, broken limbs, and the odd footprint impressed in a small patch of snow led her deeper into the woods.

If she had any doubts on her course of action, the abrupt appearence of a body washed all of that away. It was obviously none of her team, and Lynly bet that the Pact and Horizon had their hands full with the fight they were giving them. Still, her gait quicked and she pushed ahead just in time to come out into the clearing at the end of the battle. And what a battle it must have been, bodies were spread out everywhere, including those of the Horizon and Sinder. If she had spent the time, she'd notice the abscence of Maya and the Pact, but instead she simply reacted. She sprinted toward the Altmer, sheathing her equipment as she did and slid beside him.

Blood was still flowing freely from... Well, from nearly everywhere, but Lynly noted the heaviest flow came from the side of his stomach. So that was where she began. Her hands hovered slightly above the wound as they light up in a warm light. She reached back into her reserves of magicka, replenished from the last time she had used it, and to the best of her ability to stem the blood enough to stabilize him, but if he really wanted to survive, then they needed to get back to Anirne soon. "Where's Maya?" She asked looking at the Horizon's motionless body. She was unsure if he was dead or alive, but it hardly mattered at the moment. He wasn't going anywhere fast.

Unfortunately for Sinderion’s fatigue, unconsciousness was not going to be able to hold him for very much longer. The sensation of warm magic was prodding him to wakefulness even as his wounds slowly began to stitch themselves together, flesh closing over gaping holes in his person, blood reducing to an insidious, sticky trickle from the abdominal wound. His others were still bleeding freely, but it was not enough to hold him at the edge of death—lucky, else something else would have intervened. One blue eye cracked open before the other followed, his vision blurry for several seconds before he managed to blink enough to clear it. Blonde hair resolved into view, lighter than Anirne’s but darker than Adrienne’s, and his brain sluggishly supplied a name. Lynly.

Her voice provided another, and Sinder stiffened, wincing when the tightening of his muscles produced more pain. He could endure a lot, and the fight with the Horizon had proven that in the testing, but he was not in good shape. Still, the question seemed to hold importance, and the necessary memories rushed back—charging into the forest with Maya, splitting off to handle Invorin while she dove for Ilanna. Sinderion took in a breath, filtering through the scents with more effort than it should have taken. Lifting his head from the ground, she struggled to prop himself on his elbows and forearms, a laceration he’d been dealt pressing into the remnants of the frost from the blizzard spells he’d been hit with.

“Help me
 stand.” he asked, spitting more blood to the side. She’s
 further than I thought.” He would have perhaps phrased the request more politely, but he wasn’t sure he had the breath to waste on anything but sheer necessity.

It took an additional few minutes for Anirne to reach the scene, tracking the others mostly by the disturbed underbrush. By the time she arrived, Lynly was hard at work, and Sinderion was speaking, his condition so bad that it hurt her heart to watch. Something on the ground caught her attention, and she trotted just a little past them to the copper-colored rod laying on the ground. She could almost feel the magic exuding from it, and with a thoughtful frown, she slid it into a loop at her belt and retreated to the two others.

“I’ll help, too,” she informed the both of them, grasping one of her brother’s arms and adding another trickle of healing magic to what Lynly had done. Without any way of knowing what Maya’s condition was, though, she didn’t want to use everything she’d regained quite yet, and she had a feeling Sinder wouldn’t want her to, either. So she crouched beside him, placing his arm over her shoulder, and once Lynly was situated as well, she stood slowly, to give him an opportunity to get his legs underneath him.

Once they managed to rise to their feet, the trio followed the weak guidance of Sinder in an attempt to locate the witch. The first leg of the journey led them the to a sharp incline, and with no small measure of difficulty made their way down it with Sinder in tow. It was slow going despite the unknown state of the witch laying the balance, it'd do no good to drop the injured elf and finish him off then and there. Once they reached the bottom, Sinder's trail led them across the stream and back into treeline. Maya and the Pact must have had a drawn out war if it led this far off the battlefield.

Then they found the object of their search nearby another stream, face down in the muck. She glanced at Anirne and slowly left Sinder in the full care of his sister, taking the task of collecting Maya upon herself. She reached the witch and knelt down, closing the arrow wound she had substained in her belly before gently sliding her hands under her. As softly as she could, the Nord hefted the woman over her shoulder and returned to the Altmer, quietly nodding and adding, "Let's get out of here, I'll drag the Dark Elf by his collar," mentioning Invorin.

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Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives
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The Sellswords were perhaps more dead than alive when they finally departed the scene of the battle against the Webspinner, their new and unconscious prisoner along for the ride. With Maya's failure to defeat the Pact, and her current whereabouts unknown, the group was left with one option for how to proceed: follow the advice of the Bard, and deliver Invorin to Windhelm. Though it was not a kill for Maya or the Shade, one less Representative meant one step closer to the end of the Game, and one step closer to the end of their torment. Of course, two of the party members weren't quite so sure what to think about the encroaching end.

Where the fading light likely sapped the strength of the other party members and encouraged them to sleep, the falling of night actually helped Tarquin Aurelius keep his senses, quite the feat when one considered that he currently lacked his strong arm. The stump, or what little there was of one, twitched incessantly, the phantom movements of his right arm maddening to no end, and it burned, a hot burning pain, like the fire mage was pressing his palm to the still dripping flesh. Anirne had done what she could to stem the blood loss in the moment, but it would need much more attention to ensure he didn't die by the next day.

First they needed to find somewhere to stop. The Feral and the Pact were somewhere around, that was likely, but with any luck both were off licking their wounds, as the Sellswords were. The idea of returning to Ivarstead and trying to secure rooms at the inn was cast aside as well. The number and the extent of their injuries would draw too much attention, not to mention the unconscious prisoner they carried around with them. So it was along the banks of the Darkwater River they made their stop, too exhausted to do much but collapse into bedrolls and sleep off the wounds of the day. Once the bare necessities of the camp had been established, Tarquin volunteered for the first watch, considering his adeptness in the dark and the fact that he actually felt more tired during the day. It was also a natural opportunity for the healer among them to see to his injury.

He sat shirtless along the banks of the river, staring rather blankly towards the ground as she worked. The loss of his arm was honestly not the greatest concern on his mind. "She was dead long before the Pact delivered the finishing strike today," he said, though he did not really know why he cared for the Psijic to hear. "She existed now only to examine and meddle with mortals and the threads that binded them to one another. It was a mercy, truly." Perhaps he was trying to convince himself, after all.

Anirne’s body was sore, aching and pulling in places she’d long known about but hadn’t felt so keenly since the earliest days of her training, when they’d had her stretching in ways that most people never had the misfortune to consider. Somewhat similar to what she put Vanryth through in the mornings, actually. But though her physical form felt rather run-down and debilitated, her magic was back up to form already, and so when they set camp by the river, she followed Tarquin without needing to be asked. He sat, and while she would have perhaps preferred to crouch, she simply didn’t have the stamina to remain in that position for long, so instead she sat sideways, facing the stump of a limb and his profile.

Though the immediate bleeding had been stemmed earlier, what was required now was deeper work, to go in and repair tissues, accelerate the process of skin regeneration, chase out possible infection, and dull some of the pain, if she could. Lacing a painkilling thread into the spell, she let her hands, lit with white-gold magic, hover a few inches from his arm, moving now and then so that the process was as even as possible. It took a fair deal of concentration, but not so much that she was unable to properly register what he was saying. The words drew her brows together, and she chanced a thought on the matter.

“That something is inevitable makes it no less difficult, sometimes,” she said carefully. “A mercy it may have been, but that does not make it wrong to mourn. She was, at some point, your mother, and now what remained of her is gone. Something like that should not be easy for anyone.” If it was, then there was a problem, something that ran deeper and more darkly than grief would. She was actually relieved, in a very small way, that this other thing was not present in Tarquin. It would have made her even more wary of him than she was, and him even more dangerous. There was a weight to her tone that suggested she knew what she was talking about more intimately than she wanted to, but she didn’t press the point.

"My father... I don't know if he loved her still, at the end. He told me that they found each other as any pair did, but... I am unsure if he would have approved of what we just did. The Mentor, that is. I've spent years trying to understand what my father changed into recently, and I have thus far failed." He fell silent, thinking quietly on the point. His reward for attempting to bring his mother peace, for attempting to do what he thought his father would want for him, had rewarded him with a lost arm, nearly a death sentence if he were to be forced on his own again and pushed into a fight. His skills in stealth would become of the utmost importance now.

"Coldharbor is a long way away," he commented. Physically, there was no quantity that could describe the distance, but in terms of time, there was still a great deal to go before they would be able to reach his father. "I should not remain with the group for long. Maya would not approve. I just..." It was obvious that this course he had placed himself on was not likely to end well for him. They would not agree to the death of Maya, and he hardly felt desirous of it anymore. If only there was another way. "If I should not see my father again, I would like him to know that I tried to follow him in his choices."

Anirne considered this a moment, tilting her head to the side and allowing the words to flit through her consciousness. Her hands moved slightly to the left, but her eyes were on his profile, as though looking for something. Whether she found it was hard to tell, and there was pensive silence on her end for a few minutes. She knew what she wanted to say, what felt right to say, but she was unsure the others would appreciate her saying it. In the end, though, she could only act in the way that she thought was best. “I have never met your father,” she said, “but I think I see pieces of him, in them. Perhaps, if you desire to know him, you should know them. Mayhap you should stay.”

Another pause, and she let the healing spell in her hands die out, dropping them back into her lap but otherwise remaining where she was. “They will find a way into Coldharbor at the Library, perhaps. It seems a place of answers. Will you not try to find some of your own?” She certainly held nothing about this Game sacrosanct. If there was a way out of it, shouldn’t that be something they all looked for?

"I... had not thought of it that way," Tarquin said, seeming genuinely intrigued by her words. "Perhaps staying would not be unwise. I will speak with Maya about it first. The group cannot afford a lack of unity, and I will not be the one to deliver that." As for finding the way to Coldharbor... Tarquin had lived long enough, and had enough contact with Daedric Princes, to know that if they wanted to deny a happy end, there would be little they could do to stop it. Perhaps the Library would offer a way out, a way to escape from the horror the Game placed upon them and allow them to travel directly to Coldharbor. More likely it would only confirm their fears, or worse, face them with an altogether more difficult choice.

Tarquin would not voice these doubts, however. These people lacked for hope as it was, and he wouldn't be the one to dash what little they had. "My mother would have analyzed all of you," he said, knowing how she worked. They were a particularly interesting group of people, too, and so Phaedra would have leapt at the opportunity to pull at the strings that connected them, to see what ripples in the pool she could make. "Whatever she said was meant to sow discord among you, nothing more."

Anirne smiled, a small, close-lipped, melancholy thing, and nodded. That was reasonable, of course, and rather noble of him. Interesting. He had changed much, in a short time. She wondered that his father had said to him, if indeed it had been something he said. Perhaps it was only that fact that he was gone that made his son see differently. On the matter of his mother’s words, she was a little less certain. Absently, her fingertips traced the engravings in the foot-long magical rod she now wore at her hip. She felt
 vaguely uneasy, now, as though the center that had been so easy to find for so long was somehow eluding her.

Was it what the Webspinner had said that did it? Anirne had no clear answer, no immediate source for her perturbation. “I am not sure whether she succeeded in this, but that her words were meant to disturb does not render them wholly untrue.” A line appeared between her brows, but she shook her head and stood. It was not something to trouble him with, after all. Dusting herself off, Anirne sighed and eyed the bedroll she’d laid out earlier. “I think perhaps I ought to sleep now. If there’s any more pain or discomfort, please let me know.”

Setting

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Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives
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Sinderion couldn’t sleep, which was hardly unusual but especially frustrating when he was yet recovering from injuries. Quite a number of them, at that. He’d volunteered for the third watch, as it was one of the most difficult, and he did not desire that any of the others should have interrupted sleep. He’d known his would be poor anyway, and now he was woken at least an hour before he needed to be. Sighing to himself, the altmer sat up, crawling out of his pile of spare blankets—his bedroll was still entirely shredded and probably would not be repairable, which meant he’d have to locate a new one, eventually.

They were all in need of supplies, really: armor, weapons, potions, ingredients
 the list went on. But finding any of it in Ivarstead was out of the question, so they’d probably have to wait until they hit Windhelm. Glancing at the campfire, burning low for the moment, Sinder moved soundlessly to it and threw another couple of branches on, but decided against sitting near it.

Instead, he headed out into the woods. He could smell her, and they needed to have a discussion sooner or later. It had not escaped him that he might have been able to save Tarquin severe bodily injury had he acted differently, and now he was in need of some assurance that he’d done the right thing in choosing to follow her instead. Not that he expected her to be able to provide this directly—that was something he knew he’d have to find for himself. But it wasn’t going to happen if this conversation didn’t, and he saw no particular reason to prolong the interval between now and then.

Slipping into the trees, Sinderion followed his nose, an effort which yielded results not far into the woods. She was in a low-hanging tree branch, an echo of a previous conversation. He’d been apologizing for unwarranted hostility, then, but this was very much different. Still
 he pulled himself up into a slightly-lower one, crouching there as he had before and waiting patiently for the words to come. When they did, they weren’t quite what he’d expected them to be, but they were something.

“What did she mean, when she said that you 'know where to look for what you seek?'”

There had been a lot of healing needed, and only so much healing to go around, so Maya had only received the necessities needed to prevent any permanent internal damage. She'd refused to let the forest beat her, but simply climbing up into that tree had been a challenge, and she had to work to find a seated position that did not pain her. In the end, she was finally able to relax somewhat, only slightly cradling her side. The calm sounds of the wild for once helped to soothe the throbbing headache the Pact had given her. Perhaps more damage had been done to her pride, however. She'd been fool enough to try and challenge the Pact alone, and though she'd almost succeeded, it was only due to the Pact's strategy that she yet drew breath.

Breath that she would now have to use to explain herself. She'd known that this was coming ever since the Horizon had called her out in the Dwemer ruins. Sinder had none of Adrienne's skills in hiding what he felt, nor the skills that she had. But he was no fool, and the witch knew things would not last forever as they were. He would want answers, he would want confirmation of his choice to put himself in harm's way for her. She had hoped that at some point these things wouldn't be worries for her, but perhaps that was entirely up to her.

Maya drew a deep breath when she heard him approach and begin to join her in the tree, only realizing when a sharp pain stabbed at her side that this was a bad idea. His question was... actually not the one she expected, but it was still the same subject, and delved into the heart of the matter. Sinderion did not play with words, as ever. For once, Maya tried to do the same for him, knowing that he deserved that much. "She was referring to the Library, Sinder. A home of forgotten and forbidden knowledge and power. The one place I might be able to elevate myself above the other Representatives."

The Library, again. It seemed that they would all be making a journey to that place, in time, though what they would find there, he did not know. Sinder wasn’t really sure he wanted to—too much ill had come of obscure forms of power already. His hands flexed slightly against the tree limb he held in them, his fingers still darkened with the now-dry remnants of the poison she’d given him to use against the Horizon. Without it, he would be now dead—or worse than dead. This was a fact. It was also a fact, however, that following her and doing as she asked of him was the reason he was even in that situation to begin with. Not all of their peril came at the hands of the Shade anymore, and no longer did they do all that they did for the sole purpose of finding the Mentor.

She drew close to them, and he wondered if she understood what that really meant. The Sellswords were not, perhaps, the most open group of people, but once someone was in their orbit, had made it close enough to them to request, perhaps even command, their loyalty
 well, if Drayk’s demonstration had not made it obvious enough, they were all willing to go to ruin for what they were loyal to. That was not her, not yet, but it could very well be, at some point in a future not so distant.

It was a thought that left him no less divided than he ever was. He lost a little more of who he was every day, felt it slip from between blood-soaked hands, flittering away somewhere into the ether where he could not go. “And the rest of her words? She implied that you would be relieved to be rid of us, once you were so elevated. Is this true as well?” Invorin had used words that implied but a temporary manipulation as well. Sinderion was not so perceptive in his study of faces and body language that he could know he hadn’t been duped in such a way, and of course she could lie just as easily now, and he might never know the difference. But all the same, he had to ask.

"No!" Maya said, and despite her best efforts some tears sprung unbidden to her eyes, and she blinked them away, hoping Sinder would not see. Not that he couldn't hear the unusual shakiness in her voice. "I don't want to be rid of you... I just... I'm afraid that I'll have to, to survive. I'm not... a good person, Sinder. I could not give up my life so that Tarquin can see his father again. I never loved him like any of you do." But there he was, being healed by Anirne, allowed to keep watch for the group, accompanying them into battle. He was the blood of their Mentor, so surely he was capable of the same greatness that they seemed to see in him. What if he turned to that? Would he not come to command their hearts eventually, while the lowly witch was left standing between them and the Mentor?

She felt terrible, revealing to him that she did not trust them, that she did not believe in them. The Blackfeather and the Shade were next to each other in the order, but who were the Sellswords fighting for? It was the ultimate question now. If they were able to reach the last two, and were faced with the reality of eliminating one, who would they side with? The witch, who had done nothing to help them in their own struggles, who seemingly sought only her own survival, or Tarquin, he who was changed so dramatically by watching the Sellswords struggle? Before the fear had been that he would command them to kill her, and they would not be able to resist. Now the fear was that they would eventually be willing.

"And... I don't want you to be hurt. Too late, I know, but... I just don't know what to do anymore. I'm sorry, Sinder."

Sinder tried not to feel guilty for the tremor in her voice, the smell of saltwater in the air. He had a right to ask these questions, he knew he did. He was trying to look out for his family, his closest friends, and the people who, up until very recently, had been the only beings besides the man that led them all that he was able to care about for almost half his life. But despite that, he felt guilt all the same. And the doubt lingered, even still. He didn’t know what to do any more than she did, and it wasn’t too hard for him to admit that.

“Maya
” he tried, but the words stopped after that. He wasn’t terribly good with feelings, and he shifted uncomfortably on his branch, feeling very much the desire to flee. But that was a cowardice he was done allowing himself, and problems did not simply disappear if they were ignored. He of all people knew that too well. A tentative hand reached for her shoulder, and he almost pulled it back before reprimanding himself for the thought and finishing the motion. He opened his mouth to speak, and then his jaw clicked shut again. Shaking his head, he tried a third time with moderately more success.

“None of us are good people,” he said with some effort, and that was the truth, or close enough to it. He wasn’t all that sure what made a good person, but turning into a vicious beast and eating people probably disqualified you, as did burning people alive or poisoning them or being a violent bandit. Anirne might be a good person, he supposed, but he really didn’t know. “That doesn’t mean we aren’t worth fighting for.” He certainly thought his friends were worth everything he could ever give them, and then more than he could ever hope to on top of that.

“I
 I do not know everything about them, any of them, and they do not know everything about me. But we have learned to trust each other, and to share what must not be
 carried alone. I think—I think there is something you do not part with, and it
” he wasn’t really sure. It made him doubt. “I cannot
” What, what had he meant to say there? There was a wall, and he wanted her to be able to climb it, but he could not help her over if there was one between them, too.

Maya had never fought for anyone else. The idea itself was foreign to her. She fought for herself, and for the things she wanted in her life. She wanted so much to have never been chosen for this insane ordeal, to have simply been left alone, to be hated and despised by the world in her coven, and to have some peace, but that was wishful thinking now. She had made this particular mess for herself now. She could either continue to struggle against it, or give in to it. Either way just tasted like death to her...

She tensed slightly at being touched, not expecting it to be initiated by Sinder, but then she eased up, her shoulders loosening, and she released a shaky breath, letting her head fall back against the trunk of the tree so that she could look up at the stars. "I meant to manipulate you all, from the very start. Ally with you, use you, discard you. The Stonehammer. The dragon overhead led me right to you. The Shade. I'd have never found you at all, never gotten my first kill, if we hadn't allied at the Gathering." Even now she was trying to resist the urge to tell him what he wanted to hear. Honesty came strangely difficult to her tongue. The bluntness felt like the Pact's knees to her ribs.

"It's my own fault for getting to know you, I suppose. Too damned impulsive. I just... can't decide anything right now. I don't know what I'm fighting for anymore." Just living would be nice, but like the Webspinner had said, she had doubts the price of living would be worth it at this point. After how deep she'd gotten herself in the complications of feelings.

Well. So much for no allies. She’d told him she’d not made any significant inroads at the Gathering, which was apparently quite false. In fact, it looked as though the ones she had turned out to be instrumental. Sinderion dropped his hand, using it instead to support himself as he eased into a sitting position, both legs dangling off the limb and into the air. The revelation about her original intentions had hurt, but not as much as he’d expected it to. Maybe he’d known it was coming, on some level. His doubts were rarely without any merit at all, anyway.

What lanced was that she did not seem to be at a place yet where she was willing to relinquish the possibility of using and discarding them still. It provoked a number of emotions in him: disappointment, anger, wariness, and a thread of melancholy as well, tying the rest together in a bundle he did not particularly desire to touch. He looked out at the forest, and sighed. “You do not have to tell me, but I would very much like to know what you actually did at this gathering.” Strictly speaking, he wasn’t sure how much relevance it had for all of them moving forward, but it was something that he felt the need to ask. It was a question belonging to a nameless feeling he had, one that perplexed and unbalanced him in equal measure. He couldn't answer what she'd said, not yet. He was not in a position to decide any more than she was, not without understanding what had brought them to this point in the first place.

"A lot of talking," Maya answered, not untruthfully, wishing she were somewhere else. Someone else, even. "I sealed the alliances in the same way I imagine the Pact and the Horizon did: in the privacy of a darkened bedroom. I trust you don't need any more detail." She would give no more even if he asked, as she was most certainly done speaking about this. She wondered if Tarquin still felt any remorse over this, or if he ever did. She wondered if the presence of the Sellswords had been the only reason he'd refused to turn on her when she was revealed to be his next target.

Tarquin was becoming a different person ever since he came into contact with the Sellswords. Maya wasn't so sure about herself. "If you don't mind taking the watch a little early, Sinder, I think I'd like to be alone for a while." She imagined he wouldn't want much to do with her anymore, anyway.

Well, there it was. The confirmation of a lingering suspicion of his. Sinderion rarely took joy from being right, but this time it made him feel a little sick. Not because he thought he had any right to judge, or right to an opinion about whatever her life had been before she entered his. Hell, he probably had no right to say anything about her life now. Wasn’t that the boundary that existed? But he still felt ill, because that was what she’d thought she had to do to survive. And nobody should ever have to choose between their life and their dignity.

Maybe, to her, it wasn’t such an important thing. Maybe that wasn’t the way she saw it. But he couldn’t help being who he was, thinking as he thought, and to him, it seemed a choice with no good outcome. He wasn’t sure if he should or even could express anything, though, and so he shook his head, leaning heavily back against the trunk of the tree. “As you wish.”

The longer she spent around them, around him, the worse it was getting. The witch found herself wanting to be truly alone in the forest, and for that she'd need to go deeper, farther away from the camp. Unthinking, she slid her legs over the side of the branch and pushed herself off, remembering only halfway down that she'd sustained serious injuries in a fight earlier that day. It was a simple drop she would have performed easily under normal circumstances, but this time she landed awkwardly and more heavily than was normal for her. A well-stifled cry accompanied her dropping to a knee, and she put a hand against the forest floor to keep herself from toppling over entirely. She wondered if it wasn't more serious than she thought. She'd have to get Anirne to take another look, or else make herself some better healing potions. Probably the latter.

Sinder hesitated for just a moment, before following. They were all so battered; he’d been at the edge of death not along ago himself, yet some combination of his sister’s magic and his own
 qualities meant that, while weak, he did not struggle quite so much. Sighing, he placed his hand where she could see it, an offer of assistance. Simple, maybe, except nothing about this was simple, and nothing easy. But then
 nothing ever had been. Why was he expecting this to be any different? “Following you into that forest brought me no closer to the Mentor,” he said thickly, as though trying to swallow past something in his throat. “It probably cost Tarquin his arm, and it took me nearer to death than I have been in many years.”

He paused, taking a deep breath. “But I don’t regret it.” he would do it again, even, knowing everything he knew now as well as what he’d understood at the time. “You’re worth fighting for, too, Maya. I
” he shook his head again, apparently eternally condemned to never manage a full thought without a false start or three. “Let me be your friend. Please. You don’t have to trust me if you don’t want to, but let me trust you.” She was strong enough to be whatever kind of person she decided she wanted to be. And he believed that, in the end, she didn’t want to be the kind of person who could just discard them all. So he’d take a leap of faith, and simply have to hope he didn’t fall to his death.

Maya looked up at the hand for a moment, her breathing slightly elevated. She then gave a mighty push off the ground, wobbly at first, but she came to her feet of her own accord, leaving Sinderion's hand untaken. She blinked a few tears back, and then hugged him, reaching up to slide her arms around his neck, momentarily burying her face against his shoulder. It was a tender hug, but that could have simply been because of the condition she was in. Eventually she pushed away, though she kept her hands momentarily against his chest, feeling the beating of his heart through her fingertips.

She wasn't going to be able to manage any more words tonight, she knew that much, but she met his eyes and slowly nodded an acceptance, managing a fragile half smile before that too faded. She then turned and cautiously carried herself off into the forest and out of sight, thinking back on the time when she'd thought it was going to be her who helped Sinder, and not the other way around. Maybe it still could be.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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It was not a long voyage from the north face of the Throat of the World to Windhelm, but at this point all of the voyages the Sellswords took felt like long ones. The battle would leave them weakened for several days at least, but they could not know if they would have that much time before the next confrontation. Every moment could be one in which the Feral was stalking them. The topic of what to do about the Horizon came up about halfway to Windhelm, with Vanryth actually suggesting they remove the dunmer's legs. Tarquin agreed with him at first, until several members of the party, most notably Adrienne, Anirne, and Sinderion, opposed the idea. In the end, it was decided that maiming their prisoner was not the wise course of action, and they pressed on.

The White River led them northeast until the oldest city in Skyrim was in sight. Windhelm was gently frosted with snow this time of year, with clumps of it floating along the river and underneath the massive bridge that led through the city's main gates. No sooner had they reached the crossroads leading to and away the city than they heard a low bark of a greeting from off in the distance to the west. Even at a distance the Stonehammer was unmistakable, particularly since he was no prisoner this time around. A full company of Stormcloak soldiers followed at his heel, marching proudly back into the sight of their capital city. Vodrin bore his namesake hammer propped upon his shoulder, his shield slung across his back, and an amused smile graced his rough features as he neared. A brief order was given to his men, to carry on to the city without him.

"Isn't this a sight!" he bellowed, taking in the group, and all the peculiarities to them, most notably the Shade's lack of an arm, and the unconscious dunmer carried along behind them. "The hell happened to you, Tarquin? Who are you hunting, anyway?" He must have figured it couldn't be him, if Tarquin was willing to risk just running into him on the road like this. The Shade gestured lightly towards Maya, who stood near the front of the column, looking significantly more uneasy at seeing Vodrin than she had upon their previous meeting.

"I hunt the Blackfeather," Tarquin answered simply, at which point the Stonehammer blinked a few times in surprise, looking between the two of them, but then he laughed. "And you, Stonehammer?" Vodrin raised his eyebrows, not giving away his own target quite so easily.

"Me and my men hunt Imperial dogs for the moment, but I'm sure my true target will come along soon enough." He shifted his gaze to the unconscious form of Invorin. "What are you doing with the likes of him? Taking him back to his people? I can't imagine he's lovely Maya's target, else he'd be quite dead already."

Well, that was a clear evasion of the question. Adrienne might have been more direct, but she wasn’t in a very charitable mood at the moment, considering the awkward tension that still hung in the air from that morning’s confrontation. So instead, she smiled inscrutably and cast a nonchalant glance back at their prisoner. She had no care for the bound man, but she hadn’t been willing to mutilate him for peace of mind. “Well, there’s more than one way to skin a cat, hm?” Let him think that they were doing that if he wanted, or that they were playing the Game out of order for some strange reason—she didn’t much mind either way. “Suffice to say that we’re
 resourceful.”

Still, the comment about “his people” struck her oddly. Was he implying that the Horizon was originally from Windhelm? That seemed like it could be a problem to them, if they weren’t careful. Someone might recognize him, or he might have a family
 the thought of the Representatives’ families was not a welcome one, and she tried to banish it with little success. Were they about to deliver someone’s father to his death? Someone’s husband or brother? He was surely somebody’s son


"You'd be dead if you weren't," Vodrin speculated. "You'd be wise to know that the Gray Quarter won't take kindly to seeing him bound and dragged through their city. Might want to throw a blanket over him or something. Just some advice." His eyes wandered to Lynly, and his smile seemed genuine, at least. It was entirely possible that he was a warrior willing to at least respect his future enemies, should their paths put them into conflict.

"It's good to see you still kicking. Never too late to join the Stormcloaks, you know. Big things on the horizon." He realized what he'd said, glancing down at the captive and rolling his eyes at himself.

Lynly closed her eyes and shook her head, deciding to not linger on the terrible pun and spoke. "You know where my loyalties lie, and you of all people should how important loyality is for a Nord," She said, reverting back to a stilted and even tone not used with the Sellswords in some time. It struck her as odd, how comfortable she'd managed to become with the lot. "It's not perfect, but the Empire is Talos's," She said, tilting her head and examining the man. "And it could be great again, if men like you fought for her."

Interesting thing to note about lovely, really. The Talos amulet had made it obvious which of the nine she favored, but the reasoning was relatively new. He’d never really heard anyone say they supported the Empire because of Talos before. Not that he cared of course—bar a mild kindhip with Sanguine born of years of substance use and general debauchery, gods and Daedric Princes were no concern of his. Well
 not until their little minions started trying to kill him, at any rate. Seeing the opportunity for some information quite close to the source, he eyes the regiment of Stormcloaks impassively. “This is not the kind of unit you take for a bit of scouting or a little skirmish with the Empire,” he noted with some interest. “Action picking up a bit, is it?”

"Aye, that it is," Stonehammer said, with no small amount of excitement. "The axe was returned, and the Great Uprising is only just beginning." The prospect of the war surprisingly seemed to excite him, as though it were more than a simple distraction or cover for his purpose for Peryite in the Game of the Shadow. It was quite possible he really did care about Skyrim. "And men like me do not fight for the Empire, I'm afraid. We fight for Skyrim. But come! Enough talk of war and death! Throw a bag over the mohawk and follow me into the city. Surely you didn't mean to stand out in the cold all day."

Vanryth nodded, dropping back and pulling a hood over the Horizon's head, and tossing a thick blanket over him in an extra measure. It wouldn't do to make it all the way to Windhelm only to be undone by the Dunmer in the Grey Quarter. He wasn't looking forward to his return, it'd been twenty odd years since he had left, never to look back. But they needed rest, and Lynly had a home here. He would not reject it. They followed Vodrin through the gates of the city, some of the guards eyeing the elves of the group. But the fact that two Nords headed the procession silenced any words they had in their throats. They entered first into the Stone Quarter, greeted by Candlehearth Hall. It was a time before the group split from the Stonehammer and instead followed Lynly through the streets.

It hadn't been long since the warrior was last in the city. Before she accepted the job that put her on the course to encounter the Sellswords actually. She had told her father she felt good things from that job... Whether she was right or not depended on their point of view. Still, the group was quiet as they made their way through the streets. She eventually led them into Valunstrad, the most ancient district in Windhelm and filled with the largest houses. She moved down a street past the rows of houses until she came to a stop at a gate.

She pushed pashed it and held it open for the group and once they were through the threshold closed it behind them. Again she made her way to the front of the group and led them down a bush lined cobblestone path and up the stairs to one of the houses that lined the street. The front porch was a wide affair, a pair of chairs on either side of the doors between stone columns holding the lip up. At her door sat a sign that read "Snowsong" confirming that it was, her house. And after she unlocked her door, it revealed that it was her house alone. They stood in the foyer of a large manse. There was an empty fire place to their front with some chairs and couches with endtables. Arches to either side led deeper into the house.

Lynly stepped to the side of the room and unstrapped her sword and shield, hanging them up on a coat rack. As she spoke, she began to take off her scavenged dwemer armor as well, intending to put it up as well. "Stairs are to the back. Up leads to the bathrooms and bedrooms. Downstairs leads to the basement and armory. Careful around my trophies, some of them were hard fought and hard won. We can throw that," she pointed at the Horizon, "In the pantry until we figure out what to do with him."

"Nice place," Maya commented, taking a look around. She'd been in a slightly better mood after working up the ingredients to get a potion to heal her injuries, and after Sinder had given her the talking she'd sorely needed. Whether it had resolved anything in the long run remained to be seen, but for the moment she seemed willing to remain a part of the group in entirety. After helping Drayk move the Horizon into the pantry in question, she wiped her hands on her robes. "I've enough poison to drag him out for a week, probably, so we can recuperate before diving back into anything crazy. Are we claiming our own rooms?" If that was the case, Maya would probably be jogging upstairs and snatching the best one.

"You are not getting my room!" Lynly said, finally free of of her armor. Emotion finally returned to her voice after the talk with Stonehammer. She reigned herself in a little bit and rubbed her forehead. She'd never had house guests before-- despite the five bedrooms throughout her house. She wondered if it wouldn't have been better if she just put them up at Candlehearth and called it a day. Still, she already offered, and it'd be rude to rescind now. She shook her head and went into one of the arches, a finger indicating they follow. "Remember what I said about the trophies? If they get damaged, I'll replace them with your asses."

"I have five bedrooms, one of which is mine. Some of you might need to share," Lynly said, ascending a flight of steps. On the upper hallway Lynly came to a stop at a door and opened it, revealing a small room filled mostly by a huge bed. "Maya," she said, offering the room the witch. Maya eyed the bed rather greedily. It had certainly been a while since she'd slept in one of these, though more often than not she actually slept worse on real beds. A couch would be just as bad, though, so she claimed it for herself.

She moved down the hall a little ways and opened another door, this time on the opposite wall. Much like the last it was small, filled by a huge bed. Though above this bed was the mounted head of a horker. She pointed at the pair of Drayk and Adrienne for this one. "This can be yours. Careful about the mount, I'm not sure how sturdy it is," She said with a wink and a chuckle. Drayk turned a rather fiery red at the comment, and he moved to put some of his things in the room quickly, partly to turn his face away from the others. Adrienne raised a brow at the nord woman. "That was a little much, don't you think?" Nevertheless, she seemed amused rather than embarrassed.

She laughed again as she moved down the hall, opening another bedroom as she did. "Sinder, sorry. But you and Vanryth will have to share this one." Sinderion only shrugged; the Sellswords had shared tighter quarters before. He preferred to sleep on the ground or a rug besides, even at home, in the Mentor's manor. "Very well. My thanks." Vanryth stuck his head in the room and brought it back out, nodding satisfactorily. Like most of the others, he slept in worse. At least there were no rocks in this one.

The next she offered to Anirne, who glanced between those remaining and shook her head gently. "Thank you, Lynly, but whatever other furniture or floorspace you have will be quite adequate to my needs. Perhaps Tarquin would make use of it instead?" She was not the sort of person to allow a patient to sleep in worse conditions than she did, regardless of how easily they were capable of handling it. Besides, it seemed like it would be best to allow him a bit of privacy, given his relative lack of familiarity with the rest. Indeed, Tarquin looked somewhat uncomfortable in what could only be described as something of a family situation, so he inclined his head gratefully at Anirne. "Thank you. That is kind." Lynly shrugged and added, "There are are some couches by the fireplace we walked back."

With the rooms rationed out, she made her way further down the hall and rounded a corner, coming to a large door with the emblem of a shield and flute emblazoned into the woods, the insignia for Snowsong. She opened the door and took a step through, glad to finally be at home. Her own room was larger than the others, with a writing desk in one corner and a small library of story books. On the wall across from the foot of her bed hung a rusted sword proudly displayed. A picture occupied the other wall, consisting of a landscape of a snowy river.

As the rest of the group split off, Soren’s eyebrow gradually crept up his forehead, and when Lynly made her way to her own door, he simply followed, leaning up against the doorframe for a moment and crossing his arms over his chest as though surveying the dĂ©cor. “I take it, lovely, that as I have not yet been mentioned in this little roll-call of ours, I shall be bunking with you?” He placed a casually-suggestive emphasis on the last word, half a foxlike smile on his face, and cut his glance from her accoutrements to the woman herself. She let go of an exaggerated sigh and turned around, rubbing her temples as she took a step forward to him. She leveled a cold hard stare on him for a for what felt like ages, not even gracing the comment with a response. Then the corners of Lynly's mouth twisted upward as she grabbed the front of his shirt. She threw him at the bed and shut the door behind them, the telltale locking sound accompanying it.

It was nice to be home again.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Soren Ivarsson
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"My father runs a smithy ahead," Lynly informed the group as she led the way into the commercial center of the Stone District. The Sellswords as a whole weren't present today, instead following the Dunmer somewhere into the city. Apparently, he was also born in the city though on the complete opposite direction than her. She figured they all needed a moment, meanwhile they still needed to resupply. They were resting at the moment, but it would be soon enough that they would strike out again, heading toward the Library. She had to make sure that they were prepared. Fortunately for them, if there was anything that she could acquire in the city, it was arms and armor.

It was a mild day for Windhelm, not nearly so much wind as the name would suggest. It was still cold, yes, but that was impossible to escape in Skyrim. She wore a light blue tunic with a pair of loose breeches. Her platinum hair was tied back into a pony tail, the effort to braid it demanding far too much time and energy. She wanted to feel comfortable, she was still sore from the fight. Tight dresses that rubbed against hidden bruises and did up hair were not acceptable right now. Even so, now out of the scavenged armor and at home, she felt far more comfortable than she had been since the Omen's boat.

She took a right under the archway that lead into the Stone Quarter, and they were met with the sounds of hammers upon steel, shopkeeps hawking their wares, and loud Nords talking far too loud to people far too close. It certainly sounded like home, she smiled. She turned around to the group with that smile and beckoned them with a finger, diving right into the market place. She marched a familiar path through the cobblestone streets, passing a forge, an alchemical shop, and a couple of stalls selling food and drink. It wasn't long before they pulled up to another Smithy, though this one with a familiar name upon the sign.

'Snowsong Arms and Armor' The sign had read, emblazoned with an emblem much the same as the one on Lynly's bedroom door, though instead of a flute and shield, it was a flute and sword. Lynly must have deviated a bit for her own crest. She didn't move to open the door, instead her eyes were leveled on the forge at the corner of the house. At the mouth of it, holding a piece of steel into the flames, stood a large man of clear Nordic blood. Large, though not so large as the Stonehammer, years of battle told stories upon his flesh, not a piece of skin on his hands and arms unmarred. His face was that made of leather, and a tight beard sat on his face and obscured his chin. While his hair had more gray than it's natural color, a few blonde slivers remained, the same color as Lynly's hair. The most striking feature was his battle ready skyblue eyes, the same pair that Lynly wore.

Lynly stood in front of the forge, waiting until the man noticed her. He was so intent on his work however, that seemed like an impossiblity so Lynly coughed to get his attention. "Can't you see I'm middle of something? Wait a while, let me finish!" He replied without looking up. Lynly frowned and replied just as roughly, "Dammit daddy, say hi to your daughter." That managed to bring the man's eyes from his work as he looked upon his daughter. Both Snowsongs returned hard stares until they both broke down into laughter and embraced. As they pulled apart, the elder Snowsong spoke, "Killed something big, have you? I can see it in your eyes." Lynly laughed and nodded, adding "You can say that. Daddy, these are my friends."

Friends? There was that word again, this time it came from her mouth. Before she knew what happened, there it was on her lips. Friends? Yes, she supposed they were. The man raised an eyebrow but said nothing of it, instead looking at these friends of hers.

“Well, this certainly explains some things,” Soren said lightly, glancing between the two with what appeared to be mild interest. The similarity was remarkable—he’d looked nothing like his father, enough so that he wasn’t even sure Ivar had been his father. They were alike enough in temperament, but that was bound to happen when only one person raised you. In his case, this was certainly not a good thing.

He found himself surprisingly
 warmed, to be referred to as someone’s friend. It had been quite a number of years since that had happened, and even now he was uncertain that anyone else in their merry little band would consider him such. Friends were the furthest thing from survival necessities, of course, and as such he could get along fine without them, but
 well, he didn’t bother to chase away the grin on his face, nor disguise the fact that it actually reached his eyes for once. Necessity or no, it was nice.

Shrugging, Soren decided he might as well and proffered the smith a hand to shake. “Soren Ivarsson, at your service. I occasionally help with the slaying of large things.” He was still himself, of course, and nothing was going to keep the wryness out of his tone. He considered adding a ‘your daughter favors you, but thankfully not too much,’ then decided against it. He rather liked this arm, and didn’t really desire to match Tarquin’s contribution to the pile of things they’d all left behind somewhere.

Maya had dressed more appropriately for the city, switching into a slightly frayed, pale green dress with a tan linen undertunic, and a matching pale green cowl, though she pulled this back away from her head for meeting someone new. There were actually several people within Windhelm she was already familiar with, and even a few who had ties with the Glenmoril, but Maya would not seek any of them out, as she didn't want any of them dragged by chance into whatever her potential enemies would have in mind. Upon being introduced to Lynly's father, Maya smiled quite warmly, offering her own hand after Soren's. "I'm Maya. An alchemist by trade." It was her typical cover when in most cities, because it wasn't entirely untrue. She often used to sell her alchemy when traveling from city to city before all of this happened.

She found Soren and Lynly's interactions... oddly refreshing. Certainly unexpected, from Lynly at least. It wasn't easy to stay above all the doom and gloom that surrounded them on their quest, and she would certainly admit it had brought her down recently. Sadly, she doubted Sinder would even consider such an offer were she to supply it herself, considering how strained things had become, and she had no intention of making things more awkward and difficult than they were. Still, it was obvious that Lynly had loosened up considerably as she'd gotten to know them. For the moment, Maya had her eye on that alchemy shop. It would be good to replenish her supplies the easy way for once.

Anirne wasn’t really sure how well her presence was going to go over here. Elves in Windhelm were not generally favored, she had gleaned from some sparse conversation on the subject, and judging from some of the rather hostile looks she was getting just walking through the place. She was in full psijic robes at the moment, crested cloak and all, but she didn’t expect most people to know what it meant. At least she wasn’t dressed in Thalmor armor, perhaps, not that she would ever deign to do that. She had no more love for them than most of these people did, though it was difficult to convey that without protracted discussions she did not want.

Normally, enduring such negative attention was simply a matter of ignoring it—she was not so susceptible to the opinions of others that she cared for the thoughts of those who understood nothing of her, but somehow, they were unsettling, here. It was harder to ignore them, as though she were persistently being made aware of such matters in a ways that was entirely new to her. Ignoring was harder, though she did manage to put it from her mind long enough to incline her head in greeting to Lynly’s father. She would not offer to shake his hand in case he’d be offended; causing a row was not her desire.

“Anirne Direnni. ‘Tis a pleasure.” She, like Maya, was not much in need of extra armament, though Adrienne had provided her with a list of alchemy ingredients that she wanted, and she found herself wondering if there was an enchantment apparatus nearby. She had a few items that she might make some use of, and a number of full soul gems, besides. She also wanted to examine this Staff of Souls, presently little more than a bronze pole at her hip.

Lynly had stepped out of the way and to her father's side to let her current companions introduce themselves. It wouldn't be a real introduction without the Sellswords, but she'd have to do that later. The first one to introduce himself was Soren, and she bit her lip as he stepped forward. She'd forgotten to tell him to behave himself. Old as he was, her father was still a strong man. She'd hate to see Soren get beaten to death with his own arm. She was pleasently surprised when he did manage to behave himself, and his hand was met with her father, clearly happy to meet another Nord in the company of his daughter's, even if he was a bit stringy.

"Sven Snowsong, best damn smith this side of the Throat of the World, and once upon a time also the slayer of big things," He answered with a hearty laugh. Now Lynly found herself hoping her father wouldn't launch into a spiel about one of these big things. She might have enjoyed her stories, but they didn't have the time for them now. Fortunately, Maya's hand interrupted any story he was forming. Again, he took her hand just like Soren's and shook it, looking aside and asking Lynly, "How'd you manage to meet this one?" Lynly shrugged and answered, "Almost killed her once." Sven looked at his daughter and then back to Maya before adding another throaty laugh behind the last. "Aye, aye, that's how the best of friends are made."

The next member wasn't greeted as warmly as the last. Instead of immediately taking the Altmer's hand, Sven's head twisted toward Lynly he returned his look. "Lynly." He intoned. "Father." She replied. "This is a High Elf," He pointed out. Lynly sighed. She knew there'd be some resistance to Anirne's presence. It crossed her mind that maybe she should have given the woman a heads up, but it was too late for that. "I see that," Lynly replied. Sven's eyebrows furrowed and the look of disappointment ran across his face. "Lynly, I told you about these Knife-ears. They took Talos out of the Empire--" He ranted, in which Lynly tried to interrupt, "Daddy--", but that wouldn't be enough to dissuade Sven, "They want to hunt people like us down. They're sniveling--" "Daddy..." "poumpous, backstabbing snakes-- Finally, Lynly had enough and raised her voice above her fathers, causing him to halt midsentence. "Father! She's with me. You don't have to, but I trust her. She's earned that," She said, staring a hole in Sven.

He was silent for a moment before sighing and looking at Anirne, though still clearly displeased. "Fine. But I got my eye on you," he said, tentatively shaking Anirne's hand, while Lynly rolled her eyes. How was she going to tell him that there were two more elves where she came. Something to tell him later, when they were alone, perhaps. "Anyway," She broke in, "We just got in, and we're under equipped. Can you get these things for us," Lynly produced a list, to which she gave to her father. His eyes scanned the list while Lynly summerized, "Swords, arrowheads, and the like. Please?" She asked, and Sven nodded, "I'm curious, for what exactly?"

At that, Lynly laughed and grinned, "It's a long story, and one that's not finished yet. I'll tell you when it's done."

Anirne was eventually herded into a handshake of some variety, and though it was clearly a bit on the strained side, she managed a polite smile for the sake of decorum. Perhaps it would have been better for her to stay at the house
 regardless, she was here now, and that meant dealing with the situation as well as she could. “You’re welcome to keep it there, if it suits you,” she said mildly. “I’ve nothing to hide.” She was a bit surprised that Lynly defended her at all, and wondered if she had truly earned some measure of the other woman’s trust, or if she was simply trying to avoid a scene. It was a little hard to tell, sometimes, though she supposed that it would be the opposite of beneficial not to trust your healer. She stepped back, and let the conversation flow again around her, choosing to let the others participate as they would in her stead.

Sven nodded and turned back to his daughter, nodding at her own admission and smiling back, "Aye, I'd have it no other way." Then his face turned thoughtful and eyed his daughter, looking her up and down before saying something else, "Do you know what day it is?" He asked, to which Lynly shrugged, "The days have not been kind to us, I haven't been able to keep track, why?" She asked, curious. He smiled and shook his head, clearly tickled at the thought. "Because, it's Frostfall... the ninth," he said, like uncovering some sort of secret. Lynly looked at the man and wondered why the date was important, then it came to her in a bout of realization.

"Then that means--" She was cut off by Sven "Two days ago was your birthday. Happy birthday child!"

"That means we're having a party tonight, doesn't it?" Maya asked. "Let's get something good to eat, and all sorts of things to drink, yeah?" Surely quite a bit of alcohol would do them some good. Well, most of them. Maya knew she could certainly loosen up a bit lately. Hell, even Lynly seemed more comfortable socially than she did the past few days. Soren, who'd wandered off to glance over a few of the pieces Sven had set out, glanced back at this, and a cheshire grin cracked his face. "Now that," he pronounced, mischief glinting somewhere in his eyes, "Is the best idea I've heard all day."

"Obviously. Your mother and I will be at the maze you call a house later-- we're not taking no for answer," Sven added, staring down at Lynly, who'd since covered her face with her hands. Comfortable she might have been, she still didn't think a celebration was necessary. That simple happy birthday was more than enough, but it seemed like it was no longer in her control. If this was going to happen, she'd have to make another trip back and warn her father about the other elves in their party...

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero Character Portrait: Soren Ivarsson
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In a rebellion against the way they probably should have been living, the Sellswords spent the remainder of the day preparing for a large feast to be had in Lynly's home, to spend a night enjoying themselves among good company, rather than almost dying among good company. After the group that had followed Lynly finished getting essential supplies, a second run was made to collect what would be needed for the festivities. After that, preparation work began, with Soren elected as the head chef of the group. He was quick to adopt Adrienne as his assistant, and Sinderion as something closer to his slave, and the three together began to prepare the meal. They'd purposely gone and purchased more food than even they could handle on their own.

Vanryth was sent to acquire more beer than they could hande on their own, and he did not disappoint. The bartender at Candlehearth Hall gave him a rather condescending look when he arrived with the written order, but he paid with good coin, and he was willing enough to take, sending all three of his daughters, well built women each, to fetch the requested beer. Maya, meanwhile, had gone off to acquire some more potent beverages, and some more potent substances, in case anyone was feeling adventurous.

Work in the house was done largely by Anirne, Lynly and Drayk, with the warrior and the mage working together to rearrange the living spaces to make room for the night, while the Psijic spent most of her time cleaning, work that would undoubtedly be undone by the night's end. All the while an extremely dangerous dunmer lay unconscious in the pantry, but for once they as a group were deciding to pay him no mind. This was their night, and nothing was going to stop them from enjoying it to the fullest.

Except for Tarquin, perhaps. He tried to help out where he could, but there was surprisingly little that could be done with one arm. Eventually it became clear that he had resigned himself to simply staying out of their way, and trying not to spoil the mood they were in. As the sun set he found his way out to the front step of the house, taking a seat and breathing in the crisp Frostfall air, bright eyes taking in the sights of Windhelm. He felt relatively secure here. The Feral's domain was the wild, not the streets of cities. Still, it was a mistake to let their guard down, while they still had something to lose. But he would keep these thoughts to himself. They had suffered long, and deserved a bit of happiness. More than he did, no doubt.

After about two hours of work in the kitchen, Soren banished both Adrienne and Sinderion, assuring them that the rest was little enough work for one person, and he could handle it. He elected not to tell them how he was spending his time while the rest of the things he was making cooked, but he was not idle, making several trips back and forth from the pantry, a little more amused each time to see Invorin still there. It was definitely not a dungeon, but there was something comically-undignified about it, which the man completely deserved by the sniper’s reckoning. As he was otherwise alone, he chose to hum a jaunty little tune to himself as he worked, something he’d picked up a few years ago at the Bard’s College. He wondered if lovely had a lute laying around somewhere. He might have inquired previously, but he was much more pleasantly occupied last night.

That thought brought a smile to his face, and he measured in a few more ingredients with the same care and precision he used to line up a good shot. Soren was talented with things like this—things that dealt in gauging and measurement and numbers. That general skill was how he’d earned his fortune, after all, and a considerable fortune it was.

Informed that he was no longer necessary in the kitchen, Sinderion decided to take a breather out-of-doors. His clothes had acquired a few patches of loose white flour, and he did not think it would be the best idea to brush off where Anirne had already cleaned, so he stepped out onto the porch instead. He knew by scent before sight that he was not alone, and nodded to Tarquin as he crossed the threshold, stopping a little ways on the other side of the veranda and swiping at his loose tunic until the majority of the flour was gone. It was such a mundane thing to be doing, such a simple inconvenience, that he honestly couldn’t help but be grateful for it. This little piece of normalcy was the first chance he’d had to grasp any at all since the whole ordeal had begun. It was like looking at what their lives could be without this Game, and that was at once a relief and deeply, deeply unsettling. Mostly because he knew they could not have it on any permanent basis, and hoped they did not harm themselves by having only the barest taste of it.

Drayk followed Sinderion out shortly after, having finished his work inside helping Lynly. It felt good to get out of his mage's robes for a while, to not have the ever present weight of his shield on his back or his arm. He wore just a simple tunic and breeches tonight. He'd considered getting something a little nicer to wear for once, but upon inspecting the wares, decided that it really wasn't him. He didn't feel right dressing up at all. He was a simple person at his core, and whatever charm he seemed to have was undoubtedly due to that. A simple man with a good heart. That was all he wanted to be. It was still a work in progress, but he was hopeful tonight would let him envision it for a little while, if nothing else.

"It's been a long time since I've had a night like this," the Shade was saying as Drayk stepped outside, where he leaned up against the wall beside the door, slightly behind Tarquin. The night air was refreshing. "This was most nights at the Manor, really," Drayk said, thinking back. "We worked together on a lot of things, got to know each other that way. It was... peaceful. The first peace I'd had in... well, a very long time."

"That's..." Tarquin started, before faltering slightly. His tone was obviously somewhat pained, but it was not directed at them. "I remember a time when he was more father than master to me. But it was very long ago..."

Adrienne had the same idea Sinderion did, really, though she’d somehow managed to become coated with much more flour than he was. She wondered if someone (probably Soren) had done this intentionally, as some of it seemed to be on her back, and she didn’t recall
 oh. She had leaned back against the counter at one point, hadn’t she? She was still smiling to herself when she stepped out onto the porch, which was by now quite occupied, though it faded a little at the thread of the conversation.

She had more reason than the others to understand what it was like to wear faces, and she wondered if that was what the Mentor had been doing. If so, which face was the real one: the Mentor, or the Master, or the father of his children and the husband to his wife? Were all of them genuine, or all of them equally false? It was a troubling series of questions, but just like with her friends, Adrienne made a conscious choice to believe in him. Maybe he had been that person, once. If so, he certainly wasn’t him any longer. Perhaps he was once more something like the man he’d been all those years ago.

Dusting herself off vigorously enough to produce small puffs of flour, sugar, and the like, Adrienne ignored the streaks on her face. Actually, she was unaware of them, so she may have looked a bit silly when she turned to Tarquin and smiled mildly. “Perhaps, when we find him, it may be so again. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all this, it’s that life never goes quite the way I’m expecting it to.” For someone who’d spent most of hers learning to try and control every circumstance around her and manipulate the natural course of events to her advantage, it had been a hard lesson indeed, but all the more worth learning for that.

Tarquin breathed a short laugh through his nostrils at Adrienne, though that was specifically for her appearance rather than her words. Drayk, too, wore a close lipped smile for her, before he gestured lightly at his own face, indicating she had something on hers. "When we find him..." Tarquin said quietly, mostly to himself. His missing arm tingled, and he reached over to squeeze lightly at the stump, already well healed by Anirne.

Finding that the rest of the Sellswords inside the house was quickly dwindling, Vanryth decided to follow them outside-- a fresh tankard in his hand. Much better to be with them than the Warrior or the Archer, not that he minded their presence anymore. He was just more comfortable with his family, even if they were with the Shade right now. Vanryth stepped outside and quietly took a seat on one of Lynly's rocking chairs and listened to the conversation going about around him, taking sips from his tankard all the while.

Sinderion didn’t smile often, but in this case, he produced a slight tilt to his mouth and a raised eyebrow for his friend’s face, though he’d known it to be so and had simply chosen not to mention it before now. It lent her an odd kind of innocence that he thought suited this particular occasion, removed as it was from their day-to-day, quite well. It was easy to see what she had done, what they had all done, and forget just how young they really were, she and Drayk especially. When he’d hit twenty-two summers, he’d still been half-wild and trying to tame himself. He’d not have been able to manage what he did now.

“Just how long ago was it?” he asked, some curiosity in his tone. What he was really asking was how old they were, Tarquin and the Mentor both. He didn’t know a lot about vampires, but he was under the impression that the phenomenon was connected to Molag Bol, which might explain how the Mentor became one, but did not necessarily speak for his children. Or his wife.

"You refer to my vampirism?" Tarquin asked, momentarily unsure. When he was certain, he spent a moment in thought. "Uriel Septim VII was crowned in the Third Era, 368. Molag Bal took my family two years later. That makes roughly... two hundred and sixty four years ago. I am close to three hundred years old, my father roughly three hundred and fifty. It has been a very long time." The body may have sustained quite perfectly with only the aid of occasional blood, but his memory had not served quite as well, and much of the earlier days were simply a blur at this point. "I do not remember if there was a choice involved in the decision. I remember so little from those days now."

Adrienne crossed her eyes, and sure enough, there was flour on her nose. Well
 she supposed if you had to be undignified in such a fashion, you might as well do so in front of friends. Huffing with frustration she did not feel, she carefully flicked it off until she was pretty sure it was all gone. Sinder’s question was a good one (and the answer almost too astonishing to properly wrap her mind around), but there was another that nagged at her a little, based on what information she had regarding Daedra and also something the Shade had said the very first time they met.

“Don’t feel obligated to answer this,” she started delicately, “But if all the blood members of your family are vampires, and Meridia hates the undead as much as I think she does
 was your brother chosen out of some kind of spite?” He had said that Aeneas was never meant for the Game, and if he’d been chosen for that kind of reason, she could certainly believe it. The fact that members of the same family had been chosen at all was quite horrifying, but something about that move, selecting someone who clearly didn’t belong there
 that was low.

"You are correct." Tarquin stated simply. "It was Meridia's common practice to select one of the undead for what was more or less an execution each time the Game began anew. Only in this most recent iteration were my family members allowed to be selected. She did not hesitate to jump on the chance." His tone made it obvious what he thought about Meridia. "Aeneas and I did not have much contact in recent years. I do not think he approved of my acceptance of my fate at the time. Perhaps he would approve now."

He turned to glance around at them all. "The Mentor put together a closer family in a few years than he did in three hundred with mine own. Your solidarity is... something to behold. And nothing to be trifled with."

The creaking of Lynly's front gate ceased any further questions that the Sellswords might have had with Tarquin, and through it walked a pair of Nords. The first to come through was the large frame of Sven, now carrying a large pack on his back. The other was smaller, but still looked to be as stubborn as her husband. Lynly's mother didn't have the same strength about her as Sven did, nor was her hair the same shining platinum as the father-daughter pair. Instead, hers was a dirtier shade of blonde, but what they did share was the set stubborn jaw.

Sven's step staggered at the amount of elves standing around her porch, but his wife wasn't having his silliness tonight. She shoved him in his side and put him into a forced march forward. Apparently, he'd gotten a talking to, as he said nothing about the elves and greeted them, though perhaps not as warmly as it could have been. Lynly's mother on the other hand, did, offering them a smile and her name: Rikke.

Soren had just pulled the door open and was about to announce that they could all stop crowding the porch now and eat all his food instead, but the sight of Lynly’s father and a woman who could only be her mother stopped him mid-word, and he glanced at them both, raising a brow. “Well, how’s that for timing?” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Food’s up.” Turning back inside slightly, he jerked his head to indicate the porch to Lynly, who was only slightly behind him.

“Your parents are here, lovely, and they appear to be burdened with gifts.” He had a feeling that would make her more uncomfortable than anything, which was naturally why he did it. She didn’t seem to much like being the center of attention, which meant it was much more entertaining for him when she was. Lynly stuck her head out of the door and immediately shielded her eyes. Soren's guess was right, she wasn't much of a present person. "Daddy, you didn't--" Instead of being interrupted by her father, it was her mother's turn. Rikke waved any complaint off and leveled an even stair on her daughter. "He didn't, but he did. He worked very hard on this, and you are going to take it. And you are going to like it," She said. It was only by the sliver of a smile at the end that told them it was mostly a joke. Still, it was hardly a wonder how Rikke managed to settle Sven down. "Now let's go inside, yes?"

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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On short notice, Soren and his assistants had outdone themselves, crafting what had turned out to be a rather elaborate feast. Maya contentedly sighed her approval upon eating a first bite of the smoked ham. Drayk was enjoying the first gulps of the beer Vanryth had brought back for them. For a dunmer with no tongue, he had excellent taste in beer. That, or Drayk really just hadn't had a good drink in a while. Maya had also brought back a few wines she'd acquired at rather efficient discounts, as well as some other liquors that were available if anyone wanted them. She'd probably be going for that soon, if the wine proved not to her liking. She wasn't much of a beer person, really.

Drayk wore a near perpetual smile as the night began, even despite the slight awkwardness of having Lynly's parents around. He was none too eager, and he expected the others shared his feelings, to dive into the details of their mission they were on, as it was really too complicated and too depressing to cover in one sitting, especially when he had such a strong desire to enjoy himself tonight. Still, he felt so... comfortable, with all of this. Hell, even Tarquin sitting on his right wasn't bothering him tonight, not even his choice of a dark red wine. With Adrienne at his left he was... well, content was a terribly incompetent word for it. It had been so long since the four of them had eaten a good meal in some place other than a random inn or along the side of the road. The food they ate was more of a taste of the happiness they could have after all this was over than anything else. He didn't remember the last time he'd felt so hopeful, his earlier reconciliation with Vanryth only bolstering him.

He’d done well, and he knew it. Food was laid out from one end of the table to the other, and there was still more stuff still waiting in the kitchen, for room to clear. He had a tendency to attack any task he willingly took upon himself with a nearly-singleminded focus, and this was apparently no exception. All things considered, it had worked out superbly, and given the atmosphere of the evening, he chose not to think overmuch on the reasons he’d acquired these skills in the first place. For now, he had them because they had a use, and it was nice to see everyone smiling for a change. Not that he’d ever admit such a thing out loud, of course.

Soren was seated near the head of the table, with Lynly and her family, navigating the conversation rather like a fish navigates water, and though he didn’t bother to hide a number of his rougher edges, nor his perhaps somewhat diminutive nickname for their daughter, he wasn’t being incorrigible, and might even qualify as ‘polite.’

Sinderion was a little further down, Maya on one side and Van on the other, trying to remember when the last time he’d tasted food this good was. He was coming up with nothing, actually; he’d never eaten richly as a child, the Mentor favored simplicity
 and he didn’t want to think about what had happened in-between. Clearly, it was the best food he was going to have for a long time, so he resolved to enjoy it, even if he did quaff only lightly at the tankard of beer in front of him. He couldn’t afford to loosen up as much as most, considering what the consequences would be to something like that. He didn’t want to ruin their night, nor his own.

Adrienne, fitted somewhere between Soren and Dom, was quite enjoying the fruits of their labor. Maybe it was odd to compare the two, but she felt inclined to say that she enjoyed having something besides a dead body and a new cluster of scars to show for her work. Ever easily-able to handle social situations, she didn’t find the presence of Lynly’s parents to be a discomfort, though of course, they did cause her to guard her tongue more than she might otherwise. They seemed nice enough people, certainly, though she left most of the conversation on that end of the seating arrangement to Soren and Lynly. It was not hard for her to perceive the change in their relationship, and though she wasn’t quite sure what she thought about it, she certainly found it interesting.

Instead, she spent most of her time conversing with her friends. She, Dom, and then Tarquin were on one side of the table, and across from them were Sinder, Vanryth, and Anirne, so she was well and truly surrounded by people. It was a nice feeling, actually, and she sipped liberally from her dark red wine, allowing the warmth of it to contribute to the ease of the atmosphere. Generally, she refrained, but she was not here to fool anyone or coerce a person into anything, so she found it well worthwhile to indulge a little.

Anirne, on the other hand, didn’t, simply as a matter of habit, though she kept a little mental note about who was most likely to need a bit of help with a hangover in the morning, since like it or not, it was back to business tomorrow. She didn’t spend too much time in thought about it, though, and just enjoyed herself. Once, her life had had many nights like this one. Recently
 that had faded. It was nice to be a part of a group again, dysfunctional as they were. One certainly could not fault them for a lack of dynamism and interest.

While it was a nice gesture and all, most of the shine of the banquet in front of Vanryth lost its shine because of his abscense of taste. Eating was a joyless chore for him, merely done for survival instead of pleasure. His plate was covered in a random assortment of food picked for pure nutritional value over any thought of taste. Still, just because he couldn't taste food, didn't mean the rest of them couldn't. He was happy for them, to enjoy a feast like the one spread out before them. He himself would stick mostly to the one thing that he did enjoy anymore, and that would be the beer. He was halfway through his second tankard, reminding himself to pace himself. It wouldn't do to have him drunk before dinner was over.

Like everyone else he tolerated Lynly's family-- this was her house after all, she could do whatever she wanted. Still, he wished that her father would stop staring at him like he was going to start throwing magic around and subjugating his people at any moment. Though he was polite (for now) and let it roll off his back. Lynly caught one of these stares from her father, and gently poked his ribs, muttering something about being polite. After what these people have been through lately, they deserved that much.

Lynly for her part, was enjoying her first real dinner she had since she had left Windhelm. It was a welcome change from her usual day to day, which usually always ended with her covered in blood. Though she'd never thought she'd find herself enjoying a family moment with Soren of all people. At first, she was worried that his... Antics would rub her parents the wrong way, but he'd managed to prove himself rather capable in the situation. Her father seemed to take to the man, rough edges and all. He was no polished stone himself, after all. She found herself actually quite happy, considering.

As the meal itself wound down, Soren stood from his seat, heading back into the kitchen without a word. It took him a few minutes, but when he at last reemerged, he was holding a rather large confection, a proper cake, actually, which is not something particularly easy to find in Skyrim, given the general unreliability of the typical stone oven. Still, he’d somehow managed it, and the breadlike substance was stuffed with nuts and raisins, delicacies that had taken a fair bit of persuasion to procure for a reasonable fee. The dome-shaped thing was glazed with a translucent icing, colored faintly blue, though how he’d managed to do that was a secret he did not plan on parting with, exorbitant bribes excepted, of course.

He actually minimized the ceremony involved in the surprise, setting it down almost as if he disdained it, and appearing for perhaps the first time in recent history vaguely uncomfortable. “It was something of a tradition, in my previous household, to make such a thing on a birthday.” He’d learned how to do it for his son, so that, unlike his scoundrel of a father, the boy would know, at every possible opportunity but on such occasions especially, that he was loved, and valued for no other reason than his very existing. It had been several years since he had cause to make one, but this seemed as decent an opportunity as any.

Clearing his throat, he glanced at Sven and Rikke. “The eating of it, I found, was well-complimented by the giving of gifts.” He handed Lynly a knife, gesturing down to the table to indicate that she could cut some for everyone if she so desired. The thing was rather too large a dessert for a few people, after all. The archer himself retook his seat, disinclined to comment further on the matter.

She wondered if she'd be able to get away with slitting her throat first. Once again, she found herself thrust into the center of attention, and she gave Soren a glare that could melt iron as she palmed the knife. A vibrant shade of crimson descended upon her face which then illicted a chuckle from Sven. He wasn't helping matters, to say the least. Instead of doing anything drastic with the knife, Lynly sighed and commenced to the cutting. She noticed the uncharacteristic shift in Soren, though it was hardly the time to investigate that. Something to bring up later, perhaps, but it was a happy night tonight and she began to dole out the (generous) pieces of cake.

After the cake before them vanished (With Vanryth shoving his into his face for the sole reason of politeness). Once their plates were cleared, Anirne volunteered to take the plates away with Vanryth offering his assistance. Once the table was clear of empty plates, next came for the gift giving. Sven eagerly went into one of Lynly's side rooms and returned with the pack he had brought with him. As Sven was not too fond of ceremony himself, he sat the bundle on the table and slid it to Lynly, where he then crossed his arms and waited. "Figured you need this," He explained.

Lynly looked up at Sven with a curled lip, clearly less than impressed with his gift-giving skills, but said nothing and opened the parcel. What she saw, she somewhat expected, but not the caliber of the craftsmanship. At the top was the sheen of a breastplate, shined to a perfect sheen. Lynly leaned over the parcel and gently raised the piece out of the bag, noting the rest of it laying under. The plate was of steel make, solid and undaunted without a scratch or mark on it's surface. It reflected the firelight brilliantly and stunned Lynly for a time. It was Sven who spoke, "It's modeled after what I wore in my younger days. The whole set is there, gauntlets, boots, everything. Your mother even fashioned a cloak to go along with it," He said, and before Lynly could thank him, he interrupted her with a finger.

"Not done yet, child. I'll say when you can start telling your father how great he is," Rikke hid her face from the rest of the company, but said nothing, allowing Sven to grab the next item. A long, thin item that couldn't possibly be anything else but a sword. He handed the item to Lynly as she opened it, and pulled the blade from the sheath. Unlike the inornate iron blade of hers, this one was steel-- not only steel, but Skyforge steel. It was, simply perfect. "Had to pay a visit to Grey-mane for that one. Forged in the fires of the Skyforge itself. Better than that old pig-sticker you use, isn't it? Now, let's get my pride to your joy," He said amongst the rolling of eyes.

Next came a disk shaped object, and Lynly knew immediately what it was. She desparately needed a new shield, the edges of hers was chewed to pieces, the face was scarred, and generally irreparable. But when she pulled the cloth back, she certainly didn't expect what she saw. The craftsmanship trumped that of the other pieces, the shield shining brighter than both armor and sword combined. Lynly gently held the shield aloft and beheld the magnificent face. Polished to a mirror shine and perfectly round, the shield was engraved in a snowflake pattern and sparkled just a bright. Spread across from one edge to the other, the calling of the Snowsong, a flute was emblazoned onto the shield. Now Lynly was awed into silence, not even thinking of the words she should, or even could say to express her thanks. Instead, she set the shield down and embraced her father, of which he returned.

"You're a Snowsong, Lynly. Blood and mail harks our tale. Sing your song proudly child, like I did."

It was a lovely moment, and Anirne found herself smiling to see that there was quite a lot of love in Lynly’s family. It was something that everyone deserved, and it seemed like few ever really received. She shot slightly-discomfited glances at Sinderion, the only remaining member of her blood family, and then Tarquin, who seemed to be feeling acutely the loss of his own lately, but in the end, there wasn’t much to be done about it. Within a few more minutes, the elder Snowsongs had taken their leave, and everyone was finished eating the cake, a rather delicious thing that she’d never had the good fortune to taste before. It seemed that there was more to Soren than his sharp eye and excellent shot. Not that she’d ever expected there wasn’t, just
 she hadn’t expected this.

When everyone was done, she joined Maya, Soren, and Tarquin in rearranging the room by pushing most of the furniture to its sides. Apparently, the archer had something planned, and when she noticed the lute leaning against the wall, she thought she might have understood, and the smile returned. It was going to be an interesting night, she was sure. In the meantime, Lynly and the Sellswords seemed to have moved into the next room, presumably at the nord woman’s request. She wondered what that was about, but she wouldn’t pry.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Once in the other room, Lynly gently set her gifts down on the table, gazing one last time into the mirrored sheen of the shield before setting it too on the table beside her. With everything in order, the nord turned around and beheld the Sellswords' expectant eyes. Standing in front of them all, her mind went blank. She was not so good with things like this, saying the things that needed to be said. She'd brought them into this room on the spur of the moment, she wanted to say something to them. The issue was finding the right words to say. She'd never been gifted in the art of speech, but she'd have to try. Hopefully the words would come of their own accord eventually.

Moments passed with the Sellswords and the Warrior just staring at each other, and to defuse some of the awkwardness, Lynly picked up her sword and began to feign inspecting it. With something occupying her mind other than their eyes, she began, slowly. "We've been through... A lot. Together," there could be worse starts, she thought. Before that sentence hung in the air too long and festered into something awkward, she forced herself along, "We're a long way from when we first met. The Stonehammar and his dragon. The Imperial caravan. Maya. Soren. The Bloody Curse." Now she was rambling. She had to stop that.

"We... I.. I need to apologize first," She said, finally taking her eyes off of the sword and looking up at the Sellswords.

Drayk wasn't sure what to think about this woman. They really hadn't gotten very close over the journey, even though they had been through a lot, as she said, but that was probably because he'd never been sure what kept her around. They went through hell on an almost daily basis together, and it was really only their bonds that saw them through it. He wouldn't say she seemed to revel in it, but it had seemed at the start as though she were perhaps seeking something by accompanying them on their journey. She and Soren both he had trouble wrapping his head around. Why they both didn't just leave them to their fates he didn't know. Not that he was against their help, certainly not, it was just... strange.

"Says the woman who followed us into the Webspinner's lair," Drayk ventured. "What could you have to apologize for?" Really, what she'd done could be seen as pretty selfless, from the right angle.

Well that managed to illicit a chuckle. Fortunately, the laugh managed to ease her nerves and made speaking easier. "I don't apologize for that," She said, shifting grip of her Skyforged sword from one hand to the other. Really, the balance in the weapon was quite remarkable. She then shrugged, the smile at her lips fading away. "I didn't set out on this task for you," She revealed. She'd spoken some about this with Sinder when the Horizon trapped them in the cave. Funny turns of events that is, as he was now currently trapped in her pantry. If her father would have seen that, he would have hurt himself laughing. "I was... Selfish when I began," She said scratching her forehead.

"Your Mentor, the Sellswords, The Bloody Curse, they were all just words to me when we first began. I didn't care for you or your Mentor, only your task. It sounded like a great one, one that would have won me a great story and a measure of personal pride. It's that I apologize for. I didn't realize just how much this meant to you all," She just thought they were a lot of rejects and elves, wandering about blindly in the dark. She didn't have much faith in them, they were just a means to an end to her. That's what she felt guilty about. She used them for her own gains.

But then she shrugged, looking up from the blade and back into their eyes. "I didn't bring you in here just to apologize though," She revealed. It was just something she needed to do before she could speak frankly. Call it sentiment, or call it outdated honor, but it was something she had to do in front of them all, and not just Sinder. "You all proved me wrong. You're not a bunch of misfits, you've all got the courage to match most of the Nords in this city," She said. It was a heavy compliment, coming from the woman who had once called the elves knife-ears. "There's an uncommon fight in your group. There's heart, there's grit, and there's family," Lynly tilted her head. She'd like to call them friends, but that word wouldn't come out of her mouth. Not yet.

Adrienne listened thoughtfully to Lynly’s words, turning them over in her mind, and decided that it wasn’t so bad. They’d acceped her help with no questions because they needed it—they simply didn’t have the luxury of finding fault with her motives. In the end, they had sought to use each other to mutual benefit, and that had simply been the way of it. Now, though
 she personally thought this had changed, and she was glad to see Lynly thought so as well. It was hard, to grow close to someone over a scattered few months of travel and constant fighting, but in a way, that made things easier as well. There was no dancing around and cautious testing of the waters—you were allies, and either you fought like it, or you died.

She still had the woman to thank for her own life, as doubtless what she’d learned from Lynly about using a sword had kept her life against the Feral, even if it wouldn’t have done so for much longer. “Apology accepted,” she said happily, not desiring to invalidate her efforts by saying that none had been needed. “You’ve been a big part of our making it this far, and so we can’t really hold it against, you, you know?” She smiled, nodded, and fell silent, sensing that there was something else the woman wanted to say.

Still not going as terribly as she initially thought. That was good. She hadn't made a fool of herself yet, or at least they've been kind enough to not point it out. Lynly would take either, honestly. "You'd found some way, even without me," She said, returning the smile. "Even I can see it, you're all are stronger together, stronger than I ever am by myself. Four Representives have fallen before you, and though you yourselves may not have delievered the deathblows, they all fell due solely to you. I think your Mentor would be proud," she said, tossing the sword back to her other hand. Her movements were automatic now, as were her words. She managed to break out of her awkward shell and be frank with them. They might not ever see this side of her again, but as long as they saw it tonight, she could live with that.

"I'd like to meet him. To see the man who managed to do this," She said, waving in front of them. "And if that means going into Coldharbor to do it, then so be it," She said with some determination. The light smile on her face faded and her eyes turned downward to her sword for a moment. They could see the gears in her head churning before she nodded to herself, holding the sword more surely, and turning around to take the shield with her other hand.

She brought both weapons around and held them out for the Sellswords to see. Lynly then reversed the grip on her sword and held it behind the shield with both hands. Her back straightened, she held her head high and she took a step forward to the Sellswords. Her next words were hard, as if they were etched into the metal of her shield. "But until that time, may both my sword and my shield be yours, to fight alongside you. May my sword cut through your enemies, and may my shield bare the weight of your cause."

"May blood and mail hark your tale. The song that I'll sing shall be yours."





When the Sellswords returned to the main room of the house, it was to find that the alcohol was still flowing, but also that Soren was not currently partaking. Instead, he’d taken one of the chairs from the table and set it up at the head of the room, and was now currently occupying himself tuning the lute he’d found among Lynly’s other possessions. Judging from the dust, it hadn’t seen use in a while, and from the tune of it, it may have seen use never. Still, by the time the five of them had returned, it was back up to snuff, and he struck the first chord upon sight of them.

“Spent some time at the Bard’s College once,” he mentioned offhandedly. “Shall we see if I still remember this?” He grinned, and transitioned smoothly into a lively song, the kind heard at various and sundry festive occasions and celebrations throughout Skyrim, usually late at night when everyone was drunk and the children were asleep. There were some
 interesting lyrics to it, actually, but it was probably better if he proceeded without them, else one of the more easily-embarrassed of their number rupture something important. A considerate man, he was.

“Come on, then,” he called over the music. “I’ll not do all the dancing myself, as well.”

Drayk grinned at the sight of the nord beginning to play on the old lute. When was the last time he had danced? He could hardly remember. He certainly had, but that was probably back in Cyrodiil, among thieves and outlaws, and then only because he'd been pressured into it. Really, he wasn't that good at all when it came to the fine control of his body like that. But here he found himself eager, even. He slipped his hand into Adrienne's and pulled her out with him, though she certainly didn't need to be convinced. He might have looked a little like a fool with his movements, but he'd willingly look like a fool every day of his life if he could do it with her. That, and he imagined he'd get better at it pretty quickly, dancing with Adrienne.

Maya smiled as well, and had decided that dancing was something she'd be interested in, but it was not so fun to do alone as it was in a pair, as she could read in Drayk's eyes, so she made her way to Sinder as the group emerged from their private conversation with Lynly. She wasn't sure at all how he would think of this, given his aversion to much contact and social situations, but he was obviously willing to go to great lengths to help her. Maya figured this could help him, too, if he was feeling up to it. "Care to dance, Sinder?"

Sinderion glanced around the room with some measure of apprehension. Judging from how Drayk and Adrienne were going about it, dancing involved rather a lot of touching, and he wasn’t entirely sure he was comfortable with that, but
 he was also getting frustrated at his complete inability to do completely ordinary, mundane things. He’d also promised to be her friend, and this seemed like the sort of thing a friend should do—agree to dance because the other wanted to. “I don’t really
” he trailed off, smiling wryly. “You’re going to have to show me how.”

He was a highly-agile person, and certainly, all those years not touching people had honed into him a kind of personal awareness and control that most people didn’t need, but
 he definitely also qualified as generally-averse to contact, and that was going to make things harder, undoubtedly. Still
 if she really wanted to dance with him of all people, she had to know that already. Swallowing, he gingerly extended one hand for her to lay hers in. That was how it was done, right?

"Of course," Maya said, her smile widening genuinely, and she set her hand in his, her touch light but steady. She herself had actually done this quite a bit more than people would probably expect of a witch, and happened to be quite good. She assumed she would have little trouble leading Sinder, even if he was significantly taller than she, had no idea what to do, and was averse to physical contact. This was a challenge she felt she could handle. "The other hand can go here..." she said, taking a hold on his other hand and bringing slowly around to her back, before she gently laid her arm up around his shoulder. "And off we go..." If worst came to worst, she had rather tough feet.

Adrienne valiantly constraint her mirth into a beatific smile. Dancing with Dom was not like dancing with a courtier who’d known how to do so all their life. The music was more lively than stately, he was a little more awkward than graceful, and she was in a simple blue tunic and some plain breeches rather than any sort of dress. It was also, she thought, the most fun she could ever recall having in such a fashion, and the pair of them whirled through a line of mostly nonsensical steps, she threading ones she knew to the rhythm of what Soren was playing, or taking whatever lead he gave and simply moving with it. The courtiers were missing out, evidently.

“My dancing master would say you learned from a giant,” she teased lightly, twirling under his hand, “but I think that’s unkind. It’s much closer to how I imagine a frost troll would dance.” Actually, it wasn’t nearly so bad, and the playful nature of her tone and the lightness of her steps would make that obvious enough. If only she could do something like this every day
 but it was better, perhaps, to just live in this moment for now, and let it not be troubled by the imperfections of the one before, nor anxiety for those to follow.

"A frost troll, is it?" Drayk asked with amusement, though the act of speaking and dancing at the same caused him to take a rather awkward step, which Adrienne of course took in stride. She was easily good enough to make up for whatever deficiencies he had. "We'll have to work on that some time." When all this was done... Gods, it was too tantalizing a thought for him to allow himself to think about right now. But he wanted to, so badly he wanted to envision a peaceful life.

Anirne watched the younger members of the party take to the floor with evident amusement. They were quite something, these Sellswords and their friends. She had no idea how Maya had managed to convince Sinderion to try his hand at dancing, but the results were rather interesting, and watching the other two reminded her with heavy nostalgia of a time when there was little for her to do with her life but enjoy it. Unconsciously, her arms crossed at her ribcage, and she shook her head just a little. They still might have a chance for something like that, if they could see this task through until its end. Hers was used up, but she would give a lot, more than she’d thought, to see them have theirs. All of them.

Sinderion did his level best not to mess anything up, which probably accounted pretty well for the slightly jarring nature of his movements, because he was not going to let himself step on her feet, an exercise which unfortunately consumed the majority of his attention. There was also the fact that his hands were placed whence he would not put them ordinarily, which only made him feel
 stranger, about the whole endeavor. Thankfully, the music changed, slowing a bit, and his struggle not to hurt her by accident no longer seemed so futile as it would have eventually become. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he tried to ignore the fact that he was slowly turning a faint shade of pink. “Er
 sorry.” He wasn’t precisely sure what he was apologizing for, as he hadn’t actually tread on her toes yet, but maybe it was the general lack of skill. This was not intuitive to him at all.

"Don't be, you're doing great," Maya said, and relatively, he was. It was all terribly awkward of course, but she'd expected outright rejection or perhaps needing to try and get him to take a bit of moon sugar to loosen up first, so this was... actually quite nice. If anything, she was the one who should have been apologizing, for all of the turns she'd put him through already. She wanted to think there wouldn't be any more, but there was no way to know. Tonight was a happy night, though, so she'd refrain from putting it to words.

Lynly did not immediately take to the dance floor she used to call a sitting room. She had enough of tripping over her own feet for the day, so instead she settled nearby Soren. "The Bard's college, somehow that doesn't surprise me. At least you're a lot better than the last man who used it," she said nodding toward the lute in his hand. She didn't appreciate "bards" butchering some of her more favored songs. Now she had another one to go along with it, she smiled. Before long, as everyone began dancing and she'd had enough time to get the melody down, she joined him in humming along with the tune, adding her gentle but firm tone to the music. Lynly might not could play an instrument to save her life, but she had a voice that could sing.

Vanryth too decided against the dance floor, his depth perception not being what it once was. Instead, he was content to watch the rest of the Sellswords dancing. They deserved it, they deserved it all and much more. He was glad, for once, to watch his family enjoy themselves, to not have to worry about the next day, to fear where their path may lead them next. It would come back tomorrow, without a doubt. But one night of normalcy was welcome in the life they led. He lifted his tankard to his mouth once more and hid the rare smile that he wore. This was was what they fought so hard for.

And there it was. Everyone seemed to have a place, a natural role to fill even in this, a most unusual circumstance for them. As for her, well
 watching was all well and good, and she did enjoy seeing the expressions of happiness on their faces, but she’d never really been the sort of person to be idle when she could be active. That left one question remaining, and she knew exactly how to answer it. Why not take the opportunity to draw the other outlier a little closer to the middle? Approaching Tarquin, she assumed a thoughtful expression for a moment, then smiled. “I think I shall hazard a guess here and suppose that you know how to dance, as well,” she pointed out. “It seems rather a waste not to take advantage of such a rare opportunity when it presents itself. Perhaps you would indulge me, for just a little while?”

Tarquin had clearly been intending to quietly observe from the edges rather than get involved in the dancing himself, and he seemed surprised to see Anirne asking him to join in. He most certainly did know how to dance, though he'd never been taught how to do so with only his left arm, though he supposed it wouldn't be all that difficult a difference. This was no competition, after all, and it did seem a rare thing he was seeing now. None of them knew when the next time they would get an opportunity like this would be, if at all. So with that, Tarquin took a long, deep drink of wine, before standing and taking the Psijic's hand in his.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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As the dancing wound down, a battle approached, though this one was not of the typical variety for the Sellswords. Upon conclusion of the last song of Soren's, a drinking contest was proposed between Soren and Vanryth, and Drayk for one was rather interested to see the outcome, even if he was the slightest bit apprehensive of what kind of results this would produce. A bit more alcohol for himself would wash that away quick enough, so he took a relaxed seat at the table and began another beer. He wouldn't stand a chance going up against these two, so he figured it wiser to observe and go at his own pace.

Tarquin was grateful for the dance Anirne had given him, but beyond telling her so, he said little, returning to the edges of the group and watching calmly from afar, continuing his work on the wine. Maya, meanwhile, had taken Sinder by the hand and pulled him over to where she had left her bag, digging through it for a moment. She pulled out a small leathery bag, and from this bag she produced a cube of moon sugar, holding it up between forefinger and thumb. "Managed to pick these up today," she explained. "I'm going to be having a few, but I'd be rude if I didn't offer to share. It might help you relax, if you want to give it a try."

Soren had settled himself at the table, a full tankard in front of him and another slid in Van’s general direction. Out of the rest of the group, he was willing to bet this one’s tolerance for the stuff was the highest. He looked like the kind of man who’d had a lot of practice. Fortunately for Soren, so had he. Over the course of the night so far, both men had had about the same amount of alcohol, so they were starting on more-or-less even ground, which meant the contest would be sheer endurance—as well it should be. Lined up next to each tankard were several others, along with many smaller containers holding measured amounts of harder liquor. It this was going to be done, it was going to be done right.

“Cheers, my silent friend,” the Nordic man said enthusiastically, holding his tankard aloft for a moment before tipping it back and quaffing the contents at what probably qualified as an alarming rate.

Vanryth raised his tankard in a similar manner and slammed back, draining it with Soren's alacrity. Where the man had youth over the Dunmer, Vanryth made up for it in experience. He spent all of he younger nights in taverns and bars, after all. Drinking Soren under the table would be simple, at least he thought. He'd like to think that out of everything, it was drinking he knew best. Lynly was standing behind Soren, hand placed on the corner of his chair as she watched curiously, her own tankard being the first of the night. She liked a beer every now and then, sure, but to deliberately attempt to get as many into her belly as possibly didn't sit well with her. But hey, it was their livers, and not hers. "Just don't make a mess when you're done. Else you will be cleaning my rugs," She said with a good natured smile as she nipped her at her own.

Sinder, meanwhile, was eyeing the innocuous white cube warily. “I
 don’t think this is a good idea,” he said, shifting his eyes back to Maya. “Drinking is enough of a risk
 I don’t know what that would do to me.” He’d never had cause or opportunity to experiment with illicit substances before—he was too young (and impoverished) in his childhood, and since then, he’d been exerting all possible effort to remain in full control of his faculties. Letting any of them go seemed like the fastest way to end this evening poorly.

"That's quite alright," Maya said, popping back the cube in her hand. "Just thought I'd ask. Let me know if you change your mind." She certainly didn't intend on pressuring him into anything, especially something that could potentially ruin their night in a horrible way, as he seemed to think. She sighed pleasantly as it hit, grinning at him and giving him a squeeze on the shoulder. "You were a fine dancing partner, by the way. It was fun." She then slid on back to the scene of the action, wondering how this contest would go. He contained his skepticism to a soft snort, but took a seat beside her anyway.

Anirne sighed ruefully at the impending contest of stamina. She was not ignorant of such practices, she just didn’t understand them. The point of dulling one’s mind and senses to such a degree was not one she’d ever truly grasped, nor was the activity one she’d participated in. It just seemed
 unnecessary. Then again, it was perhaps a more tempting notion when one had things they wished to forget, and though she knew neither Soren nor Van well enough to say if that was why they indulged, she did not doubt that they’d both endured enough that it was possible. Taking a free chair some distance from the actual activity but close enough to be included in the group to a degree, she tried to decide who would find themselves unconscious first.

Adrienne was a lot more amused by the whole thing, as for her it was more a novelty than anything. Neither Van nor Soren seemed particularly concerned with his dignity at this point, and she fought to contain a smile when the first round’s tankards slammed back onto the table and they both took up the next ones, almost as though there was some kind of choreography to this. It was a little bit silly, a little bit funny, and certainly unlike anything she would have seen back home. More and more, that seemed like a positive quality, and though she still consumed her wine rather leisurely, she did seem to catch some of the enthusiasm, cheering the both of them on by turns.

A few rounds in, neither looked to be budging, which had the effect of slightly reducing the spectator value, though Drayk did find it rather impressive just looking at the sheer quantity they were downing. He'd have gone senseless by that point, probably, considering how fast they were going, too. For his own part, he had finished his tankard and set it lightly down upon the table, having achieved a rather pleasant buzz that left him feeling quite warm inside, though he suspected the alcohol was only part of that. He felt at home here, and he wanted to take advantage of that while it lasted.

Rising, he moved around to the other side of the table and pulled up a chair next to her, sitting close enough to bump her leg with his own, which he did as he seated himself. He leaned over, speaking quietly enough to keep it between them. "Hey," he started, for once feeling sure of the words coming out of his mouth, "when we've got a winner here, I was wondering if you'd like to head upstairs, get some privacy." He pulled his eyes from the drinking to meet hers, knowing that was a rather large step he was suggesting. He was certain that it was one he wanted to take, though, now that they had the chance.

It was funny, actually: she’d received the same proposition more times than she cared to think about, in words more (and less) elegant, from people who ran the gamut from dull and homely to fascinating and glamorous, but it had never struck her in any special way. She’d accepted, of course, but only to a point, that point being significantly short of what the other party involved was planning. Acceptance itself was as easy as a word, or a touch, or even a certain kind of smile.

Receiving it from him made her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth, she was sure, and she felt her face turn a faint shade of pink, which was certainly new. She hadn’t blushed without meaning to since she was a girl. For a moment, her grip tightened on her glass, and her eyes fell to the spot where their legs touched, and she smiled, a small, secret thing that seemed inadequate to her joy but otherwise about what she was going for. Looking back up at his face, so open and honest and everything she’d never realized she wanted, she wondered how she could have ever said yes to anyone else, even if she didn’t mean it. Managing a few swallows of wine, she somehow got her tongue working again and raised an eyebrow, a hint of mischief creeping into her words. “I suppose I could wait, if you really must know who wins,” she said, just as quietly, but much more slyly.

That was more than enough to get Drayk glancing over at the drinking contest, and quite suddenly it seemed like it was in the way of something much more important, and that he'd put it there. That was... yeah, he didn't really care that much. He slipped his hand into hers again and gestured with his head towards the stairs, rising. "Remember the mount," Lynly said through a tight-lipped grin. Soren snickered, but otherwise did not look up from his endeavors. Adrienne just smiled sweetly at both and tugged Drayk up the staircase behind her. Drayk never even heard her.

Meanwhile, the contest went on, and though Soren was starting to show a few signs of intoxication, Vanryth remained stoic. They had moved past the tankards and were now downing smaller glasses of hard liquor, though each of these was perhaps triple the usual measure for something of that kind. The archer had never been much of an ale man, anyway. After a particularly stinging one, he shook his head to clear it, laughing when this produced two illusory copies of his opponent. This was the good stuff.

Few humanoid beings could consume the amount of drink they’d had and retain their consciousness, and despite himself, Soren’s estimation of his opponent’s mettle rose dramatically sometime between the fifth shot and the eighth. It was the fiercest contest of this kind he’d had since he and that khajiit thief went at it one night on the road with the caravan. Eventually, though, just when he was beginning to doubt his ability to hold out much longer, Vanryth stood up, then promptly tipped over and onto the floor. Soren exhaled his relief, downed one extra glass so as to actually be the victor, and decided he was quite done drinking for the night. “That,” he pronounced, pointing at the collapsed dunmer, “Ish one tough bashtard.”

Sensing that he was rather close to passing out himself, he decided it might be a good idea to call it a night, and, quite publicly and with absolutely no concern for who saw, wound an arm around Lynly’s waist, attempting apparently to pull her into his lap. He honestly didn’t care if he fell asleep in the chair, company considered. Lynly yipped as she found herself pulled into Soren's lap, but mostly let it go aside from the momentary frown on her face. Then came the sudden bout of blushing, but afterward she loosened up enough to not make so much a fuss about it. Had it been any other night, and any other man, he might very well had ended up dead. But with the cheerful mood and the loss of inhibitions, she just accepted her fate and threw an arm around Soren, all the while crooning, "My hero," with a healthy dose of sarcasm. He wasn't so out of it that he failed to notice, and shook his head. "Ash though you need one," he scoffed.

Anirne sighed, and, seeing as it seemed nobody else was either in a condition or disposed to remove Van from the floor, she took it upon herself to do so, tucking her arms under his and more or less dragging him to one of the spare couches in the room, and then getting him situated, first the upper half of his body, then his legs. She turned him on his side, recalling that facing upward was not the best condition for someone who may yet vomit, and made sure there was a pillow under his head and a blanket over his person. Nights in this country were cold, alcohol or no. It seemed that he’d be her roommate for this evening, not that she minded. It was probably better this way; she’d wake if he got truly sick, light sleeper that she was.

It looked like events were winding down considerably, and she took it upon herself to collect and clean the glasses and tankards, and wipe down the table. She couldn’t cook, so it seemed like the least she could do. Besides, it was clear that a few of them might have enjoyed themselves a little too much, so she was one of but a few in a position to do it. If they wanted to get out into the city tomorrow and look for this fair maiden, it was probably for the best that they could do so without hassle.

After assisting Anirne as best he could with the clean-up efforts, Tarquin made his way to turn in himself, feeling unusually sluggish as he worked his way up the stairs. The night was growing old, it was true, but he normally had little trouble staying awake even for many hours at a time, far beyond normal humans. He felt... strange, but perhaps some rest would work it out of his system, whatever it was. The others had all turned in by this point, leaving the drunkenly passed out Vanryth and Anirne as the only two remaining downstairs. Shutting his own door closed, Tarquin removed the majority of his clothes and fell into the bed, trying to ignore the phantom twitches of his missing arm. It would take some time to get used to, certainly. He couldn't simply live for three hundred years and then suddenly adapt to having no right arm.

But the Shade was adapting to many new things at the moment, and honestly, the loss of his arm did not seem like the greatest of them. He drifted off into sleep...

He dreamed of impenetrable darknesses, formerly his shrouds, grasping with cold hands to pull him back in, as he stood naked in the light. He stood just beyond their reach, staring with hard eyes and wondering what worth he'd seen in them, if they were truly so intoxicating. The sun shone brightly through a hole in the ceiling above him, and it was hot on his skin, draining his energy. It had cost him his arm. No... the sun had not been the cause of that. He'd chosen it himself, when he decided to follow on his father's path. He did not regret the decision, did not regret this search for answers that seemed almost certain to take his life now. He wondered if his father had felt this way. He'd lived for so long... what was the worth of all those years? Was there any? Why did what he was doing now feel so much more important than the countless days he'd spent among family, before their fall? He could not know...

The hands reached for him, begged for his return, but he wanted them no longer. The fingers stopped grasping, falling limp for a moment, before they cast out as one, throwing a spell over him. Chains from above fell and snaked around him, hot with the sun's heat, burning into his flesh. He roared in pain, and they pulled him up, off the ground and towards the hole above, to the sun, and a fiery oblivion. He rose higher and higher, the heat burning through his skin, melting to his very core. A pair of voices echoed through his head, one male and one female, speaking in unison, dominating all his senses.

"You forget your purpose, Tarquin Aurelius. This is but a taste of what awaits you now." He was pulled higher and higher, until the flesh and blood had melted from him entirely, leaving his bones to clatter against the cold ground below...


When Tarquin awoke he was on fire. He clutched at his face with the hand that remained to him, gritting his teeth and biting into his tongue, the taste of blood filling his mouth, but it did not taste like sustenance. Every part of his body was on pins and needles and it burned, the way his arm had felt after being removed. He was sweating feverishly, and he rolled from the edge of the bed, slamming hard down on the floor. His heart was pounding in his chest, and each beat sent ripples of pain surging through his limbs. He blinked back tears. His heart.

He staggered to his feet and made for the door shirtless, wearing only a loose pair of breeches. He needed fresh air, or... Anirne, she could make this stop somehow. She was a healer. In all his years, he'd never truly needed healing arts. He brought death, he did not take it away. He threw open the door, to see Sinderion already opening his as well. The smell instantly hit his nostrils. Fire. The pain was receding slightly, enough for him to function, and so with great effort he moved himself from the room and into the hall, staggering to the staircase just ahead of the altmer and heading downstairs.

Two things occupied his attention when he reached the bottom. To his right, by one of the windows, was a fire, about six feet tall now, having caught a nearby cabinet in a blaze. To his left was the form of two elves, one carried on the other's back. Ilanna. The Pact had the Horizon in a rescue carry, not looking back as she went out the door and into the street, early morning light beginning to filter through the windows. It was very early, the edges of the sun only now appearing over the city walls. Far too early for what many of them did the previous night. Vanryth was still unconscious from the drinking contest, and Anirne...

The Psijic lay face down some feet from the center of the fire, blood spreading from an obvious and severe knife wound to the back, dangerously close to the spine. Tarquin let the Pact go, directing Sinder to follow. He was not their hunter, and could kill neither of them at the moment, particularly not in his present condition. "Take her to Drayk," he commanded hoarsely, raising his hand and releasing a cone of frost at the fire, intent on halting it before it consumed any more.

Sleep had not come this easily to Sinderion in quite some time, and it was with a full stomach and the slightest of sluggishness from the ale that he finally took to his sleep. He was alone in the room, given that Van had passed out downstairs, but all the same, he took the floor, stripping a few of the furs from the bed and laying them out on the stone. It was more comfortable than he was used to, actually, and reminded him a little of the small pile of them he kept in a corner within his quarters in the Mentor’s manor. He was asleep almost as soon as he’d settled, and for once, he was untroubled by anything that caused him to wake


At least for a few hours. Always and unavoidably a light sleeper, he was woken by the increasingly-familiar smell of something burning. Not flesh, but wood ash and scorching stone, at the very least. At once alert, he sat bolt upright, wasting no more time than it took to throw a shirt on over his bare chest before he scrambled out of the bedroom and into the hallway. Tarquin was already there, and the two descended the stairs.

What they found, he took in just as quickly, but he found himself entirely unable to muster up the wherewithal to care about anything other than the fact that his sister appeared to be bleeding from what could easily turn into a fatal wound if it remained untreated for long. Anirne was already hoisted into his arms by the time the command was spoken, and he nodded simply, turning and racing up the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him. Without a free hand, he chose to kick the door rather than knock on it in the usual way, and spoke, voice elevated and rough with anxiety. “Drayk! Anirne’s been hurt; she needs your help, now!” It wasn’t quite shouting, but it was close enough.

Drayk woke with an arm around Adrienne, which was perhaps one of the greatest feelings he'd ever experienced in his life. He opened his eyes to see nothing but her hair, and then closed them again, sighing contentedly. He felt like he could sleep for at least several more hours, or... perhaps forever, if he could stay just like... this. Of course, that was when there was a bang at his door loud enough to jolt some adrenaline into his system, and he sat up, blinking quickly and trying to clear the grogginess from his head. What was happening?

He heard a loud voice at the door, and it sounded vaguely like Sinderion. Rolling out from under the sheets, he threw on some pants, heading to the door and unlocking it, swinging it open to see Sinder carrying his sister, who was obviously gravely injured and unconscious. "Mara..." Drayk said. He was immediately glad he hadn't drank that much, as a headache at the moment would have been most unwelcome. "Bring her in, set her on the bed. Turn her over," he said, when he located that the wound was on her back. Adrienne was already up by this point, so the bed was clear for her.

They probably should have expected this... the first time they try and loosen up and get away from all the struggle, and it reminds them just how much danger they were always in. But he couldn't think about that now. Instead he knelt beside Anirne, setting to work healing the wound. It was fresh, that much was clear, and he was glad for it, as this was serious, and the Psijic would have undoubtedly bled out if Sinder hadn't gotten to her when he did. "What happened? Is that burning?" He could smell it on the air, as well as hear magic downstairs. Were they still in danger? His new shield was with him in the room, but he'd hoped to not need it so soon...

“The Pact broke in and took the Horizon with her,” Sinder explained quickly. “She set a fire; Tarquin’s putting it out now. Anirne must have woken before the rest of us and gone to investigate.” His sister had proven her strength many a time thus far, but if she’d been caught by surprise, there would have been little to be done, especially if whatever blade made this wound was poisoned, and that didn’t seem at all too far beyond the reach of what the Ilanna would be able to do.

The healing magic worked its course, and with it, Anirne stirred, returning too slowly to consciousness for her liking. Her left eye cracked open first, followed by her right, and she could still feel the foreign magic stitching her together, so she didn’t try to move much. If she was here and being tended to, someone must have discovered what happened. She remembered only in vaguenesses and half-thoughts—the smell of burning waking her, her bare feet padding over the stone floor as she went to investigate, and then the sudden sharp, hot agony of something in her back. Her muscles had locked up, rendering her incapable of crying out or moving to help herself, but the Pact must have been too pressed for time to finish the job.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, partially for the fact that she was the cause of this present panic, and also more generally because she hadn’t been able to do anything to stop the Pact. Half-awake or not, it had been too easy to sneak up on her. But there wasn’t any time to dwell—they’d want to do something about this as quickly as possible.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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And just like that, disaster had struck. The Horizon was gone, no longer their captive, freed by the Pact. In fact, they were lucky they hadn't lost one of their own in the process. Maya was due to give the Horizon another dose of her poison this morning. Without it, it was a matter of hours before the Horizon would probably begin to regain some of his facilities. His awakening would be nowhere near as quick as Anirne's had been with the use of her counteragent, and it would probably be a day at least before he had full control of his body again, but they quite possibly wouldn't be able to find him in that span of time.

Not without help, at least. Their advice from the Bard upon coming here had been to deliver the Horizon to a woman he'd referred to as his "fair maiden", and Maya remembered who it was that he spoke of. The serving girl he'd been wooing incessantly at the Gathering. She apparently worked here in Windhelm, at Candlehearth Hall, under a drunkard of a father who owned the establishment. Maya didn't know how she was supposed to help, but at this point, it was the best she could think of. So it was that the Sellswords stumbled out of Lynly's home as awake as they could make themselves, some of them extremely hungover from the night before. They had armed and armored themselves from the goods purchased the day before, but Maya at least couldn't feel like the attack had been in direct response to how much they'd enjoyed themselves the previous night.

No sooner had they gone into the street than a short dunmer man made his way up to them, crossing his arms and standing in their path. "The Grey Quarter knows what you were planning to do. Invorin Hastati is under our protection now until he recovers. Try to take him, and you will regret it." He said no more, darting away into the maze of buildings ahead. Maya sighed at his departure. "Well, I guess we know where Ilanna's gone. Still, I'd rather not fight all of the Grey Quarter to get to her and the Horizon. Let's get going." She led them off again, taking note that Tarquin maintained a position at the rear of the group. He had refrained from hooding himself this morning, and his posture at the very least looked noticeably worse. If she wasn't mistaken, something had him in a great deal of pain, though she didn't pry. They had other things to worry about.

Candlehearth Hall was practically deserted when the Sellswords arrived, considering the early hour of the morning. The tables were entirely unoccupied, and the one person in sight was the bartender, a well built man who looked to be in his upper forties, a shock of light grey hair accompanying his scraggly beard. He seemed half asleep from where he sat on a stool against the wall behind the counter, and there was a half empty tankard of beer still before him. A deep scar cut through the man's face diagonally. He had the build of a man who had seen some war, certainly, but now it appeared as though he spent his time only drinking and running the inn.

The mostly-empty barroom did not seem very promising, but basically anything was a better idea than attempting to fight their way through the Grey Quarter. Adrienne had no desire to kill any of those people, and fighting them without doing that would be difficult, perhaps even beyond their skill, depending on what the numbers looked like. Her eyes found the man on the stool, and she recalled something the Bard had said, about wanting to rescue the ‘Fair Maiden’ from her drunk, tavern-owning father. The scarred fellow certainly looked like a candidate for a drunk, a tavern-owner, and a father, so perhaps this was the place to start.

Unfortunately, she didn’t have a name to go on, so she’d just have to get by without one. Glancing back at the rest of the group, she raised a brow as if to invite comment or any better ideas, but when none were forthcoming, she shook her short hair back from her face, rolled her shoulders back a bit, assumed a gait that was equal parts march and strut, and pasted an expression of mild annoyance over her face. “Oh, that girl! She’s never around when I want to see her!” Placing her hands on her hips, she tilted her head to one side and stopped in front of the half-asleep man.

“You must be her father—she did mention you, of course. I don’t suppose you could tell me where she’s gotten off to, could you? I was supposed to see her an hour ago.” Naturally, she did not specify why, as she had no idea what business this mysterious woman was about, but if the man was half as hung-over as she expected, it shouldn’t really matter: he should likely want to tell her just so she’d leave him to his headache in peace.

The bartender gave Adrienne a withering glare once he'd opened his eyes, but he made no real other move besides fumbling for the tankard. Once he had it he drained the entire bottom half of it in one go, smacking it back down on the counter almost hard enough to crack. He made a small effort to wipe the drops from his beard, before sitting up a little straighter, blinking a few times at the newcomers. He sighed tiredly.

"An hour ago?" he asked, looking confused. "You know how bloody early it is?" It was apparent that he didn't really care, though, as he stood slowly. "You looking for Ferra, Susanna, or Luca?"

Adrienne echoed the sigh, and looked even more annoyed, pinching the bridge of her nose between her forefinger and thumb. “Whichever one would be most likely to withhold her name,” she replied with a touch of ire, though it was obvious that it was directed at nobody in the room. “If they’re all in different places, I suppose we could simply wait. I’m sure she’ll know we’re here. She tends to know things she shouldn’t
” That was more a guess than anything, but anyone who knew the Bard probably did, right? The man seemed to have the most extensive informational network of all the Representatives, and if this woman was part of it, chances were good she knew about the Game, and that certainly counted.

He contained a bit of a burp, looking at Adrienne with tired eyes, before sighing. "Ah, fuck it..." he walked slowly over to the base of the stairs leading up to the second level of the inn. "GIRLS! GET UP, WE GOT VISITORS!" He came back to the counter, taking a seat on the stool again, and clearing his throat. He gestured in the general direction of all the unoccupied tables. "Why don't you take a seat, they'll be down in a moment..."

With that, the group moved to a cluster of tables in one corner of the room, most of them taking seats, and Sinder casting a furtive glance about the place. He’d had a thought, a little while ago, but he hadn’t been sure of it. He still wasn’t, actually, but it made a certain kind of sense, and he figured he’d better tell everyone now, in case it was relevant. Maybe one of those more disposed to subterfuge and deception in this group might be able to put his suspicions to rest, or perhaps add weight to them. Either way was probably better than saying nothing at all. The only thing he risked was sounding a fool, but that was hardly a risk. He was fairly certain he sounded a fool most of the time, given his tendency to speak
 awkwardly.

Clearing his throat, he attempted to draw some attention to himself, then said it flatly. “I think this ‘Fair Maiden’ might be the Drunk.” He let that sit a while, not from a desire to have dramatic effect, but because he was marshaling his evidence. “At this Gathering that the Representatives had, everyone was supposed to be present, but nobody seems to have seen the Drunk. That led me to believe that either they spent the whole time invisible
 or that they didn’t seem to be a Representative at all. But
 then I thought about it, and
 you can’t hide your smell with a simple invisibility spell. And if the Feral was there, he would have smelled something without a body to match it to, and I don’t think—” a pause; he shook his head. “I don’t think Ja’karo is subtle enough to notice and refuse to give it away somehow. As many sharp people as were there would have noticed something.”

“But Maya mentioned that the Bard spent his entire time trying to court this one woman? He may be mad, but he knows a lot. That doesn’t seem right to me—unless the one servant girl he picked happened to be the one Representative nobody else noticed. If he wishes us to deliver Invorin to her, perhaps Invorin is her target. The Bard himself is playing backwards, after all.”
He fell silent, glancing around at the others. It was just a pet thought, but as someone who understood Ja’karo better than he wanted to
 it seemed right to him.

Maya was visually processing Sinder's theory, and when she finished, she breathed out in frustration through her nose. "I think... you might be right. I can't believe I didn't see that. She was doing her damnedest to stay away from him when others were around, but... I think I had just chalked that up to him being crazy." If the wench really was the Drunk, and if Invorin really was her target, then they'd made an even larger mistake in allowing him to escape. She could have just opened his throat and allowed them to be on their way...

Tarquin, on the other hand, sat with his back up against the wall, scratching at the stubble forming around his jaw, his silence agreeing with Maya. If anyone had the cause to look, there was an obvious shift in the color of his eyes, now to a softer dark blue, and now that the shock of the morning's pain had worn off, the pallor of his skin was beginning to return, causing him to look a little less pale than before. He looked to be deep in thought about something.

He was still a little offended by that, honestly. Whoever got to be in charge of choosing these things had clearly passed him over. Then again
 this was probably the more fun way to be involved with the whole thing, anyway, though admittedly it wasn’t particularly amusing this morning. The Psijic had had a serious near-miss with death, and not in the adrenaline-laced good way, either. He was certainly not above sneaking up on people and killing them, but it was an inglorious end, and she didn’t deserve it. Not that he’d ever had much concern for who deserved what before


The theory seemed sound enough, and it wasn’t like he knew near a sufficient amount of information to disconfirm it. So he surveyed the rest of the group instead of trying to, and frowned slightly when his eyes fell upon the Shade. Raising a brow, he inquired, quietly enough as not to be heard by too many over the ongoing discussion. “Feeling under the weather, Tarquin?” The man had drunk far less than Soren had, and while the mercenary was definitely nursing a bit of a hangover, he knew he probably didn’t look half as bad as the resident vampire did. Reaching over, he poked their healer in the shoulder, and jerked his head in the necessary direction.

Anirne honestly had only been half-listening to the discussion. It was a good theory, and probably true, and she was glad that Sinderion had noticed this, but in the end, she wasn’t sure it affected much. They were still in the same predicament either way, and she couldn’t seem to shake the guilt as easily as she should have. Yes, it was unfortunate that the Pact had caught her by surprise, but it didn’t do any good to linger over this fact. Yet
 she couldn’t seem to let it go, find the same calm that always came to her when she needed it. The fact frustrated her further, and she stared perhaps a little too hard at the table as a result, filtering the conversation as needed but otherwise letting it go by without interruption from her.

At least until someone poked a digit into the back of her shoulder. Turning, she met Soren’s eyes, then followed the direction she indicated until she found Tarquin. What was
 wait a minute. She studied him intently for a second, then blinked in surprise. His eyes were the wrong color. Her friend Solomon had told her this—to recognize a vampire, it was easiest to look at the eyes. Considering that Solomon was one, she had no reason to assume his information was wrong. “You’re not
” she near-whispered, unsure if this was something he really wanted everyone to know, or to talk about now of all times. “By my ancestors, what did they do to you?” She’d certainly never heard of vampirism being cured, not past the first three days of infection. Solomon had told her there was no going back, and yet
 here he was. The interference of one of the Daedra was the only explanation that made any sense to her.

"Molag Bal gives nothing that he cannot also take away," Tarquin said quietly. To do it now of all times was most unfortunate, but also quite fitting. "We can speak of it later. There is work to be done."

The bartender's daughters, all three of them, had at last made their way down to the first level. They had thrown on stained aprons, and likely wore the clothes that they had used the previous night. All three were possessed of bright blonde hair of varying lengths, and each was tall, as was unsurprising for Nord folk. Where they differed were their faces. One was clearly the youngest, and her face was clear and unblemished by so much as a cut. The oldest was marred by several scars, one cutting through her lip, the other extending up from her right eyebrow. The third looked much like the first, but perhaps a few years older. Her own faced was marked by red tattoos, one around each eye, the right eye's tattoo falling down her cheek to her jaw, while the left turned and reached up her forehead to the temple. It was her that Maya pointed to. "That's our wench."

Seeing that she'd been made, and clearly recognizing Maya and Tarquin as they recognized her, the girl waved off her sisters and made her way alone to the group assembled in the corner. Her eyes were a bright, pale green, a stark contrast to the red on her face, and the golden blonde of her hair. She sounded... almost bored, and only spoke after giving all of the party a good hard stare. "... took you assholes long enough. Did Beric send you to me? Persistent fucker, that one. Guess he forgot to mention to get your shit done first, and party later."

Soren noted the exchange between the Shade and the Psijic, but said nothing on the point. He was pretty sure he’d caught on to what they were talking about, and if so, it was rather unfortunate news for Tarquin, but he was right—they’d have to deal with it later. More pressing matters called to their attention, and both his eyebrows shot up at the form of address their contact used. She had a fouler mouth than he did.

It was a little rich, coming from a Representative called the Drunk, but whatever. It was no skin off Soren’s teeth anyway. “Yes, well
 I don’t much go in for resisting temptation, and there it was
” he replied easily, undeterred by the hard stare. “Now, since we really don’t have much of a stake in killing the Horizon, oh fair maiden—” ‘Maiden’ his ass—"Perhaps you’d be willing to put in something of a contribution to this free kill we’re going to eventually give you, hm?”

She pulled up a chair at the table nearest to them, kicking her feet up and crossing her arms. "Not so free anymore, it seems," she said, before looking to the witch. "You carried him in here. What's been done to him?" Maya sat up a little straight upon being addressed. "We managed to hit him with a poison during our last confrontation. I originally made it to still sacrifices before rituals, but it worked well enough for our purpose."

"I like it," the Drunk replied. "Smart. He'd be a bit of a bitch to drag over here otherwise, I imagine." The look on Maya's face indicated she was confused about something, and the Drunk permitted her the space to ask her question. "Are we really just getting down to business, then? You're not worried either of us might attack you? Do you know who's hunting you?"

"Not you, obviously, and not him, obviously. I'm outnumbered nine to one here and no one's drawn a blade. If you were here to kill me you would have tried it by now." She looked annoyed by the question. "And yes, let's get to business. The Grey Quarter's all up in arms this morning. They're trying to get the city guard on your case. Wouldn't be shocked if they do. Horizon will be hidden away somewhere in there, probably while his bitch tries to get him up on his feet again. What would she need for that?" Maya blinked a few times in rapid succession.

"Uh... the antidote. If she knows enough about alchemy to make one. She would be best off with a briari heart, canis root, or swamp fungal pod, though she would need a good amount of it. It's not an easy brew." The Drunk nodded, as if the answer at this point were obvious. "And... say she doesn't have all of these things. Where might she find them?" At that point, the answer was obvious to her, too. "The White Phial. If we catch her there..."

The Drunk drew a finger across her throat. "Dead meat, I should think. So, how about half of you go with her and kill the wood elf, and the other half come with me and kill the dark elf?"

“Well, those of us going to the Grey Quarter would do better to blend in
 or stay out of sight,” Soren stated pragmatically. Probably best if they didn’t have to kill their way through half of Windhelm just to get one fellow, Representative or not. “So that’s Van, me, and anyone else who can cast an invisibility spell and expect it to last.” He shot a glance at Tarquin and Anirne when he said this, guessing that they were the most likely candidates for such magics. “We’ll want to look for anything suspicious, get past any guards, and take him out quietly, if possible, as I imagine the rest of you will be drawing a fair amount of attention, walking into a shop and killing a customer in plain daylight.” Anirne nodded her confirmation of the implication. She may not like the idea of splitting the group much, but she acknowledged that it was needful in this situation. Tarquin as well nodded. Molag Bal could not take from him his skill in Illusion magic, which was considerable, and his preferred school.

If all went well, they wouldn’t have to slaughter everyone in the Grey Quarter and all the guards, but with this lot, one should never expect things to go well. He fell silent, inviting commentary on the plan if anyone had it, but otherwise satisfied that it was probably the best option they had. Adrienne agreed. It was dangerous, certainly, but they didn't really do many things that weren't dangerous anymore.

"I'm rather well known there," the Drunk explained. "I expect I can get you through with little trouble," she said to Vanryth. "Finding the man himself might be a little more difficult, of course."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Adrienne Jastal
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The marketplace was calm and quiet at this hour of morning, and the first street merchants had yet to show for the day, which was good, considering what they were planning to do inside the shop. Maya happened to have learned that an old altmer man and his apprentice actually used the store as their home, and likely would be inside, either sleeping or preparing for the day. At least, unless the Pact had gotten there first, in which case they'd either be already manning the counter, or... well, dead, if the Pact wanted some privacy.

The White Phial itself was a wide, two-story building set along the wall at the edge of the market district. A single door on the lower floor was their way in, unless they wanted to bash in the shuttered wooden windows, which seemed quite unnecessary, all things considered. It was a quiet morning, and Maya was hoping to keep it that way. One simple murder on this side of the city, and another on the far side, and they'd leave with no further concerns for Windhelm. If only things ever worked out as they planned. "She might be inside already," she warned the others. "Best use caution."

"She should have used caution when the bitch burned a part of my home," Lynly remarked, her first words since the incident. She'd spent the time between then and now silently fuming about the nerve and gall of the treehugging knife-ear. First, the bitch stole the Webspinner kill from under her, and now she trespassed on her property, and even set a bit of her house on fire trying to rescue the Horizon. Lynly hoped the bitch was here already. She'd strangle the knife-ear with her bare hands if she had to.

Lynly had donned the gifts she recieved last night. Her new sword and shield hung from her back, and her polished steel plate shined even in the dull morning glow. Now that she was wearing it, the craftsmanship of the pieces were readily apparent. Each rivet was bolted with a purpose, each curve designed to reflect or redirect blows. A light engraving made it's way across her neckline. Around the armor she wore the cloak fashioned by her mother. It was a simple affair, comparable. Mostly leather hanging in loose folds, though the rim of the hood was made from wolves' fur. It was nice that the first kill in breaking it all in would be the bitch of a Pact.

She strode across the marketplace with a purpose in her step and anger flashing in her eyes. "I hope she is, I really do," Lynly answered Maya, taking a hold of the door handle and shoving. If they weren't sure before, they were sure now. There was little resistance in the door, but the little there was felt like a string being snapped. Immediately an explosion rocked the door and Lynly by association, throwing her from the door way and back out onto the street. Fortunate that she decided to wear her armor, as if she wore anything else, it would have been torn apart by the explosions. Still, the armor that was unmarked moments before was now marred, and Lynly's desire to kill this bitch only deepened. She laid on her back in the street disoriented and confused, rolling and trying to get back to her feet. All sounds were blurred to her ears, and even the objects in her eyes had a dancing quality about it.

"I'm... Going to murder... her," Lynly spouted, stumbling back down to her knees. She might have been injured, but rage was keeping the pain at bay.

Drayk and Maya both were thrown to their backs by the blast, though they hadn't been directly in front of the door, and had thus avoided the worst of it. The wall about five feet or so around each side of the door had been blown open, and there were wrecked alchemical ingredients everywhere inside, as well as the body of the alchemist's young apprentice, a single arrow stuck through his throat, blood pooling around him on the floor.

No sooner had the blast concluded than an elven form leapt from one of the second story windows, not even bothering to try and attack any of them as she flew through the air and landed with a smooth roll, sprinting away from the scene with haste. Maya conjured her bow and fired a quick shot, but the Pact was weaving her steps, and her aim was not as precise as it needed to be. Drayk, meanwhile, cast a quick healing spell over Lynly, aware that with Anirne departed to the other group, he was this one's best source of healing magic. That, and he wanted to avoid using any fire spells, not in a place as populated as this.

Sinderion wasn’t entirely sure that just walking up and opening the door was the best of ideas when their opponent was known for her sneakiness, but he wasn’t going to try and stop Lynly if that was what she really wanted to do. Still, there was a good chance, he thought, that she would try to run rather than stand and fight all of them. Strong she may be, but she lacked now the majority of her followers. Her time drew near, and she would likely only fight if backed into a corner and given no choice to flee and reestablish her strength. So he eased his bow off his shoulder and knocked one of Soren’s arrows to his string. They really were better—not that it would probably make that much of a difference. Sinderion didn’t aim for targets as small as eyes unless he had to.

The explosion was resounding, and undoubtedly left Lynly in worse shape than she’d started, but there was nothing he specifically could do about that. He’d been standing well back from the rest of the group, watching the building itself rather than the door specifically. Drawing back his bowstring, Sinder waited, nostrils flaring as he sifted through the smells of combustion, densely-packed people, and old wood, until he found the one he sought. A window above the shop opened shortly thereafter, Ilanna leaping out with a minimum of noise. If he hadn’t been looking, he wouldn’t have seen her, which was probably the intent of the distraction.

She wove considerably, and a shot from Maya went wide, but Sinderion waited. There. The string slapped against his leather bracer, sending his arrow whistling over the heads of his allies and arcing into her left leg, hitting the joint at the back of her knee and bringing her down. “Maya,” was all he said, but it was all he needed to. The witch changed bow for knife and moved in. Guards would be here soon, so this would need to be quick. Faced with inability to run, the Pact turned and drew a knife, rising to a knee, the look in her eye one of a cornered animal.

Now that the world stopped spinning and she could hear sounds, albeit with an annoyingly persistent ringing. She'd have to remember to thank Drayk, but for now that was the last thing on her mind. At the forefront stood the Pact. With her escaped stopped, and the group closing in, she had nowhere to run. On principle, Lynly didn't pine for death. She viewed it more along the lines of a job. But with the Pact, she had made it her personal goal to see the woman die. Lynly shoved herself back to her feet and dashed forward. Her feet were still unsteady, but it meant little. She was only going in one direction after all.

Metal jangled past Maya as Lynly threw herself at the Pact bodily. She didn't even make time to draw her sword-- the bitch wasn't getting away. The two rolled around on the cobblestones of the market for a moment, with Lynly vaguely aware of the Pact's knife trying to get penetration on her armor near the kidneys. She'd need more power, more room to work if she was going to try and drive that blade into pure nordic steel. Still, the knife had an effect of drawing Lynly's attention. When Lynly found herself pinned by the Pact, she expected the dagger to fall somewhere less armored... Like her neck.

When the blade flashed in the dull light, Lynly grabbed the arm holding the knife. She had to admit, the woman was a mean scrapper. But Lynly was better. An iron grip locked on her arm and twisted, the knife falling out her hands. Lynly's other hand shot up and grabbed the Pact by the throat. Now with both her hands locked on the elf, she turned the tables, wrenched her to the ground and rolled ontop of her. With Lynly now sitting on top of the Bosmer, she used the leverage she'd gain to finish snapping the woman's wrist in half, and then proceeded to rain blows from a heavy gauntleted fist.

She would be lying if she said it didn't feel good.

After picking herself up in the wake of the explosion and checking that everyone was okay, Adrienne had found herself without much to do—the healing and the Pact both seemed well in-hand without her, and there was nothing she could do for the poor apprentice. She wondered if his master was equally dead upstairs. Perhaps. It was something she chose not to contemplate for now, instead turning her body to face away from the commotion and keep a watch. Her eyes were not so keen as Soren’s, nor did she have a nose like Sinder’s or keen hunting instincts like Maya, but it probably wouldn’t be much of an issue here. A guard would use the road, and so that was what she watched.

As it turned out, they didn’t have to wait long—the explosion had clearly drawn them some unwanted attention. A single guard, wearing the blue uniform that also served as the standard-issue for the Stormcloaks, was approaching fast, and she couldn’t read his face through his helm, so she backed up a few steps, trying not to look suspicious, and glanced over her shoulder. Lynly was not being kind to the Pact at the moment, and whatever the woman may have deserved, Adrienne was well aware that appearances were about two-thirds of the ‘truth’ most of the time. “Someone stop her,” the young woman hissed. “There’s a guard coming!” and probably more behind him, if she had her guess.

"Lynly. Lynly!" Maya said urgently, trying to get her to stop before the guards came. Or rather, to finish it so they could be gone before the guards came. But it was too late for that, some of them had already seen. And indeed the blast had drawn a bit of a crowd before there was anything they could do about it, and by the time Maya grabbed Lynly's arm and got her to get off of the bloodied and broken bosmer, there were perhaps ten or twelve guards forming up around them. The one with the crested captain's helm was the one to speak, though they all had weapons drawn already.

"Stand down at once! No sudden moves, or it'll be your blood spilled here. You're to drop your weapons and come with us, at once!"

"Us!" Lynly yelled in retort. She was already standing up next to Maya when the guards came, blood still fresh on her gauntlet. She had calmed down enough to see that the position they were in wasn't a good one, but still had enough rage to make it apparent in her face. Plus, there was no way in Oblivion she was about to lay her weapons down. "Are you blind!" Perhaps not the best first impressions for the city guard, but her mouth had a mind of it's own now. And her outburst had certainly put the guards on edge. Maybe there was still a way to get out of this.

She jerked a hand at the Pact's barely conscious form as her lip twitched. "We did your jobs for you and you're going to take us in? I thought you were Nords, where's your honor! That bitch over there is a terrorist!" Well she wasn't expecting to use that word today, but there it was. "Bloody knife-ear blew up the White Phial and almost took me down with it!" She said, spitting.

"Lynly..." Maya said quietly, though she was in the middle of her shouting with the guards. "Lynly... Lynly! It's not going to matter in a second here." They still had to kill the nearly dead woman right in front of the guards, and that was guaranteed to not go over well, she imagined. She hoped the other group was having an easier time of things, but knowing their luck, it wasn't likely. She looked around to the others, trying to at least warn them that she was about to finish the job.

The guards weren't relenting, and were at least inclined to bring them in to sort all this out, but Maya was of the mind that they didn't have the time, so she did what she'd been wanting to do for a while by this point: conjure her bow and launch an arrow cleanly into the prone Pact's skull, ending her for good. "Run!" she shouted, darting in the direction of the city gate, hoping the others would keep up, and make it out behind her. It was a moment later that she quite nearly tripped from a certain revelation. They needed to get to the others, but first they needed to get out of the city.

Drayk was quick to respond and throw himself into motion when Maya fired off the arrow, and he threw a fireball towards the ground in front of the guards, weak enough to avoid hurting any of them, but bright enough to cause a number of them to jump back in alarm. Making sure Adrienne was getting out in front of him, he sprinted for the opening they had, before it swallowed them.

Dammit, she would have had them too. Still, there was no way to fix an arrow to the skull so Lynly did what she had to. With the nearest guard attention occupied by her fleeing friends, she came around and shoved a fist into his jaw, putting him into the ground immediately. Not that she saw it, only heard. She had already turned tail and ran, trying to keep pace with the rest of the group. Unlike them, she had heavy armor. Running was difficult for her. But she imagined she could run fast enough long enough to escape the city. Adrenaline would help her with that. As she ran, she shouted back for the guard to hear, "You're bloody welcome!"

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero Character Portrait: Soren Ivarsson
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The Grey Quarter had seemingly militarized itself, with the district's able bodied men, and some of the women, too, rather conspicously placed at choke points, poorly veiled checkpoints for anyone seeking to enter or leave the eastern part of the city. The guards came and went as they pleased, untroubled by the dunmer, though there were slightly less patrols this early in the morning, and few had cause to go through the Grey Quarter. The dunmer were really only a problem to the local nords when they set foot outside their appointed space, after all.

It was a group of four well-built dark elves that the Drunk and her four companions now approached, with the woman herself and Vanryth the only two currently visible. Anirne, Soren, and Tarquin followed closely behind under the veil of their illusion magic. Considering that it was a dunmer and a local that approached, the guards, and they really couldn't be called any other thing, appeared slightly more friendly than they would otherwise, but they still blocked their way. The Drunk slipped her arms around Vanryth rather suddenly, whispering in his ear. "Do try to play along. I can do the talking, obviously."

Vanryth tensed immediately. He was not so cautious of physical contact that Sinder was, but someone throwing their arms around him did produce a reaction nonetheless. Still, moments later he loosened up and went along with it, rolling his eyes as he did. Like he had any other choice. He was the only Sellsword in this group, and couldn't help but wish that he was instead with the rest of them. But by fortune of birth, he was Dunmer, and he'd fit in amoung the Grey Quarter better than any of the others. There was little chance of him being recognized from his youth, as he'd been decades estranged from the place, and even then-- he didn't have the beard and both eyes worked. He made a general hand motion to indicate for the Drunk to take the lead.

"Ferra," the biggest of them said when the pair and the three invisible people behind them reached the checkpoint. "Who's this? Haven't seen him around." The Drunk sighed dreamily as she looked up at Van's scarred face. "I think he's a warrior of some kind, or he used to be," she said, almost as if Vanryth could not hear as well as speak, and he did not know that others were talking about him. "I think he's a bit... simple... been hit in the head one too many times, you know? Anyway, he stumbles into Candlehearth this morning, and my father starts railing on him for being Dunmer, you know how he is. Only, poor bastard had his tongue cut out, it seems. Go on, show them, dear." She gestured up at his chin, trying to get him to show them his lack of tongue. Godsdamn this woman... He opened his mouth as he was told, and revealed his stunning lack of tongue.

The two closest dunmer looked with moderate interest at Vanryth's mauled mouth, and Ferra made a convincingly grossed out face. "It's terrible, isn't it? I think he didn't understand why my father didn't like him, but you know how my sisters and I are. This hate in the city just doesn't sit well with us. Susanna offered to show him the Grey Quarter, but she overworks herself, she does, so I offered to bring him instead. Just thought I'd show him an inn where he'd be treated fairly, is all."

"You three are very generous, to risk your father's wrath like that," one of them commented, stepping aside. Ferra waved a hand in dismissal. "Oh, he never hits too hard. It's good that you're so cautious, so many Nords just won't see reason!" They stepped aside, and the Drunk ushered Vanryth through, the three invisible guests following in just behind. By the time they reached the center of the Grey Quarter proper, a blast in the distance was heard, echoing around the walls. "Well, that sounds promising," the Drunk commented quietly.

The blast did at least have the effect of getting the attention of a lot of the dunmer skulking around the streets, and the Drunk pulled Vanryth over to a nearby wall with a good view of the street to watch the result. Within moments, one of the more assertive among them had gathered a small party to go and investigate, and that left the streets slightly less busy. Something that was immediately noticeable was the unusual amount of patrons standing outside the New Gnisis Cornerclub. All but three left to join the search party, these three seemingly doing nothing other than standing outside the building watching. The Drunk turned her head and murmured to where she assumed the other three would be. "If you could remove them quietly for us, that would be wonderful. I believe that's our building."

“Should be doable,” a voice returned nonchalantly. “I’ve got the one on the left.” He didn’t know exactly where the other two were, though from time to time, he thought he could hear footsteps. Those must be Anirne’s; mages were always more likely to give themselves away by walking normally, but in this case it wouldn’t matter much. All they had to do was quietly take out three guards, and probably drag them around to the side of the building, where the unconscious bodies wouldn’t be seen. Quietly unsheathing the dagger at his waist, Soren dropped into a crouch and half-ran to the spot, sidling around to the target he’d chosen. Allowing what he thought was a reasonable amount of time for the other two to sort themselves out, he lifted the dagger and brought the pommel down hard on the man’s head with a thud he couldn’t avoid. If he’d been alone, a sleeper hold would have been better, but the chance of his friends catching him struggling against that was not a good one to take.

Taking the weight of the body, Soren peered around the corner of the inn to make sure it was clear, then dragged the man by his shoulders around it, tossing him down behind a few storage barrels. It wasn’t perfect, but they didn’t have forever. Maybe if they could find a blanket or something, they could toss it over the people, but for now, this would have to do.

The dunmer to the first victim's right turned in shock when his friend suddenly collapsed, but quite quickly an invisible force shoved his head hard up against the wall, enough to take him out cold, too. Tarquin took hold of the man's collar and dragged him to where the first was already going, leaving it.

Anirne was not generally in the business of stealth, and indeed her footsteps were just slightly audible when the others came to a stop, but she solved that with a muffle spell, honestly about the best she could manage as far as illusions went. She had a version of the calming spell at her disposal, but had to work harder than she usually did to keep her invisibility working the right way. She was quite eager to be done with it, honestly, but rushing would damn them all. “I suppose I’ll go right then,” she contributed, trying to cross the intervening distance at a moderate pace. After that, she waited, drawing the Horizon’s staff from her belt-sash and willing it into a shorter, vaguely cudgel-like object.

She wasn’t the strongest of people, but the metal was heavy enough to make up for some of that, and when she observed the leftmost man slackening, she reacted quickly, smashing the staff across her victim’s temple. It actually didn’t work immediately, and he was opening his mouth when her eyes went wide, and she darted forth to cover it with a hand, this time driving the butt of the weapon into the same spot. That did it properly, and though she sagged under his weight, which was greater than hers, she did manage to sort-of drag him around the building where his allies were headed, apparently carried there by the air.

Hers, she placed with more care than Soren showed, close enough to his friend that he would also be obscured by the cover. She really hoped this worked, but chances were, just about everyone here knew more about such matters than she did.

"Quickly now," Ferra said, ceasing any acting she was performing with Vanryth. She walked swiftly through the front door of the cornerclub, allowing the others to follow behind her. The bartender was the only one inside, which spoke some volumes, especially since he was standing rather nervously at the counter, obviously wishing he had something to do with himself. The Drunk took one look around, before walking swiftly up towards him. He narrowed his brows at seeing her.

"Ferra, what are you doing here? They shouldn't have let you--" But he was swiftly cut off as a throwing knife was pulled from her sleeve and thrown quite solidly into the Dunmer's forehead, landing with a thwack and ending him instantly. He collapsed back into the drinks, before tumbling forward and into the ground. "Couldn't have stopped me," she said coldly. "Trying downstairs." The downstairs level was where they kept the alcohol, and seemed the likely place to hide someone who didn't want to be found.

Indeed, there he was, backed up against the wall at the end of the room, but he was awake, and sitting up, though by the looks of things, he hadn't regained the control of his legs, or fine motor skills in his hands. He recognized her in that moment, the servant from the Gathering, and then sighed tiredly, knowing his end was at hand. "Please... just make it quick." He could see this one coming, but there was next to nothing he could do to resist. The Drunk shook her head.

"No one touches him but me."

“Not like we have a choice,” Soren grumbled from somewhere near the stairs. He was pretty sure any of them killing this guy would result in the credit for that kill going to Maya or Tarquin, neither of whom was allowed to make it. “We don’t have all day, wench, unless you want us to leave you here to deal with the Grey Quarter yourself.” Honestly, he was considering doing that anyway. Vanryth could move easily about on his own, and the other three didn’t have to be seen at all. "Oh, but haven't you seen how they love me?" she asked, almost playfully, but she didn't seem capable of sincerely pulling that off. He doubted it would spare her if they came upon her butchering their local hero, but he didn't care enough about her survival to say that. She could probably fight her own way out, anyway. Meanwhile, Vanryth leaned against a nearby wall and rolled his fingers, silently telling her to hurry up. Time was of the essense, and he was worried about the explosion.

She stopped before the Horizon, looking into his eyes with a rather sickening smile. "Can you see what I'm thinking right now?" she asked. His defiant glare was enough to answer that. "Good."

Her hands lit up with a bright purple magic, swirling about her palms for a moment while the spell charged. It built to a pinnacle, and then she thrust it onto herself, and a blinding flash of light filled the room. Replacing the Drunk where she had been standing was a seven foot tall warrior that looked strikingly like an oversized Dremora Lord clad entirely in gleaming Daedric armor, a very masculine appearance, with a massive and terrible looking greatsword slung across its back. The sword was pulled out with a gleam of light across the ebony metal, just before the Dremora Lord brought it down in a swift flash, slicing clean through the Horizon's legs above the knee. He roared in pain, indicating that while he could not control his limbs, he could still very much feel them.

The Drunk followed by snatching up the Horizon, placing one massive hand around his skull, the fingers of which were abnormally long. With one hand he was lifted off the ground and into the air, the other hand holding the entire greatsword quite comfortably. The sword was brought up to impale Invorin through the middle, before it cut down effortlessly through his flesh, coming out the bottom in a flood of internal organs and blood. The body was tossed carelessly aside to the wall in a splatter, and the Horizon was quite certainly dead by this point.

There was a brief moment of stillness before the Dremora Lord warped back to the form of Ferra, who was spattered with blood from the waist down. She seemed to be listening to something for a moment, before smiling broadly. "Oh, that's good... Beric next, huh? I don't think even this guy here could predict his next moves. Bastard told me to meet him in Whiterun if we were next to each other in the order, so we could work together to the final two. Rich. Anyway, we should get out of here, no?" Vanryth merely shook his head and covered his face in tiredness. Why couldn't a simple kill be simple for any of the Representives?

Anirne flinched at the Horizon’s end, feeling vaguely sick. She’d been entirely against sawing Invorin’s legs off when the suggestion had come about, and watching that, she was quite sure she’d been right to be. It was one thing to kill a person, to cause a death. That was bad enough, but sometimes necessary. It was another matter to make someone suffer like that. Shaking her head to clear it of the uncomfortable thoughts, she cleared her mind enough to speak, at least. “We should.” The sooner they were gone from this place, the better, as far as she was concerned.

Soren maintained a more stoic expression, though he did roll his eyes a bit when the body was tossed against the wall. Overkill was definitely not his style. At least
 not unless someone went out of their way to make him decide that a years-long quest to kill them was a good idea. But there were exceptions to every rule. He wasn’t inclined to trust this woman, so he drew his sword, one he’d gone ahead and purchased from Sven, since his old Imperial steel was looking a bit banged-up. This one was styled a little bit after Alik’r blades, possessed of only a single edge and a subtle curve. It cut through the air much more quickly than his last, and he rather liked it. “After you, wench.”

She gladly led the way, though when she reached the top floor, she smashed out the glass window and tumbled into the street rather than taking the door. She scrambled to her feet and let loose a wailing scream. "Gods, no! Murderers! They're trying to kill everyone, please, help!" And with that she bolted into the alleys ahead, wailing convincingly, and the shouts of the Dunmer nearby could easily be heard heading their way.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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It was perhaps an hour later that the two separate groups were able to reunite beyond the city walls, safe from pursuit of the Stormcloaks. The fighting out had been difficult, mostly due to the fact that the Sellswords did not wish to harm the citizens of the city if they could avoid it. But they had no time for arrests and jails, especially not for a murder performed directly in front of the guards, the destruction of an alchemical shop, and the murders of two Dunmer within the Grey Quarter, heaped upon them by the tactics of the Drunk.

By the time night fell the group was safely away from Windhelm, proceeding southwest along the course of the White River, headed towards Whiterun, on the assumption that the Drunk's information about meeting the Bard there was correct. The two of them were guaranteed to be Maya's next two targets. That the number of Representatives had now shrunk to only seven astounded her. They were close now, and the pieces were converging on one another. When they met... it was difficult to predict what would happen, but it wouldn't be pretty that much was certain.

Around a fire the group gathered for the night, the hour not yet being late enough for sleep for most. The next day's efforts would probably be traveling and little else, barring any unexpected events. Their supplies were not as high as they could have been, considering that some things had been left behind in their haste, but for the most part, the group was equipped for battle. Tarquin was obviously dealing with something new. The falling of the sun had left him feeling drained and tired rather than invigorated and alert for the first time in over two hundred and fifty years. And he was rather certain he wouldn't have that many years to adjust.

Well, she was tired and sore, but honestly, it felt better than most times she’d ended up like this, because most of the energy she’d expended had been in an effort not to kill people, something at which they had been thankfully successful. Granted, the running was hard, and they would hardly be looked upon well in Windhelm in the future, but
 at least they had done the right thing in running rather than trying to kill swaths through guards and citizens who didn’t know the truth of it. They were also two fewer Representatives from the Mentor, and Adrienne found it hard to be too sad about that. It may be true that she had little taste for the rules of this Game, but she’d not fault herself or anyone else for surviving.

She settled herself comfortably next to Dom, stretching her legs out to warm her toes by the fire, sighing softly at the welcome warmth. There was no mistaking that the days ahead were going to be just as desperate and frantic as the ones before, but for the moment, she was strangely at peace with that. They had a plan, more or less, and now they just had to find a way to make it work. Not an optimist by nature, Adrienne nevertheless wanted very much to believe that it was something they could do. Look at all the other things they’d accomplished so far—and without losing themselves. There had been more than one near miss, and there might yet be many more to come, but
 they were stronger now, than they’d been upon setting out. That was good, and unreservedly so. They were going to need to be.

Anirne, on the other hand, was finding it difficult to come down from her battle-high, almost as though the adrenaline was lasting longer in her system than it had any right to. She’d had to heal herself of a few cuts and bruises earlier, and the magic had not been so quick to her hands as it usually was, something she put down to her oddly-tumultuous mental state. It was jarring, to one who had for so long been able to find equanimity and peace even in the middle of major personal or violent upheaval.

There was one, however, who was undoubtedly having much more trouble adjusting, and she eventually sat between he and Sinderion, thinking that there might be something to be said on the subject, but not quite certain how to approach it. She couldn’t imagine trying to adjust to so much after so long being more or less the same, so she didn’t try. “Are you all right?” she asked him instead. Then deciding that was rather a silly question, she added some specificity. “Are you in pain? Anything I can help with?”

"It's..." Tarquin started, responding to the Psijic's questions. "It's going to take some time to get used to." He touched his fist to the left side of his chest. "This, that is. The physical pain was in the transition. It was... abrupt. It has passed, but I lived a long time as I was. It's... a lot to take in." Maya looked confused by the exchange.

"What transition? What are you talking about?" The Shade shared a look with her, and then she saw the change in his eyes, now that she was looking for it. "Wait... are you... human? When did this happen?" He gazed rather blankly into the fire. "When I woke this morning, I was changed. It was just before Sinderion and I found Anirne. I'm afraid the powers that came with that form are lost to me now. I am now simply a one-armed man with a talent for hiding." Maya looked like she wanted to say something to that, but what was there to say to something like that? She was sorry? That didn't seem right. As much as he'd lost, he'd been cured of something else entirely.

Soren, who sat facing the other direction for watch purposes, somewhere between Van and Lynly, blinked a few times, then smiled crookedly. “Tough break,” he conceded, mostly seriously, but then shrugged. “But us ordinary men manage all right. We’ve made it this far—we’ll make it still.” It was the first time he’d expressed a direct sentiment regarding the mission, and even he was a bit nonplussed by his use of the first-person plural. He’d intended to say you’ll make it, but he supposed that, in his way, he was in this now, too. He certainly didn’t intend to abandon them when things got ugly. They already were, after all.

"We have," Lynly agreed with Soren. She sat next to him, but where he was facing outward, she was facing inward toward the rest of the group. "We've made it this far, what's a little bit more?" She asked. They've faced things that would break ordinary people. They all have come a long way from hunting some Orc in a corner of Skyrim. They'd go a long way yet, with the pace they made. "An ordinary man can do extrordinary things when pushed. Just push back," She stated not just for Tarquin, but for Sellswords as well. They had none of the powers that the Representives wielded, but they've cut their way through six of them.

Sinderion was surprised by the news, but now that he looked, it was obvious enough. Had not it been alluded to that the same fate had at one point befallen the Mentor? He certainly did not seem ageless—in the near-decade Sinder had known him, he had aged like other men did, though it had never seemed to diminish him. He had no particular reason to believe that growing older would diminish Tarquin, either, but the more immediate loss was readily apparent. Much of his power was gone.

Once, this would have made the altmer bitterly envious. He was free of the unnatural impediments on his conscience, the ugly instincts that bid him destroy where a greater man might save or preserve. But now, in this situation, he could finally see that the timing, at least, was undesirable, and for the first time, he wondered what he’d do if, at this very moment, someone was able to exorcise the thing that haunted his own mind and flesh. He almost couldn’t imagine being without it anymore, being simply a man. What would he do? Who would he be? Like it or not, the Beast was a part of his very makeup, his identity, and he found it difficult to conceptualize being without it. He supposed, in a deprecating way, that he’d be much less interesting. Once, he wouldn’t have cared. He would have been the dullest, blandest, weakest person in all of Skyrim just for the chance to be free of it.

But could he give up that power now? It had saved him from the Horizon, and probably indirectly long before that. Could he live with himself if the world became colorless, scent almost nonexistent, sound muffled in his ears? He found he didn’t know. Sinderion did not pity the Shade, not exactly, but
 he thought he might understand, just a little bit. A thought occurred to him then, and he asked aloud a question he almost didn’t want to know the answer to. “We are not playing the way they desire us to
 how directly should we expect them to hinder us?” Was Maya going to lose something as well? And if there was anything for them to take
 was it only that she still did not know what she wanted which prevented them from taking it? That certainly put a new perspective on the whole conundrum.

"There may be unpleasant surprises for me in the future," Tarquin admitted, seeming somewhat tired by the thought, considering what he'd already had taken from him. "Their actions today were a warning, meant for me, but I think they still expect the Game itself to sort me out. We still play, and while we do, they will observe."

That was certainly a grim thought. She wondered if the rest of them would have to bear such unpleasantness as well, but in the end decided it simply didn’t matter. They were doing what they had chosen to do, and they would not be dissuaded from it. Tarquin must be the same, and much as he had cause to dread what came after, he did not seem to be second-guessing it. It was a strength Adrienne admired, though Anirne seemed troubled. Sensing that a change of topic might be in order, the young woman glanced over at Lynly. “I’m sorry about your house,” she told the nord woman sincerely. “And, well
 the guards and the like.” She wasn’t really sure there was much else to say. Lynly may not be allowed back into Windhelm for some time, like the rest of them, but unlike any of the others, it was her home and her parents were there. That had to be
 difficult. Adrienne could never go back to Daggerfall, either, but she didn’t really want to anymore.

Lynly shrugged simply in response, leaning froward with her elbows on her knees and hands cupping her face. It was far from how she expected to leave, murdering a bosmer right before smashing one of the guards in the face. The thought actually had her shoulders hitch in a small chuckle. "Don't worry over it. If I thought I was going back home sooner rather than later, I wouldn't have punched that guard," She had to flare up a healing spell after that one, almost racked her knuckles off her hand. The guardsman's mask was a lot tougher than the Pact's face. "As for the house-- My father looks over it while I'm out. He'll cuss about it when I get back, but he'll have it fixed."

As for when she'd be back, she hadn't a clue. The Game was still unfinished, so she'd see that to it's logical conclusion. If she still lived after that... Who knew? By the time she returned, the guards would have forgotten about the fuss they had raised. At least, she hoped they would. It was her home, after all, she wouldn't mind getting to go back eventually.

"Lynly... when we met Stonehammer before entering Windhelm," Maya asked, "He talked about an axe being returned? What does that mean? Some Nord thing?"

She listened to Maya's question and then suddenly she looked a lot more tired than she had moments before. Cupped hands rubbed her face as she nodded. Lynly had forgotten all about the axe until Maya brought it up again. It should make their journey into Whiterun a lot more... Interesting. "Aye, a big Nord thing," Lynly answered. She left it at that for a moment before continuing. "The axe... It's a symbol. It's an understanding between warriors, a sign of friendship and loyalty. The axe Vodrin spoke about was Ulfric's own, having sent it to Whiterun. See, while Windhelm is firmly Stormcloak, Whiterun sits on the fence between them and the Empire. With the axe sent, Ulfric is forcing Jarl Balgruuf to choose... And he has chosen. There will be war in Whiterun." It was difficult to explain the meaning of the axe to someone who was not a Nord, but the result was clear. War.

“That the axe was returned to Ulfric means that Balgruuf’s hopped off the fence and landed on the Imperial side,” Soren clarified. “I’m guessing Stonehammer and his lot will be in the forces Ulfric sends to Whiterun, which means with our luck that you can count on the place being set on fire by a dragon when we arrive to deal with the Drunk and the Bard. Knowing us, the Feral will show up, too. Seems to like to make a nuisance of himself, that one.” They were probably in for another massive confrontation, and this one would include soldiers from two armies as well as the Representatives and whatever they managed to muster in their own defense. Oh, and, you know, a dragon. It was going to be a steaming pile of mess, and the thought brought half a smile to his face. Never any other way with these people. "Big things on the horizon indeed," Lynly muttered, though her tone wasn't entirely disapproving.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Chapter VIII
War Without, War Within




From a distance, it was easy to see that Whiterun was preparing for war.

No sooner had they returned Ulfric's axe than they had invited the Imperial Legion within their walls, and with good reason. There was no telling when the Stormcloak attack would be coming. Rows of tents were lined up around the outer wall, the majority of which were situated near the main gate. There was no room in the city for the force of troops that had been sent to aid the Jarl in the defense, but they needed to be able to man the walls on a moment's notice, too. There was only way into Whiterun, and that was through a trio of gates leading up to the city's main street. The outermost gate was little more than a wooden palisade, meant more to delay defenders than stop them outright. The second layer was the most defensible, with a wooden drawbridge lowered over a deceptively strong stream below, and a thick gate of stone reaching over it. An attacking force could easily be bottled up there, unless they could get ladders to the wall or navigate the rock walls along the side of the city wall itself. The final gate was a towering thing of wood and steel. If the Stormcloaks broke through that, the fighting would be taken to the streets.

Drayk had never been in a real battle before. Their recent skirmish against the Webspinner was probably as close as he had gotten, judging by the aftermath he'd seen stumbling about the charred field he'd made. Even then he'd hardly been in control of his own head. The others had fought the battle, he'd just... brought it to them, was all. It bothered him that they weren't here for the battle, but they would undoubtedly be swept up into it regardless. The Bard was here somewhere, and the Drunk likely was, too. The Shade and the Blackfeather came with the Sellswords, and wherever the Shade went, it was a safe bet the Feral was not far behind. Either the Stonehammer or the Librarian was hunting the werewolf, but considering which one of those two was actually out and about, doing something, it wasn't too hard to guess. This city knew it had hell coming for them, but it didn't know the half of it yet.

Imperial Legion soldiers were posted at the outer gates, but these gave the Sellswords no trouble. The Whiterun city guard still ran affairs in the city, and it was two members of this group that the Sellswords encountered when they arrived at the main gates. "Hail, travelers," one of them greeted, trying to get a good look at all nine of them. "Access to Whiterun is restricted, with the Stormcloaks on their way. What's your business here?"

The scene of Whiterun in arms just hit home the realities of war. It was upon them, lingering just on the horizon. Lynly couldn't help but look backward as they ascended to the main gates. It was an Imperial that recieved them, instead of the usual Nordic guard. Jarl Balgruuf must have sent a missive to Tullius as soon as he decided to return the axe if the Legion was there in such force. It was Lynly who decided to answer him. "We've come to lend assistance," She answered. "We have information that the Jarl will want to hear."

She wanted to fight in this war, and not only for the Sellswords. There was so much riding on this battle. The Representatives will be whittled down, and the tides of the civil war would change in this city. She found herself with a two-pronged stake in this war, on one end her loyalty to Talos's Empire, and on the other her loyalty to the Sellswords. She looked back up to the guard and asked, "Do you know how far the Stormcloaks are out?" She wanted to know how long they had before the war was upon them.

"Mercenaries, then? If you mean to fight for the city, we won't turn you away. Stormcloaks should be here by nightfall at the latest, and I doubt they mean to go through a prolonged siege." He gave them another look over, noting the equipment they carried, and in particular the set of armor and weapons that belonged to the Nord woman speaking to him. He then waved up to the gate guard standing atop the wall above them.

"Right, let them through. Report to Jarl Balgruuf immediately, either he or the Legate will find places for you."

“Thank you,” Adrienne contributed as the group filed past the gatekeeper. Inside, it was clear that Whiterun Hold was preparing for something significant. There were scarcely any people out in the street save hold guards and Imperial soldiers, and these watched the progress of the newcomers with wary eyes. Thankfully, it wasn’t hard to figure out how to get directly to Dragonsreach, as the keep stood proud and imposing over the rest of the structures. So much wood
 she thought with little optimism. The Stonehammer had a fire-breathing dragon at his disposal, after all. It was hard to look at wooden facades and think of anything but the ashes they would become under such an onslaught.

Would it even make a difference to tell the Jarl that such a thing may be forthcoming? How well could one prepare for a Dragon on top of Stormcloaks? And then there was whatever strange construct the Drunk could become to consider, and the Feral, and who honestly knew what the Bard was capable of? At this point, mentioning any of it would just likely cause the man, and by extension, his troops, to become paranoid and lose all hope entirely. The only reason she did not end up the same was because they’d survived worse, and she felt strong enough with her friends by her side. A more incredible gift the more she thought about it, but not one that could simply be shared with everyone else in this situation.

Mounting the stone steps, the Sellswords soon found themselves admitted into the long front room of Dragonsreach. The Jarl himself sat at the end of the space, on a raised dais with a thronelike chair centered atop it. He appeared to be in conference with three other people, likely about matters impending. Time grew so very short, after all.

Those present were the Jarl himself, a Nord with a proud appearance, though he was beginning to age, his golden hair and beard showing signs of grey, his personal guard, Irileth, a Dunmer woman clad in fur and leather with fiery red hair, the Jarl's steward Proventus Avenicci, a balding Imperial with a greatsword seemingly too large and heavy for him, and lastly the Imperial Legate, his build impressive under shining Legion armor, his face currently turned away from them.

It was Irileth, unsurprisingly who was first to notice the group approaching, and she turned to intercept them before they could reach the Jarl. "The Jarl has no time for visitors. State your business and be quick about it." Upon seeing the group of armed strangers standing in his hall, Balgruuf the Greater reacted significantly more warmly than his bodyguard did. "Now, Irileth, we wouldn't want to scare away the first group of mercenaries to offer their services to our side, would we? Welcome. Have you come to fight for Whiterun, strangers?"

The only answer the Dunmer woman recieved was a cold stare from Lynly. Because with a war on their doorsteps, they'd waste the Jarl's time by chittering in his ear about aimless things. When the Jarl answered, Lynly instead turned to him and spoke, "I'm glad someone has keen eyes," She said, throwing a glare back Irileth's way. Lynly thought on his questions for a moment, and answered truthfully. "We have. We have our own reasons for fighting, but they align us with Whiterun. So we would lend our strength with yours. Personally," Lynly said, taking a step away from the group, "I would fight for a united Empire." In that, Lynly could only speak for herself.

Soren rolled his eyes in a lightly-amused sort of way, but the expression faded quickly back into diffidence. “The rest of us are simply mercenaries, as you observed,” he said, simplifying the rather staggering level of complexity in their connections to each other. “And we bring information.” Though whether he’d believe it was another matter entirely. “One of the Stormcloaks likely to be in the invading party is a man named Vodrin Stonehammer. My friends and I know him rather well, and you should know that where he goes, a dragon follows. Perhaps you heard of an incident in Markarth? That was him. You
 might want to be aware of that.”

He wasn’t sure there was anything he could say about the Feral, the Bard, or the Drunk that would sound anything other than crazy, so he simply refrained. Dragons, at least, seemed to be popping up with some frequency lately. It wasn’t that much of a stretch to suppose that a man could have some kind of deal with one, was it? Then again, maybe he’d just lost all concept of what was reasonably believable, given all the shit they’d recently run into.

"A dragon, following a Stormcloak?" the Jarl asked, clearly skeptical. At this point, the Imperial Legate turned to join the conversation, looking impatient as well as unbelieving. "There have been dragon incidents all over Skyrim," he stated. "The dragons destroy Ulfric's men as surely as they do ours. We are aware of the threat." Soren only rolled his eyes. Typical. Well, no skin off his teeth if they wanted to be unprepared for that.

"And the Markarth incident was months ago," Balgruuf added. "I should think the Stormcloaks would have forced the issue before now if they had a dragon on their side. We have enough to deal with in preparation for the Stormcloak army, regardless." The Legate appeared to wish to return to battle talks. "If there is nothing else, I'm sure you could make yourself of use before the enemy arrives. The outer wall in particular is in dire need of reinforcement, and the men would welcome your help."

Maya had no wish to kill any of Lynly's sense of duty, or if any of the others felt such compulsions to fight for the Empire, but it had occurred to her at some point that they didn't have to fight the Stormcloaks. If she knew the Companions, they didn't take sides in political affairs, at least not ones like this, and they'd probably be remaining in Jorvasskr for the duration of the battle, defending only their hall. The rest of the citizens would likely be told to hole up and wait for the all clear. Even if the city was overrun, she doubted the Stormcloaks would burn the entire city to the ground; they wanted to occupy and force it to change sides, not obliterate it.

And their purpose here, in the end, would be to find and kill the Drunk, and then the Bard, and then whoever his target was, while not being killed by the Feral. They currently knew none of their locations, and Maya was personally rather more inclined to investigate this than go help build a wall that would inevitably be torn down tonight. Once it was clear that the conversation here had been ended, the group pulled back to the entryway of Dragonsreach, and Maya put words to her thoughts.

"I'm going to search for our Representatives here, while we still have some time. If anyone would like to come with me..." Tarquin seemed to be thinking something along the same lines, as he nodded. "I'm wasted on building walls, I'm afraid. I'll seek them out with you." Adrienne and Anirne both nodded as well. Neither felt particularly inclined to spend their time building fortifications when there were dangers just as important already inside.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Imperial soldiers were hard at work building a trench around the outer wall of Whiterun, and filling this with wooden stakes sharp enough to spear a man through mail and leather. It wouldn't stop the Stormcloaks altogether, of course, but it would prevent them from simply rushing over the walls and overwhelming the first line of defense. They would be under missile fire as they approached, massed archers from behind the wall. With any luck, this would funnel them to the gate, where the numbers would count for less.

The thought made Drayk uneasy, though he wasn't sure why. He'd fought and killed men before. The Forsworn in the Reach weren't the best examples, though, nor were the orcish berserkers in the Rift. He'd been taken down almost immediately at the Thalmor Embassy, and hardly took part in the battle on the Omen's ship, apart from nearly drowning. The Webspinner's minions were more monster than human, and even then he hadn't been entirely in control of his own mind. So... perhaps he really hadn't fought men before, at least not like this. These were regular men, farmers and smiths and the like, taking up arms for some cause that seemed so tiny to him now, compared to what he and his friends went through.

And this would be a massive battle. It was almost funny how it was working out: Drayk had never had any reason to love the Empire he'd been born in. The Legion had always hunted him. Hell, if they knew what he'd done in his lifetime, they would probably string him up right here, and it would be justice. He'd killed Imperial soldiers before, more than he liked to think about. Why he so suddenly had a desire to help them, when they sorely needed it... well, maybe some part of him wanted to make it up to them. To the Empire he'd been a plague on. It was a foolish notion, and perhaps even moreso given what they had to deal with now, but he couldn't help but see it as a way to apply himself to something that was bigger than this Game. He could make a real difference now. He certainly didn't plan on joining the Legion or anything after this was over; he had something much quieter and more peaceful in mind, but he wanted to help now, so he slammed the end of the next stake in the ground, making sure it was steady.

Lynly would have some experience in war, right? She was a staunch supporter of the Empire, which was somewhat surprising, considering she lived in the city of Ulfric Stormcloak. They'd first encountered her when she had been working for the Legion. He made his way over to where she was. "Have you been in a battle before? One like there's going to be tonight?"

Lynly found herself stripped of her armor and put to work with manual labor. All completely voluntarily, at any rate. If she was going to be fighting with these men, then she needed to work with them. Mercenary or not, more hands made the work go by faster. That being said, she never expected to be digging trenches and setting up palisades to funnel troops for the Empire any time soon. Yet here she was, knee deep in dirt hammering a stake into the ground as another Imperial held it in place. Even Lynly felt anxious at the quickly approaching battle. Anxious and maybe a little excited. For a Nord, Lynly never explicitly enjoyed the pain and death of a battle, viewing it more of a job or duty. But now, despite Skyrim threatening to rip itself apart, the war on the horizon was a opportunity to do more than just her job. Here, she would fight for her beliefs.

Another stake was shoved into the ground before Drayk found his way to her. She held his question for a moment before shaking her head no. "The biggest I was in... Was the Imperial skirmish we caught the Stonehammer in," She found herself wishing he'd stayed in that cage, if only to keep his pet dragon at bay. Fighting the man was one thing, fighting the man and his dragon was another thing entirely. She paused her work for a moment and looked back at the boy, "Or maybe any one of the messes we've found ourselves in over the recent months. But no Drayk, I've never found myself in the middle of a war before," She said, first serious, then with a crack of a smile.

She lifted another stake and set it in to the ground, but she still continued to talk as she worked. "I don't find many wars in the dungeons I dive in," She explained. Unless he wanted to count a number of draugr ambushing her or a flock of spiders trying to run her down a war, all she'd been a part of was skirmishes. Lynly then sighed, figuring the boy worried for what was about to come. He was no Nord, battle wasn't in his blood. "We've fought worse and survived, and at least this time we aren't alone," She said, jerking her head toward a collection of Imperial soldiers, "Just keep your head down and shield up, we'll win this."

Soren didn’t really go in for any of this idealistic political nonsense about Empires and Stormcloaks and whatnot, but he was astute enough to recognize a pivotal battle when he saw it
 and this one was going to be pretty pivotal. The distance he felt from all of these things was normal for him—even when he’d been hired to participate in armies before, his cause had only ever been the coin it would earn him. No few months with a bunch of half-crazy people was going to change that about him, even if he was growing fond of them. This was hardly their fight anyway. It was simply advantageous for them to hold off Stonehammer for long enough to deal with the Drunk and then probably the Bard as well. Of course, if the Feral showed up, they could just let the man with the dragon have him. He doubted that even Ja’karo stood much of a chance against something like that.

But if he did kill the rabid khajiit, that meant they had to deal with him next, unless they particularly desired Tarquin’s death, followed by Maya’s, which at this point he was confident in saying nobody did. It would make things a lot simpler if one of them did happen to die now, because he wasn’t stupid and he could see where this was going, but
 honestly, he wasn’t really the kind of man who liked playing by the rules all that much. Not when the rules were fucking stupid, anyway.

Presently, he walked the inner wall, on which the Imperials would obviously fall back when (and not if) the outer wall collapsed. This one, being much older and of sturdier construction, also contained a number of likely perches for archers, and murderholes for siege tactics. He’d already set some people who didn’t look like they were doing much on boiling some tar, and there was pitch just waiting to be set on fire and loaded into the two catapults the Jarl or the Legate had managed to pull out of somewhere. Honestly, bark your orders with enough authority, and people tended not to question where you actually fell on the chain of command. He’d been at this game more than once—there was a certain kind of art to it, if one wasn’t too busy looking at all the gore to see it.

Heading down the wall, he approached the other two members of this little detachment. “Solid advice,” he conceded. “Though I’m not so optimistic. All these walls, and Balgruuf only has two catapults. And no ballistae. Honestly.”

Catapults. Drayk hadn't thought about those. Ulfric would probably have a lot more than two, wouldn't he? And a shot from a catapult would be more than enough to put a massive hole in these wooden walls. Or a massive hole in the ranks of the Imperials defending from behind them. It would likely be worse if the Stormcloaks felt they had time for a siege, then they would just have to sit behind their walls with nothing to do but hide their heads as the enemy rained fire and death down on them until they felt like doing something else.

"I mean, I could do some of the catapult work, too..." Drayk more mumbled the words than said them for the others to hear. Letting his fire spells go really wasn't something he wanted to do here. He wanted to heal, and he wanted to defend. There were just too many friendlies around that didn't know the danger he presented to them, and he knew fully what he was capable of now. No doubt Sinder was having some of the same thoughts. They looked different now, the Imperials in red and brown, the Stormcloaks in blue and silver, but in the battle, maybe they would all look the same, all covered in blood and stricken with fear. With half, or less, of his mind, would he know who to kill and who to spare? He doubted it. Not with so many strangers around.

Soren shook his head, having a pretty good idea where the lad’s thoughts were going. “They’ve got enough people to handle that,” he dismissed easily, making a careless gesture. “Frankly, the three of us probably won’t make much difference until the Representatives put in appearances. Do what you want until then, but don’t go pushing it when the important part hasn’t even started.” Detaching a flask from his belt, he took a nip, then offered it to the other two. “Brandy?”

Drayk shook his head. "No, thanks." He didn't want to be loosened up for this. He tended to get bolder ideas then. He wanted to say that this was important, but he too knew it couldn't come close to the events that would take place within the walls, as far as the effect on their lives went. He'd still do his best to make sure the battle didn't even reach the others while they did what needed to be done.




They were a strange group, to be sure, but Maya found herself not really caring all that much. The six of them were a formidable group, even without the warrior, the sniper, and the fire mage, so Maya hadn't taken the time to switch out of her robes. If someone wanted to take issue with her for being a witch, they'd have to deal with all her friends, too. And besides, most of the people in Whiterun had already shut themselves up in their homes, if they weren't taking part in the battle. There were simply more important things to worry about than strangers walking around their town.

And Maya had more important things to worry about than they did. No doubt the battle would inconvenience them, but Maya was frankly more concerned with the Nord woman who could shapeshift into a powerful Daedric warrior, the werewolf that was probably stalking about nearby, and the stupid, frustrating lute player, who no one had any clue what he was capable of. No one had a clue what his motives were, either, apart from deciding to play the game backwards. But now that he'd come next to his so-called "Fair Maiden" in the order, would he hold to that? Who could possibly know with that one?

The tavern in Whiterun, The Bannered Mare, was not nearly so empty as the streets were. Unsurprisingly, business was exceedingly good on the edge of a battle, as Nords seemed to have a particular taste for alcohol, especially before, during, and after fights. It was the natural choice of place to look for the Bard or the Drunk, considering both of their attractions to such places, and the witch found that she hadn't been wrong in bringing the others here. The redheaded fool was playing a rather jolly melody from his seat by the central fire, and she found it to fit rather ill with what lay ahead. At least he was mercifully keeping his mouth shut. The din in the room might have been enough to drown him out anyway. Ah, who was she kidding? He'd raise his voice above all of them to be heard, if he wanted to.

He quickly saw them, but gave them only an annoyingly cheery smile in greeting. Maya glanced around for any sign of a Nord woman with a tattooed face, but she saw nothing. Perhaps the Drunk wasn't so foolish as to show her face so quickly. That was disappointing. She doubted they'd get anything useful out of the Bard, but they might as well try. "Figure we should try and work out what his stance on the Drunk is, at least," Maya said. It would be good to know if they'd need to fight them both at the same time, when the time came.

“That’s assuming he’s interested in giving us a comprehensible answer,” Anirne replied, a slight edge of rare annoyance coloring the words. She still remembered the last time she’d made an attempt to get information out of him, and the jab at her intelligence that had resulted. She wasn’t an overly proud woman generally, but like anyone else, she had her sore spots. Her lips compressed into a thin, pale line, and she shook her head faintly. It was nothing worth getting upset about, really, but it was still probably better if someone else did the majority of the talking. There was little identifiable rhyme or reason to the way the Bard presented things, and it was so different from the vagaries of academics that she didn’t really know how to process it into something intelligible.

Adrienne, on the other hand, had smiled and waved right back at Beric. His speech wasn’t that different from the extravagancies of court language, and he rather reminded her of the fools and harlequins that the families with more money to spare often employed. She’d always favored the kind that relied on wit and a bit of silliness over the more slapstick variety, anyway. “At this point, I’d say it’s advantageous for him to tell us almost as much as he can,” she replied. "It’s a rather short list, now, and neither of you is next to him on it. Yet.” Of course, whether he’d follow such conventional logic was unclear, but he had to have at least some head for strategy, to have managed this long and know all the things he seemed to know.

Weaving between the tables, she ignored the occasional odd call for ale—either they weren’t addressing themselves to her anyway or they were so drunk they mistook her for a serving girl, and either way, ignoring them was fine—and grabbed a chair, turning it at an angle, and sitting backwards over it, propping her chin on the back, apparently entirely at ease. “Hello again,” she greeted amiably. “How goes the story of the handsomest bard and his eight deadly friends? Though
” she glanced back at the others. “He seems to be down to six for the moment.”

"It goes quite well, my dear," the Bard said, quite capable of carrying on a conversation with these acquaintances of his while also continuing his playing. "Two of the villains lie slain, and my dearest, fairest, loveliest, kindest maiden is on her way to see me. You have arrived just in time. This tragic tale nears a pivotal scene, of two star-crossed lovers trying to find one another amidst a backdrop of chaos and war! And my deadly friends shall play quite the part, I expect. Or perhaps you will play no part at all! It's entirely up to you, I suppose."

He quite suddenly decided to stick an inconspicuous foot out in the direction of a passing Imperial soldier, who tripped into a Nord sitting at a table drinking with friends. He spilled his drink over the man's back, and he roared and turned, giving the soldier a solid smack across the jaw, sending him reeling. Quite a bit of laughter went up through the tavern, and not a one of them turned an eye towards the man playing the music. "So many pieces, and they move in such interesting ways, I find."

Adrienne suppressed a light laugh, as honestly, the situation probably didn’t call for it. Still, she could certainly understand where the Bard was coming from here, and of course that made her more wary of him than she would have been of someone more straightforward. Watching the Imperial crash into the Nord, she shook her head and sighed a little. “History loves a good tragedy, I suppose,” she remarked, though honestly, this one was nowhere near the way he told it, perhaps starting with Ferra’s character. Oh, she was certainly fair enough, there was no doubt about that, but she was quite certain Beric was the only one who would bother calling them something like ‘star-crossed lovers.’ “Do they move, or are they pushed?” the young woman asked, half-rhetorically, though she’d be interested in his answer, if he had one. “I suppose if it’s done properly, nobody else ever knows the difference anyway.”

"They often tip over and roll around uncontrollably," the Bard said cheerily, "but pushing them is always good fun." If he was bothered by anything the coming battle brought, he was doing an excellent job of hiding it. In fact, he seemed to be in a better mood because of all of it, which was honestly not very surprising.

The cheery mood was shattered altogether when a small woman came screaming down the stairs from the rooms above. "Hulda! Hulda!" the woman behind the bar, the proprietor of the establishment, looked for the source, just as the woman skidded to a halt at the edge of the room, which had gone much quieter. "Saadia's been murdered!" she exclaimed, fear-strick. "Right upstairs! Gods, she was... torn apart." The sight clearly had shaken her, and she buried her face in her hands, turning away. The Bard smiled still.

"That particular piece is an ugly one, of that there is no doubt. I wonder what it would take to push him where he is needed..." his eyes wandered to Tarquin, standing quietly near the door, trying to avoid unneeded eyes. There was hardly any time to react to this, though, as the main doors of the tavern burst open, and an Imperial soldier came rushing in.

"The Stormcloaks are in sight! Everyone needs to get out there, or get their heads down!" he rushed out again, leaving the doors swinging open. Maya gestured for the others to gather to her, as the Nords and the Legion soldiers marched out, drunk and ready for a battle.

"I'm staying with the Bard," Maya said, stating her intentions. "The Drunk has to show herself sooner or later, and if the Bard's still playing backwards, he'll help us take her down." Tarquin nodded his agreement. "And the Feral has given himself away as well. His bloodlust demands he strike soon. I should not be in your way when he does, but I cannot fight him alone." Nor could Maya fight her battle alone. The gates would need to be held as well, though she expected Lynly, Drayk, and Soren would be able to handle that with the soldiers. Hopefully.

“Then you will not,” Anirne replied simply, crossing her arms. The idea of splitting the group yet again was appealing on no level, but
 they evidently had no choice. It was hard to say what numbers would be best, but given what the Drunk could do and the fact that the Bard would probably be involved afterwards, that set of people should probably be bigger. She didn’t like leaving her brother and the others, but she had a feeling she knew where he was inclined to be, and the Sellswords knew how to work together. She was almost as much an outsider as Tarquin, and her magic might keep the two of them alive where someone else could not.

Adrienne could see the soundness of the strategy, though she liked it no more than Anirne did. “Be careful,” she told the two of them. She didn’t know if she would be much help against the Drunk or Beric, but she knew for a fact that she was basically useless against Ja’karo, so she was better off sticking around here. Her thoughts moved briefly to Dom, Soren, and Lynly out on the field, and she prayed that they too would remain safe, but she couldn’t afford to think about it too much, not now, when things were so tumultuous and a misstep may mean death.

Sinderion glanced between his sister and Tarquin, trying to decide if he should go with them. The Feral was a dangerous foe, but
 so was the Drunk. He didn’t know if the power they had between them would be enough, especially not given Tarquin’s vulnerability, but then, he truly did not know whether the rest of them combined could survive two representatives in a row, either. It was probably better this way, though guilt ate at him. Nodding shortly, he reached out and tentatively touched Anirne’s upper arm, making eye contact for long enough to hopefully establish that he was worried about her, without having to say it. It was about as close as he could really get to hugging somebody, but that was something he could be irritated about later, when he had the time. For now, he’d simply have to trust in their strength and dedicate his own to the fight that lay before the rest of them. Anirne simply smiled. The gesture was more than good enough for her, considering what she knew of his difficulties with such things.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero Character Portrait: Adrienne Jastal
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The inn had cleared out nicely, all except for the proprietor, who remained behind the bar, looking somewhat petrified. "Ma'am, you should get away from here. Do you have a cellar? You could hide in there, you'd be better protected from the catapults." Hulda, she'd been called, gave the witch a look over, examining the hooded woman's garb with suspicion. "But... what about whatever killed Saadia? That was no Stormcloak did that." Maya gestured out the door. "Two of my friends are going to take care of that, or at least draw it away. You have nothing to fear, but this place isn't safe. Go hide in the cellar." Reluctantly, she obeyed, disappearing out the back and ducking down a flight of stairs.

That left nothing but Maya, Sinder, Adrienne, and Vanryth along with their jovial Bard in the Bannered Mare, and the bloody lute player was still plucking at his strings, even when the entire building shook from a boulder that landed too close. "You really just want to stay in here, Beric? You're just going to sit here and wait for her?" At that, the Bard laughed lightly. "My feathered bird-woman, perhaps she would come quicker if your beaked nose was not present." That was... not true. Her nose was not beaked, in fact it was a rather small nose. But that was beside the point!

"She knows as well as I do what the order is now, and I'm not leaving, so if she wants to kill you, she's going to have to come--ungh!" The wall behind her quite literally exploded when a fiery boulder blasted through it and tore into the main room of the tavern. She was thrown forward off her feet, where her head unceremoniously smacked against the counter the barkeep had been standing behind. Immediately her vision wavered, and she felt something hot running down her face. The fire spread quickly, and that at least had gotten the Bard to stop playing his damn instrument.

"A splendiferous explosion! The best stories always have good explosions, do they not?"

Adrienne, still sitting close to Beric, was thankfully not caught in the blast radius, but she did immediately jump to her feet in order to go check on Maya. The injury looked truly unlucky. Pursing her lips, she got a good look at it and hissed sympathetically. “Dizzy?” she asked with apprehension. “I’ve got a spare tincture if you need it.” She knew, of course, that the other woman was an alchemist as well, and probably still had the necessary curatives on her, but all the same, she didn’t want to not offer, just in case. Dizziness could indicate a concussion, and fighting with an untreated injury like that was as serious a disadvantage as a paralyzed limb or something, given what it could do to one’s focus. It would only get worse if they stayed here longer and started breathing smoke.

It was only a matter of time before something happened. Vanryth knew that once the battle started, no matter where they were they'd feel the effects. And feeling it he was. Van had dipped into one of the tankards that was left behind as everyone left the building. It was a shame, really. Whoever left the draught clearly had good tastes. However, even Vanryth couldn't enjoy it for long. As soon as he'd managed a swallow or two, the whole building lit up and he found himself on the floor. Not just on the floor, but with the remains of what was once a table under him. He couldn't piece together was happened immediately, but he was standing close enough to the wall to be thrown through a nearby table, and snapping it with the force.

He rolled around in pain at first, figuring the sudden rush of heat was just an effect of the pain. It wasn't until he sat up that he noticed that the building they were currently in was now aflame. With a very weary look, he gazed at the flames in disbelief, or perhaps belief, of their luck. Somehow though, during the explosion Van managed to keep a grip on the tankard, though now it completely empty and heavily dented. He glared at it for a moment before chucking it at the fire and smashing the broke table with a fist. Gods he hated this game with a passion.

Given that Sinder had been standing next to Maya, a spot he seemed to find himself at with some regularity, he was not spared the impact either, though his greater body weight meant he went rather less far, hitting a chair with a splintering crack of wood and rolling several times over the floor and under the bar. The smells of blood and smoke were quick to invade his nose, and he muttered something incomprehensible beneath his breath as he picked himself up off the floor. There were several small slivers of wood in his left hand, and he picked these out as quickly as he could, aware that it was probably quite unwise to stay. Maya appeared to have been hit harder than he was, and he spent a moment in uncomfortable amounts of worry before he was able to convince himself that Adrienne and the woman herself were quite capable of handling the damage.

He turned his attention to the new entrance to the tavern, frowning and exhaling heavily through his nose. Turning to Beric, he raised a brow in inquiry. “Do you intend to continue waiting in a burning building, or is it about the time for a dramatic exit?” He was a little frustrated with all of this doing nothing by this point, as several of his comrades and friends, and his sister, were all likely fighting for their lives right now.

"No... I've got my own. Thank you," Maya said at Adrienne's concern. She was a little dizzy, and that was poor tidings, but not so bad that she wasn't able to dig into her bag and retrieve one of her own healing potions. It cleared her up well enough, stopping the cut above her eye before any more blood could escape from it. Sinder looked to have taken some of the blow as well, but it wasn't serious. This was crazy. They needed to move, but even as the inn burned the Bard refused to budge. If they left him, they might well miss the Drunk. At this point, Maya was starting to think that wouldn't be so bad.

It was getting dark outside, and rain began to fall, intermittently at first, but it became a steady drizzle eventually. It wasn't enough to put out all the fires, though, and the Stormcloaks' catapults kept working, keeping the city ablaze. The first rumble of thunder rolled across the skies. The Bard strummed a single, dramatic chord as a heavy, stomping boot came in through the hole in the wall made by the flaming boulder, and Maya turned to face the new intruder.

The Drunk was no longer as she was, but in a much more demonic form, the one she'd appeared as in Windhelm. She had to stoop to pass through the opening, and honestly, Maya wasn't so sure it was still right to refer to her as a she, for this creature was of no real discernible gender. She hefted a daedric greatsword like it was as heavy as a dagger, though, and her armor was black as night, offset by the crimson of her skin. She walked through the fire as though it were meaningless, stopping to survey the group.

"My fair maiden has arrived!" Beric exclaimed jovially. "Do be good pieces and kill her for me."

Maya didn't need to be told twice. She launched a dual-casted lightning spell for center mass of the Drunk, at which point she wordlessly darted into action, with frightening speed for a creature of such size. The magic slammed into her armor at the pauldron, arcing about her but seeming to do very little. She took the greatsword into hand and charged across the gap, slamming a shoulder into Maya and sending her tumbling backwards, the witch cursing all the while. Beric had rather cleverly positioned himself between the raging Daedric monstrosity and the three other occupants of the room, and Ferra saw fit to try and cleave right through all three of them on her way to her target, broad strokes of her greatsword raining down as she tried to bull rush them out of her way.

Drawing both swords, Sinderion attempted to duck under the raining blows, moving in low to draw the elven steel across the back of Ferra’s knee, which certainly did something, but not much. Though he’d positioned himself to the side rather than in front, she compensated somehow, and the force behind her kick was enough to send him flying, slamming into a side wall back-first, knocking the wind out of him entirely and depositing him onto the ground in a heap, mere inches from licking flames. Picking himself up, Sinder darted forward again, but he was unable to get at anything unprotected, and the blows bounced uselessly off the Drunk’s armor with a discordant clangor.

He avoided the next kick, mostly, but it did catch the shortsword, and rather than snap his arm trying to keep hold of it, he let it go, and it spun off to embed itself in an upended table somewhere to his left. He was stronger than most men of his construction, stronger even than larger people, but he wasn’t as strong as Ferra was, and to act as though he was would only get him killed. He needed to think
 how were they supposed to take her down in this state?

"The battle begins, in the Bannered Mare!
Between the Handsomest Bard, and the Maiden Most Fair!
As in all games of war, the pawns must go first,
To take the hero's blows, and save him of the worst!"


This definitely qualified as being pushed. She supposed they’d rather volunteered, though was he really planning on not helping them? Adrienne found herself with precious little time to think on the matter, however, and scrambled out of her chair in just enough time to avoid the greatsword that smashed the wood into smithereens. Maya went tumbling in one direction and Sinder flying in another, and all of a sudden, the line was Vanryth and herself. She had the unworthy urge to hide behind him and count on him to fix the situation somehow, but there was just no way that would work, and frankly, they needed everything they could get, even her rather paltry power.

If Sinderion’s blades weren’t doing anything, hers wouldn’t either, and she had a bit better of a chance with magic, though Maya’s hadn’t done much of note, and she didn’t think herself any better at destruction than the witch was. Still, she charged the ice in both hands, targeting the underarm joint of the thing the Drunk had become. The twin spikes launched almost at the same time, and one was immediately swatted out of the way by the sword, the other bouncing harmlessly off the pauldrons. Her aim had been off. Well, at least she could be annoying enough to warrant a redirected slash? Might as well try again, unless someone came up with something better.

Vanryth hated this Game so much and the damn bard was doing very little to aid that. He'd managed to get his feet back under him by the time the Drunk made her appearence, for all the good that did. She was in the same monstrous form she was when she killed the Horizon, though now her fury was turned on them. A number of curses were counted off in his skull, but he mouthed none of them, only jumping backward to dodge the initial cut. Her armor was too thick for conventional methods proven by his other companion's efforts. His lip twitched in irritation as he grabbed a nearby chair and threw it at her legs, hoping to trip her.

Unsurprisingly, the chair did nothing. She kicked it in midair, showering him with the wooden shrapnel. With that plan shot, he found himself at a loss for what to do. So instead he followed Adrienne's lead, trying to be the biggest pain in the ass possible to allow one of the others to do something. What that something was, he had no idea. Hell, this would be a lot easier if the Bard got off his ass and did something.

Having pushed her way past Maya and the three Sellswords present, the Drunk arrived before the Bard, the star crossed lovers united at last. The Bard didn't so much as draw a blade, though he had one sheathed at his hip, a rather modest looking longsword, and a buckler shield was clipped to his belt as well. Remarkably, he continued to play his lute while the intimidating creature that was the Drunk took swings that would cleave him in two. With impressive reflexes he was able to flow around them entirely, nimbly hopping about the burning wreckage of the ever deteriorating tavern. The Drunk released a roar of rage as she followed, swinging and missing every time. It was rather impressive to watch the man move... and sing at the same time.

"My dear woman, you love so fiercely,
Moaning and groaning in your efforts to pierce me.
But burn twice as bright, you burn half as long,
You won't last to the end of this song!"


"I. WILL. SILENCE. YOU." The Drunk's words, one accompanying each failed swing, came out distorted through the body of the creature she'd shapeshifted into, echoing with a screeching quality about the room, but they quite easily conveyed the woman's fury. Maya, having returned to her feet, sent an arrow at the woman's back, but it smacked harmlessly off her armor. How the Bard was grinning of all things right now was beyond her.

At this point, Sinderion didn’t have the faintest clue how they were supposed to stop her. The Bard seemed quite capable of handling himself at the moment, and he supposed at least he was doing a very good job of distracting her, but that wouldn’t mean anything if they couldn’t do her any harm. That armor was probably just as tough as the carapace of the Webspinner or the hide of Stonehammer’s dragon
 which meant that really, there was only one thing he had that even stood a proper chance of working. Frowning in concentration, Sinder tried not to pay too much attention to what the Bard was singing and called up his limited magic. With some effort, it sparked to life in his hands, but with as much as they were moving around, he didn’t trust his aim, exactly.

Circling around behind the Drunk, he backed up a few steps, then hopped into a run, springing with the force his legs could give him and deciding to plant the spell via direct contact—as close to the back of the armored being’s neck as possible. He leaped onto the bar itself first for extra height, then turned himself and jumped again, saving as much of his momentum as he could, and simply tapping the spell onto the space where Ferra’s shoulderblades would have been if he was confident that the anatomy was analogous. He was not. She’d moved a bit by then, and so he hadn’t gotten the height he desired, but hopefully it would do something. The rune bloomed into the glowing, roughly-circular shape they always had, and Sinder landed a touch awkwardly on the floor. “Can someone trigger that?” he asked, hopefully at enough volume to be heard over both the Bard and the raging Drunk.

Adrienne, feeling rather useless at the moment, was only too happy to help with that. Another ice spike followed, and the resulting explosion seemed to have some effect on the armor, leaving definite scorch marks and maybe a small crack or two, but other than that, nothing seemed to happen. It certainly didn’t deter the Drunk’s course any. Frustrated, Adrienne gathered the magicka for another doublecast, this time trying to coat the floor beneath Ferra in ice. This was no easy task, considering that large portions of the building were on fire, but the fact that the ice was wet probably didn’t make it any less slick. She was doubtful that it would work, but her resources were very limited, and she didn’t have any other brilliant ideas at the moment.

The ice didn't trip up the Drunk much, but her attacks seemed to be slowing ever so slightly, each heavy swing a little more predictable for the Bard than the last, but each swing also pushed the Bard closer and closer to the wall, where he would have hardly any place to go. He seemed unbothered by this, continuing to somehow play his lute. Her swings came harder and harder as she expended energy trying to cleave him to bits, utterly ignoring everything that was sent at her from behind. Maya was left to simply look on in no small amount of awe as the Bard was backed to the wall, the Drunk closing in on her kill. The Bard's words went on.

"Where, I ask, did our love go wrong?
I only sought to sing you my lovely song.
Your defeat is madness, but that is my law,
This battle will turn with FUS RO DAH!"


The last three words were roared, and a blast of magical energy exploded outward from the Bard, sending the Drunk flying back through the air and bursting out the roof of the tavern, soaring unceremoniously through the air to land somewhere outside. The inside of the tavern grew noticeably quieter when the singing had stopped, and indeed the Bard had ceased playing, leaving only the sound of the pattering rain and the crackling flames. The Bard smiled pleasantly at the others, his breathing only slightly elevated.

"I dare say she didn't expect that. Shall we give chase?"

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Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives
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The Gildergreen was quite dead at this point, and Tarquin expected the flames would not help things much. One of the fireballs had exploded too close to a branch of the tree, and it had since caught fire. He reached up to put it out with a cone of ice magic, but it wasn't thirty seconds before another hit nearby, and it went up again. He let it burn this time. It was dead, dry wood anyway, no sense in saving it now. It would need to be replanted. Maybe Maya would be able to help him with that, when this was all done. Assuming that they both lived through all of this, of course, but Tarquin was starting to suspect they would suffer the same fate, the witch and he. Either they would both live, or they would both die, along with all the others.

The Shade was awfully calm for having fireballs raining down around him, but he kept his eyes to the field, and watched the sky. He would see attacks coming, and they would be able to move in time. This central location was sparsely populated, though a good number of civilians were taking shelter in the temple to Kynareth nearby, not that it would do them much good. A well placed shot through the roof of that building would kill the lot of them. Or perhaps a poorly placed one, considering what the Stormcloaks' goals here were.

The clouds had settled uniformly across the sky, a wind picking up that would no doubt carry the flames further than they needed to go. A storm was coming. Tarquin had lived in Skyrim long enough to know when that was happening. He had lived many places, and cared for none of them. This city had looked quite different a hundred and fifty years ago. He wondered what it would look like after all of this. Judging by the slight beating on the wind he could hear, above the clouds... very different. "Have you encountered a dragon before, Anirne?" He suspected it was something neither of them had done yet. He also suspected they soon would.

Anirne’s face was as serene as it usually seemed, but her grip on the glaive fully extended at her side was a fraction too tight, and she watched the tree burn from the corner of her eye with no small amount of trepidation. She hadn’t been nervous in a very long time—it was not an emotion with which she’d ever had a lot of familiarity, and yet
 there it was. She couldn’t say exactly what was causing it; if a life-threatening situation were enough, she and her frayed nerves would be very well-acquainted indeed. It wasn’t just the presence of siege weaponry, either
 maybe it was simply the extension of the general lack of tranquility she’d been dealing with lately. Still, where she should have been patient, she was now anxious, and forced herself to look away from the fire. Things would come in their time, and rushing what may well be her death was not wise, nor helpful.

Picking up on Tarquin’s comment, she shook her head. “No,” she admitted, more mildly than she felt. “I confess the scholar in me should be leaping at the opportunity, but at this point, I really wouldn’t mind if I was spared such an encounter.” The last was a touch wry, but her eyes slid skyward all the same. There was an irregularity to the sound of the wind, and it must have prompted the question. She could smell the rain on the air, and the latent lightning in her crackled somewhere deep in response. The atmosphere was changing, but whether the storm would be here soon enough to make any difference was hard to tell.

The sun ducked down behind the mountains to the east. The days always seemed shorter here, with the land ringed by mountains as it was. Tarquin couldn't help but feel disappointment as the settling of night failed to heighten his senses, and give him strength. He would be hard pressed to see the Feral coming now, which was doubly painful considering how he was currently acting as bait, with only Anirne to aid him. He found it surprising that she chose to help him over her brother or the other Sellswords, but it was possible she simply hadn't wished him to be alone. If it was something else... well, it seemed like much more than he deserved, at any rate. That she looked anxious was perhaps to be expected, but he found himself troubled by it all the same. Even though these were dire circumstances, she had always seemed of an iron will in their previous battles.

"If it makes you feel any better, neither have I," Tarquin said, with a small hint of humor in his tone, though now was probably a poor time. He'd seen this dragon that belonged to Stonehammer from a distance before, but never up close, and never in battle. It was of some comfort that it would be going for the Feral, but if it succeeded, it would only come after him next. And Anirne had no such protection. It was here, he had no doubt. That roaring was no thunder, no explosion of a Stormcloak catapult. The storm hid its presence, but it was here.

"I think there's trouble at the inn," Tarquin said, noting the thick black smoke rising through the steadily increasing rain in the Bannered Mare's direction. "Hopefully it is nothing they can't... look out!" His attention had been turned by the slightest of scufflings along the roof of the temple to Kynareth, and then by the snapping of a small branch above them. It was all the warning the Feral gave as he dropped down to attack Anirne rather than the Shade, perhaps seeking to rid himself of the extras before tackling the true target.

Poorly-timed it may have been, but the little sliver of humor was not unappreciated. Anirne produced a soft huffing sound, something that might have eventually turned into a chuckle had it not been cut woefully short by circumstance, but all the same, it was present, and she remembered to relax the line of her shoulders. The sky darkened above them, then opened up, spilling the contents of the clouds onto the ground below. It was only light, much lighter than would be needed to put out pitch-fires, and at this point, it could be little more than a hindrance for them. All the same, she could not bring herself to dislike it. She’d always favored the rain.

Pulling up the hood on her cloak would only cut off her peripheral vision, and that was something she could not afford if the Feral was near, and surely he was. So the droplets dampened her thick hair, running down the sides of her face and dripping off the slight peak of her nose, but she paid them no mind. Her companion drew her attention to the inn, and her eyes wandered over, brows furrowing for just a moment before the shout of warning reached her and she threw herself to the side without bothering to try identifying the threat herself. Just as well: she would not have had nearly enough time to both do that and also get away.

Ja’karo’s claws dug an impressive row of gouges in the earth where she’d just been standing, and Anirne rolled to her feet with celerity, throwing a bolt of lightning to lead off and then stepping in closer, assuming a two-handed grip on her staff and swinging it in a broad, horizontal arc. Clearly, the werecreature had been expecting to take them both off-guard, because he wasn’t fast enough to avoid taking the magic straight in the chest, and the fact that he, too, was damp made it worse than it might have been otherwise. He did, though, manage to bend backwards and avoid the slash, rebounding back up at her with force enough to send her skidding back several feet when she blocked his unarmed strike, her boots carving additional rivulets in the loamy, slightly-wet ground.

She kept her feet, though, and stayed light on them, dancing past the brutal jabs he leveled at her for a while, and managing to score a broad slash on his abdomen with the bladed end of the glaive. Rather than reacting to this with more caution, Ja’karo seemed to grow only more infuriated, however, and she scrambled to step out of the way of his leap forward, but lost her footing, and the two tumbled to the ground. Thinking quickly, Anirne managed to shove her staff crossways into his mouth when he went to tear out her throat, but her arms were shaking with the effort of keeping him at bay, and she knew she wouldn’t last much longer. She didn’t dare remove the hand she would need for a spell, lest she lose all control of the situation entirely, and her legs were effectively pinned beneath his massive weight. Panic rose in her throat, made only worse but the absolutely inhuman look in the khajiit’s eye. It was one thing to call him the Feral, another to experience so closely just what that meant.

Tarquin sprinted for the Feral, launching a calm spell to hit him in the side, though it unsurprisingly had no visible effect. It seemed even his Illusion magic was not so powerful since his return to humanity. It left him with one option, and a rather poor one at that. With the arm that remained to him he took his dagger in hand, leaping upon the Feral's back and sinking the blade into fur covered flesh. It had the expected effect, causing Ja'karo to roar in pain and pull back from Anirne. He immediately took several lumbering steps away from the Psijic, swiping claws at the man on his back, landing several deep gashes along Tarquin's shoulder and side.

At last he managed to grab him entirely, flinging him forward to unceremoniously slam into the soft ground. He twisted quickly to try and get a look at the werewolf before it struck again, but something entirely larger caught his attention. It appeared from out of the clouds, massive and covered in slate grey scales, and it swooped down swiftly, pulling up just in time to slam heavily into the courtyard, shaking the very ground beneath them. Where it had landed was closest to Anirne, and the Psijic currently lay in between the dragon and the other two, though it had eyes only for the Feral at the moment, thankfully. Ja'karo turned and jumped nearly out of his fur upon seeing it, abandoning all thought of attacking Tarquin and sprinting away on all fours. A deep voice rumbled upon the werewolf's flight, and Tarquin was surprised to see it coming from the dragon itself.

"Zu'u Golztunah. Daar ahrol fen ag!"

He breathed in air, and exhaled flame, the inferno looking to swallow Anirne and Tarquin both.

As soon as Ja’karo was off her, Anirne scrambled to her feet, suddenly aware of another new wound, a set of deep claw gouges she hadn’t even noticed when he was digging the sharp nails into her arm. It was going to make wielding the staff difficult, but there didn’t seem to be time to heal it. Resizing the implement and hooking it back to her belt-sash, she started running towards the two combatants when the dragon appeared out of the sky, landing with a massive, earth-shaking thud that pitched the psijic to the ground again. It took her a bit longer to get up this time, the repeated effort starting to wear on her, but at least her panic had subsided, and she was once more in a mostly-rational form of mind. Mostly, because one could only be so rational when facing down a speaking dragon.

She didn’t know what it was saying, but there was certainly no mistaking what that deep breath meant, and Anirne was forced to think fast, forming a tall, tower-shield-like ward in each hand and lunging to stand in front of Tarquin. The impact of the gout of flames was massive, and even behind her magical protections, she dropped to her knees with the effort of holding them up, her breath coming and going in short, but controlled, pants. The heat at this distance was blistering, but at least the spell was holding, even if her hands were shaking with the effort it took to stand up to something that mighty in scope.

Eventually, the flames died, but Anirne did not cease trembling, and she realized somewhat belatedly how close she’d come to the dragon’s face—or rather, how close it had snaked its head towards her. Through the near-transparent wards, she was looking it right in the eyes. “Ancestors
” she breathed, blinking a few times as if to reassure herself that what she was seeing was real and not a figment of her imagination. It was still there when she finished, and Anirne swallowed thickly, rising back to her feet shakily. She’d just
 they were
 it didn’t quite allow for explanation right now, and she supposed that would only be wasting time anyway.

Carefully dropping one of the wards, she held the other one in front of her, lighting a heal spell in her other hand and directing it quickly for Tarquin. She was quite hoping it wouldn’t try to simply eat her, but she refused to take her eyes from it all the same, just in case, and her steps carried her hurriedly backwards until she was even with the Shade. The obvious question was one she didn’t dare ask, but it was there anyway. What now? Technically, it shouldn’t try to kill him until the Feral was dead, but it had already proven that it wasn’t particularly inclined to follow the rules.

Tarquin's years, and the number of them spent in the obscure corners of Skyrim, had given him a rough understanding of the dragon's speech, at least a word here and there. From what he could tell, the dragon had introduced himself, as Golztunah, and the rest was pretty self-explanatory, as he tried to obliterate them both in flames. Perhaps he didn't know who the man on the ground was, or perhaps he simply didn't care. Either way, it was bad news for the Shade. He clambered to his feet as Anirne came to hers, and Tarquin found himself indebted to her again. There was no time for any of that now, however, as Golztunah snorted indignantly at how these two people before him were still alive.

Slits of eyes narrowed, and Tarquin grabbed Anirne's arm, pulling urgently. "Not now, not the two of us," he said into her ear. Maybe all of them would be able to bring the dragon down, but one Psijic and a one-armed rogue would stand little chance, no matter the power of the mysterious weapon Anirne held in her hands. It hadn't saved Invorin, and he doubted it would save them now. "We need to run." He turned and pulled her behind him until she didn't need any more urging.

A Stormcloak catapult shot landed near them and exploded, but it seemed like a pitiful attempt to mimick what he had just lived through. He leapt over the licking flames, taking the street past the temple and towards the residences. The Feral had fled this way. The dragon lunged forward, teeth snapping at their heels, massive legs shaking the ground with each step, nearly throwing Tarquin off balance, but he was able to adjust. Golztunah smashed the tree over entirely and pushed after them, following until they came in sight of the Greymane and Battleborn manors.

It was then that the Feral darted across the street, dark fur scarred and ripped. He made a beeline straight for the hall of the dead, smashing the door open and ducking inside. Tarquin didn't much like the idea of following the werewolf in there, but they had a much better chance against Ja'karo than they did against a dragon. "After him! Get underground!" it would protect them as well as anything could from the dragon. The Shade and the Psijic sprinted away from the dragon, thankfully slower on the ground than it was in the air, making it through the door and slamming it behind them, clearing quickly down the stairs into the tombs before the dragon could reach them. It did not make the attempt, though, instead calling to them in the dragon tongue again.

"Drun faal Fel! Zu fen evenaar yol."

He could be heard turning, and a gout of flame clearly consumed something nearby. Tarquin slowed, trying to figure out if he'd heard correctly. "I think... he said he will leave if we bring him the Feral."

Anirne leaned back against the stone wall behind her, this time actually taking care of the wounds she’d accumulated. It was a small consolation, perhaps, that the Feral would likely not have the means to do the same, though she would hesitate to say that they were fresher. The breakneck sprint through Whiterun had rather eliminated that possibility, but at least she didn’t feel completely winded by it yet. She’d never been quite so thankful for daily training as she was in this moment. The dragon’s voice, she could swear, created small vibrations in the structure, but at least they were away from it for the moment, though the relative darkness down here was going to make locating the Feral just as difficult as it was outside. Even attempting invisibility was pointless, as Ja’karo’s sense of smell would weed them out quite easily.

Tarquin’s translation had her looking obviously confused, and no small degree resigned. “I don’t think we have much choice,” she said. Truthfully, she wasn’t inclined to trust the dragon, and would really rather not have to. “Do you think it would mind if he was dead? I don’t like our chances of dragging him out alive, but I could perhaps move a corpse
” It went without saying that he would be staying underground if she did that, as he would obviously be the Stonehammer’s (and hence the dragon’s) next target.

Either way, it wasn’t like they could stick around to negotiate the point, so she detached herself from the wall, casting a few floating magelights to help her see her surroundings and drawing the staff again, though this time she willed it into the shape of a slender spear, so that she could carry it in one hand and free the other up for another ward, just in case.

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Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives
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"I'd prefer we leave him alive," Tarquin said, continuing down. "He's my hunter, not my target, and I don't know how that would be received. No need to go easy on him, though." He was certainly a tough one, though clearly not invincible. They'd been able to drive him off several times before, but this time there were only two of them, and down here, Tarquin felt the werewolf had the advantage. Even with Anirne's magelights, there were too many shadows in this place. They once would have concealed him, but Anirne could not fight as he could, from the shadows, and the Feral would be able to find him, anyway. No, stealth was not an option.

He could hear him, shifting positions just out of sight of the magelights, darting around corpses years old, buried away only to be dug up once more now that Ja'karo's hunger had come upon him. They passed mauled bodies that had clearly been gorged upon by the Feral. Perhaps he was able to fuel his bloodlust by consuming this flesh. It seemed a morbid thing, and this coming from a man who had only recently relied on blood to sustain himself. "Focus on frost magic," Tarquin advised. He was moderately proficient in it, and he knew the Psijic to be adept in all forms of magic. Draining the beast of all his energy, and slowing him down physically, would be ideal.

Anirne wasn’t exactly thrilled with the news, but she’d honor the request. She didn’t know the rules well enough to understand whether or not it would make a difference, though she’d been under the impression that killing to defend oneself was permissible. It would have been a game of hiding, otherwise, and the odds very different for each of the participants she’d met before. Still, if it was a risk he didn’t want to take, they wouldn’t take it. Things would be harder for that, but given everything that had already happened from just a suspicion that he wasn’t playing as his patron wished, well
 if it was harder, then so be it.

The color of Anirne’s skin shifted from golden to ink-black, that and the way it reflected dimly the magical light above her head evidence of the ebonyflesh spell that she’d neglected last time, unable to call it up in time to bar an attack with it. She would not make the same mistake twice—not when she’d been so nearly bitten by the werewolf before. Those moments of being unmistakably overpowered were not ones she desired to repeated. Anirne knew how it felt to be weaker than others, of course, but to be entirely at someone’s mercy
 she forced herself not to shudder. It was highly uncomfortable, to use an understatement.

The spear in her hands grew chillier as she channeled the frost spell into it, the tip icing over entirely, the coating of sharp, crystalline frozen water seeming to exaggerate the size of the piercing blade. Bringing her free hand to rest lower on the shaft, she was about to reply when an abnormal movement in a shadow to the left caught her eye, and she shouted a warning just in time to sidestep the ambush, dragging the spear-tip across the Feral’s side, digging into one of the old wounds she’d given him. This time, the ice produced an added effect, frost blooming over the gash in his side and dusting his blackened coat in glimmering silver-white. The spear was, however, a piercing weapon and not one designed to slash, so aside from the magic itself, the new damage was negligible.

The passage they were in was just wide enough for Ja’karo to move about as he chose, which was quite undesirable for the two of them. Leaping, he twisted in midair, landing sideways on the wall in a freakish show of agility, rebounding off of it with all four feet and trying again to get in at her. It was sudden and unexpected, and though she scored another hit to a leg, more ice forming about his shin, she took the worse wound, a row of four deep, bloody gashes tearing into her abdomen and wrapping around and slightly up, curving around her ribcage and stretching almost to her shoulderblade. It probably would have disemboweled her if her armoring spell was any less potent. To make matters worse, the staff clattered to the floor, shaped like a rod again, clearly out of juice. Perhaps to be expected—she hadn’t killed anything with it in quite a while, and the soul gems embedded in it were probably nearing emptiness.

Now barehanded, Anirne was forced to conjure the magic in her hands instead, launching an ice spike, which missed, and then a frost rune, which landed right in front of Ja’karo’s feet. He moved, triggering it and managing to get the bottom half of both legs entirely coated, but his brute strength allowed him to rip them free without too much difficulty. All this in a matter of seconds, and she was already seeing dark spots in her vision from the blood loss. There was simply no time to heal, though: he had to go down, and soon.

The Feral was about to make another charge for Anirne, but he was interrupted by a dagger, emerging with a crack and a spattering of blood from his right kneecap. He howled, shifting his weight largely onto his left, and just before he could reach back to swipe the Shade, who had maneuvered behind him during Anirne's effort, the knife twisted and ripped out the side, quite nearly severing the leg entirely, though it still held on by a few strands of flesh. A small fountain of blood poured forth, and the Feral hopped on one leg precariously twice before a heavy ice spike thrummed through his upper back at close range, taking him down to the floor face down near Anirne's feet.

The Shade appeared in the space Ja'karo had just been occupying, a grim look on his face. The Feral flailed and attempting to strike with his arms, but the danger he posed lessened considerably now that he was confined to the ground. Tarquin launched another spike, into the beast's shoulder, the tearing on the muscle preventing him from hardly moving with his arms as well. The Feral growled, huffing heavy breaths. Tarquin bathed him in a cone of frost, the icy magic wrapping cold fingers over his limbs, heavily restricting his movement. It sealed over his wounds and prevented him from immediately bleeding out, though the regenerative abilities of lycanthropy likely helped with that as well. The Shade knelt, cutting through the remnants of the werewolf's leg, kicking the lower half of it away with some disgust when he was done.

"Give the flesh..." Ja'karo said hoarsely, blood and saliva dripping from his fangs and to the floor. "Your flesh breathes again, and it taunts Ja'karo... the flesh..." Tarquin landed a heavy kick to the Feral's jaw, crushing several teeth with his boot and knocking the Feral largely senseless. "Wretched creature," the Shade said, eyeing Ja'karo with disdain. He finally turned to acknowledge Anirne, noting the wounds she'd received and since healed, but he did not comment on those, instead turning his eyes back to the Feral. "Help me carry him to the dragon."

Anirne made a small noise of discomfort as the last of the large claw-wounds closed over, and the pitch-black hue receded from her skin, brightening her so she didn’t blend quite so well with the surroundings anymore. She wasn’t so sure about the wisdom of this idea, and, picking up the staff from where it had fallen, she did not hesitate to say as much. “And trust it not to slay you immediately thereafter?” Her brows furrowed, and she shook her head. “It is probably better if we do not test that. I can drag him out the rest of the way once we reach the door. Please.” It was not a command but a request, because honestly, it was his risk to take if he wanted to, but she’d prefer all the work he and they had done to keep him alive not go to waste because the dragon did not keep up its end of a bargain that may not have really been formed in the first place.

Dragging Ja’karo even that distance by herself would be no easy task, and certainly not a safe one, but it was perhaps less likely to get her killed than him. She was not nearly so tempting a target. Perhaps she assumed too much of the dragon’s intellect, or its ability to communicate with the Stonehammer, but underestimation was a large part of what had gotten several players in this game killed, and she was not fool enough to make the same mistake. Either way, she moved to the Feral’s head, looking at him for a moment with something resembling pity before her face hardened and she lowered herself to wind her arms underneath his, straightening as much as she could under the burden of his weight. He was massive in proportions, and she not so much. He made a token snap for her, but she wasn’t stupid enough to put herself anywhere he could easily reach, and he was still half-delirious.

Tarquin's one arm was spent trying to hold up the beast's relatively massive weight in comparison to themselves, else he'd have given the Feral another stab of the knife for his attempt to bite into Anirne and trigger more bloodlust. The two of them lugged Ja'karo up the stairs, which were hardly wide enough for the three of them, and the Shade found himself sliding against the wall as they went. The ground rumbled above them occasionally with the thudding steps of the dragon, still inflicting as much suffering as he could upon the city of Whiterun. Thankfully, the catapults seemed to have stopped raining death upon the city. Tarquin hoped that didn't mean the defenses had been beaten back that far yet.

They staggered back to ground level, at which point it came time to allow Anirne to take him outside on her own. Or not. "You speak as if my life," he said, grunting with the effort of lugging the Feral another step, "is somehow more important than yours, and that... ungh, is debatable. I made the decision to leave Ja'karo for the dragon. I don't believe I decided to leave you for him, too." The responsibility should be his to bear as well. Forcing others to suffer for his benefit had been the way of the Shade, and the way of the Master. He was Tarquin Aurelius now. He was once again a simple man, and he no longer wished to live as a monster.

Anirne’s arm muscles were starting to burn with the effort of hauling Ja’karo’s weight up the stairs, but she managed to keep her breathing mostly even. Mind over matter, she’d been told, though alas, it only went so far. They finally reached the landing, though, and she allowed herself a long sigh of an exhale, trying not to double over and drop the Feral. She could probably drag him far enough out on her own, but not if they stood here arguing about it for much longer. Muttering something under her breath that sounded distinctly like the word ‘chivalry’ followed by a huff of frustration, she shook her head. “Thank you,” she started, at least acknowledging that this sentiment was meaningful, “But it’s not about
 whose life is more valuable. You would be Stonehammer’s next target, ergo the dragon’s. It does not strike me as a creature of restraint. I at least have some measure of defense against that fire if it proves not to be.” Not that she was exactly sure her wards would hold a second time, tired as she was, but she wasn't going to say that.

It was only rational, but men were stubborn sometimes, and she knew that if she was going to get her way on this, she needed to be even more so. “Just
 trust me to survive this, if that’s your concern. You want to see your father again, and I want to help. There’s no use taking a risk like this if you wish to achieve that. You’re not making me, I’m volunteering.” And that made all the difference, really. This was as much her choice as his. More, given his resistance.

He could see the logic in that. The words he'd spoken at the shrine of Malacath came back to him, and they could not apply here. He was not forcing this upon her, that much was true. And it was also true that he would be of little use against the dragon if it decided to remain hostile to them. "Very well," he said at last, relinquishing his hold on the Feral. "I will remain here."

Anirne nodded and shouldered her way out of the door, grunting with the effort of dragging a ten-foot werewolf khajiit over not-exactly-smooth ground. The dragon was still waiting outside, though it had apparently grown bored with waiting and set about roasting nearby buildings in their absence. She bit her lip upon sight of the ruin, and hoped that this was actually going to work and not just get her killed. She really had an aversion to the idea of dying, now that she got around to thinking about it. Such thoughts would strike her now, and if she hadn’t been a big believer in her own logic, she would have rather wished Tarquin was here after all, so at least she wasn’t approaching this gargantuan, fire-breathing, flying, intelligent lizard all by herself. But she’d made this bed, and now she was going to lay in it.

“Hey!” she shouted, more to be heard than anything, as the sound of all the burning, popping wood and the slow collapse of building was rather loud. “I have what you asked for!” She was trying not to sound irritable, but her arms were starting to shake, and she really, really wanted the dragon to leave now. Fear was not a foreign emotion to Anirne, but she had not felt it so acutely in a very long time as she did when in this creature’s presence. There was just something about the scaling—she was so very small beside it. Like being a child again.

Cautiously, she laid Ja’karo out on the ground, confident that he wouldn’t be able to go anywhere, and dredged up the wards into her hands as she slowly backed away. Some irrational part of her wanted to fight this thing, just to quell the fright she felt, but she wasn’t stupid, and she started backing up as soon as she had its attention.

With heavy footfalls of massive clawed feet Golztunah turned and surveyed the meat laid down before him. It spoke no more words in the dragon tongue, instead simply snapping forward with its elongated neck, clamping jaws around the Feral, who was rather too weak to make a sound as wickedly long teeth sank into the neck, upper back, and head of the beast. He easily picked the furry mass up into the air, before shaking him around violently, causing no small amount of squelching sounds, as well as bones cracking and muscles tearing. When it was clear that the thing was at last dead, the dragon hurled the body carelessly into one of the burning buildings, like so much trash.

A series of repeated huffing sounds emanated from the dragon nostrils, something that seemed to equate to laughing. But the dragon kept his word, flapping powerful wings against the air and lifting off into the night sky, rising up through the rain until he pierced the clouds themselves, disappearing out of sight.

Anirne didn’t really have the energy to decide if she was insulted that the dragon seemed to be laughing or not. She held her ground against the gusts of air it displaced as it took off, watching it for a little while to make sure it actually left and trying not to think overmuch about what she’d seen it do to the Feral. It was too easy to replace Ja’karo with someone she cared about, and those were thoughts she did not need at the moment. He seemed to have actually left, though, and so she dispelled the wards she’d been holding and jogged her way back to the entrance. “Tarquin?” she called, pushing the door open with a palm. “He’s gone, and Ja’karo is dead. The battle still proceeds. What would you like to do?” Personally, she wanted to go find the others, help them, but she was not unaware of the fact that she was tired, more perhaps from the strain on her nerves than the toll that had yet been exacted upon her flesh. Either way, it was something she would push aside if she must. Perhaps a few minutes to gather themselves was in order before they acted again, however.

"Maya and the other Sellswords have no healer with them. If the walls still hold, then we should track them down first." Drayk was a capable healer himself, while the other group had only potions to rely upon, and those were far more difficult to use in the middle of a fight.

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Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero Character Portrait: Adrienne Jastal
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Maya couldn't say she'd ever seen magic like that. Beric had just yelled some kind of spell at the Drunk, a powerful enough blast to send her flying out of the tavern altogether. It was good that he'd at least been forced to reveal some of his abilities before it was his turn to die. Trying to think on the bright side here was a little difficult, but Maya was making a good effort. She didn't need to be told twice to chase after Ferra, when the Bard suggested it.

She jogged out into the rain, peering in the direction the Drunk had flown. Past the tree, which had been utterly crushed by something, she spotted the woman, back in the form of a Nord female, scrambling up the steps towards Dragonsreach, the seat of the Jarl. Twice as bright, half as long, Maya thought. Whatever spell she was using to transform herself into near invulnerability was obviously extremely taxing. They couldn't give her a chance to recuperate.

"She's vulnerable, come on!" She led the four of them out, and the Bard was not far behind, having finally slung the lute over his shoulder, and drawn sword and buckler instead. There was still a good deal more skip in his step than the witch figured was necessary in a moment like this. They ran by the Gildergreen, or the remains of it, at which point Maya set eyes on the dragon assaulting the residential district near the Hall of the Dead. Stonehammer's dragon, she remembered the color of its scales clearly. Were she not already hunting extremely dangerous prey, she might have been tempted to turn the others and hunt this instead, but as it was, she continued on towards the Cloud District.

They found two guards murdered in front of the double doors to Dragonsreach, their throats cleanly slit. It was unlikely they expected a threat from the Drunk in her Nord appearance, at least not until it was too late. This wasn't good. Dragonsreach was a big place. She'd be able to hide easily enough, at least for a time. Sinder could probably sniff her out, but if they took too long, she'd be in her more powerful state when they found her.

She hoped the others were doing alright, because they seemed to have their hands full here.

As things were, Ferra had not seemed particularly interested in them during the fight, and so minus a few ragged wounds on his hand from wood splinters and a dull ache in his back from where he’d hit the wall, Sinder was completely fine. Retrieving his shortsword from its spot in the table, he shot a glance at Adrienne and Van and shrugged, following Maya and the Bard out of the tavern. As far as beatings went, they’d all had significantly worse in the recent past, and even considering the fact that they were now practically sprinting by most standards, Sinderion was fine. Better than fine, actually—he was beginning to suspect that some part of him got some perverse enjoyment out of this kind of thing
 and that part might not be wholly bestial in nature.

Of course, he’d still rather his friends weren’t in danger of dying, which prevented him from feeling too guilty about the whole thing. The sight of a dragon he’d spotted before caused a hitch in his step, but they didn’t have a whole lot of time to spare, and if it noticed them, it clearly wasn’t interested. He was willing to return the sentiment, for now, though he did wonder. If the Stonehammer was hunting the Feral
 no. It was better not to think about those things right now. Anirne was capable, and so was Tarquin. They’d survive. Just as their friends on the gate would survive. Doubt was a luxury they could not afford.

Sinder hit the doors to Dragonsreach at nearly full speed, throwing them open to grant the rest an easy entrance, and immediately inhaled, sifting through the scents on the air until he found one that seemed right. Fairly typical, save for the extra
 tang, almost metallic, that the transformation produced. Even with the effect dispelled, the evidence of it lingered.

As a relatively short person, Adrienne was at something of a disadvantage when it came to sheer running speed. She couldn’t hope to match Sinder’s long, loping strides on her best day, so she was forced to take about a step and a half for every one of his. Still, she wasn’t injured, save for a few incidentals, as Ferra had outright ignored her. Keeping pace as best she could, she tried not to fall behind as they tore through Whiterun on their way to Dragonsreach. Of course, she hadn’t missed the actual dragon on the way there, but it seemed very intent on something else, and she supposed she should be grateful. If she wasn’t any use against whatever the Drunk could turn into, then she would be worse than that against the dragon
 and had been so before.

Bursting into the keep with the rest, she looked to Sinderion for a clue as to their direction. Since they’d seen Ferra running in here in her not-gigantic form, she could only assume there was some kind of time limit on that spell, or maybe it was just an energy limit. Either way, it was the first real glimmer of hope Adrienne had seen so far in this situation, and that was enough. “Where to, Sinder?” she asked between breaths. In response, the altmer headed back up the room towards the throne, veering slightly to the right and making for a staircase set behind the wall there. He could almost smell... fresh air?

"Laas Yah Nir," the Bard hissed from beside them, and his eyes lit with a slightly red glow, before it dissipated. He looked around, eyes eventually settling at the back of the hall, where a second set of double doors on the upper floor led to the chamber for which Dragonsreach had earned its name: the Great Porch, where the dragon Numinex was once trapped. "My lady seeks refuge on the Porch," he informed the others. "She has a powerful thirst, it would seem."

Drawing his bow, Sinderion nodded, hastening to the double doors and shouldering them open. The Porch itself was largely flat, partially covered and partially open, for the moment bereft of any of the guards and keep staff that would have normally occupied it. It was quite clear that the drop from the edge to the ground below was precipitous and likely fatal—nothing but mountains and sky loomed beyond from this angle.

The Drunk sat at a table, quaffing a blue liquid easily recognizable as a magicka restorative of some kind. Thinking fast, Sinder drew an arrow and fitted it to the string of his bow, taking aim and releasing in a fluid movement. He had to give it to the sniper—his arrows really were better than the ones the altmer was used to using, and the point hit home on the glass vessel, shattering it in the Drunk’s hand and spilling its contents everywhere. Honestly, he might have preferred to aim for her, but he had no idea what kind of protection she’d be able to muster against that, and it seemed best to keep her from regaining any more of her power than she already had.

Stowing the bow, he drew his swords instead, stepping aside so that the others would be more easily able to make it through the doorway, and charged.

The Drunk threw the remains of the magicka potion to shatter against the floor. She stood behind the long table at the edge of the balcony, her back to the stunning vista. Seeing the charge of her enemies again, she morphed back into her daedric form in a flash of light, taking the initiative by kicking the entire long table towards the oncoming Altmer before taking her greatsword in hand, charging for the Sellswords once more. She seemed quite intent on killing them this time, and frustratingly, the Bard was holding to the rear again, not immediately moving to help.

The sight of an enormous table careening towards her friend wasn’t exactly settling to Adrienne, but she breathed a sigh of relief when Sinder successfully jumped over it. Sometimes, she managed to forget that he could do things like that, since he was such a quiet, unassuming person normally. Of course, it was hardly going to be enough, given the daunting sight of the Drunk headed towards them, back in her giant, raging form. Adrienne was only just able to dive to the side in enough time to avoid the full brunt of a massive swing that surely would have killed her, and indeed, the very tip of the sword still scored a large gash on her left arm.

Unfortunately, the assault didn’t stop there, and she was forced to roll to avoid the next one, which smashed into the ground where she had been a moment before, flinging up masonry and coating her with rock dust on the upswing. The next one hammered down as the was reaching her hands and knees, and for once, she was glad she was so small, as she was able to half-crawl, half-dive under the construct’s legs and come out the other side, wide-eyed and shaking, dripping blood from one arm onto the paving-stones, but at least alive and with all her body parts intact. This was surely a test of endurance, but it was one she couldn’t be so sure she’d survive.

Vanryth had kept pace with his friend during the entire flight to the Porch. Anirne's conditioning and deep-tissue healing seemed to have taken its effect. Months ago, he would have been winded during the charge, but now he found his breath just above normal breathing. He'd have to remember to thank her again, if they all managed to survive this mess they found themselves in. However, when the drunk kicked the table, Vanryth found out that he still was no Sinderion. Instead of leaping over it, Vanryth tucked his shoulder and simply rolled onto the table, knocking silverware over and feeling the stubborn poke of a fork in his spine.

Better a fork than a greatsword, he found and he righted himself and stood on the table. Turned out, the table managed to give him an height advantage on the shifted drunk. Vanryth watched as the woman scored a deep gash along Adrienne's arm, and that set him off. He'd been good about keeping his temper under control, hell sometimes he felt like it was him who was the most level-headed of the group. But now with Adrienne's blood dripping to the floor, Vanryth found that anger crawling back. And he welcomed it like an old friend. If the bitch wanted a fight, then he'd give her a hell of one.

The Drunk had turned to face Adrienne once again, but fortunately she turned on the opposite side that Vanryth was. The balls of his feet dug deep into the table, kicking off what was left of the silverware, and he lunged, the steel of one of his longswords flashing in the air. The hit connected in the crook of her neck, but the metal only gave a little, and wrenched his hand. Not like he felt much of it. She retaliated by bring her greatsword around. He'd managed to hit the ground in time to get his feet under him, so he threw himself backward. Though not far enough as the sword dug into his chest, passing through the leather and chainmail like warm butter.

Still, it didn't keep Vanryth at bay for long. As soon as the sword was out of the way, he closed the distance standing a foot away from the looming figure. He'd like to see the bitch use the greatsword at that distance. Vanryth thust his hand forward and placed it squarely on the corner of her armor and churned out as much electricty as he could. If the transformation took Magicka to hold, he'd see her drained of it.

The force of the lightning got an annoyed growl of frustration from the Drunk, and served to give her a moment's pause, but she swiftly turned to give Vanryth a brutal kick to the chest for his efforts, before turning to attack Sinderion.

As far as Sinderion was concerned, this was an improvement over attacking his friends. Adrienne was not the most durable of people, and Vanryth not the quickest. He, however, had a decent mixture of the two, and after ducking around the first two forceful blows, stone chipping at his heels, Sinder miscalculated slightly and took a slash to the abdomen. Blood welled from the tear in his leathers, but it hardly even slowed him. He was too busy watching the Drunk’s limbs rather than her sword, for such large blows could not go without considerable telegraphing. A scholar, he was not, but there was more than one kind of intelligence.

Slowly, he turned them around so that they were moving away from the rest of the group and the door, out into more open space where he had more room to maneuver, even as another blow barely-anticipated sliced the pauldron on his left shoulder cleanly off, tearing the linen beneath but not his flesh. It was a game of inches, for though strong, Ferra was not slow. He wasn’t even trying to strike her at this point, as it would hardly do any good. What he needed to do was wear her down enough that she would be forced to revert to her normal form, whereupon she would be easy enough to dispose of. Bending back, he blinked when a few hairs of his forelock were sliced off in front of his face. Inches, indeed.

To hold her ire was to hold her attention, he supposed, and so he dove to the side, rolling back up onto his feet behind her in an attempt to draw her out further into the open. “Too slow,” he said, the usual reserve of his voice coming off as toneless and perhaps even bored. It was a dangerous game, but the Beast was quite enjoying it. Maybe
 maybe he even was, too. He was leaving a thin trail of crimson wherever he went, but the wound was bleeding only shallowly. He could last a bit longer yet. He just hoped it was long enough.

It likely wasn't possible to increase the Drunk's rage any further, as each blow was accompanied by a roar of fury now, but Sinder seemed to be doing a good job nonetheless. Maya watched in an extreme state of tension as Sinder dodged fatal blow after fatal blow, figuring out that the best way to defeat this woman was just to be a nuisance to her. She had kept her distance during the fight, knowing she was more useful at range here, for when the woman's armor and spell would eventually wear off, and as Vanryth had proved, lighting at least seemed to have some effect. She needed magicka, and lightning magic would take it away at a faster rate.

But Sinder couldn't dodge attacks forever, and so when she saw a chance, she took it, putting her hands together and sending a blast of electricity at her, attempting to throw off her latest wide horizontal strike. The attack served to pitch her forward slightly, at least weakening the strike somewhat, and it was now, at last, that the Bard chose to insert himself into the fight once more. For once he was silent as he drew his blade and shield, leaping forward into the fray, swiping a pointless blow against the Drunk's shoulder, and maneuvering in between her and Sinder.

Except it wasn't pointless, but Ferra soon redirected her anger at this true target of hers, attempting to take his head from his shoulders. Beric ducked down and dashed sideways, putting his back to the edge of the Porch and retreating. She pursued him out, swinging and missing and raging all the way to the edge, where the long table had once been. As though he were fencing the Bard poked and prodded at her armor, scoring points but earning himself no real wounds on Ferra. When he heel bumped up against the railing, however, he seemed to have had enough, opening up for another shout.

"Krii Lun Aus!"

A blast of dark purple magical energy erupted from the Bard's mouth, enveloping the Drunk. It was potentially on course for the Sellswords as well, if they couldn't avoid it, though Maya was far enough to the side to be out of the way. The effect was to immediately stagger the Drunk backwards and create several fractures over each piece of her armor. Her sword suddenly lowered until the tip clanged against the floor, and she fell to a knee. Her body was first to revert to the form of a Nord woman, but the armor soon cracked and fell away as well, leaving nothing but a tavern wench holding a little knife.

A purple arrow thrummed into her back, and she cried out, falling heavily over onto her side. She had begun to crawl before Maya reached her. This would have to be planned well, she knew. As soon as the Drunk was dead, the Bard was her target. They could get both of them right here and now. She sent a harsh kick to the Drunk's back, stopping the crawling efforts, before she conjured a wicked Daedric dagger and plunged it down into Ferra's skull with a sickening crack. Instantly she was motionless, and instantly Maya abandoned the knife, drawing up a bow and firing an arrow off at Beric.

"Feim Zii Gron!"

With a flash of light the Bard turned bright blue and almost entirely transparent, and the arrow sailed right through the center of his forehead. Maya stared in outrage and confusion for a moment before drawing up another, but the Bard has his escape, and he knew it. "I'm off to read some books and kill the book-keeper, it would seem. Until we meet again, deadly friends!" And with that, he leapt over the edge of the Porch, falling easily a hundred feet or more. Maya looked over the edge in time to see him smack rather horrendously against the ground outside of the city walls, but get up as though nothing had occurred at all. At that point, she watched him take off, heading north east away from the city. The Stormcloaks had no presence on this side of the city, and were not around to accost him.

It seemed she would have to settle for one kill today.

It was at about this time that Anirne and Tarquin, having been delayed by the lack of an obvious trail, at last arrived on the porch. Taking in the conditions of those that remained, she went immediately to Van first, followed by Adrienne and then Sinderion. Maya seemed uninjured, by and large. Judging from the dead Ferra and the lack of a matching body for Beric, they had managed the first kill, but not the second. Well, at this point, that he was gone was enough. She was sure the battle at the gates grew only more pitched, and she worried for the three they had lent to the cause. Though all six of them were likely tired, they were not so battered as to be useless, and that meant they would be able to lend their aid to the efforts outside.

Patting Sinder’s arm gently, she straightened from where she’d bent to get a better look at the gash over his stomach, and sighed, a sound of fatigue but resignation. They were not yet done. The others knew it too, from the looks on their faces. In the absence of an immediate fight for her life, Adrienne’s had paled a bit, and she was allowing the anxiety to show through. Anirne could hardly blame the child for that. “Well,” she started, “now that we’re patched up, shall we make our way to the city gates?”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Drayk tossed aside another empty magicka potion, getting back to work. This guy would probably need to lose his arm soon if he couldn't heal it. He only had one magicka potion left... or was it two? He wasn't sure, but he knew he was running low on power, and the Stormcloaks weren't running low on men. They were paying dearly for each inch they pushed the line back, but to Drayk, it seemed like they were fighting just as fearlessly as the Legion was. And there were so many more yet to fight their way inside the gate. He wondered where the Stonehammer was among them. Hopefully far, far away.

He was aware that the dragon had returned, though it seemed to be confining itself to the city, and not the battle proper, and though Drayk knew that meant it was probably going after some of his friends, he couldn't help but be glad. The death that thing would be able to bring to the battlefield... especially if it wasn't in the mood to pick sides, and the last time they'd seen it it had shown no love for the Stormcloaks with Stonehammer, burning them to ashes just as it did the Imperials. It was an evil creature. It had forced Drayk's fire back upon him. He probably would have brought it forth on his own eventually, but the dragon had given him no choice. Someday he would help slay it, quite possibly tonight, if the opportunity came. Maybe the others would be able to drive it off first.

"That's the best I can do, I gotta get to the rest," Drayk said, pulling the soldier back to his feet. To his credit, he wasn't complaining, even though his arm had nearly been cut off. The heal had been hastily done, but there simply wasn't time. Others would die if he spent too long on one. He ran over to the next soldier he found, cut down by an arrow. This one was already dead.

The battle was more heated now, and as a result, the lines blurred to the point where firing arrows in volleys wasn’t going to help much, given the risk of taking down an ally instead of an enemy, so Soren had given the archers their discretion, and currently took his own, Firing from an imperial quiver at his feet rather than his own for the moment. He was going to need those more later, like as not, and truthfully, having a height advantage like this made the whole exercise kind of like shooting fish in a barrel. Lots and lots of fish. Far too many for him to actually get through, but then war was futility, and as it turned out, enough mutual futility could generate some kind of result eventually. Sighing through his nose, he ducked an incoming projectile from a Stormcloak, then popped his head back up over the rampart to observe with a glimmer of amusement the last enemy catapult finally going down. Of course, half the city was probably burning at this point, and one of their two had been likewise destroyed, but it was something.

Stories told of war always spoke of the glory won by its fighters. Songs were sung about the courage of its heroes. To hear them tell it war is just a chance to win pride and honor or die a glorious death in the attempt. It was all lies. Lynly knew this as she watched it rage around her. Caught in the middle of a sea and blood, she found herself thinking about these songs. How they covered up the brutality and the immense loss of life on both sides. Shared blood poured from men and women on both sides. She was not so naive as to believe the stories. Just like Soren once said, a bard will try to dress up anything in order to produce a story.

But for now, she'd settle for survival. An iron sword hammered the steel on her shield and forced her a step backward. She retaliated by thrusting her sword forward and cutting down the offender. Before she could take another step forward, he too was replaced by another soldier wearing the same blue and silver outfit. It was much of the same story for the entire Imperial line. They were being pushed back, but there was a price for every step. Bodies were beginning to litter the battlefield. Lynly tossed a glance behind them to gauge the distance between them and the gate. If they could get past that wall, then Soren and his archers could prove to be more effective. If they brought the fight inside that wall, then the Stormcloaks would have a fight on two sides. And they'd have to fight on their dirt.

Instead of being forced to take steps backward, Lynly took them herself. The men fighting on either side of her likewise took them in order to keep a uniform line. "Make them pay for every step! Lead them toward the gates, give our archers a shot at glory!" Despite her words, she didn't feel very glorious. She was killing her neighbors, there was no glory to be won. But she would not let the fight die in her bones. She would fight hard and she'd keep strong. The Stormcloaks were not taking Whiterun. Ulfric would not get his kingslaying hands on the city. Not while she still drew breath.

The Stormcloaks were pouring in through the first gate in ever growing numbers, driving the force of initial defenders back steadily, and now that Lynly had given the order to fall back and battle them at the second level, the fight was quickly moving towards where Drayk was currently crouched, trying to heal a woman who'd been stabbed through the gut. He kept looking up and to the fighting, and seeing it come closer every time. Soon the Imperial line would back up onto him, and that would be disastrous. The Legionnaire was coughing a copious amount of blood. Drayk dragged her by the arms further back and away from the fighting to buy himself more time, but a Stormcloak arrow of all things found her heart just as he was about to set back to work. "Damn it!"

Captains at the second gate were motioning for everyone to get over the drawbridge and through the second gate. There was nothing more Drayk could do here, not without resorting to fire, and there were simply too many friendlies around to make that an option. He ran towards the beckoning soldiers, boots thumping over the wood of the bridge. The end of the transition was difficult, as the entire battle spilled through before they got the bridge up and cut off further Stormcloak advance. The dozen or so soldiers that worked their way inside the second gate were quickly overwhelmed.

The drawbridge lever itself was located directly above the gate itself, the wall of which was situated between the rocky walls before Whiterun itself and the hill looking down on the massed Stormcloak infantry pushing up the road. Already Stormcloaks were trying to climb their way up the rocky approaches, to get a foothold on the wall and lower the bridge for their men. The ones stuck on the other side of the moat formed a wall of their shields to better protect themselves from arrow fire while they waited. Among the ones beginning to climb up the rocks was a massive Nord cased head to foot in shining steel armor, a massive hammer in one hand, and an oddly glowing round shield in the other.

Oh, good. It was time for the oil and pitch. Slinging his bow over his back, Soren cracked his knuckles almost absently, though the look of intense focus on his face gave the lie to such a casual gesture. He redirected half the archers to shoot men off the approach as they climbed, but that wouldn’t hold them off for long, and to this end, he was pleased to see that the siege engineers were still preparing for the eventual access of the drawbridge, tying the cauldrons at precarious angles with rope. Why that rocky path had not been addressed decades ago was not something the sniper bothered to contemplate, but at least it gave him more or less helpless targets. With a bit of luck that he wasn’t counting on, lovely, Drayk, and the footsoldiers would have a bit of a breather before more Stormcloaks came streaming in through the gate behind them.

He did not, however, aim for Stonehammer. He had no way of knowing which of the other Representatives in town were alive or dead, and killing that man before it was his turn to die could condemn Maya or Tarquin to consequences that frankly did not bear contemplating. He would not be responsible for that, though he stopped none of the other archers from making the attempt. None of them would be able to find a chink in that armor, anyway, though it would be convenient if they did.

But the Stonehammer’s progress was inexorable, and Soren saw where this was going a mile off. Thinking quickly, he ordered his siege engineers to light the pitch on fire, and then for everyone to get off the wall and join the back of the ranks waiting for Stormcloak incursion. That was easy enough—a simple sloping stone wall would allow them to do that, one guarded by a portion of Lynly’s troops, and those under the other field commanders. He didn’t have much time before Vodrin was on his position, but he needed to time this just right. Knowing it would be difficult for the approaching Stormcloaks to know just how many men were up here, he fitted three arrows to his bow and fired them all simultaneously, each hitting a mark, but not with his usual precision. It didn’t matter—this was a ruse, after all.

As soon as the Stormcloaks were close enough to be committed to this course, still assuming there were multiple people trying to defend this spot, he drew his sword, slicing through the ropes that bound the drawbridge and letting it down with a hard, splintering thud. Maybe, if just a little bit of fortune was on his side, the wood would be weakened and collapse if too many rushed on at once. Either way, he came within a direct line of sight of Stonehammer just as the first of the Stormcloaks started to cross. With a defiant smirk and a cocky mock salute, Soren chopped his way through several more ropes—these the ones holding his burning pitch and hot oil in place. In great heated torrents, these materials slid down onto the incoming Stormcloaks, assaulting them as they tried to rush inward to meet the Imperial defenders. He was not quite so callus that the screams were musical, but he gave credit where it was due, and he was a damn clever bastard.

“Regards from the Sellswords,” he said jauntily, then swung down to hang by his fingertips from the gate, rocking forward a little so that he landed atop another encroaching Stormcloak, this one somehow managing to avoid the oil and tar. He did not have such an easy time avoiding Soren’s blade, and the mercenary cut himself a hasty path to the Imperial line, where he took up a spot next to Lynly at the front.

“Miss me, lovely?”

Despite the initial shock of a group of their men being burned on the bridge they were supposed to cross, the Stormcloaks pushed forward, relentlessly smashing into the Imperial lines and trying to cut their way through. This effort was helped immensely when a massive, armored figure leaped from the wall above them where the drawbridge crank was located, smashing his hammer down into the tightly packed Legion soldiers. A powerful blast of energy emanated from the hammer upon striking the blow, crushing the head entirely of the man it hit, and sending everyone in a short radius around him sprawling into their neighbor, sowing instant chaos among the mid ranks of Imperials. Without their support from behind the front line heaved inward, Stormcloaks slipping through the ranks, until it turned into an unorganized, chaotic melee, all who dared to cross the Stonehammer's path meeting a quick and brutal end.

"I was beginning to get lonely," Lynly said. Just then, the large unmistakable form of Vodrin descended upon the battle, throwing the lines into complete chaos. An unformed curse came out of Lynly's mouth next followed by a shaking of her head. Things were about to get difficult, as if they already weren't. She gave Soren a tired looked before she turned toward the Stonehammer "Hold! Don't let anyone through!" She said, shifting her way through the line. Vodrin needed to be dealt with, and quickly, lest the line completely crumble beneath him. Before long, even traversing the line became a chore as it was becoming increasingly polluted with Stormcloaks. One recieved the rim of her shield for his windpipe for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Finally, she managed to reach Stonehammer, but she was no fool. She was not about to rush him while he swung that hammer again. She remembered what happened to the Imperial who had tried that in order to apprehend him months ago. She'd never seen a man fly so far before. "Vodrin!" She yelled as she beat on her shield. She hopped to catch his attention, and when he turned his helmeted head toward her she continued. "Let's finish what we started a long time ago, what say you!?" She said, beating her shield one last time.

His face was a metal mask, black behind his helmet, even the eye holes largely dark, and there wasn't an inch of him not covered in heavy metal plate, though he moved as if it were chainmail. Few Imperials dared to get in his way, so it didn't take long for him to notice Lynly. Every smashing blow of his hammer had created a small blast of magical force in addition to the immense strength of the blow, and there was clearly something magical about his shield as well, as it glowed somewhat in a blue aura. He made no real response to Lynly, as perhaps the words would have been muffled under the helm. It was clear what his purpose here was: not to lead the men and give commands, but to simply do the dirty work that needed to be done, and win the battle. His shield raised, he moved to eliminate the most dangerous defenders.

Lynly's cheeks puffed out from the sigh she exhaled. This false bravado was going to get her killed sooner or later, and chances were better for sooner rather than later. She spun her sword and men of the Imperial troops and even the Stormcloaks darted out of the way of the Stonehammer's oncoming path. This, this was not going to be fun. Still, she was a warrior, and she'd back down from no fight. She raised her shield and laid her sword on the rim, patiently waiting for Vodrin to make his way to her. Some part of her, deep within her nordic heart, wanted to fight this man, to test her strength on the mountain of muscle. She wanted to push herself and to push him. She wanted to show him what a Nordic warrior looked like.

Her heart beat faster and faster as he grew closer and closer, though not cause of fear, but excitement. The battlefield was hardly optimal for this kind of duel. She wanted to face him alone, with no eyes upon them and no hands to interfere. But when was the last time she got anything she wanted? This would do for now. Firmly set upon her course Lynly waited with bated breath for the contest to begin. She needn't wait long before Stonehammer was upon her with three long gaits. Knowing better to stand and deliver with that hammer of his, Lynly dove out of the way as it struck the ground and shooting out a shockwave.

Turns out she hadn't made it far enough away as part of the shockwave caught her and flipped her rightside up. Lynly found herself staring upward at the rainclouds above as the rain fell upon her face. Her eyes widened as the shock of Vodrin's sheer power worked its way through her brain. That was just unfair, a man that size using magically enchanted weapons. It was unsporting. However, she knew the dangers of staying still for too long and she found her feet under her before long, facing off with Stonehammer once more. She twisted her neck until a pop resulted and rolled her shoulder. She was in it for the long haul.

Lynly settled into her stance once more and began to slowly circle the Stonehammer, half minding him, half minding her rear. Stormcloaks were still present, and she'd hate for this duel to be decided by a backstabbing. Vodrin's mask slowly followed Lynly, each waiting for the other to strike first. Lynly knew her strengths, knew what she had to do, and had enough patience to hold off. Inevitably, Stonehammer stuck again, swinging his hammer in a downward spike like last. However, unlike last time, didn't dive to the outside, but inside, past Stonehammer and landed on his rear. She swung outward with her sword though it was intercepted with Vodrin's glowing shield. Lucky for her it didn't seem enchanted to reflect damage or anything that could hurt her just yet.

Vodrin's hammer came around next, aiming to knock Lynly's head off of her shoulders. She fell onto her back as the hammer passed over her, and she continued to roll backward until she rose to a knee a distance away from the Stonehammer. Lynly needed to get the hammer out of his hands somehow if she was to best him, though easier said than done. Still, it'd be easier to do if she was closer-- despite his massive size. So to that end she let her shield slip from her hand and stuck her sword into the ground and launched off of her knee at the towering man.

She put every pound of her entire weight into her shoulder as she tackled him. It must have surprised him for her to leave her weapons behind and launch herself bodily at him, since she managed to take him off of her feet. She found herself ontop of the man wrestling for his hammer. To be honest, it was going a lot better than she expected, but it wasn't to last. Vodrin's shield came up and smashed into her face. It rattled her brains and she felt the cartilage in her nose snap. The blood ran freely down her lips and chin. Next Vordin used the haft of his hammer to throw Lynly off of him, and she came to a stop by her weapons once more.

By the time the Stonehammer made it to his feet, Lynly was just coming out of her daze. She had just enough time to pick her her sword and shield before he was upon her. This time, she had no time to react, so she did the only thing she could. Lyly threw up her shield and intercepted the full blow of the hammer. The force of the impact lifted her off of the ground and threw her into the crowd of soldiers, though the only sensation she felt was the one of falling through the air.

The battlefield was an utter mess, and at this point, it was scarcely more than every man for himself. On the plus side, at least they retained enough semblance of sense not to hit anyone dressed the same way
 not that it helped Soren any, and more than once, he’d had to waste time blocking or dodging an uncertain Legionnaire’s swing. Morons. Once, he would have simply killed them, but he hadn’t been that man in some time, and so usually he just slipped away, leaving them to choose a new target and banking on the fact that not everyone was panicking. He saw Lynly move to intercept Stonehammer, but there wasn’t time to be concerned about it. She’d be fine- he had that much faith in her, anyway. That he had faith in these people at all was strange enough—its quantity was just another puzzle. Still, he wasn’t going to complain.

It was hard to keep track of time, but he estimated that another ten minutes passed, during which the new sword was thoroughly reddened, and he accumulated a few cuts and scratches, a small number compared to the new nicks in his leathers. The quarters were just too close to use his bow, which turned out to be something of a boon—in that it meant one of his arms was free when Lynly came crashing into the part of the field he occupied. He couldn’t catch her, exactly, but he did manage to get the arm around her waist and save her the worst of the fall, pulling with some effort to set her back on her feet properly. “Don’t have too much fun,” he mock-scolded, running his index digit up the column of her throat to the underside of her chin. Alas, duty called, and he was forced to turn to deal with yet another Stormcloak, but not before he winked and half-grinned, shaking his head just a bit. For all the blood and the soreness and the chaos, life was quite good.

The attempt to reinforce the others was not quite so simple as walking out the city’s front gate, and Anirne supposed she could understand that. Letting them out would mean letting Stormcloaks in, and she was quite certain they did not want that, regardless of how much help this small, haggard group could be. So, rather than press the point, they chose to scale the walls, aided by staircases, to the ramparts, whereupon stood the Legion’s last line of archers, though most of these were honestly Whiterun guards rather than Imperial soldiers as such. It was about fifteen feet to the ground on the other side, which would necessitate some care but should not injure anyone if they were properly wary.

From here, Anirne could see that the battle was pitched, and largely chaotic. Pockets of fighting were a bit more organized, but the Stonehammer usually seemed inclined to break those open and scatter them. Frowning, Anirne shot a bolt of lighting at the man, only to watch with trepidation as he raised his shield to meet it, and
 nothing. The magic vanished as though she’d never called it into the world in the first place. That was troubling, and would seriously dent this group’s capability to do anything to him.

Beside her, Adrienne had spotted at least one member of the group—Drayk was near the gate itself, dealing with the press of those Stormcloaks inclined to rush it. There was no time to stand around here, then. Looking over the edge, she gauged the distance and picked a flat-looking spot, hopping over the edge and landing solidly on the other side. As soon as she did, she was drawing her sword. There was a little bit of ground to cover in between here and there, but this at least, she felt she could do.

The Sellswords arrived in force, reunited from their separate battles, and with them the Stormcloak advance was more or less halted. There was little point in engaging the Stonehammer when they were not allowed to slay him, and when so many other soldiers would gain a foothold when the attention was turned from him. Thus, the Sellswords and the Imperials dodged the massive warrior when they could, blasting through the Stormcloaks until they had driven them entirely over the moat and out away from the gate. At that point, the Stonehammer was more or less fighting on his own, and when it became clear he would make no further progress, he retreated, falling back to rejoin his men.

At this point, the Jarl marched out himself with all the men under his command, the full force of the defense throwing itself at the attackers in an effort to break them. Stonehammer or no, the Imperials were able to fight downhill, pushing the rebels back to the first gate and out beyond, where some of the attackers had had enough turning to flee, and where some of them ran, others questioned why they continued to fight. A trickle turned into a flood, and soon the back of the army had broken, the soldiers fleeing in droves back to the east. The battle had been won.

For their service to the Empire, the Sellswords were rewarded handsomely, with a chest of gold to be held in Dragonsreach until the conclusion of their business, to be claimed upon their return to the Mentor's manor. In addition, each one of them was named a Thane of Whiterun, honored citizens. For the moment, however, the most pleasing reward was the use of the city's castle, Dragonsreach, as a safe haven to rest before they made the next push, to follow the Bard to the Library, north of Winterhold. Five of the Representatives remained, and the Game was nearing its end.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives
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The morning after the storm dawned clear and bright, the earth still wet and the air yet fresh. Some of the rain had frozen overnight, lending the blades of grass a clear shine that they did not usually possess. If it weren’t for all the ruined houses and the rents torn in the ground from the dragon and the Drunk, it might be impossible to tell that Whiterun had ever seen war at all.

Sinderion was personally inclined to forget as much of it as he could. There was something to be said for a good fight, he supposed, but war was something else entirely. Watching the priests of Kynareth commend the dead to their graves was not something he wanted to do, and their words—not to mention the smell of the funeral pyres—reached him easily from basically anywhere in the city. It was hard to not hear that much weeping. Even Dragonsreach was not immune. Though the primary atmosphere was one of celebration, there was a palpable undertone of mourning as well, and honestly, neither atmosphere suited his mood at the moment. He didn’t feel like celebrating when there was still much work to do—Windhelm had shown them what the price of that folly was. But nor did he want to grieve, or be near too much grief. It made him uncomfortable, thinking about what it would be like to be one of the mourners
 or one of the dead, and his friends the bereaved.

The Jarl had been generous enough to provide them all with individual rooms, though he did not doubt that some of the members of the group were bunking together. Returning to his, Sinder swapped his clothing to something more durable, though he left off most of the armor. The dark brown tunic and tan breeches would suit his purposes just fine, and he tied the laces at his collarbones with a simple knot and stepped into his leather boots. He might end up going barefoot, actually, but for now he’d bring them anyway, just in case. Leaving his swords behind, he instead took up a knife of middling-length, clearly designed as a tool rather than a weapon, and slung his bow and quiver over his shoulders. As always, a few locks of his hair were in his face, escaped from the leather cord that bound the rest of it into a tail at the nape of his neck, but he was used to that by now.

At first, he’d intended to go by himself. None of his friends were terribly enthused hunters, and while he’d gathered that the sniper took up the occupation sometimes, it was not something Sinder would ever ask him to do. Of course, there was Maya, and he supposed that if anyone would share his desire to get out of civilization for a while, it would be her. She was also his friend, as he’d told her, and for this reason, he figured that it couldn’t hurt to make the offer. If she was otherwise engaged, well
 he told himself he wouldn’t be disappointed, though the accuracy of the thought was debatable even to him.

Naturally, it was the moment after he’d knocked on her door that he started to second-guess himself, particularly his appearance. Sinderion had never been a man all that concerned with how he looked—which probably went some distance to explaining the fact that he hadn’t had a proper haircut in years or wore mostly dull garments in duller colors. Nor did he have any particular opinion on his height or his facial structure or his lineage or anything like that. Which was a shame, because in the space between his knocking on and her answering the door, all of that suddenly seemed very relevant. This engendered several seconds of what might be describable as panic, though he only sort of understood it. At least he managed to wrestle his expression back under his control before she saw it
 he hoped.

However much thought Sinder had given to his appearance, Maya had obviously given less. There were several heavy thumping noises from inside the room that could have been stumbling footfalls, and a hissed curse. A few moments later, a bleary eyed Maya cracked the door open, peeking outside from behind the door and blinking several times. It was obviously still quite dark in her room, and she squinted in the light of the hallway. Her black hair was blatantly untended, tufts of it sticking out in rather odd directions. "Yeah, who... oh. Hey, you."

She smiled upon realizing that it was Sinder that had come knocking, and opened the doorway enough to stand in it, at which point it would become apparent that she was wearing absolutely nothing apart from the bed sheet rather hastily wrapped around her torso, only barely going far enough down so as to reach her thighs. "I'm afraid you woke me up." The look on her face plainly said that she was well aware how uncomfortable the situation would probably make Sinder, and that she was undoubtedly finding a certain enjoyment in that. She leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, tilting her head until it too touched the wood. Her arms, thankfully, were crossed over her chest, keeping the bedsheet over her. "Need me for something?"

It took a few seconds to register properly, but his reaction doubtless would not disappoint, were his discomfort amusing. After he really noticed Maya’s current state of undress, Sinderion choked on the mouthful of air he’d been about to use to attempt to ask her hunting without sounding the inarticulate idiot again, which soundly obliterated that plan. For another moment, he was wide-eyed and stunned, then he realized he was staring and coughed awkwardly, folding his arms behind his back and focusing his eyes on a fixed point of the doorframe a few inches from the crown of her head, and trying to ignore the fact that he was a seriously-impressive shade of scarlet at the moment. Gods, was she really comfortable answering the door like that? Did he come across as that oblivious? Or was it just inconsequential who happened to be standing here? Honestly, he didn’t like either thought much, and they were both rather presumptuous of him besides, so he tried not to dwell on them.

Finding something to say in answer to the query was a bit harder. “Er
 hunting?” The word came out more raspy than he’d intended, half an octave lower than he usually spoke, and this only caused him to go redder, trailing his eyes to the ceiling. Clearing his throat, he tried again, and this time at least the words themselves were more or less normal. “That is to say
 I’m going hunting. Outside.” Obviously, Sinder. What in Oblivion would you hunt in Dragonsreach? This was certainly not his proudest moment, but it was rapidly closing in on most humiliating. Gods, he was a fool. “I thought
 you might like to go with me?” It was definitely inflected more like a question than the statement it was supposed to be, but it was coherent, so he’d take it.

He made the mistake of looking back down, as one should when awaiting an answer, and this time, he turned his whole head to the side. “S-sorry. About waking you, I mean.” And staring at you.

Well, if she hadn't intended on being stared at, she probably wouldn't have opened the door that wide, now would she? Maya broke into a large grin as he got the words out, but she let him get through it without outright laughing, though she certainly could have. She was quite comfortable answering the door like this, though she would have avoided doing so if it had been anyone else asking for her. She'd made him extremely uncomfortable on several occasions before, and he seemed to care no less for her after each time, so she figured it was harmless to have her fun. Maybe he'd get used to it, eventually.

That thought took her to a strange place, so she shook herself out of it. "It's no problem at all," she said, sliding back behind the door a little, taking one hand to idly paw at her hair, trying to negotiate some kind of truce with it. "As for the hunting... yes. I'd like that." Interestingly, it was now she who seemed to be acting somewhat awkwardly, and it creeped into her smile a little, her face turning a slight shade of red, though not nearly so bad as Sinder's. "I'd say there's no point in waiting, but I'm afraid you'll have to wait for me to get dressed. One minute." She held the smile on him as she shut the door again, the notable sound of the sheet falling to the floor immediately following.




The hunting itself was a very smooth process, almost surprisingly-so, for two people who’d never worked together in such a capacity before. Maya’s shot was better than his, he’d admit, but Sinder liked to think he was a little quieter. Of course, his nose enabled them to track and pursue quarry rather relentlessly, though in the end, they bypassed quite a number of smaller creatures for a large bull elk—a rather incredible size even for its species, the creature was about five and a half feet tall at the shoulder, with another four feet just in antlers. If anything was going to feed the people at the Jarl’s table tonight, it was that. He wasn’t honestly particularly concerned about achieving this, but there was no denying he liked a challenge in this arena, and between the two of them, they managed to bring it down, though in the end, Sinder had to shift himself some claws and teeth just to be sure.

There was no way they’d be able to move what was literally a ton of animal back to Whiterun by themselves, but they marked the spot and decided to inform the Jarl’s men about the location of the kill. The walk back started out silent, as Sinderion allowed the adrenaline that had built up in his system to gradually subside. He didn’t feel a particular need to talk, exactly, but he was aware that the opportunities to do so were dwindling. Besides
 he wasn’t exactly sure where they stood, after the last one, and he would admit if only to himself that this was a question of some (considerable) concern to him. Taking a deep breath through his nose, he figured he’d venture the question. At least she was wearing clothes this time—that would make it a little easier to think straight. “Are you
? Nn.” The discontent syllable stopped the query short. Frowning, he rubbed halfheartedly at the back of his neck. “‘Are you all right’ seems like a stupid question,” he admitted finally, glancing down at her. “But I’m not sure what else to ask.”

Maya's dark grey moccasins padded along quietly, though it was hard to avoid the occasional squish after such a heavy rain. She'd managed to tame her hair somewhat, but it was still a bit of a mess, and after that hunt, she figured a bath would be in order. Best not to tell Sinder that, though.

"'Yes' seems like a stupid answer," she admitted back, "but I think I am alright. There's five of us left now, the Representatives, three more that need to fall until it's only Tarquin and I. At that point..." she trailed off, fearing what she was going to say, as it still seemed to be in doubt. But then she sighed heavily. "Trying to fight the rules so that we both live might get us all killed instead, but... I don't see any other way that feels right anymore. Even if I could find a way out of this on my own... I don't think I'd be willing to pay the price anymore."

That was saying something, considering where she'd come from, solitary and independent, using charisma only for the purpose of wrapping others around her little finger and getting them to do her bidding. She could hardly decide when she'd stopped doing that with the Sellswords, but it was possible she'd never really been doing it at all. She'd been trying to convince herself that she would be able to discard them this entire time, when really it had been they who'd slipped into her heart, and not the other way around. Him especially. Even if it meant her life or death... she didn't think she could do without this in her future. Even if that meant there would be no future at all.

"I'd like to do this more often, I think," she said, breathing in the morning air.

There was a moment there, when it felt like she teetered on some edge, and he knew he did as well. For a few precarious seconds, though he walked as steadily as ever, Sinderion did not breathe. When at last the rest of the sentence followed, he remembered to do so, and an unfamiliar lightness settled over him, where there had once been a weight. Almost without realizing he’d done it, he smiled, and it was not the wry thing he’d shown himself capable of, but something more genuine and honest. Of course, there was still a hint of fang in it, something he realized belatedly and hastened to correct. Strange, how he hadn’t even noticed until he’d attempted that
 usually, he was hyper-aware of the physiological changes in himself. This time, he’d affected them on purpose, but even that wasn’t generally so
 natural.

“I’d
 I think I would, as well,” he said, though he was careful about it rather than flippant. It almost sounded like she was suggesting that she’d stay, after all of this was done, but that wasn’t a conversation he sure he knew how to have, and he couldn’t know for sure that was what she’d meant to imply. It
 ached, a bit, to suppose the contrary, but
 he sighed. In some ways, he thought he’d come far, and in others, not nearly far enough.

She smiled at that. It was a plan, then. The rabbit population of Skyrim was growing unruly, after all, without her around to constantly put them in their place. "And how are you doing? I mean... with yourself, that is." She knew the Sellswords to be closer than ever, and that basically nothing could get in between them at this point. Together they were an unbreakable team, but on their own they seemed to still struggle with their own issues. She hadn't pressed Sinder on his lycanthropy in quite some time, largely due to her own increasing doubts, and the fact that when she'd tried, he'd seemed largely disinterested. But she'd always wanted to help with this, and she'd always believed he was going to conquer it before he was rid of it, or before it ever gained control over him.

He considered the question for a while, though not perhaps with the same level of aversion he’d held to before. He really wanted to be able to provide an answer on that matter, not just convey his unease with the subject matter. “For so long
” he started, glancing down at his hands. “I’ve thought of that part of me as an it, an entity somehow distinct from me. I fought it, I lost to it, and then I fought it some more and beat it, and now I struggle against it. I suppose
 it was easier to think that way, because somehow, it meant that I was better than the thing that killed those people—or at least different.” Even now, it was very difficult to think otherwise. He’d never tried to deny that he was responsible for those deaths, that he’d killed and consumed those people—but somehow, he’d been able to avoid the conclusion that it was really him that wanted to. He’d always been the one that lost control, and never the one who took over afterwards.

“But I can’t deny that I’ve needed it. I’m not sure what I’d be without it, anymore. If it wasn’t there, I wouldn’t have been able to help you, against the Horizon. I’d not have survived the attempt, either.” He could name dozens of instances in which it had been useful in smaller ways—he could hardly imagine functioning properly without his nose anymore, and had lost his understanding of how other people could be half-deaf and get along as they did in the world. Even pieces of the personality—recklessness, a sort of cavalier attitude towards combat, the way he’d taunted the drunk—these were emerging with more frequency, and he wasn’t necessarily against that. It felt
 normal, somehow.

“It’s not a separate being. It’s part of me, and
 I still don’t know what to do about that. Sometimes, having those claws, these teeth, it feels as ordinary as breathing, as reflex, as moving in a forest, as
 hunting.” He smiled ruefully, shaking his head with an air of bewilderment. “It’s—I’m—some part of me is violent, and very, very impulsive.” Actually, the impulsiveness made him as wary as the violence. The degree to which he’d been using his abilities made the violence containable, but some of the things he’d been thinking lately were
 most unlike what he’d come to see as himself. Not that he was exactly sure what he was anymore, but he was learning, perhaps.

"When we first met, I wanted to push you into it," Maya admitted, her gaze falling somewhat low. "It's always been easy to see how much more powerful it makes you." She was trying to remain in the business of being honest, and so she told it how it had been, even though it hurt a little to admit. Really, she'd had no idea if Sinder could control himself as much or more than the Feral could, but even still, the advantages of having someone willing to use the strengths of a werewolf were too much to pass up on.

"Now... I believe you can make peace with it, by accepting that it's a part of you. Because it isn't all of you, and while some part of you is violent, another part is the most caring person I've ever met." She turned her head to look at him, no longer content with staring at the ground. "So... whatever happens, I believe we'll be all right. You've convinced me of that much."

Sinder hummed a note in the back of his throat, for a moment unsure exactly how he wanted to respond to that. It was no small bit of praise, what she’d said, and he was warmed by it. In the end, he reached out, and, as though handling something very delicate indeed, took a stray strand of her hair, curling it around his finger and tucking it behind her ear. His fingertips lingered on her jaw for a bit longer than was really necessary for this, but he didn’t snatch his hand away, simply letting it drop back to his side naturally. “Thank you,” he said simply, though there were a thousand other things he could have said. That one, though, seemed like the right one, and for once, he hadn’t needed to consider it all that much.

He wasn’t quite there yet, at peace with what he was, but all of this had made it seem possible, and her insistence, however genuine it had or hadn’t been at the time, was certainly a part of that. He couldn’t hold any of it against her, considering, even if he’d wanted to.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives
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By the middle of the afternoon, the day had warmed considerably, and though there was still a bit of dampness from the storm present, most of it had dried up. A group of the Jarl’s men had been sent to retrieve something or another that her brother and Maya had left in the forest, which gave Anirne a rather appealing idea: it was perhaps a good day to take a walk, especially if that walk happened to take her out of the city, away from the busy population and—she was a bit chagrined to admit—away from Farengar. She didn’t usually expect people to recognize the sigil worked in blue on the back of her cloak, but apparently, Whiterun’s court mage really knew his lore. She was slightly less appreciative of the constant questions, as though he might perhaps be angling after a membership invitation. Even if it had worked that way
 well, it was a thought rather lacking in charity, and she shook it off. He really wasn’t that insufferable as far as scholars went. She just needed some time away from all the people.

The cloisters never seemed so busy, regardless of the number of people in them. Anirne was unaccustomed to such large, noisy groups. Not that she minded company, but
 too much of a good thing was perhaps not the way to go, at least not for her. Thinking that perhaps one or more of the others might be of a similar mindset, she went looking, and happened upon Tarquin, inside the study. Perhaps he was also unused to being so surrounded, for he seemed to agree readily enough, and she decided against delaying any further. Most of the carnage outside the gates had been cleaned up—many of the bodies burned in funeral rites for war-dead, and the rain having taken care of the majority of the blood and offal. She kept walking anyway, and they soon found themselves breaking a trail alongside the river, the sounds of which she found soothing.

“I’d almost forgotten what a city was really like,” she mentioned offhandedly, watching the silvery glimmer of a fish as the sun caught its scales, producing a sleek flash before it moved and the effect disappeared. “For all that I grew up in one, I feel I’ve been cloistered for far too long.” There had been trips out, of course, but those to cities were brief and had purpose, and usually ended abruptly. She’d not really experienced the life in one for a while. Her other expeditions were most often to caves and ruins, which were either abandoned or filled only with bandits. A very different matter, for obvious reasons.

"I have seen too little of cities as a citizen, I think," Tarquin said thoughtfully, shrugging the shoulder that lacked an arm. The phantom twinges of his missing limb were lessening, but he still felt them often, whenever he thought to do something with both arms. Even such a normal thing as walking was disrupted by the lack of balance in his weight, and the inability to swing his arms slightly on either side. "I've lived for centuries, and spent most of those years alone. It was the way my father lived, until recently."

He heard the sounds of rivers and streams such as these more often than the voices of people, really. A few voices he knew well, though. "My brother was not the same. Aeneas was a singer, though he never played for inns or coin. He sustained himself on the wicked, and even then only when he needed to. He knew the world better than any of us, because he lived in it rather than simply traversing it." Tarquin wondered why he'd come to suddenly speak about this. His brother's death was not something he'd really acknowledged before the Sellswords had eventually caused the shift in him. Before, it had simply been the way of things that the killer of his blood needed to die, and that he had the connection necessary to do it. It had never really been for his brother, but more for himself.

"He and Father did not speak often, but he would visit my mother from time to time while he was not with her. This was before her fall, of course. She loved Aeneas and I the same, I know, but she always looked more kindly upon him. Sometimes she would say to me that eventually I would find my own way, and my own glory. I do not think I understood what she meant at the time." He frowned, gazing into the river as they walked.

"She saw much and spoke rarely, but there was always some truth to her words. She had a gift for knowing hearts and minds."

Aeneas, Anirne knew, had been Tarquin’s younger brother, killed first in the course of the game. There was a conjecture among certain members of the group that Meridia had chosen him as a measure of spite, which may have been neither here nor there, or may have made matters worse. Either way, she could not say, and did not presume to guess. There was much about his situation that was truthfully beyond her ability to understand if not to imagine, but all the same, there were other things that certainly were not. “My mother was similar, after a fashion,” she replied with a small nod. “The heart and soul of the family, I suppose you could say. Perhaps it is part of being the elder, that we are sooner coaxed towards autonomy. Perhaps it is something else
 I admit, I have little experience of families to say for certain.”

A slightly melancholy look crossed her face, then, and she sighed. She’d probably never know, lacking further opportunities to explore such possibilities. It wasn’t that which hurt, though—not so much as the simple thought that the warmth she remembered, when the problems were at bay and everything was as it should have been
 that was not something she would know. She’d lost it once, by her own decision, and every time it seemed as though she might find it again, the ties were cut, the bridges burned. She hoped dearly that this situation, imperfect as it was, would be immune from that tendency. It was just so
 painful, to imagine that she must eventually leave them. Perhaps not wholly, but in time, things would fracture. They always did.

“She certainly perceived more than I did, even about myself.” It was impossible to forget the Webspinner’s words, for they had awakened in her this fear, and brought her this revelation about herself. Both very unpleasant things, though she knew that oftentimes, what was hurtful was also needed. “‘You are among those that are not the false children. You would seek to mother them. You need these threads, you feel. To replace the bonds that were cut, that were split upon your ruin. And you wonder how you will have to leave, not if you will have to leave. Can you watch the children fall? Perhaps it would be best never to have them at all...’” The words had echoed about in her mind ever since, and she had not been able to shake them. All her life, she had known that happiness was always temporary, that it never lasted. But that
 it had made her afraid even of reaching out for it, because she’d been burned by the loss enough times to seek a comfortable equilibrium more than the alternating joy and despair that others knew.

“I seem to have trouble keeping things,” she said, an edge of self-deprecation to the words.

"She said that to you?" Tarquin asked, thinking on the words for a moment. "That was her way. She offers no advice on a choice to make, but instead merely brings to the fore the things that make you doubt or fear, oftentimes things that we aren't willing to openly acknowledge or accept. What to do about these fears and doubts is left up to us. Even if she knew the wisest course of action, I do not think she would offer it to you. The reward earned, after all, is always greater than the reward given."

Tarquin perhaps could have offered an opinion, but he was no more experienced in keeping things, for he had never really tried. He'd never taken a wife, nor had he carried on a relationship that went beyond the physical in... well, more than a hundred years, at least. He kept very few that could be called friends, and only one remained that he could call family, but the man was currently beyond their reach. Loyalty beyond those he was sworn to serve was not a concept he was intimately familiar with.

"I doubt my ability to help you with what she said, but if you want to speak more of it, I will gladly listen."

“Sometimes a willing ear is more than enough,” Anirne offered in reply, clasping her hands together behind her back. Her steps slowed a bit, unconsciously on her part, and she stared hard into the water, perhaps making some kind of scrutiny of her own reflection. Whatever the case, she shook her head shortly thereafter. It wasn’t a story she was particularly against telling for any reason—she was not the kind of person who routinely tried to hide things from others. There was no value in doing so, as far as she could tell. Either people would accept who one was, or they would not, and she’d learned the hard way that there was little to be done about that. She did not suppose he would judge her for any of this, really, but there was something about it that was painful to speak about all the same.

“After I left my family, it fell apart. I do not presume to have been the cause of this—in fact, I know with certitude that I wasn’t. All the same, that I came to know of it only through letters was
 difficult. I mourned what I had left and lost, and without that connection to other people, I felt
 disenchanted, with life. I took then to the more adventurous assignments, looking for
 I know not what. Some kind of link to the rest of the world, I suppose.” It had been interesting, she’d never deny that, and though she thought that part of herself had died a quiet death a while ago, she found it coming to life again under these circumstances. Though of course she could do without the murder, the mystery and the intrigue of this venture with friends and family was
 a bit thrilling, actually. How strange that she felt younger now than she had at the age of twenty and five. Not that she considered herself old by any means, just
 wiser.

“One of my closest friends, Cassius, was perhaps the most gregarious of my peers. He and I always felt a bit out-of-step with the others, and that drew us together, though perhaps if we’d met under normal circumstances, we’d scarcely have thought much of each other. I do not deny his brilliance, not at all, but
 well, I certainly did not love him, nor he I, I don’t think. But we both wanted that kind of connection we were missing in the cloister, and I married him all the same.” She snorted softly, rolling her eyes, clearly at herself.

“It was never going to go well. He was interested in children and I
 was interested in adventure, research, discovery. All of which sent me all about Tamriel. Still
 I was close to capitulation on the point.” Closer than she really wanted to think about, actually. She was not one to give up her autonomy for just anything, and these were choices she would have been perfectly content to make herself and for her own sake
 if she’d felt she had anyone in the world but him. She sighed, wrapping an arm around her abdomen. “I was in a cavern, beneath a desert in Elsweyr, when the accident happened. It
 altered me, somehow. I suspect my peers are still trying to figure out just how. Unfortunately, the damage to some of my organs is irreparable, including those necessary for offspring.”

She’d never really thought it important, before—never had much intention of having any, because frankly, she didn’t know what to do around children, but
 suddenly not having a choice in the matter had been surprisingly difficult. Cassius’s reaction had made it much, much worse. “Married for two years, and then suddenly solitary again—it was strange, adapting. It also made life on the Isle
 trying. I didn’t really know what else to do, so I asked for permission to leave, and seek out the only family I had left. It took me another year, but I found him. In a tavern in Riften, of all places, already on this mad quest to hold together his world as well as he could.” A pause; she turned and glanced at him from the corner of her eye, resuming her previous walking pace.

“And now I have you all—I cannot begin to express how much it terrifies me to suppose I might lose this. It’s greater than the sum of my childhood and my years on the Isles, and I’m not even as deeply-submerged as those four. How strange, that despite all they suffer, they should still have one gift so very precious. I’m glad they do.” She wasn’t jealous, exactly, she could never be considering all they’d been through to forge that bond, but she did understand just how important and valuable it was. “I think that, more than anything, was your father’s gift to them, and I can imagine none greater.” True, the Mentor had not made the Sellswords love each other as they did, but that was because love was something one could not force like that. It was the one thing Molag Bol could neither give nor take. But the Mentor, changed as he had been, had simply made it all possible, and they had flourished because of it.

As he expected, Tarquin was not sure what exactly to say to that. The idea of children of his own was one that had never crossed his mind in the slightest, and he wondered if perhaps he ought to examine that more. Maybe it had been his one subconscious rebellion he'd had against the Master all his life, that he never desired to have children of his own to follow in the path he did. He was tempted to push the thought aside. More likely he had never been in one place long enough, and never found anyone who had the ability to stay with him and not soon perish.

"My brother would have something helpful to say here, I think," Tarquin said, with a hint of humor and a hint of frustration. He had so little in the way of fears now. He had lost everything worth being attached to before he knew to feel that kind of pain, and now there was simply his efforts to see his father one more time, at the very least. Even if he could not bring himself, or his father, back with the others.

"I believe my father, as he is now, would suggest that the risk is worth the pain. It will come eventually, but this is true regardless of how long you choose to stay with them. Perhaps the present should not be squandered, then. I know not how long it will last." All he knew was that he was a one-armed man who had lived far too long a life and done far too little with it. He did not intend to squander what time remained to him.

“Perhaps,” she agreed readily enough. “It is certainly a risk I intend to take, though it may not be a choice any longer at this point. I fear the loss, but I do not think there is anything wrong. Being afraid of losing this odd little cohort of ours just means that I value it. In this case, enough to stake my life on the outcome.” It was true, that imagining the loss of these people was difficult, but there was no going back now. She had no desire to back out now—it was clear that she was too far in. And he was right—the present should not be squandered, though she did not feel that she was doing so at the moment. “And be not troubled,” she added with a hint of mirth. “I think your advice is meritous on its own, else I’d not have said anything.”

“So,” Anirne ventured, content to leave the topic for another as they turned back along the river to head for Whiterun, “Suppose our time to pay the piper and cross into the after is longer ahead of us than we all seem to be inclined to think. Say you did have the opportunity to live in this world, rather than traversing it. What do you think you would do?” Though it may have seemed a bit offhanded, it was not an idle question, and she was genuinely interested in the answer. Of course, if he simply didn’t know, she supposed she would understand that, too. She wasn’t sure she knew what her own answer was. But
 it was worth thinking about. One tended to work harder when there was something to work for. It wouldn’t do for any of them to walk into Coldharbor without plans for leaving, even if they were small.

"My choice of professions is sadly somewhat limited now," Tarquin said with a sort of grim humor. "Though perhaps not of the intellectual variety. If I am still here and unbound by Daedra and demons... honestly, I don't know. The world seems a different place lately, and though I have seen much of it, I feel as though my eyes were only half open the entire time." Eventually, he sighed, but spoke no more.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Chapter IX
The Library




Whiterun had calmed down somewhat by the time the Sellswords departed, the fever of the battle's aftermath having passed. The citizens continued the rebuilding process, and a good deal of them were sorry to see the Sellswords leave. Some of the group felt the same, knowing they were once again leaving the comforts and safety of a city on their side for the complete unknown. They were heading right back into territory still beholden to Ulfric Stormcloak, and to a mysterious location that held dangers they didn't even know how to prepare for.

The Library, according the the map they'd found on the Omen and according to the word of Tarquin, was on a small island north of Winterhold. Tarquin claimed that it had been a much more important part of the city when the city had actually existed, not as it was now, sunking into the icy depths of the Sea of Ghosts. Now it almost always out of sight of the shoreline, shrouded in mists and fog, though if this was a natural phenomenon or the workings of arcane spells, he could not say. Regardless, their destination was a long way from Whiterun, and they needed to get started on their way. The Bard had already stated his intention to arrive there, and the Stonehammer was forced to retreat in that direction after the battle was lost as well. It seemed more than likely that all five remaining Representatives would meet for one last time.

Several of the party members noted on the Librarian's lack of participation in the Game thus far, and how even now the Game was being brought to his very doorstep, when only a few enemies remained to him. Tarquin believed that this was not cautious play on his part, or a matter of luck in getting the Bard as his hunter, though that certainly had something to do with it. Rather, isolation had always been his intent. Every Game had a Librarian, the Shade declared, and each was housed in this same tower, but this one was the first to never leave it. That this was not an ordinary round of competition for the Daedra was obvious. The family organizing the entire venture had been forced to play, disqualification had plagued the Game's beginning... Tarquin believed at least some kind of answers would be held with the Argonian who called himself the Librarian.

In order to avoid Windhelm, the Sellswords took the road north out of Whiterun, through the Pale and back towards Dawnstar. It added some time to their journey, but the risk of passing the Stormcloak army as some point between Whiterun and Windhelm was too great, and the caution required to avoid them would have lengthened the trip greater besides. They rode hard the first morning, reaching Dawnstar just before nightfall, and spending the night in the inn once more, getting some much needed rest before the day ahead.

They set out for Winterhold before first light, intent on arriving and entering the Library before darkness set upon them. The day was crisp and clear, the roads thankfully devoid of copius amounts of snow or ice. The ride along the northern coastline was swift, and hardly a traveler passed them by. The occasional growl of a snowy sabercat was all that was heard apart from the clattering of hooves and the light breeze. They made good time, Winterhold's remains coming into sight about two hours after midday passed.

Rather than enter the town proper, however, Tarquin led the group down a winding path, twisting down the side of the cliff and to the shoreline far below. Sitting among a couple of scuttling mudcrabs on the shore was an empty raft, big enough to seat a dozen at least, complete with oars. It was in good condition, and there was an indentation in the shore beside that implied that another one had been present here earlier. In the distance, fog had settled down low amidst the ice caps, even though the day itself was still largely clear. Considering that the only other way across was to swim the icy waters, the group took the offered boat, putting oars into the water and striking out towards the Library...





Drayk remembered the last time he'd been sitting on a boat with an oar across his lap. Thankfully, he had a few more friends nearby this time.

It was also a much smaller boat. The waves were not unbearably large this close to shore, but they still rocked the thing about a good deal, and it was making his stomach turn uncomfortably. Maybe that was just the looming fog behind him. He hated the waiting, the two days of riding they had to spend just getting here. When there was action, when they were doing something, all the doubts left his mind and he just acted, but all the preparation left his mind to wander, about all the ways this could go wrong. Considering how little they knew of their location, there was a lot that he could think of.

The raft slowly worked its way into the shroud of whiteness, the air around them seeming to grow wetter and heavier. It began to snow; large, thick, wet snowflakes floated down and settled in the boat, on his robes, on his hair, on the favor he wore tied around his arm. The dragon was quite the obvious fit for his sigil, but he felt nothing like a dragon now. Dragons didn't doubt their own abilities.

"It's taller than I thought it'd be," the witch remarked, gazing up and past Drayk. He turned, laying eyes on the faint silhouette of the tower in the distance. It was circular, centered upon a thick ice cap that rose thirty feet out of the water. The tower itself was windowless, or else it had none from this particular angle, but Drayk was willing to bet there were none upon the other side, either. The only place to see out of the tower from inside the tower would be the very top, where the turret was crowned with a golden, circular roof, leaving only small arrow slits to see out of. He wondered if the Argonian they were looking for was watching them, from all the way up there. More likely he didn't even need to.

The second boat was docked at the base of the ice cap, where a platform had been carved from the ice for them, leading right into a set of stairs that spiraled up and around the edge of the ice, to the top, and the Library. The ice was dusted with a layer of the wet snow that was falling all around them, but in them it was easy to see a single set of footprints, leaving the boat tied at the dock and heading up the stairs.

"The Bard's, most like," Tarquin commented, as they pulled the boat into the little port. Rope had been left for them in the bottom of the raft, and they used this to tie their transport to the ice cap, to thick two-foot poles carved and left at the dock base. From there, the only way to go was up. The stairs were too narrow for more than one person to walk at a time, and the waves smacked against the ice, sending splashes up to spray them, leaving the ground beneath the layer of snow slick and treacherous. The group took it slow, and before long found themselves at the top, standing before the base of the tower. Strangely, the tower didn't even look like it had been put together brick by brick, as the walls were all one piece, seamless and astonishingly smooth. The only way in was a rather ordinary looking wooden door at the base, giving the Library no identification for what it was.

“Of course he chooses now to play forwards,” Soren groused, double-checking that all his equipment in place. He didn’t like how little information they had going into this, but then, they seemed only infrequently to know much at all about the perils they faced. It did add an element of danger, as if there wasn’t enough already. Sinderion seemed considerably more stoic about the whole thing, content to ignore the fat flakes of snow that were sticking to his hair or melting on his clothes. He took the lead on the way up, content to check for overly-slick patches and intuit the smoothest route, making a point to warn the next person behind him if some step was particularly treacherous. There was little to be said, looking up at the tower. They had no choice but to enter, and knowing the nature of what waited within would not change that. Whatever it was, they still had to face it.

The door itself didn’t appear particularly extraordinary, and a close look revealed no obvious traps or magical devices. Likely, if anything of the sort were embedded in the portal, it would be undetectable anyway. Most of the things central to the Game were people. This and the underground door were the only places he could recall being of any significance. There was bound to be more to it than it appeared.

Anirne supposed that the tower itself had likely been constructed with magic—there was little other explanation for the flawlessness of the exterior. However skilled the mason, simple craft could not produce such a seamless object. She’d pulled her hood up over her head, given that she was quite sure she was freezing down to her bones, but her cloak was not as heavily-lined as that possessed by Adrienne, for example, and she’d shivered all the way across the water and up the stairs, fairly certain that if she didn’t get inside soon, she was going to start turning blue. She might have been born in Skyrim, but she was acclimatized to the tropical conditions of Summerset, not this. Tucking her hands under her arms, she rocked back on her heels. “No time like the present, I suppose,” she volunteered, breath forming a cloud in the chill air. All the same, she didn’t make for the door. That was something she didn’t think she was really supposed to do. Here, she followed where the others led, and she was content with that.

Lynly's leather cloak was pulled tight around her as they ascended the stairs. The cloak was serving it's purpose like it should, trapping the warmth of her body. Unlike her other set of armor, the one left on the Omen's boat, the steel plate did not have a fur lining. Still she bore the brunt of the cold and water without a complaint, as expected of a true Nord. Vanryth on the other hand faired less, the cold and moisture bringing about a case of mild aches. The weather had caused him to take on a grumpy air, but otherwise bore it just as well as the others.

As they stood in front of the door, Lynly crossed her arms and waited, asking, "Who wants to knock first?" She certainly didn't want to do it. For all intents and purposes, the door looked like an ordinary door, but time and time again has taught her to expect anything but ordinary when the Game was in effect.

"Just like that Forsworn stronghold," Drayk commented, mostly to himself. "Get in, kill everything, get the hell out." And as with the Forsworn stronghold, what seemed like a lifetime ago, he pulled his shield into his hands, and led the way. It wasn't the same shield, but he wasn't the same man, and this wasn't the same tower. Everything had changed, and he couldn't shake the feeling that by the time they left this place, everything would change again.

He gripped the handle of the door firmly and pulled it open, covering himself with his shield immediately as he took his first look inside. It was... a room. Sleek hardwood covered the rectangular floor, while the walls were the same light grey seamless stone that had made up the outside. It wasn't a very big room, enough to comfortably fit the Sellswords without them squeezed shoulder to shoulder, but that was about it. And it was completely empty, the only notable thing present being the door on the opposite wall, identical to the one they'd come through. It was remarkably warmer inside the tower, as though the walls themselves kept the interior warm.

Of course, there was one other notable thing in this entrway, and that was the Bard, sitting against the far wall next to the door, his lute smashed to pieces on the floor, his weapons strewn about in disarray. Beric sat with his arms hanging over his knees, his head tipped back against the wall. He noted the entrance of the Sellswords, tipping his head forward and gazing blankly at them. "It would be just one more door, I suppose." He let his head fall back to smack dully against the wall behind him. "There's never any stairs. Never any stairs. Never any stairs..." He began to mumble the words mostly to himself. Drayk looked first to Maya, who didn't appear to be immediately hostile to the Bard. Obviously they needed to kill him, but... what had happened to him?

Judging from the state of this room and the Bard who occupied it, he’d been here for a long time. Perhaps
 a frustratingly-long time. Just another door? What was preventing him from going through the one on the opposite side of the chamber from the Sellswords? Surely it led somewhere different? Adrienne thought that perhaps it was locked or something, maybe with magic, but that didn’t fully explain the situation. Anirne, having a bit more experience with bespelled locations, had perhaps a better guess, but it was the younger woman who spoke. “Beric?” she asked cautiously, stepping up behind Dom, so as to be able to duck behind him if necessary but also be visible to the distraught representative. “What happened to you?” His good cheer had seemed to be almost supernatural, for all the things it had lasted through. Something truly distressing must be going on here, though what distressed him and what would get to anyone else might be very different things, indeed.

"There is a place," the Bard began somewhat dramatically, "between life and death. That place is here. I could not leave. For behind each door is simply another door, and another room. Always flat. Never any stairs. How am I supposed to reach the top if there are no stairs?" He asked despairingly, his pain obvious in his eyes. He stood slowly, at which point Drayk widened his stance somewhat, lifting his shield to the ready, and Maya subtly called the spell to conjure her bow into her hands, though she did not cast it. Beric made no move to attack them.

"There is simply nothing to be done in here, and it is the greatest of all tortures. Even if I could grow wings I could not fly to the top, for I could not leave this place. I tried going backwards, but behind every door was simply another door, and another room. Always flat. Never any stairs. Never any stairs... never any windows! The tower is mad, and it is beautiful, but it is my death. There is no water, no food. And never any stairs." Some extremely powerful magic was at work here, Drayk did not doubt that. Perhaps two of these rooms they were in would fit on the bottom floor of the tower, and the Bard claimed to have gone through countless ones, and never encountered a way up. That was only possible through magic.

His voice was somewhat scratchy, making it clear that he was parched for water. "And when I finally gave up, and refused to go one more door, in search of stairs, or at the very least the outside, he places it right before me, knowing that I will not take it. But he isn't even here! I can say Laas Yah Nir... and I see only you." He looked around, his eyes suddenly aglow with the spell to detect life from his voice. He looked up, searching... but it was clear that the only life forms he could detect were standing in front of him.

"You've closed the door behind you already. It is too late for you. You have entered the place that is not life and is not death, at least not until you die of having nothing to drink. Maybe the Stonehammer will wander in behind you, and put you out of your misery, as you will do for me..."

A look of pity crossed Lynly's face as the Bard sat in front of her. The man was broken, broken far more than usual. He'd always been crazy, as was expected of the Representative of Sheogorath, but this man wasn't the same one they knew. None of his usual cheerful insanity remained, only dejection. It was quite sad. His words, however, caused a hint of a stir inside of her. She quickly turned around and began to march toward the door the had enter through. Were they really trapped as he said? Anything could have happened once they closed that door. Yet when she opened it, she was only met with the familiar chill of the harsh Skyrim weather and a particularly vengeful wind blowing in her face. With the pity draining out of her face, she slammed the door shut and walked back.

"The way out is clear, so the fool is talking in his metaphors again," Lynly said crossing her arms. She wasn't impressed by the words of a madman. She couldn't help but laugh at the mention of the Stonehammer. Now there was an idea that wasn't terrible. "Let him, he'll fall just as the Librarian will," She said with a resolute nod. Stairs or not, there was only one way for them to go now.

Maya conjured her bow, drawing back an arrow and aiming for the Bard's forehead. "Nothing personal, Beric. Just the way the Game goes." He didn't seem to care that the outside was still right on the other side of the door behind them. He sighed, actually smiling a little at them.

"So ends the tale of the Handsomest of Bards and his..." he counted them with a waggling finger, "...Nine Deadly Friends."

Maya loosed, the glowing purple arrow thwacking directly into his skull, and Beric's head snapped back violently, the rest of his body soon following, collapsing heavily on his back, blood leaking out onto the hardwood. Banishing the bow, Maya frowned down at the body. "Just two left now. Let's get going."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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The room they entered next was not identical to the last, not even remotely. This one was circular, the floor made up of what looked to be dark cobblestone. There was no door on the opposite wall of this one, but in the center of the room was a stone statue of a hooded, robed Argonian, his head bowed such that they could not see his face, his hands folded neatly in front of him. It was raised upon a small pedestal, and ringed around the room were nine circular platforms, of smooth marble offsetting against the rough cobblestone. They seemed rather convenient to Drayk. He'd been about to say so when a voice emanated from within the statue, clear and lacking the gravelly nature often present in Argonians.

"Step forward, if you will, one to a space. No two paths through the Library are the same, and while a madman will not win the Last Game of the Shadow, a company such as yours may yet be worthy of it."

“Oh?” Soren ventured with a raised eyebrow, not bothering to address the statue as such, since it wasn’t actually the Librarian. “And why does that sound like the man in the magic tower doesn’t intend to do the winning himself?” While the Representatives thus far had been varied almost beyond sense (and indeed, at least two of them had not been ‘all there,’ so to speak), they had all seemed at least moderately interested in winning. So why not just shuffle everyone through the endless parade of identical rooms until there was only one left? It was, in a sense, the perfect setup.

Sinderion was more interested in a different part of this statement, and he did look at the statue when speaking, as there was nothing else that appeared a better candidate to direct his attention to. “The last Game?” He supposed it was a decent-enough conclusion, given the involvement of the Mentor’s entire family, but why stop now? There didn’t seem to be any reason for it, unless the Daedra had simply grown tired of it. Always a possibility, he supposed.

"Yes," the voice from the statue said, "the last Game. I can offer no more insight into the reasoning for this than you can, but I can tell you that it is so. Before this I was the Record Keeper, with the task of storing the results of the tournaments, and the dark powers used within them. The Librarians fought on the behalf of Hermaeus Mora, the Demon of Knowledge, and I tended to the Library, the storehouse of this knowledge. But now I am the Librarian. My patron would have a worthy winner among those selected. He believes you are best suited for the task. I still exist only to carry out his will, and thus I will ensure that you are worthy before you proceed."

Maya didn't like the sound of that, but something else didn't make sense here. "All of us? You... do know that there are two Representatives here, don't you?"

"I do." Maya gave the statue a look, and it seemed to notice. "Worthiness is proved by traversing the Library, not by speaking to the Librarian. I will say no more on the subject."

Anirne, a little disquiet being in such an obviously-magical place, could perhaps be forgiven for it given what happened last time she attempted to traverse one. Of course, nobody here would know that except for Tarquin, and she tried not to make her unease evident as she stepped onto one of the platforms. The others were doing the same, probably simply because there was nothing else to be done. “And what happens,” she asked slowly, “to these worthy winners?” The losers died, and apparently the disqualified were dragged to Coldharbor—there was a very real possibility that the victors achieved nothing better. It was not as though anyone had a choice but to play, after all.

“They go past that door, don’t they? The one in the ruin?” That was Adrienne, standing on a circle a few over from Anirne. “But the sentinel won’t let anyone in until there’s only one Representative left. It said so
 I think.” At least, it had implied as much, with its answers to them. “What’s behind the door?”

"I cannot know the answer to that question," the Librarian said simply. "Let that be your answer."

Quite suddenly, now that all had taken places on the pedestals, the floor was divided beneath their feet, walls of shining steel shooting up out of the ground and dividing them from each other, each one of them trapped in a tiny prison with nothing but them in it. No sooner had these walls come up than doors appeared in the wall behind them, offering each one of them a different way out of the circular room. They would not be able to communicate with each other through these walls, nor would any magic have an effect on them. For the moment, they were isolated.

"As with life, no two paths through the Library are the same. If you wish to see the end of this, first come see what the Library can offer you."




For a moment, it was as if someone had pressed cotton into his ears, over his eyes, even against his nose—for the world went dark and featureless around him, though Sinderion was still aware of being in his body. At least, to a certain extent; he couldn’t move either, and for a few seconds it was as though that was all there was in the world—awareness. Then the veil lifted, and he found himself in a new room and entirely alone. The chamber was circular, perfectly so, by the look of it, and he was standing at what appeared to be the exact center. The walls, ceiling, and floor were all polished white marble, and entirely seamless. That, and the lack of anything resembling furniture, made it look flat, as though his depth perception were skewed.

It was soundless, and even when he moved, his boots made no noise against the stone. He inhaled, and the air smelled like
 nothing. Just air, filling his lungs and passing out of them again. It was quite disorienting, and not so different from his transport here—only he could tell he was in possession of his faculties, just without anything to use them on. Even when he crouched to run a hand against the floor, there was little friction, as though he glided his fingers along the very surface of a still pond. There was a slight shine to the flatness, and he could see a shadow-figure of himself if he looked closely, with another shadow close behind it. The second was larger, posture slightly hunched, with massive, powerful shoulders and limbs.

Sinderion swallowed uncomfortably. “Hello?” he called. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do in a room with no windows and no doors, to say nothing of its complete emptiness. For a long while, there was no answer, and the silence, usually no trouble to him, was beginning to grate. He was halfway to one of the concave walls, to see if there might be some secret seam in them that he was missing, when he felt something in the air shift, and suddenly, what was once marble took on the distinctive glint of mirrors, even as a plain-looking table appeared at one compass-point of the room, a single, delicate glass vessel sitting atop it. The liquid inside was a pearlescent purple, he noted, but when he looked around to see if anything else had appeared, Sinder’s eyes widened, and a choked yelp escaped him as he staggered backwards, falling to the ground with nothing in the way of a thud.

The reflection did the same, only
 he wasn’t looking at a lanky altmer fellow—he was looking at the Beast. He’d never seen himself in that state before, but all the same, he knew what it was that he looked at. It was
 more like himself than he would have liked. The golden fur of it, somewhat atypical, was a reflection of the tone of his skin, and the creature’s eyes were the same crystalline blue as his own. He recognized something in the expression as himself, even if it seemed so
 foreign to him, like a memory half-forgotten and resurfaced at an inconvenient time.

Though he regained his feet, he found himself without the urge to move for a long time. He and his not-reflection simply stared at one another, the uncanny sensation of familiarity almost too much to bear. There was blood, dripping slowly from its maw and onto the floor beneath its feet, and he had to reach up, just to check that none of the stuff covered his chin. He wondered who or what the ichor had belonged to, and as if in response, the creature growled, that sound at least not muffled by the room at all. It occurred to him that his reflection should not have been able to make noise, but then it shouldn’t have looked like that, either. The question was too terrible to contemplate. He knew his violence—and he knew that he had not discriminated. Men, women, children, animals
 all had been the same when the red haze hung over his vision and the hunger was all that he knew. How could he ever accept that this—this—was part of him? The sentiment of a few days ago seemed so weak against this image.

Worst of all was that he felt it, that hunger, stir within him now, as though waking after a decade’s slumber. Seeking to stymie it, he looked away, but there was no doing that. Every surface he turned to just showed him the same thing from different angles, even the floor and the ceiling. When he shut his eyes to it, its feral rumbles reverberated through his feet, up his spine and settled in his chest as though he’d produced them. And the smell—the fetid stink of old flesh and drying blood matted in his fur, on his breath—it was worse than looking. He forced his eyes open. “What do you want from me?” he asked the room. He would not transform to match the reflection. He would not.

"I want what I always want," said the Librarian from behind him. One of the images of a transformed Sinderion had changed into a reflection of an Argonian, garbed in plain brown robes, the hood drawn up around his face, throwing a shadow over his features that his orange eyes managed to easily pierce through. His skin was a swampy green, the only parts of it showing being his face, and the hands neatly folded in front of him. "I want knowledge. I want to learn more of you, and to do that I must learn what you are and are not willing to do."

He turned his head to look at the glass vial sitting on the table. "Of all those you keep company with, you are perhaps the only one among them who often desires to be less powerful. Even the fire mage does not desire to rid himself of his flames, merely to control them. The Library offers you now a chance to rid yourself of the monster you are capable of becoming, before it finally takes over, and forces you to tear apart those that you care for. Take it, and be free at last."

He hadn’t paid much attention to the vial at first, something which he was coming to realize was a mistake. Was it really so easy? The solution to everything, to the very problem he found himself uncomfortably force to literally look at, was just sitting there, on the table, innocuous as sunshine on a spring day. All it would take was a few steps forward and a couple of swallows. All this time, spent fighting ceaselessly against this thing he despised about himself, and it had the entire time been solvable by this? He stalked towards the table, aware of being watched by both the Librarian and his many reflections, but for the moment, he paid them no mind.

The table itself was about as high as his waist, nothing more than a plain, nut-brown wood, hewn workably but not masterfully—sometimes quite the way he took himself to have been put together. There were flaws in it, of course, but lingering on anything but the delicate vessel sitting so innocently at its center was impossible. The smell of the brew was anathema to the part of him that was the Beast, and the rest found quite a lot of appeal even in that. He was literally torn in two directions: his humanity desired to reassert itself as master of his faculties, alone and for the rest of his life. The primal thing of violence and instinct recoiled, desiring in equal measures to flee and to smash the vessel into one of these many mirrors. In the end, his hands gripped the edges of the wooden table, but went no further.

He stared at the purplish fluid like a man hypnotized by something. He was utterly unable to see or hear or smell anything else. His world narrowed, until it was comprised only of himself, and what he might be instead. What had he ever wanted but to be free of it? Sinderion was not a man who made outrageous demands of fate—he did not ask for wealth or fame or even happiness. He asked for nothing, save this. And how long had he been asking? He almost couldn’t properly remember, save that the images had been branded onto the surface of his mind—and seemingly the backs of his eyelids—since he’d first experienced them. He’d never lose them, he knew: taking away the Beast would not take away the memories of what he’d done, but
 he would never again feel even the smallest amount of satisfaction from recalling the deaths he’d caused. He would be free to be genuine and whole in his remorse, and genuine and whole as a person.

Never again would he need feel what simple touches or a little overindulgence would do to him—would do to them. Never again would he try and fail utterly to sleep, and feel the need to vanish into the forests like a wild thing, lest he fail to contain himself at some later point and loose his madness upon a city or settlement instead. He wouldn’t have to be afraid of how he felt—especially not of how he felt for Maya. He could finally afford to let himself ask those questions, and answer them honestly, rather than trying to shut them away somewhere beyond contemplation. He’d be
 safe. For himself, and for the others as well. He’d be able to trust himself, and he could fight without also warring internally. The freedom that would bring
 it was difficult to even imagine.

Sinderion hadn’t noticed it happening, but the phial had been removed from the table and was in his hand now, uncorked, smelling more and more like freedom the longer he held it. Had he done that? He couldn’t recall, and he honestly couldn’t bring himself to care much, either.

He brought it forward, inches from his face, before something gave him pause. What if
 what if they needed it? They hadn’t so far, but it had been so close. The person that he would become if he drank this would have died in the fight against the Horizon. That by itself was acceptable—he knew what the risks were, and he was willing to take them to free himself. But what if it were one of the others that would die for his choice? For his inability to master that which he now sought to exorcise? Hadn’t Drayk had the right of it when he supposed that the Mentor hadn’t offered him just this cure because it was better to learn control? Sinder did not know if he would ever have control—he did not want to have to find out. His friends and he, though, were going to Coldharbor. Surely, they would need every spare bit of strength they could muster, his included. If that just meant they needed his ears and nose and agility, so much the better. But if they needed what he could become, this wild, instinctual, violent, impulsive part of him
 then
 then what?

He looked down at the glass vessel in his hand, only to see that it was shaking. He was shaking. Applying pressure, Sinderion squeezed the glass, and it fractured so easily beneath his grip, like there was no strength to it at all. Or perhaps there was simply too much strength to him, more than men and mer should ever have. Perhaps, also, that was exactly what was needed here. He couldn’t know, just as he couldn’t take the chance with someone else’s life. The vessel shattered in his hand, spilling its contents onto the table, and they leaked in rivulets to the floor at his feet. Sinder looked halfway between resigned and stricken at what he had done, but there was no turning back now. If there ever truly had been at all.

He was giving up the possibility of his freedom. But whatever cage he was shackling himself to, the bars were engraved with their names. And he would dwell there forever if he must.

Setting

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Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Adrienne Jastal
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It was as close as any place had been to home.

The Master's Manor was tucked into the base of the mountains east of Bruma, far enough north that the shock of Skyrim's cold wasn't so much of a shock after all. They had lived here as a family for a time, but for Tarquin's father, the proximity to his former life was always... a little uncomfortable. In his day, Lucius Aurelius had been an Empire man, through and through, but when he was changed, his entire life had fallen to pieces. It just so happened that his family had to come with him. So it was that Tarquin said goodbye to his home in Cyrodiil.

It hadn't really been his home at the time, though. He and his brother had moved into the city, started their own lives, by the time they were summoned away for some unknown purpose. There wasn't even time to pack anything. He had never known to. One day he simply couldn't return to what he knew. He had a different life now, a different purpose, for a reason he did not know, or perhaps simply one he did not remember.

That he remembered this much came as a surprise to the Shade, but something about being in his old room again was stirring up memories that were decades dead, things he’d only been able to brush with his fingertips before. He ran a finger of the hand that remained to him along the spine of his books. He’d always been an introvert growing up, lost in books and knowledge and things that were more fascinating than his reality. He’d gotten a little more than he’d wished for in the end.

The room looked lived, as though he was still a child under the watch of his parents. Being back here strangely made him feel that way. Even the bed wasn’t made, and several of his favorite books were strewn about the floor. He suddenly regretted not taking better care of them. Not that it mattered. The house would be in disarray now. It probably had bandits squatting in it.

“I never wanted this for you, son,” said a voice from his door, and Tarquin did not immediately look up, for he knew that voice, and had little desire to look upon in this place. This was not real. He knew that. It was an elaborate illusion, but an illusion all the same. “You have a lot of nerve to speak through this illusion, Librarian.”

Lucius Aurelius looked younger than the Sellswords knew him by about ten years. His features were as proud and fatherly as they had ever been, but it was always the eyes that caught him the most. He could simply look at a person and know them. Had he always had that gift? Or was that just part of the illusion, something that Tarquin was imagining? “I only seek to draw a comparison, Shade,” the Master said, and just like that, the illusion was gone. The visual still remained, but Tarquin was not going to allow himself, even for a second, to believe that he was speaking to his father, or some kind of recreation of the man that he had been. This was the Librarian he spoke to, nothing more.

“Speak then. Let’s have this done.” The Master slowly came into his room, to sit down on the bed, laying his sword across his thighs, while Tarquin turned to lean up against his bookcase, looking down at the man who looked like his father with hard eyes. “You know the outcome of this as well as I do, Tarquin. As you are, you have little chance of seeing your father again before something kills you. Your struggle is an amusement to Molag Bal, nothing more. When he wishes it to be done, it will be done. But it need not be that way. You can still live to reunite with the Master, and far beyond.”

“Is that so?” Tarquin asked. He wished he could cross his arms. The small things were what bothered him the most, not the likelihood of an impending death. “How?” The Master breathed in deeply, as if to signify the importance of the offer he was about to make, the gravity of it. “The Lord of Domination has given me leave to return your gift to you. Your arm, your strength and speed, your heightened senses and near invincibility at night, and your immortality. In exchange for your renewed cooperation. Beware, Shade; if you do not take this chance, another may.”

He meant the witch and Tarquin knew it. The Library would offer something to all of them, Maya included. If she took whatever power was offered and he did not, she would likely be able to see herself through without the help of the others, and doom Tarquin to never have the simple conversation he sought. But would she do that? Perhaps the better question was
 did it matter? Regardless of what Maya did, this choice was about him, and what he wanted for himself. It was startling how few choices he had been able to make for himself in his life. Maybe he simply hadn’t seen them when they passed. This one was staring him down, however.

“I did not come this far only to cast aside the Mentor’s ideals now,” he said with resolve. “I am prepared to pay the price for my transgressions, as my father did. Now banish this illusion so that I might be done with this place.” He did so, but the illusion changed instead, as the image of his more youthful father transformed to how he had appeared for the majority of Tarquin’s life. The Master stood and approached Tarquin, his eyes hard and cold.

“You say you are prepared. We will see.” He burst into a cloud of smoke that sent loose sheets of paper floating around the room, and he was gone. The only door in front of Tarquin was the one that led out of his room, so that was the one he took.




Adrienne wasn’t so much frightened of being alone as she was uneasy. Her primary weapon had always been her wit, and on some level, this promised to be an intellectual challenge, but
 she would not deny that her confidence would have been bolstered if there was another person here, by her side right now. At first, she couldn’t tell exactly where here was—the room was dimly-lit at best, though at least she couldn’t hear anything moving around either.

As she moved forward, guided by a small magelight she’d conjured, she realized that it must be an armory of some kind. Racks upon racks of weapons stood sentinel against the walls, gleaming with their polish when the light struck them properly. Longswords, shortswords, maces, axes, staves, glaives, spears, hammers, shields, morning stars, the whole lot. Threaded through these were round, small tables, stacks of magic tomes covering every spare bit of surface area. Illusion, alteration, destruction, conjuration, even
 restoration. Those would be of less use to her than the massive, two-handed hammer mounted proudly on one wall, and that still stung a bit.

But why was she here? Martial skill had never been her virtue, nor her vice. She could probably lift less than half the weapons in here, much less use them effectively. And the magic
 well, she was good, but not extraordinary. Granted, she had a more lethal set of skills than most people would ever want or need, but next to the extraordinary capacities of her friends and enemies both, she was rather
 unhelpful. Perhaps that was the point? She was to be shown her inadequacy? But she had accepted this fact about herself—it could sting, but it couldn’t hurt her as badly as some other things might. What, then, was she to make of it?

The weapons in the room were shined to the point of gleaming in Adrienne's magelight, and if she looked closely at any of them, she would see the faint, distorted reflection of the Librarian past that of herself, though the hooded Argonian was not, in fact, anywhere in the room. His voice did not emanate from the walls or the weapons, but rather seemed to bounce from several points around the room, as though he were moving around her, impossible to pin down to any one specific location.

"A number of the Representatives over the years have employed magical tools in battle, many of which enhanced their martial capabilities beyond the limits of not only their bodies, but of any natural physical form. You and your companions have witnessed some of these among your competitors. The Horizon was impossibly familiar with any number of exotic weapons, and the Drunk could change her entire form into something much more physically capable than she would normally be. Such power always comes at a cost, however, and I wish to see if it is one you might be willing to pay."

As though the Librarian had taken control of her spell, Adrienne's magelight lifted higher into the room and shined much brighter than before, brilliantly illuminating the room, beams bouncing back and forth across polished steel. "The Library can grant you the ability the Horizon claimed, at a cost more suited to you. Take a weapon from the wall, and you will know how to wield it more effectively than the warrior woman you've been training with, with greater strength, speed, and precision. Not only will you no longer be a weakness to the group in battle, you will be the most deadly blade of them all. The cost? Give up the insidious ability you have carried with you for so long. Your Dunmer companion has lived without it for quite some time, and overcomes it brilliantly. Indeed, you no longer even need your tongue to communicate with those that matter, for you have learned other ways."

He paused, to let the words sink a little. "The day may come soon when the life of another, not only your own, depends on your ability to triumph through martial means. This could very well save lives that would otherwise be lost. You need only give up the aspect of yourself you despise the most, the one that has never been capable of healing, only corrupting and destroying."

Losing control of her spell was an unnerving feeling, but the uneasiness that settled over Adrienne, somehow weighty and tangible as the cloak on her shoulders, only grew when the Librarian spoke, and she was drawn to look more closely at each of the artifacts on the wall. Upon further investigation, it became clear that there wasn’t a single one that was not in some way a masterful piece of work, perhaps forged by a smith at the pinnacle of the trade. That was nothing next to what he told her she’d be able to do with any one of them. To be stronger than even Lynly, faster than Sinderion, more precise than Soren, just like that? None of those traits was even close to what she would have thought herself capable of with lifetimes to practice. She just didn’t have the knack. And here it was, the solution to that nagging doubt, that feeling that maybe she didn’t really get to stand with them and share in their strength. The fear that she was only holding them back.

But it was not a solution freely-offered. There was a catch—there was always a catch. Though
 it seemed a small price to pay, didn’t it? Her words were her weapons, more often than not, but with a weapon like one of these, she wouldn’t need another. And the Librarian had a point—if she could not speak any longer, she would not be able to use her words to destroy anything anymore. Nobody else would suffer because she’d twisted them around her little finger, manipulating them into thinking and acting as she desired with a touch so deft it was intangible. And for those things she needed to say
 she could always do what Vanryth did, couldn’t she? Sign to people? All those she’d care to talk to any longer would be able to understand her. What else did she need?

The young woman sighed, the sound half-wistful and half-weary. It was almost nice, to imagine a world where even if she felt the temptation to puppet someone with exquisite, purposeful prose, her ability to do so would be so diminished as to be virtually nonexistent. She simply wouldn’t have to concern herself with the part of her being that she hated anymore, because it could never again trouble her or anyone. Put that way, it hardly seemed a drawback at all.

And yet
 yet. There was always a yet. They were as inescapable as catches, because there were two sides to anything. Events, people, ideas. She wondered, for a moment, how the Mentor would feel about this. He’d probably tell her that taking this deal was a way of denying herself, of solving her problems with too much trickery and not enough honest effort. Honest effort would never get her where the Librarian promised she could go. She had her magic, and she was far from unskilled, but she was not the force of raw talent Drayk was, nor had she the daunting, studied ease of Anirne. They were what was needed to undertake this mission successfully—she had just done the talking. It hurt, to admit that. No, the Mentor would not like this at all, but then
 he’d probably never been just average at anything in his life. Mediocrity was almost as bad as her complete inability to heal—for someone raised to demand perfection of herself, both were inadequate. She need never feel that again.

Who would she be without it? She looked hard into the polished reflection of a greataxe, spying the silhouette of the Librarian within, somewhere beyond her own reflection. Adrienne was not unused to the sight of her own face, but it had been a while since she’d really been able to look. Her short hair, more easily disheveled than the weighty longer strands had been, was a bit askew, but otherwise her face projected the same image it always had—perfect, unruffled composure. She’d been wearing that face so long she’d almost forgotten that she had other ones at all. Her eyes were large—some would say too large—in her face, dark like wet earth, and there was no hardness to them. There should have been, by now, surely. That faint flintiness that one caught even in such souls as Anirne and Dom, that Sinder wore when he forgot not to and Lynly, Van, and Soren seemed always to have about them. That Tarquin had lost when he lost his certainty.

Perhaps it only meant that she was uncertain as well. It was a feeling she knew well enough. It was impossible to see in the reflection, but she knew keenly that the rest of her was slowly becoming a canvas of scar tissue. Wounds accumulated facing foes far stronger than she—a dragon, the Feral, and suchlike. She could be that strong
 well, almost. Close enough, even. Would it change what was before her, what she saw when she read herself as she read others? Would she change?

Did she want to?

It was a harder question than it should have been. She was, on some level, wicked. She’d done terrible things. In the past, yes, but not so long ago that she could discard the memories as irrelevant, if indeed they ever would be. She was an adroit liar, and had very few compunctions about taking advantage of that. She wore faces like other women wore clothes, each less genuine than the last. She’d disappointed her parents, and done well in the tutelage of a concubine. She’d poisoned people, and some part of her still thought they’d deserved it, after a fashion. Adrienne knew that this didn’t excuse her, but it was not the same thing as swindling an innocent, and she knew that, too. She’d run away from the consequences of it, and when she was so low she could sink no further, she’d been ready to give up like a coward and end her own life. Only the Mentor’s timely intervention had saved her from hurling herself from one of Skyrim's many jagged cliffs.

But she was also the person who, having nowhere else to go and nobody else to be, had trailed the old man morosely back to his home outside Solitude. She had made the decision, then and repeatedly thereafter, to be a better person, at first to repent for what she’d done, and then because there were other people that needed her to be better. She was the person who’d put her nose to the grindstone and learned to work, picking up practical skills that a noblewoman never would have deigned to know. She had made friends, helped the Sellswords stitch together their patchwork little family. She was the person who’d talked their way through guard checkpoints and into a Thalmor Embassy. She’d used her knowledge of potions and magic to help and support her friends. She’d seen through the Omen’s trap, and for better or worse, she’d killed him. She’d found brothers in Sinder and Van, friends in Anirne, Maya, and Soren, a teacher in Lynly. She’d fallen in love with her best friend, and somehow, she was the kind of person that he could fall in love with, too. No clever trick of the tongue had made it so.

When she took it all together, she smiled, cracking the impassive mask in twain. Of course she couldn’t slay a dragon on her own. Of course she would need to rely on her friends to see her through this. But that was what they all did; none of them could stand as a singularity and expect to survive. Who was better at what than whom didn’t matter, because they shared in the strengths of each other. The Sellswords were mighty in all the ways that those comprising the whole were mighty, and it was her voice that spoke for them, when the occasion required it. Lynly’s strength, Sinder’s speed, Dom’s magic
 these things were formidable, and well-placed as they were. Adrienne did not need them, for in a way, she had them already. “No, thank you,” she told the Librarian in the reflection. “I think
 I’m just what I need to be, right now.”

Setting

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Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Soren Ivarsson
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Soren found himself in what looked to be the central chamber of a particularly-ornate temple, though it was not easily-identifiable as belonging to one of the Nine, nor any sort of Daedra he knew of. The air was thick with the smell of incense and pipe-weed, both very familiar odors indeed. There was also the faint, but still perceptible, undertone of sex and death both. If he were able to give his life a smell, this would probably be it. The walls were mostly stone, but hung with tapestries in rich color. The floor was adorned with rugs like he’d used to sit on when he was part of the caravan, in a rough circle with the khajiit and taking hits of moon sugar, listening to the rasping lilt of their voices. He’d never say so, but he didn’t understand why people disdained their way of talking. They said more true things with lies than most people did with facts.

The tapestries, he was somewhat perplexed to notice, seemed to depict him. Each one was some scene or another from his actual life, by the look of it—from his early childhood to just about the present. There he was almost losing his fingers for stealing something for his old man, back when he hadn’t snuck much better than a mudcrab, that was definitely him pulling off his first serious con, and others depicted various jobs he’d taken as a mercenary. There were a few rather interesting renditions of one-night-stands here or there, and of course bloody assassinations aplenty. There was even one of that time he’d stormed the orcish camp wearing not a single stitch. A few featured his son, and he refused to look at the one where he and the other members of Soren’s old company lay dead. It was there, certainly, but he wasn’t inclined to linger.

He could see where this metaphor was going, so he was curious to see what was at the altar. Unsurprisingly, there was blood on it, an arcane pattern resembling the universal symbol for illusion sketched out in ichor and moon sugar. Tapers burned at the four corners of it, and someone had carefully crossed an arrow and a rose over the center. It was actually kind of interesting, as a sigil—if he was the kind of person to have one, he might well consider adding these elements. He doubted very much that this was the reason they were so displayed here.

Soren would soon pick up on the fact that the largest depiction of him, though it wasn't exactly lifelike, was moving about on the background in which it was placed. It spoke with a voice reminiscent of the Librarian's, making it quite obvious who was the source of these words, as if that hadn't already been clear. Everything in the tower was the Librarian's doing.

"They paint a rather ugly picture, do they not?" The tapestry-Soren said, the sound echoing softly around the room, even though it seemed to be coming from one source. "Painful to look upon, really. I can only imagine the pain it would be to experience. The Library has no power to change the past, else it would be offered to you, for no doubt there are things you wish you had done differently."

Tapestry-Soren crossed his arms. "What the Library can offer you is a new future, however. While the past is unchangeable, memory is not, and this includes both yours and those of everyone around, as well as all the world. If you would have it, you can have a fresh start from the Library. Few men are ever offered a chance to simply start over, to remove all the pain of their mistakes and try again. You do not need to live with your pain any longer, nor will the others even believe you have abandoned them. The choice is yours."

Soren’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline when the version of himself woven into the tapestry stated moving. It was, perhaps fittingly, the one who’d been depicted burning Steig at his son’s gravesite, an act not completed that long ago, really. Unconsciously, the mercenary mimicked the tapestry-man’s posture, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning slightly to the right. His expression smoothed over into one of contemplation. “You can do that?” His addressee did not bother to respond, perhaps knowing as well as he did that the question had been unnecessary.

To erase all of it, now there was an interesting thought. He’d wake with no more nightmares—at least, none with the vividness of old reality still clinging to them like mildew. He’d dream of falling and being chased like every other man, wake, and simply settle back to sleep. He’d not begin to feel a slow dread building in his chest as that anniversary approached. He’d feel no regret over the things he’d done, so much like his father even—especially—when he was trying not to be. All the murders, all the meaningless affairs, and all the stinging memories would just be gone.

It was certainly tempting, and he’d never been one to resist temptation. It was here in the room, wasn’t it? He laid indulgence and murder at his altar of worship—the rose for Sanguine’s pleasures, the arrow for the deliverance of death, the illusion sigil for the lies he spun and the things he hid, and the moon sugar for the blessed numbness that allowed him to forget it all, just for a little while. And here lie the opportunity to forget forever.

But there was a reason he’d dragged himself out of his years-long stupor. A poor reason, yes, because vengeance was usually a poor reason for anything. He had other reasons, now, though—didn’t he? His vengeance was done, and his past was left there—precisely in the past. It resurfaced from time to time, but it dulled even so. He wasn’t even supposed to be alive now; Oblivion should have taken him when he’d limped his bloodied way out of that damn fortress, those dozen men still on his tail. But it hadn’t, and now he was living a second life already. Was it worth it to lose the first one entirely, if it took what he’d managed to gain as well?

He didn’t want to forget some of the things. Parts of it, yes, he’d happily do without, but he couldn’t bear to forget Rolf, even if that meant remembering his death as well. He didn’t desire to forget this Game, either, because heinous as it was at times, it was slowly making him into someone better. These people were making him into someone better, just as his band had before. Someone he wanted to be. To the tapestry, he offered a diffident shrug. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather just redecorate.” And he knew just where to start. In a quick, practiced motion, he drew his bow, fitted an arrow to the string, and fired it at the representation of himself that the Librarian spoke through. The man who’d sought revenge had died on the day he obtained it—might as well be accurate about it. Whomever the hell he was now, he wasn’t that man.




The witch's door led into a tomb.

She could immediately tell from the smell. It was sweet and sickly at the same time, in the way that decaying flesh was. Maya had found the scent displeasing at first, and had often retched upon entering Nordic burial mounds when she was but a child. But conjuration was a natural talent of hers, and while atronachs were not in her repertoire, she'd always had a grim affinity for corpses. Death was such a natural part of life, something she learned well as a young girl. In the forest, everything needed to consume something else to survive. Many often believed that the Glenmoril hated wildlife, and as such they sacrificed creatures such as the spriggans to sate that hate, but for Maya it was simply a way of life. It was the way of all things to seek out what would make them more powerful, and more at peace. It was when those two conflicted that things got messy.

A thick fog obscured the floor, but the ground beneath her feet was soft, and her moccasins sunk slightly as she walked forward. It was much darker than a normal Nord burial site, and there were no torches on the walls to light her way. The walls were that of a damp, dark cave, not unlike the interior of the Webspinner's lair, though there were no spiders here that she could see. All the better. The one thing she could see, even though it was faint, was a podium in front of her, made of glimmering ebony. A book with a faded royal purple cover was placed on top of it, the Daedric symbol for Oblivion, and for the magical school of Conjuration, stitched onto the front.

Just as stepped up to the podium, she felt a shifting in the air around her, and it sent a shiver down her spine. It was a cold gust, pushing at her hair, and the black feathers on her robes. From what she could tell, there was no air flow through here, so whatever had caused that was likely inside, with her. Before she made for the book, Maya figured she should learn what this was. She knew the breath of the dead, but the corpses she returned to life only wheezed it out. They did not exhale with enough force to make her take a step back. Lifting a hand into the air, she lit a magelight spell, wondering if the stoneflesh spell she'd learned would soon need to follow.

The interior of the cave lit up enough for her to see what was around her, and immediately her heart leapt into her throat. She recoiled a step, but didn't even bother conjuring a weapon, for there simply wasn't a point. What was coiled up on the ground before her was a dragon, massive and filling up the entirety of the room before her eyes. Even with its wings folded back and its tail curled around its body, it was a massive-looking creature, immensely powerful, and... dead. This was no living dragon. The flesh and scales had fallen away at points along the ribcage, revealing bone underneath, and it had turned a deathly white. The eyes had turned a milky white, but they seemed to glow a light purple the longer she looked at them. The undead dragon held her gaze, occasionally huffing out a powerful breath. It carried the chill of the grave with it.

"You've changed a great deal," it said suddenly, with the ragged, pained voice of an enslaved minion. "You used to hunt alone, until you allowed yourself to rely on the strengths of companionship. You need not remain so weak."

Weak. Was she weak? She supposed so. She would have died so long ago had she not snared such an effective, if occasionally unstable, team to assist her. It seemed a strength of hers, that she was able to integrate herself among them, but she had always seen it as a weakness that she was now unable to let go. She had resigned herself to be dragged along to what was quite likely her doom, all because she was starting to see a different kind of life that would wait for her after all this was done. But having that life in the future meant next to nothing if she weren't still alive to see it. Corpses did not enjoy the comforts of the living, even when she brought them back. "What is this? What are you?"

"Something that you could have at your command, in the near future," the dragon rasped in response. "The Library holds the key to your ascension. With the power that can be granted here, you could have the guarantee of life that you seek." Maya glanced down suspiciously at the book placed in front of her. There was power inside, but she dare not look. "Go on."

"The Library could make you the equivalent of Potema reborn and more. Even the Wolf Queen could not resurrect dragons. Skyrim is a land of the dead and dying, and you would have armies at your command. Every man and woman that fell in their efforts to defeat you would soon join your cause. Think beyond the result of this Game, Maya. Not only would you rule your own life, you would rule the world, if you saw fit." It was almost funny. She'd been seeking something like this for so long now, ever since she'd learned the location of the Library, heard of its potential for hiding dark secrets, powerful knowledge. You know where to look for what you seek, child. Now you simply wonder if you have the will to use what you will learn, and the doubt that any of it will truly be worth it. The Webspinner had spoken truly.

"No power comes freely," she said with more resolve than she'd expected of herself. "And where effort isn't made to learn, the cost needs to come from elsewhere." The undead dragon nodded, purplish orbs bobbing up and down as another cold gust of wind passed from its nostrils. "Such power is difficult to contain within a single mind, as the Wolf Queen learned. You will live through all that is ahead, but you already know the price of this action. You will lose what you have come to treasure."

So here she was, at the crossroads, the one she'd been waiting to arrive at ever since entering the company of the Sellswords. She wondered if Tarquin was being offered something similar. She doubted he would accept such a thing. He had earnestly taken on the task of following in his father's footsteps, and that meant not taking any more deals with wicked beings, the likes of which had put his family in their position in the first place, no doubt. Which meant that the Game lay in the palm of her hands now. If she wanted to win it, truly, then she could, right here and right now.

But what she'd told Sinder before had not been a lie. The cost, losing everything she had come to hold dear over the course of this journey, it was too much. She had tried so hard, from the very beginning, to remain a wicked person, but it seemed as though at her core, she was not. At her core, she wanted real happiness for herself and others more than she wanted to be successful, and to live a long life, regardless of its quality. She had dreamed of power such as this, but in reality, all she often wanted to was be at peace, off in the woods somewhere, listening for the irksome rustling of rabbit feet, that she might run off on a chase. Simple things had always been her greatest desire, and this... this was not it. Perhaps this would spell her death, but if it meant she got to have one more peaceful moment, certain in the knowledge that she'd made the right choice, it would all be worth it.

"Thanks, but no thanks," she told the dead dragon. "I think I'll be fine as I am."

The corners of the dragon's mouth curled upwards, and she thought it might have been trying to smile at her, though it was hard to tell. Regardless, it soon exploded into a cloud of smoky wisps, vanishing entirely. Another door appeared behind it, and Maya's way forward was clear.

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Sinderion was not terribly surprised when falling over the threshold somehow separated him from Vanryth, and indeed, the threshold itself disappeared, leaving him in what appeared to be one of any number of wooded areas in southern Skyrim. He realized with a bit more apprehension that he seemed to be back in full control of his faculties again, and he ripped the metal darts from his arm and back, tossing them away with a frown. They bled only minimally, and since the poison was gone, he could barely even be bothered with such trivial sensations. He wasn’t sure when in his life pain had come to concern him so little, but there it was, and it served him well enough. More importantly, his senses were back to normal function, and that was an immense relief.

Or at least it was for the first few seconds, when all he registered was impressions of green and grey and pine. But it was not long afterwards, as he was pushing himself onto his feet, that the smell of blood assaulted his nose with the force of something like he imagined being smashed square in the chest by Drayk’s shield must feel. There was a lot of it, and worst of all, something about it was playing vaguely at the edges of his memory.

It was, therefore, only with great reservation and an uncomfortable, vinelike tendril of doubt curling around his innards that he moved forward, padding noiselessly over the ground. He broke the first line of trees to come upon a scene at once cuttingly familiar and entirely foreign. Sinderion froze, eyes sliding over the corpses on the ground as though only half-seeing them. It was an odd mixture—some looked like they’d been done in by warriors, bearing the marks of sword and shield. But sprawled just as inelegantly among these were those who had clearly been ripped apart by something infinitely more savage. Blood still shone darkly upon the pine needles and fresh shoots of young grass, stubbornly outlining the corpses of the Glenmoril that filled the glade.

He swallowed thickly, caught halfway between stumbling backwards and surging forward, for what purpose he knew not. In the end, it just paralyzed him, wide-eyed and staring. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t quite the same, but
 some of it
 he’d killed some of these people himself, in a memory half-buried beneath the weight of time and guilt. Viscerally, he felt like being sick, and if that was all that were there, he might have been able to live with it.

But somewhere, locked deep down and away, something stirred—and it relished.

Maya relished nothing about the scene when she entered. It was the grove from her nightmares, amplified tenfold. The dream had become less frightening once she'd gotten to know the woman that had killed them all, which was somewhat surprising, but to see it in person again made her feel a child again. She'd been little more than a child when she had tried to stand up to the warrior woman, after all. The bodies were cleanly killed in part, but it was as though they'd been killed in tandem with a savage beast, maimed far more brutally than any sabercat or troll could have. When she saw Sinder standing among the bodies, she understood. It was a place built out of both of their nightmares. Maya suspected she knew what the Librarian had in mind for them, and she did not like it. This was supposed to be his choice, to make on his own time. But the Librarian was here to tell them that they had no time left. She would get what she'd been pushing for, and she would suffer the consequence if she was wrong.

She crunched a few twigs on her way to him, which was good, even though he wouldn't need the sound to know she was coming. He'd know her by scent by now. He knew of her presence the second she entered the room with him. Her eyes were a little wider than normal as she stared around at the dead bodies, most of them thankfully face down in pools of their own blood. The smell was thick even to her. She couldn't imagine how it must have been for Sinder. Her touch was light on his arm in greeting. He'd always been averse to physical contact, but she felt it was necessary all the same. Hell, it was probably more for her than for him. That, and she didn't really trust her voice right now.

An altar stood in the center of the grove, and Maya walked slowly over to it, stepping over and around the bodies in her way. She'd seen many like it; every coven had one, for sacrifice. It was a rather holy thing to them, and Maya had plunged daggers down upon them no small amount of times herself, though she imagined Sinder didn't really want to hear or think about that right now. The blood of one of her sisters was spread across the surface, but she could still read the words etched into the stone. She cleared her throat, sliding her fingers along the engraving.

"The way forward will appear when the Beast does."

She swallowed thickly, knowing she'd been right. The Argonian was a bastard, and meant to have them face the consequences of their previous decisions. The room was filled with bodies, which would be powerful allies in the event that she could use them in a timely manner, but she'd denied such power. With it, she might have been able to defend herself against a transformed Sinder, but as she was she was no greater than the witches he'd torn apart on that first day of his transformation. And he... he must have been offered a cure. And he'd rejected it. Maya didn't know if she should feel proud of him, or ashamed of herself, for the knowledge that she had played no small part in convincing him that what was inside him was not wholly evil. She supposed she had to believe that now. She turned to him, and even he would be able to see her nervousness.

"I think... he wants you to turn. Here. Now. I..." she trailed off. What did she want to say most? That she wasn't sure? That she doubted him? How could they know what would happen? She trusted the person that he was, but would any of that come through when the Beast took control? "I turned it down, Sinder. All the power the Librarian offered. I chose this over it all. I think you can do this. I think we can do this. Even here, in this place, I think you can come through." If he didn't, she'd just be another dead witch among the others, but after all they had been through, after all the feelings and the doubts, she felt stronger now than she ever had before. They could beat this, too.

The sour taste never left his mouth as he picked his way with extreme care and delicacy between the corpses, approaching the same place she did, though perhaps with less inclination to do so. He didn’t understand the meaning of it, that their nightmares should mesh like this. Perhaps it was an oblique reminder that he was supposed to hate her, that she had reason to despise him as well. But
 even if he could not manage wholehearted remorse for what he’d done, no matter how much he wanted to feel it, neither could he summon the revulsion he’d once had for these witches. What they’d done to him was wrong, but it was so much a part of him that he had difficulty even conceptualizing what he’d be like otherwise.

It made reading the words, and hearing her speak them, no easier.

In fact, Sinderion could feel his throat closing up, and he swallowed several times, the cartilage in his throat jumping with each one. That was it? All of his struggles, and the constant effort to gain control, and what was required of him in the end was to give it all up, to become that part of him that he suppressed? It hardly seemed the right end to his choices—he’d accepted that the Beast would always lurk inside his mind, but he had never supposed that he would simply let it control him. Was that what was being asked of him? Or was it a false entailment that changing his body meant changing his way of thinking as well? It wasn’t something he wanted to test.

Sinder took a halting step back, uncharacteristically graceless, and shook his head repeatedly, torn between denying the inevitable and just trying to clear his head of his racing, circular thoughts. Anything but that. He would face any enemy, endure any pain, but he would not do this. He couldn’t—it was so counter to everything he’d been working to become over the last decade or so that he could scarcely believe it was being so starkly forced upon him. But Maya was speaking, and he was trying, exerting more effort than he really should have needed to, to hear. It was like the message came to him underwater, in a world where everything was slower and distant and tinged a solitary blue. She’d
 what? She’d given up power—should he have done the same? Was this his punishment for being unable to relinquish that which had defined him, defined his struggle, for so long?

He was floored by her admission, and distantly he remembered that he’d always believed her capable of this, but the rising tide of his own panic was making it hard to feel anything else. He didn’t know what to do—they needed to go forward, but he did not share her belief in him, even now, even still. He’d not given it up, but his reasons had been abstract, half-formed, and he’d thought he had long to go before he was truly ready to release his baser side. When he did, he would not have picked here. He would not have endangered her. Sinder scrubbed both his hands down his face, then back up, spearing his fingers into the hair pulled back from his temples. His entire body shook with the uncomfortable ferocity of a leaf in a gale. Every last lie he’d told himself, every half-truth he’d accepted, every platitude he’d conjured to soothe his conscience
 they were stripped away, and all that was left was the bare truth: he wasn’t prepared for this.

“No. No, no, no. Gods, what have I done? I can’t.”

Maya was a little alarmed just how afraid he obviously was of the moment, and it felt not unlike being struck by an arrow. She probably should have expected it, but that was irrelevant now. They had one way out of this mess, and he was going to need her to even try it, let alone to succeed. What probably made it worse for him was that he was in no immediate danger here. It was Maya that was putting her life on the line by convincing him to go through with it. But she would. Whatever belief he lacked in himself she would have to provide on her end.

"Hey. Hey! Listen to me." She moved to stand immediately in front of him, reaching up to take a cheek in each hand, forcing him to look at her. "You can, Sinder. I know you can. You're stronger than you think you are. And I'll be here every step of the way. You know I would never let you go through this without me." He probably feared that, too. Even if he wanted to protect her from it, there was no way she would let him. Where they stood now was as much her doing as his.

"We can beat this. And when we're done, we can tell all the others about it. I'm not going anywhere, Sinder. Not now, and not for as far as I can see ahead. I..." she faltered only for a moment, before deciding she was tired of faltering on this new direction of hers. This was the person she was now. Now, and until the end. "I love you, Sinderion. You've made me into the person I am now, and I trust you with my life. You won't fail." She held her eyes on him, so he'd know she meant what she said. The only place she ever wanted to speak from anymore was her heart.

He froze completely the moment she took hold of his face, looking into hers as obediently as he could manage. There was still a war raging in his head, and though his tremors grew fine, they did not cease. Why must this be so difficult? He was certain he’d never hated what he was more than he did right now, when it was stopping him from having everything he wanted. From helping his friends, from telling her what he wanted her to know.

As ever, she seemed three steps ahead of him, though he’d not thought
 he didn’t know what he’d thought, honestly. He was halfway through asking how she could know any of that, how she could give herself so little credit for who she was becoming, how she could possibly love someone like him, before he decided that, for the moment at least, none of it mattered. Sucking in a sharp breath, Sinder moved, winding his arms around her with deceptive strength and pulling her to him. He propped his chin on top of her head at first, but then shifted, breathing deeply of the smell of her hair, his heart beating a staccato in his chest so fierce he was almost sure she could feel it. She was reassuringly solid, and real, and warm with her vitality, and he couldn’t bear the thought of losing that, not ever.

But neither could they remain here in stasis, however much he might have preferred it. He had to do the changing, since it would seem she was doing all the believing. His grip tightened momentarily, then loosened as he stepped back, for once not even red-faced or stuttering. This was too important—he had to be sure. Momentarily shifting his balance, Sinder stood on one foot, extracting something from his raised boot—a sheathed knife, by the size and shape of it. Exhaling tightly, he glanced at her face once before dropping his gaze to her hands, taking one in his free one and pressing the dagger into it with the other, closing her fingers over it. “Silver,” he explained softly, stepping back another pace. If he touched her again, he might just lose his resolve to do this now. “Promise me—“ his voice thickened and hitched—“Promise me that if you’re in danger, you’ll use it. I won’t be able to do this, otherwise.”

He’d never told a soul about the fact that he carried this, because it was something he was deeply ashamed of. He’d kept it around for a very long time, because he’d known, he’d always known, that every day he spent in this world was another chance to become a monster. He’d been determined to stop himself by whatever means necessary from doing that—and he’d hoped that if he had to, the silver would be strong enough, and quick enough, to work where other methods had thrice failed him. He was trusting her to make that determination now, to know if he was more monster than man and act accordingly. It was the only thing he could do, to keep her safe. He knew it might not be enough, but it was all he had to give.

Taking a deep breath, he let his hands drop loosely to his sides, trying to relax his body as much as possible. “Are you ready?” The last thing he wanted was to act too soon and surprise her—he’d wait for the go-ahead, though it was growing harder to do with each passing second. The Beast knew it was about to be released, and he could feel the bars on its cage cracking under the force of its onslaught.

Maya blinked at the silver dagger in her hand, and the revelations it brought, but there was no time right now to dwell on them. She was trembling slightly, an odd feeling for her, considering she rarely felt outright fear even when faced with considerable danger. The added element of all the recently released feelings was no doubt adding to it, but they'd needed to come out. If she hadn't spoken when she did, she might not have gotten another chance. "I..." she struggled with it for a moment, seriously doubting that she'd be able to strike him with a weapon that would be fatal, but he needed to hear her say it. "I promise, Sinder."

With that, she took a steadying breath, gripping the hilt of the dagger a little tighter than was necessary. "I'm ready... no point in waiting, right? Let's do this, and then go find the others. They'll be waiting for us."

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Sinder snorted softly at the recall of something said what seemed like an eternity ago. They’d both been different people then, and he was only hoping that what changes he’d made for the better would survive this. That they’d survive this. There were still things he wanted to say, but he couldn’t, not yet—not with this still hanging over him like the headsman’s axe. But he swore to himself that if they were both alive when this was over, he’d say them all.

He took a few more steps backwards, trying to put a reasonable amount of distance between them and hoping that she would not try to close the gap. It would be better this way, if he reacted violently, a possibility he was not nearly foolish enough to underestimate. Letting himself go as slack as he could, he reached for the place he kept the Beast locked away, that well-hidden corner of his mind. It was a matter of no time at all to get there, but knowing what to do then was more difficult. He had lived for so long under iron-banded self-control that giving it up seemed impossible, in some real sense. What did it even feel like, to just
 let go? The Mentor had used metaphor as a teaching tool, to help him erect these walls, build this cage, and he supposed that metaphor would help him destroy it as well. He visualized the cage, saw the creature inside, the same one that had stared back at him from the Librarian’s many mirrors. He stared it in the face, each watching the other with wariness, and then he reached for the lock on the door


Sinderion’s entire body stiffened, tenser than a drawn bowstring, and he sucked in a too-quick breath. Unlike all the times he’d almost shifted in the past, this wholehearted release did not elude his attention with subtlety. There would be no sudden, later realization that his physiology had changed without him noticing. This, he would feel. And it would hurt.

His spine snapped first, with the gruesome sound of all the vertebrae breaking in quick succession as each expanded and more were added, lengthening him even as his legs and arms raced to keep up, the bones rearranging themselves with a cacophonous symphony of grinding and wet cracks. His joints dislocated—several reversing their direction, and Sinder collapsed onto the ground, writhing against the force of the agony. His pained howling was still more man than animal, and he kept his eyes shut, so intently focused on the breaking of his body that he knew nothing else. As his limbs grew, the hair on them thickened, sprouting like some strange, time-lapsed riot of grass springing from flesh rather than soil. It was as golden as his skin, thick against the cold of Skyrim. His fingers broke, too, lengthening and growing thicker, the silver-white claws tipping them in steel-like, hooked points.

His teeth rearranged in his jaw with such violence that he bled, a trickle of it escaping from the corner of his mouth as he scrabbled for purchase against the ground, claws tearing great furrows in the loamy earth, but his arms still unable to support him as the muscles tore and reattached themselves in different ways, configuring his body for all the power he ordinarily lacked, all the agility he was afraid to exercise. He collapsed back against the earth, still blindly lashing about for purchase on something, anything to anchor himself to. There was nothing. A mouthful of his own blood and the acidic contents of his stomach spilled onto the ground, his changing body rejecting everything that it used to be, and there was something distinctly more lupine about the howling, now—his vocal cords had not been spared the distinct torture of unmaking.

His face elongated into a snout, ears traveling upwards until they were two triangles atop either side of his head, softly-furred like the rest of him. The tail erupted from the end of his spine without warning, and he fell sideways, the chorus of pained cries trailing off into something more like grunts and whines as he frantically tried to process his surroundings with apparatuses he was not accustomed to having, senses only refined further for the fact that he now had the parts they rightfully belonged to.

And just like that, the struggling stopped, and he fell still, the only sound in his ears that of his own harsh breathing. No. He could hear another set of breaths. Something else was here. Rising to his feet with all the liquid steadiness of a creature entirely in its element, he reached the towering height of eight feet and some spare inches, nearly twice as broad across as he had been. Only the similarity of coloration remained. Scenting the air with surprising delicacy, his head snapped in the direction of the not-him, not-dead smell, and his eyes narrowed precipitously, a low, rolling growl issuing from his throat as he locked eyes with the second living presence in the clearing.

This was what Maya had waited to see. She felt equal parts ill and fascinated as she watched the man she'd just professed to loving collapse on the ground, his body reshaping into that of the deadliest hunter that walked the face of Tamriel. There were tears in her eyes by the end of it, and she wiped them away, that she might see him better. When he stood, her gaze rose to look him in the eyes, which still retained some measure of him. The knife was held behind her, tightly, in her right hand. That had undoubtedly been a terrible experience for him, but she couldn't help but think of how magnificent he looked.

And... he did not immediately do anything violent. She chanced a look around, but no door had appeared to guide them out. Did the Librarian need to see something more? The growl and the narrowing of his eyes put a twinge of fear in Maya's belly, but she reminded herself that he would not let himself do anything to hurt her. Sinder still had control, somewhere in there. She had to believe that, especially for what she tried next.

She took a slow step towards him, and then another. "Sinder?" she asked, looking up at him, trying to find some sign of recognition in his eyes. "Sinder, it's me, Maya." She closed the distance at a steady rate, coming before him and slowly reaching out with her left hand to touch the fur on his chest.

His entire musculature drew taut when this creature approached him, and for a moment, he just watched her warily, waiting for an attack or a hostile action of any kind. He did not fear such things, especially not when they came from such small, weak opponents as this one looked to be. He knew he was the stronger thing here, and it was that more than anything that gave him pause. Beings like this one ran away from him as fast as their puny little legs could carry them
 and that was never fast enough. Never had one approached him before, and it stayed his motion for just long enough that he could decide whether or not she meant to put up a fight.

There was something
 familiar in the cadence of the words she spoke, and part of him, somewhere deep in his chest maybe, recognized them, knew they meant something. Something important. But he could not determine what. She drew closer, this foolish thing, and reached out. The gesture itself appeared nonthreatening, but he had seen it before. Women with feathers who threw fire at him made motions like that, and the rumble of his breathing in his chest increased in pitch until it was a snarl, and he snapped at the air just to the left of her fingers. That was strange—he’d meant to take her hand off, hadn’t he? The simple thought produced some kind of rebellion in him, and he knew somehow that he didn’t want that.

Something shifted, and the predatory confidence in his stature eased slightly, but he also backed off several paces, something vaguely like fear passing darkly behind his eyes. Fear of what? Surely, he was not afraid of this small thing. So what had he to dread?

Maya could not stop the startled jump when Sinder snapped at her, and she retracted her hand. His speed and strength was easily a match of what the Feral's had been, and that was enough to remove limbs as though they were nothing. She was terrified of this creature that stood before her, as it was one that could kill her easily, regardless of what she chose to do. She knew in her heart she wouldn't be able to strike him with the knife. He'd needed to hear the words, but she did not believe them herself. The point of her own change was to continue on with him, together. For her to abandon the idea that she was better off alone. If she couldn't get Sinder to see her through the eyes of the Beast, then she would not leave this place. And she would be satisfied with the fact that she tried.

She slipped the knife under her belt behind her so that she might keep both her hands in sight. The fact that he hadn't killed her yet meant that they were close. They were teetering on the edge between happiness and death, and she needed to find some way to push him to the correct side. She could see the look in his eyes. Confusion and fear. One mind battling against the other to make sense of all that was before him. "We're going to go hunting together, you and I, once this is all done. We agreed on that, remember?" She tried to speak to him as though he was not a massive werewolf standing before her, but rather the man he'd so recently been.

She took another step towards him, still slowly. As riddled with fear as she was, never in her life had she felt so alive as in this moment. Surely he could sense the heart inside of her, and the intensity with which it was beating. "This place we're in, it's nothing but our pasts. It's a representation of the dark days that are behind us now. This isn't in our future. Not if we're together." She was within an arm's length of him now. Well, his arms, not hers. She didn't reach out this time, just stood in front of him, holding eye contact as best she could. He would see her, she knew he would.

His lungs, nearly double the capacity they’d been before, pulled and pushed air with a steady, reassured constancy. Though his mind was in turmoil, his body was
 even the resting functions of it were so very vital. He was constantly filtering and processing information, from the complex patterns of scent that those breaths brought to him, to the strangely-quiet ambient details of the setting. It was perhaps this first that made him uneasy, made him receptive to the words the woman was speaking. This place
 it was familiar and not-familiar at the same time, and that didn’t make sense. The confusion opened up his mind, made him curious, and temporarily dampened the hunger and instinct to kill that had predominated upon
 what? His coming to be here? The Beast did not understand time very well, but it knew that things came before other things, but what had been before this felt
 different.

He smelled blood, and pine, and earth, but where was the smell of birds? Of rabbits? Low-growing plants? There was something wrong. He heard nothing except himself and this woman, no minor disturbances from squirrels on branches, no air currents moving between pieces of foliage. His ears twitched and swiveled, and still there was nothing else. His focus, then, was on what was there—the blood triggered the fight response, but there was little here to kill anymore. She was here, but he did not want to kill her, did he? It felt wrong to think he did. Like this place felt wrong.

He stared intently at her as she spoke, and the harder he focused, the more of the wrong place he excluded as useless background noise, the more he understood the words. A few stuck out at him first. Hunting—he liked to do that. To demonstrate his mastery over the environment, to eat so that he might live, to provide—for what? Himself? That, too, seemed a bit off. Together—she’d said that, too. It meant
 what did it mean? His head lowered slightly as she approached, and he pulled more air into the bellows in his chest, cocking his head to one side. The smell
 he knew the smell. She was the forest, and something else. Something he used to think was bad, but wasn't anymore. A little like the dead ones.

Witch. He wasn’t sure where the word had come from, but the thought was oddly-shaped, in a sense that didn’t quite fit with the way he thought his mind worked. It was like he was missing something, as though there was some part of him that knew what he meant, but it wasn’t loud enough in his head. Maya. That word meant something too, something with weight attached. It triggered a torrent of others, a cascade of things that didn’t fit, and so he tore everything else away and started again from those.

Maya. Anirne. Vanryth. Drayk-and-Adrienne. That was important
 they were important. Why? Family—they were his family. Mentor. Soren-and-Lynly. Tarquin. Game. Librarian. His breathing hitched a bit, his memory assaulted by a series of images he’d forgotten. Things he knew, people he loved. It made
 sense. This was right, somehow. He cared about these people, these things. It was why he tried so hard not to let them see how unsure he was. Why he didn’t tell anyone about the little piece of insurance he carried, when he was not so strong and swift as he was now. Because he felt weak. Sinder, she’d said. That was his name, when he was strong and when he was not. When he was this, and when he was otherwise.

The last little bit clicked into place, and he slackened, sitting back onto his haunches and bracing his hands on the ground in front of him. Ducking his head, he tried to say that he understood—but this tongue would not allow it, so he whined gently instead, and then remembered something. His hands were large and clumsy, but even they could serve just fine for this purpose. Lifting one slowly and deliberately into the air, he fumbled awkwardly over a single sign—Maya.

The breath left her lungs in a rush when Maya laid eyes on the sign Sinder made, and all the tension in her went with it. So too did the solidarity of her knees, and she plunged forward onto them, the tears springing to her eyes even as she broke a full smile. Even through all the battles she'd been through with them, there had been no moment where she'd opened herself up to such complete and utter defeat as that one. So rarely did she purposefully make herself vulnerable to another, relying on the trust she had for that person to see her through. It was so much more terrifying than wading into battle, but it was so much more rewarding. He hadn't let her down, but rather propelled her to new heights.

"Yes," she said, only able to manage little more than a whisper. It didn't matter, he'd easily be able to hear her. "It's me. We did it, Sinder. I knew we could. I knew it." She had known it was possible, but to say she'd expected it to go like this would have been a lie. She didn't know if it was possible for her to be happier. With hands still somewhat shaky from excitement, she reached up and slid her fingers around his hand, the one that had signed her name. Scooting closer to him, she snaked fingers into the fur that covered his chest, eventually letting her head fall against it, feeling the breath come and go from him. It was almost enough to make her forget everything that was around her, and the ordeals that still lay ahead.

Slowly, the breaths grew shallower, the fur receding to fabric and flesh, the hand in hers receding until it was only larger, and not thrice the size. The returning grip did not change, however, nor did the fact that his nose was pressed to the curve of her neck, breathing the scent of her. He felt no pain upon return to his usual shape, and indeed, though the cage was still just as absent, the Beast was quiet, content. It had finally smoothed out, molding into his own being, accepted in practice as well as principle as part of an integrated whole—one that cared for his friends and wanted to retrieve his Mentor, and one who, honestly, was willing to put that off for a minute or two while he said something important.

“I love you too,” he murmured into her skin, drawing back and cradling her jaw in his hands. “Gods, Maya, I loved you even when I knew you were deceiving me.” He might not have known how to deal with it, might have tried to act as though the feeling were not present—but there was no need to do that now. He could just say it, and let her know, and he need not fear that he’d accidentally hurt her one day. He swore the smile he was wearing could have split his face in half, and it almost hurt, it had been so long since he’d worn one like that. “Thank you
 for believing in me.”

He leaned forward, pausing for just a moment when his nose met hers, and then he huffed a breathy laugh, remembering a bit late to tilt his head slightly to the side so he could kiss her properly. It was perhaps understandable that he didn’t immediately notice the door appearing on the opposite end of the room.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives
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The room she entered after the actual library was one pulled, quite literally, from the worst of her nightmares. Though she knew it to be chosen just to cow her, she could not help but feel the effectiveness of it—the mounting sense of dread and the bile creeping up her throat were quite clearly not simply illusory themselves. It didn’t help that this chamber seemed to have the exact effect of its real-life counterpart: her attempt to cast a magelight to deal with the dimness of the cavern was entirely ineffective.

The carved lotus was as beautiful and terrible as it had been then. It sat at one end of the roughly circular room, the deep purple illumination it threw the only light she had, at least until she stepped more fully inwards. Then several torches roared to life, set in rusty metal bands. The walls were the same sandstone she remembered, too smooth to be naturally-occurring. It had been evidence that something had carved everything, from the chamber itself to the monstrous thing sitting at the opposite end of it. Without her magic and before the thing that had so nearly unmade her, Anirne felt scarcely more than a child again, naked and powerless against the might of something so much bigger than her. The skills she had worked so tirelessly to gain were useless here, and the confidence and surety she shrouded herself with were no more protection than glass, rapidly cracking.

What did he desire to show her that she had not already known? Yes, she was so little without her magic, but she would have freely admitted that. Power was not all there was to living—she did not resent that hers was so closely tied to something that could be taken away. She didn’t hate being weak, she only needed to be strong. Perhaps this was meant to cause her fear. If so
 it was working. As before, she felt tempted to touch it, even knowing that it would finish what its counterpart had started years ago. Everything is drawn towards the nothing. Particles in the void, the oh-so-mortal fascination with death. She’d never felt it so keenly before, that magnetic attraction to her own end. But she resisted it even so. There were things to live for, even if that denied her the opportunity to die for them.

"This place means something to you," Tarquin said from behind her, more of a statement than anything. It was obvious from the seconds he had observed her since entering the room through the door she had used, though they had most certainly not come from the same previous room. The Library was not connected in a logical manner, that much was obvious. He wasn't surprised the Librarian had them encounter one another, specifically the others in the group that they had connected most strongly with. There would be some test awaiting them, no doubt.

This place was dark. It was something that would have normally come as an advantage for Tarquin, but ever since he had lost his vampiric abilities, the darkness had become as much foe as friend. He could still conceal himself in it, but it was a mystery what was contained within. Perhaps their test was already in here, waiting for them. "Are you alright?"

In a manner most unlike her, Anirne started at the sudden sound of a voice, whirling to face it, before she recognized it and relaxed a bit. “Don’t touch the amethyst,” she warned quickly, compelled to say that before anything else. The consequences of errant curiosity were dire here, and she had no idea what they’d be facing, so it seemed pertinent. Sighing a bit to herself, she nodded slowly. She didn’t know what good it had done the Librarian to bring Tarquin here, because obviously this chamber held no meaning for him, but it certainly provided danger enough for any number of people. Perhaps that was why it had been chosen. She had difficulty believing it was not done at least in part to torment her, however.

“This place exists beneath Elsewyr,” she explained quietly, crossing her arms over herself as though from cold or defensiveness, when in fact she felt neither. Perhaps she just needed to be reminded of her own solidity. “That
 object cancels magic in a wide radius, and from what we can tell, kills mages on contact. Last time I was here, it exploded when the abbot reached for it, and I was the only one that survived.” The tone with which she said it, and the implication-heavy glance she shot it, gave good reason to believe that it was the source of her previously-mentioned troubles as well.

The query into her state of mind, she had some difficulty answering. Aside from the keenly-felt absence of light or the ability to conjure one, she was physically as hale as shed been upon entering the Library in the first place. Mentally
 she’d been better not a few minutes ago, having reaffirmed her own desire to remain with the Sellswords and those they’d collected, and accepted that come what may, she would not let go of this fledgling bond she shared with them all. But now, here
 it was hard not to be affected. “I’ll be more alright when I’m not here anymore,” she said with a touch of wryness, “But you need not worry about me. It is, in the end, only a room.”

"Cancels magic?" Tarquin asked. He tried to call some frost magic to his hand, and the attempt confirmed her words. "That will make things difficult." He was feeling particularly one-armed at the moment, and he imagined Anirne was feeling particularly mundane. He wondered if the staff she carried would function here, or if this object (or the recreation of it) would cancel out even that. There was no obvious exit to go through, and while there was a chance that it was cleverly hidden somewhere in the shadows, they didn't have the light to look with, and no way to know if threats lurked in the dark as well.

"He seeks to torment us with these visions, for some reason," Tarquin explained, shrugging. "I arrived here after exiting the room that belonged to me as a child, and speaking with the Librarian, who was disguised as my father. He offered me my vampiric powers back, as well as my arm." It would be obvious enough what choice he made. Undoubtedly those abilities would have served him well now, but Tarquin suspected that that was exactly the point the Argonian was trying to make. Regardless, the cost had been too high.

“I’d wondered
” Anirne mused thoughtfully, brows drawing together. It was not difficult to conjecture from there that all of them faced trials of a similar nature, tailored to their individual psyches. Given the baggage that some of them carried with them, she imagined it must have been especially difficult for some of them. Her thoughts went for a moment to her brother, but she shook her head. She simply had to believe that they would overcome their obstacles. There wasn’t much she could do for anyone at the moment except for herself, and now Tarquin.

“I was offered
 the Library.” It was a little strange, in that it was something she’d never known to want, but had been very difficult to resist all the same. But what she would have had to give up would simply have been too much. Particularly given what she now understood of herself in relation to these other people she’d bound herself to. “I suppose he wishes to remind me of what it is to be powerless.” It seemed fitting, given that power was what she’d rejected.

But it seemed their time for talking was now over, as Tarquin heard a low growl from the darkness, along with the sound of sliding feet, claws clicking along the floor, sending echoing pings around the room. He drew his knife and peered into the shadows, but his eyes were all but useless now. His ears were more useful, and even those were now that of a normal man. Fortunately, one of them came forth into the light, almost as if presenting itself to them for their appraisal. It was not at all unlike certain creatures Tarquin had seen once when he was much younger in his vampiric life. He hadn't seen a gargoyle in many years, but they were a hard creature to forget. These ones were slightly different, however. Its black skin looked not at all like stone, but more of a smooth, inky material, stretched taut over rippling muscles. They stood crouched most often, but at their full height these ones would be easily six or seven feet. The wings sprouting from their backs wouldn't allow them to fly in this cramped room, but judging by the occasional whooshes he heard, they could use them to move around quite quickly.

"Gargoyles," Tarquin explained, in case Anirne had not been able to see for herself. "At least three. They can regenerate if they strike us." Staying away from them, however, would be very difficult in this lack of light, as would engaging them at range, considering the current absence of magic.

Anirne hummed a grim agreement, reaching for the polearm at her belt, but she knew right away that it was just as inert as anything else of a magical nature was here. It left her with exactly one weapon to her name—herself. Exhaling slowly, she sank down slightly into a defensive stance, bending her knees and rising onto the balls of her feet. There were very few things that couldn’t be taken away from her before she died—fortunately, even without her magic, she knew how to make use of those things. In this case, her mind and her training. She had no idea if it would be anywhere near enough against such creatures, and she supposed the Librarian must think not. And perhaps he was right. But there was one other asset she had right now: an ally. The gargoyles might coordinate, but in the end, she doubted any of them cared if the other two lived. This was something they could exploit, given the chance.

Of course, finding such an opportunity would be difficult. It was tough to track them through the darkness, which lent every attack of theirs an element of suddenness and surprise, meaning that they really needed to be aware of what was going on around them—and react as quickly as possible. One dived for Anirne, and she sidestepped the initial sweep, twisting to deliver a punishing kick to the base of its spine, which caused it to lurch a bit, but failed to break anything. They were resilient, and she hadn’t expected any less. The next one went low, for her legs, and she jumped, landing on its leveled back and springing off before she could be thrown, but it got away before she could even hit it. This was certainly not going to be fun.

Tarquin jumped back at the third, which swung for his midsection, before swiping high, forcing him to lean back quickly to avoid having his throat torn open. It retreated back into the darkness before he could launch any counterattacks of his own. "Back to back," he suggested to Anirne, placing himself behind her. This way they would at least not be surprised by anything, not fully. It was still nearly impossible to see them until they were very close. They had to play to their advantages here, as small as they were.

To that end, Tarquin took an account of what they actually had at their disposal. Without their magic, they had only their martial skill to rely on, and with Anirne disarmed, and Tarquin literally disarmed, that was rather meager. Still, Tarquin had enough confidence in his friend's physical ability that he was willing to allow the plan in his mind to form. She had all her limbs, and he had the knife. It was probably going to hurt a great deal, but it was all he could think of. "I need you to grapple with one. Tie up its limbs for a moment, hold it in place. I just need a small opening." He didn't doubt she was quick, but he was quicker, and she was currently the stronger of the two. He knew full well what he was asking of her, but the cold side of him still functioned, and it knew that pain would need to be endured to survive this.

Back-to-back was about as logical as it got in a situation like this, and Anirne adjusted accordingly when Tarquin did, shoring up her position a little better. Find a center, move in and out of it, but don’t get too attached to positioning. That was more or less the heart of what she had to do here. That, and hopefully survive it. She blocked an incoming swipe by crossing her forearms in front of her head, catching the gargoyle’s wrist at the junction of them, and then used the strength in her legs to push back, throwing the creature back a step. Rather than protract the conflict with the element of surprise gone, it simply winged off into another section of the room, where her eyes could not follow it.

Tarquin’s suggestion, she could see right away, was both quite risky, especially for her, and also just about the only thing they could do. A fight like this could not be won without risk, and more than that, they had to play to each other’s strengths and compensate for those ways in which they were weak. If that meant she had to grapple a gargoyle, then so be it. “It’ll be the next one,” she informed him matter-of-factly, because she wanted to be stuck holding one to the ground for as little time as possible. She’d just be asking for the others to hit her when she was down if she spent too long trying to wrestle it.

Going still, Anirne waited. The occasional rustle of displaced air from a wingbeat was the only really discernible sound, but if she concentrated hard enough, she shouldn’t need anything else. It was several seconds before she moved again, but then a small breeze ticked one of her cheeks, and she lunged, plunging into the dark and latching onto the foot of one as it passed her by. With great effort, she held onto her first arm with the second, and with her whole body heaved, tugging the mid-flight gargoyle into the small lit space she and Tarquin occupied.

Predictably, it did not go quietly, and no sooner had she brought it to the floor than it kicked free of her grip, the claws on its toes opening up a damaging rent in her abdomen, tearing through the cloth of her robes as though it weren’t half as sturdy as it was. As soon as it had, though, she dropped elbow-first onto its chest, knocking the wind out of it for long enough to twist one of its arms in such a way that it was forced to flip over onto its belly to avoid getting the limb broken. With desperate effort, Anirne scrambled atop it, pinning it in place by pressing her knee into the base of its spine. “Quickly!” she implored, because she could hear another one approaching, and this one might be able to throw her off with a few more seconds.

Tarquin would have struck sooner, but a second of the gargoyles had made a flurry of strikes in his direction, forcing him to dodge backwards as Anirne worked on pinning the other. In the end, he'd employed a rather uncharacteristic dropkick, leaving his feet and planting both boots in the gargoyle's inky chest. The blast was enough to send it staggering backwards into the shadows while Tarquin landed hard on his side. He used his elbow to push himself back up, vaguely aware of the blood on the ground that indicated that Anirne was wounded. He was more aware of the fact that he needed to kill this thing, before she was wounded again.

He slid around it to the head, flipping the knife backwards in his hand and plunging down as hard as he could with it. The blade was ebony, and razor sharp, but only with that much force was it able to puncture the gargoyle's hide and crack through the skull. It sank deep, stilling the creature, and Tarquin found himself unable to immediately retrieve it. He wasn't allowed the chance, however, as one of the other gargoyles rushed up behind him, claws sinking into his back and lifting him up and away. The wounds were extremely painful, but still he struggled against the creature, trying to escape from its grasp before it pulled him into the shadow, to a place where Anirne would be unable to help him.

As soon as the one she was holding went slack, Anirne was on her feet, trying to ignore the rippling agony of the wound in her abdomen and focus on what there still was to do. At present, the most urgent thing was preventing Tarquin from being pulled bodily into the dark, but obviously holding on and trying not to budge was out of the question. She needed to be smart about this, but her options were very limited. Deciding to go with the first idea that had any relevance, she slipped the metal rod from her belt. It had neither sharp edges nor more than a foot and a half of length at present, but it was still sturdy and heavy, and the bones in wrists were more delicate than elsewhere.

A new gout of her blood splashed onto the stone floor as she charged forward, swinging the rod with all the force she could call to her for the joints between the creature’s thick forearms and where it held onto her friend with hooked claws. The sound of the collision was loud in the cavern, echoing uncomfortably, but it was sharp enough that she knew she’d cracked something, and its corresponding arm went slack. She would have moved in for the other one, had the last of the gargoyles not chosen that moment to swoop low and snatch her by the ankle, disrupting her balance and sending her crashing to the floor. She struggled furiously, but it continued to pull her in the direction of the stone flower.

Anirne, knowing full well what that device was capable of, thrashed with all the strength she had left to her, striking out for the elbow-joint of the gargoyle where she could reach them, but the skin was resilient, and only in the places where the bones were closer to the surface would she be effectively able to crush them.

A claw retracted from Tarquin's back when the gargoyle's arm broke, and he gasped in a breath of air. Immediately he acted against the gargoyle holding him, and Anirne's own plight went temporarily unnoticed. He reached his left arm across his chest and grasped the bone of the creature's wing, pulling himself swiftly around it to settle on its back, removing the other set of claws from his back in the process. The blood seeped freely from the wounds, but there was little time to think on it. It was no worse than what Anirne had fought through, and it would not be enough to stop him.

The gargoyle raged against his efforts, but Tarquin reached his left arm around to wrap firmly around the jaw and head of the gargoyle. Teeth sank down into his bicep, but the wound was only just received before Tarquin twisted the head sideways, snapping the neck with a brutal crunch and sending the both of them to the ground. Only when the beast was still did he look up, following the wide smear of blood along the floor to where Anirne was being dragged away. Grimacing, he pushed to his feet, darting forward to the site of the first fallen enemy, placing a foot against the head and yanking the knife out, which he promptly threw at the gargoyle clutching Anirne. The blade struck it in the chest, the attack enough of a surprise for it to let Anirne go, but judging by the amount of her blood on the floor, he'd need to give her more time, perhaps enough to use a potion. To that end he sprinted across the room.

He threw himself into the air at the last gargoyle, taking it head on. He struck it in the jaw with his knee, grabbing the knife and pulling it free. He managed three stabs to the gargoyle's abdomen before it launched its own overwhelming attack, grabbing his dagger-arm with one hand, raking the other set of claws across his stomach, and biting down with sharp teeth at the base of his neck, before casting him aside as though he were no concern at all. He slid to a halt at the edge of the light, the knife fallen from his hands and clanging to the floor nearby.

The struggle to regain her feet was a dire one—she could feel stone grit pressing into her open wounds, and every time she attempted to move anything, it hurt. Anirne was also fairly sure that the gargoyle had broken her ankle before t was forced to release her. She started by focusing on her breathing, aware that time was still short, and she needed to be back up and moving soon, or Tarquin would suffer for it.

She did not usually carry potions for anything other than magicka, as generally speaking, her healing was far more effective and plentiful than such things could ever be. But she did have one, a spare that one of the others had made but not had room to carry. She’d thought to just give it back at the first need for one, but this seemed a tad more urgent now. With a groan, she curled into herself, rolling over onto her uninjured side and trying to reach the pouch at her hip. That was easier said than done, as she was not entirely accustomed to so much pain. Usually, her magicka itself would at least dull such sensations, but there was none of that here, and she blinked past the agonized tears forming in the corners of her eyes until her fingers at last wrapped around the thing she wanted. Raising it to her mouth, she tore the cork out with her teeth and drank so fast she nearly choked.

It wasn’t nearly what she required to heal her injuries completely, but it would have to be enough. Gingerly, she pushed herself to her feet, wincing when the one with the bad ankle touched the floor. She’d need to keep as much pressure off it as possible. Looking up, she saw Tarquin go flying and heard the distinctive clatter of a metal object on stone. That would be the knife, and her only chance to end this while they were both still alive. As lightly as she could, Anirne broke into a run, scooping the blade off the ground and hopping over his legs to continue her momentum towards the gargoyle. It was half-turned, perhaps preparing to sink back into the darkness, and her leap was lopsided and inelegant at best, but she managed to get her arms around its neck, holding on with her knees as well as she could when it tried to knock her off its back.

Gritting her teeth, she tightened her grip, ignoring the screaming pain in her ankle and her side for the sheer necessity of staying alive. With great effort, she moved the arm that held the knife until it was in front of her, and then she raised it up as high as she could, plunging it with all the force she could muster into the back of its neck, near the spine. She knew almost nothing about wielding such weapons, and her grip slipped, perhaps aided by the fact that the hilt was bloody—her doing or Tarquin’s or the gargoyle’s, it was impossible to say. Her hand slid too far along the hilt, and, with the force she’d mustered, over the crossguard, so that the blade itself sliced into her palm even as it plunged into the tough skin of the gargoyle.

The creature went slack underneath her, and its fall threw her to the side, where she landed awkwardly on her injuries. She realized with uncomfortable suddenness that this was almost exactly like the first time she’d been in this cavern: she was almost too injured to move, her friend wasn’t moving, and she lacked the magic necessary to do anything about it. Even the part where she’d survived due to alchemy was the same—though that time, she’d had to drag herself to the dead alchemist and use his wares. Anirne had a moment of panic, in which she almost convinced herself that choosing to commit herself to this goal of looking out for the others had doomed her to fail at it, but all the same she started to move, half-dragging her uncooperative body over to Tarquin, who appeared to be in even worse shape than she was.

She was all out of ideas. Just as she was thinking that she might have to drag both of them to the door, if there even was a door, she felt a shift in the atmosphere, and the light surrounding the stone went out. Her magicka was drained, but she could feel it—and she had enough to do what needed to be done. Reaching over, she managed to lay her good hand on Tarquin’s forearm, and that was all she needed. The healing magic flowed until she didn’t have any left, and she managed to close over her own wounds as well, at least. She still hurt, but chances were excellent that they’d live, anyway.

“I’d say ‘let’s not do this again,’” she said between shallow breaths, “but I’ve always tried to avoid making promises that I cannot keep.”

Tarquin's breath was soft and shallow by the time Anirne reached him, and he coughed several times as the healing magic did its work. Groaning as he pushed himself up onto his elbow, he surveyed the area enough to see that the enemies were dead, and that he and Anirne were both alive, and looking to stay that way for the immediate future. That done, he let himself fall back again, breathing in deep breaths. Like Anirne he was still in a good deal of pain, but the wounds no longer threatened his life.

"If I never see one of those things again, it will be too soon." He clambered slowly to his feet, going to retrieve the knife, before helping Anirne to her feet. "We're not out of this yet. Let's regroup with the others."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Regardless of what any of them had been through, they all ended up in the same place at the same time, entering through five separate doors onto a circular stone platform. A quarter of Drayk's shield had been obliterated, but he wore it anyway, for the normalcy if nothing else, as he entered beside Adrienne. Tarquin and Anirne staggered through their own door side by side, still heavily pained by the wounds they'd earned against the gargoyles. Vanryth was the only one to enter through a door alone, though to him it would be as though no time had passed at all since entering the door with Sinder. The Altmer himself came in with Maya, and the witch actually looked invigorated rather than exhausted and spent. Soren and Lynly entered on the far side, and together with Drayk and Anirne, the warrior helped apply the healing the party members would need to remain on their feet. For the moment, it seemed as though they were being given some respite.

The room they were in, and it was hard to actually call it a room, was open to the outside air, and for the first time since entering the tower, they could see the actual outside world. The only problem was that they were very high up, reaching above the fog and clouds that surrounded the bottom of the Library. The sound of the waves below was distant and muted. There were windows lining the wall large enough for the largest of them to stand in, around three feet wide, and the icy cold air of Winterhold blew through, to exit on the other side. These windows surrounded the entire wall save for the doors they'd entered in, and the only way forward was up. A staircase spiraled around the perimeter of the room, leading up and up until Drayk could not even see where it ended.

"I guess we're going up," Drayk said to the group at large, and he'd just been about to lead the way when the Librarian's voice filtered down from above. "The trials have been passed in full. It may mean little to you, but I deem you worthy to finish this. Find your way to the top together, and you will find your release." It only confirmed what Drayk had said, and he took a step towards the start of the stairs. That was when he heard a familiar sound, a beating on the wind as something heavy rose to greet them.

"Get behind me!" he shouted, just as Stonehammer's dragon appeared in front of him, eyes set on the group. The inferno it released blasted Drayk in full, but it was stopped dead there, the fire mage taking a single step back in his struggle. The cold was removed from the room, but Drayk was able to keep the vast majority of the dragonfire away from his friends, and when the beast ran out of breath, he even sent a ball of it back at it, giving it a smack on the snout that it did not appreciate. "Let's go, let's go!" he said, gesturing for the others to get a move on, as the dragon looked to be preparing for a charge on the tower.

Sinder didn’t need to be told twice, and he took point up the stairs, occasionally shoving a fallen piece of masonry out of the way so that the others could pass, but there was a rumbling from beneath them, a signal of structural instability if he’d ever seen one. It wasn’t long, he suspected, before the roof would be coming down on their heads. As if to confirm his suspicions, a massive chunk of stone collapsed from above, hitting the staircase just in front of him. He stopped on a pin, holding his arms out to the sides to prevent those immediately behind him from accidentally carrying their headlong run into the thing, then sprang up atop it. There was enough room between the top of the masonry and the rest of the ceiling for people to get through if they ducked, but getting up on top of it in the first place would not be easy for anyone in armor, carrying heavy things, or just not that used to jumping.

In order to make it quicker, he took a knee on the stone itself, reaching down to help each successive comrade up and over the obstruction as swiftly as possible. There was no telling how much further they had to go, and they couldn’t afford to be delayed here when the building was coming down around their ears.

Soren, one of the first up and over, took the lead then, though he noted that there was a closed door fast approaching. Honestly, it probably would have been better to let lovely or Drayk or someone try to shoulder it open, but he was in front, so he might as well do it himself. Or at least that was what he would have done, if it were not becoming more and more apparent that the ingress wasn’t going to give for mere force. You’ve got to be kidding. All this way, and now he decides to lock the door. There were, indeed, a series of padlocks on the reinforced door, and, slinging his bow over his back, Soren fished around in his pockets for a lockpick.

It had obviously been quite a while since he’d needed one. The Embassy encounter, if he remembered properly, but he supposed it was simply a good thing that he liked to be prepared. Taking a firm grip on the pick, he lifted the first of the locks into his left hand, sliding the thin device in and jiggling a bit. The tumblers clicked into place easily, but the next one was substantially harder. He was pretty sure he was sensing a pattern here, and the fact that the shaking under his feet was just getting worse was almost enough to rattle him. The others were by this point lined up behind him and waiting, even Sinderion, now at the back of the line because he’d hauled everyone else over the block of stone.

The second lock gave, but now stone dust and mortar was starting to rain down over their shoulders, and it was hard to get an accurate feel for the tumblers with all the tremors. Soren swore as the pick broke off inside the lock, though he managed to extract it with a careful maneuver. This set him to finding another, and he realized with some surprise that it was the last one he had. Obviously he’d had no need for them recently, else he’d have realized he was almost out. This one then, had to count. There was resistance as he slid it into the mechanism, and he had to finesse it around a bit before it clicked home, and after that, it was a matter of getting each individual tumbler to agree with him. There were fist-sized rocks occasionally pounding his back by the time the last one slid into place, but he shoved the door open and let everyone through before it could get any worse. Just in time: another large chunk of the infrastructure obliterated the spot where he’d been standing a moment before.

It was Lynly who was first through the door, or rather it was her shield. It'd been raised over her head ever since they began their climb to ward off errant stones that sought to brain her. Stones wouldn't be the only thing it protected against, as Lynly felt something slam into the face of the shield, threatening to throw her back off her feet. She caught her balance though and leaned into the next one. Somewhere on the far side of a room, a slit in the wall was spitting arrows at them with great force. She could feel each one slam into the steel face of her shield. She set her shoulder against the arrows and braced herself for the long haul. She couldn't move nor could she relent for fear that one of the arrows would get past her and stake one of her friends.

It wasn't only the one trap either. From behind her shield she could see that the room was filled with the devices. "Somebody find the lever!" Lynly growled, withstanding another arrow. If it kept up, then her shield would resemble more of a pincushion than the metal disk it was supposed to be. Even then she could feel the weight of the arrows pile up.

The door Soren had unlocked must have somehow taken them several levels up, as there were a few things noticeably different. One, the ceiling wasn't cracking above their heads here, and no heavy stones threatened to crush the skulls of the unwary. Two, the sounds of the dragon's wings beating against the air immediately grew more distant, though it was still quite close by. And lastly, judging from its position in the room, that door should have led them straight out into the sky, and yet there was another room behind it. The Library worked in strange ways, but there was little time to dwell on it.

Drayk shored up the shield wall beside Lynly, though he had to squeeze himself down smaller than usual, considering the reduced size and effectiveness of his shield. The arrow launchers were in a manageable area in front of them, enough that they didn't have to worry about getting shot in the back. The way out of the room was clear as well; the stair spiral began on the far side of the room, beneath the arrow traps, but it led up to a thick metal gate that would need to be raised somehow. There was no finessing through that doorway, and the bars looked too strong to bash through or melt down, not with arrows blasting them from the front and a dragon pursuing them from behind. A slight shaking of the floor indicated the beast was making progress towards them, wreaking havoc on the tower as it went.

Maya crept up behind Drayk, keeping low so as to stay out of the line of arrows heading her way, and from her relative position of safety, searched around the room for signs of a lever, anything to make the arrows stop and the gate open. In the end, all she found were three separate targets directly above the door they'd just entered, much too high to be reached on foot. They looked suitable for arrows, however, so Maya conjured her bow and fired off three in rapid succession, dinging each one. They gave slightly against the force, but nothing changed in the room. Maybe it was a timed contraption? They had other archers with them. "I think they need to be struck at the same time."

“Then it’s fortunate we have three decent shots among us, isn’t it?” Soren replied, drawing his bow and nocking an arrow to the string. Beside him, Sinderion did the same, and the three aimed up and above the impromptu shield wall Lynly and Drayk were forming, releasing the shots as though they’d practiced it that way. Sinder’s arrow hit left, Soren’s center, and Maya’s on the right, the purple glow marking it as conjured. But just like the other two, it worked for the purpose, and one of the two massive bars over the door slid from the metal fitting it was slotted into, the equivalent of a massive deadbolt unlocking. The other one, however, stayed in place.

At first, Sinderion thought that they might have to do the same thing a second time, but the targets changed color, from a uniform grey to three different hues—red, yellow, and blue. At first, he didn’t really understand, and then something clicked. “Magic—they need to be hit with destruction magic.” He stepped back a bit to allow the more magically-inclined members of the group to get close enough to hit, the arrows still clattering away from the shields their friends held.

Adrienne could do destruction magic. It was immediately obvious which target needed to be hit with what spell, and though her first thought upon looking at the red one was obviously Dom, he was a little bit busy at the moment keeping arrows off of them, so it would have to be someone else, and then she needed someone who knew lightning as well. “Van, Anirne,” she said quickly, and the Psijic knew what she was asking, her hands lighting up with the familiar glow of yellow-orange fire. Van was, as ever, the lightning, and Adrienne the ice. The three let fly their attacks at once, their precision perhaps not as sharp as the archers’, but it didn’t need to be. The second bar on the door slid back, and the arrows abruptly stopped firing.

Anirne reached the door first and pulled it open, only to stop short when she felt open air. A step out onto the staircase revealed what was going on: the worn stone steps wound around the outside of the tower, hugging the white wall of it and moving ever upwards, but the ground was too far away for her to see, covered by a layer of cloud. The wind buffeted her, tearing at the dark grey cloak she wore until it snapped backwards like a pennant in the breeze. It was numbingly-cold, and the stairs were slick with ice, making for what would obviously be a treacherous climb, but the only way to go was up.

“Watch your step!” she called back to the others. One badly-placed foot here, and it would all be over. A bad fall would take others with it. She was glad for her sense of balance, and made a note to warn them of any particularly bad spots, as Sinderion had done upon ascending to the library itself from their boat. It was difficult, but not impossible, and they were perhaps halfway to the next door, set into the side of the tower, when over the deafening howl of the wind she heard the thunderous sound of wingbeats, ones she fancied she recognized.

“Dragon!” The wind swallowed her voice, but not Golztunah’s shriek, and Anirne resisted the urge to cover her ears, knowing that what was coming next required both her hands. Drayk could protect the back half of the line, but the angle the dragon was coming in at meant that she would have to be responsible for the first few of them. The wards glimmered into place just as the fire struck, and she grunted with the effort of keeping them in place against the onslaught of fire. As before, the effort was just as much digging in and resisting force as it was blocking flames, but though the ice was melting around her feet from the heat, she did not have the solid grounding she’d had last time, and even as the fire ceased, she was pushed off the stair she occupied with the last of the dragon’s breath, losing her footing.

Don’t take them with you. It was, strangely, the first thought in her head, and Anirne flung herself sideways to avoid just that, catching the side edge of a stair with just the tips of her fingers, her breath forced out of her when her unprotected abdomen hit the solid, chilly marble lining the tower. Her digits were numb, though, and she was slipping. The dragon came back for another pass, swiping at her with its claws, but she jerked her legs up, barely missing the massive gouges it left in the walls of the Library. Her fingers gave another inch.

Drayk had to stand out near the edge of the staircase to make sure the others were behind him, and to add on to that, he needed to brace himself forward in order to avoid being blasted back by the force of the dragon's breath. He caught the flames and turned them aside, not bothering to try throwing any back. A fight against the dragon up this high would only end badly for them. It disappeared back into the clouds and out of sight as quickly as it had come, leaving Drayk to pitch forward and nearly topple over the edge when the force was no longer pushing against him. A strong arm stopped him just in time and pulled him back until his back smacked against the Library wall. Tarquin nodded at him, and Drayk nodded back. He'd have thanked him, but he suspected there would be time for that later.

Maya, in the meantime had thought herself incinerated until Anirne proved capable of diverting the worst of the flames. If the feathers in her robes gave her the ability to fly she would have felt much better about all of this. She'd heard some of the elder witches had the ability to transform themselves into ravens, but alas, she was not one of them. When she opened her eyes again, she realized Anirne was no longer in front of her. Fearing the worst for a moment, she looked around for the Psijic, spotting her hangingly precariously over the edge. She stooped down quickly to grab her.

"Don't even think about it. We're taking the long way down." She snatched her by the forearm, hauling her up until she was back on the stairs with them. They couldn't stay still any longer. The dragon was coming back soon, and it would probably take the whole staircase with it this time. She pulled Anirne to her feet, and they pressed on. The dragon returned just as the last of them had made it through the doorway back into the tower, using this pass to smash the stairs with its claws just behind them.

The room they entered was circular and ringed by a low burning emerald fire save for a door at the far end, the only interruption in the smooth stone floor being a small pedestal upon which another statue of the Librarian was placed. This one was unhooded, and smiling ever so slightly at them. "I apologize if any of you had a more gruesome death in mind for me," he said, his voice echoing off the walls. "This tower will soon fall, and I will fall with it. You know yourselves to be capable now. Go out and prove it to the enemy who awaits you." He said no more.

"No need to tell me twice," Drayk said, taking the lead to the door on the other side of the room. Opening it somewhat cautiously, Drayk was more than a little surprised to find that it led back outside, right out the door they had come in. Stepping out, he turned around and looked up, only to find that the Library appeared hardly more than four stories tall. Not as tall as it had seemed from the inside, but it was definitely tall enough to hurt them when it came down, and judging by the sounds of stones cracking apart, that was going to happen soon. "Get clear!"

It split apart in several places, an avalanche of rock falling down around the center, sending up a thick cloud of dust all around them. Drayk coughed a couple of times as he looked around to ensure that everyone had made it, but it was difficult to see even a few feet in front of him. He was still searching when he saw a flash of metal. He'd miraculously had the foresight to throw his shield in front of him, but the Stonehammer's weapon still hit him hard enough to severely dent his shield and send a brutal ripple of pain up his arm just as he crashed to the ground on his back.

Maya did not see the dragon nor hear the hit Drayk took, as her attention was grabbed by the sound of the dragon swooping down to land on top of the Library's wreckage, kicking up yet more dust into the air. She fired an arrow at where she believed its chest was, diving down to the ground to avoid the first gout of flame. They had the numbers here, but the poor visibility was going to make this rather difficult for them. But after all they'd been through, this would not defeat them. Not now.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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He really didn’t understand how that magic worked. Sure, Soren was as good with illusions as the next guy, but this Library thing was just absurd—and falling down around its keeper’s ears. Well, the sniper couldn’t be arsed about the manner in which the argonian died, and that was more poetic than most. There was no time to contemplate it, however, as Soren happened to be standing beside Drayk when the Stonehammer’s large bludgeoning weapon smashed into the kid’s shield, and he’d be surprised if that arm wasn’t broken in several places. For once, there were no pithy phrases to be had about this—quite the contrary, the archer went right for his sword, annoyed that the visibility was so poor that he’d be useless trying to shoot.

Still, his eyesight had some use, and the flash from the corner of his eye was all he needed to move out of the way as the hammer went in for him this time, and the retaliatory blow rang off armor with a clarion sound not entirely unlike a crude bell being struck. Right—there weren’t going to be too many unprotected places on Vodrin. Muttering a curse under his breath, he backed up a couple steps, keeping an eye on the allies he could see. Easier than trying to find the man himself.

Sinderion, on the other hand, was hampered by the conditions, but not so much as the others. It was hard to hear what was going on over the roar of the wind, but he could pick out the faint sounds of shouting, metal on wood, and then metal on more metal. He would have attempted to help with that, were the smell of the dragon—brimstone and ash—not overwhelming in his nose. It was, for the moment at least, the bigger problem, and it called for the bigger solution. He wasn’t sure it was wise, even now, and it would be best to wait until the others got themselves sorted out. To this end, he drew both blades and held them in reverse grips, placing his feet deliberately in the snowy ground as he slowly circled around to flank the dragon.

Though the driving ice bothered her less than it could have, the fact that she could see almost nothing left Adrienne in a rather bad predicament. In the end, she simply sought out the first person she could find—in this case, Soren—and chose to stick close. This was perhaps not the best way to go about things, but all the good plans would have required more use of her eyes. He seemed to be drawing his sword, and so she did the same, holding it down by her side. In little time at all after he’d swung for Soren, the Stonehammer tried to hit her, too, and she skittered to the side, retaliating with a blast of ice where she presumed his face might be
 but then, he was a Nord and probably wearing a helmet, so she doubted it would do much good, anyway.

Sinderion might be capable of flanking a dragon in a whiteout, but Anirne was not. Nevertheless, she readied her staff, extending it until it was a naginata, complete with shining and curved blade, and made for Golztunah. It may not have been time for this bout before, but they had no choice but to have it out now.

While the Stonehammer busied himself on swinging wildly at her allies, Lynly took the moment to grab Drayk's shoulder. The whole time she was hefting him back to his feet, she had a healing spell going trying to fix whatever damage the hammer could have caused him. "Can't take many more of those if you plan on keeping that arm," Lynly spoke from experience. This would be the third time around that she'd been in battle with the Stonehammer, and frankly she was pining for it to be the last. She had allies now though, and no longer was she alone. Perhaps together they could take down the man. Lynly wasn't so selfishly proud as to not share her foe with others-- but that hammer was coming home with her.

She rolled her shoulders and stepped forward into the dust cloud. Had the area been silent, she could no doubt hear him by his footsteps. Something she'd used before in pitch black tunnels, but with a dragon and a number of her friends stomping about that technique was rendered useless. Instead of hunting him down, she'd have him hunt her down. Rapping on her shield like a dinner bell, she gave away her position to the Stonehammer. She needn't wait long for his arrival, as moments after he bared down on her.

The great hammer sparkled dangerously even through the dust and debris, and Lynly managed to sidestep the downward drive. She heard the head bury into the dirt, giving her precious time to further dance around his offhand. When the hammer was ripped free, she was in prime position. The next swing was the one she was looking for, a sideways swing. She ducked under this one, feeling the head of the hammer take away more than a few platinum strands. She countered by swinging her shield upwards into a uppercut, aimed directly for his elbow. He'd be a lot easier to tend to with only one working arm.

Meanwhile, Vanryth found himself in the company of a beast of legend. While it was true he couldn't see the beast, despite its large size, he could feel its presence. A giant flying lizard that breathed fire tended to have a presence about it, but simple presence was going to be difficult to act on. Fortunately, he had exited the tower near Sinder, and was close enough to see the man stare into the dust and begin to move to the side. Vanryth understood his intentions and nodded-- mostly to himself, as he would be unseen by anyone else. He too leveled his eye into the direction that Sinder had stared, and began to circle in the opposite direction.

Still, Vanryth was no Sinder, and the altmer was much more likely to be able to combat the dragon than he was. He planned on supporting his brother in whatever way he could, and for the moment, that meant drawing the beast's attention, and if they were lucky, cause it to betray its position. Toward that end, Vanryth ignited twin lances of electricity and let them sail through the dust, toward the beast's expected direction.

"That's good, don't worry about me," Drayk said as he was hauled to his feet. Lynly's healing was enough to block out the excruciating pain, and soon he applied his own magic as well. His shield, however, was almost completely caved in, and largely useless, little more than a debilitating weight on his arm. He slid out of it, letting it clatter to the icy ground. That restricted him to wards, then. This place was not going easy on his magicka, but he would hopefully have enough to last through the fight.

The Stonehammer was swift enough to turn Lynly's uppercut into a glancing blow rather than a full on hit, and he followed up with a kick to Lynly's chest rather than another swing of the hammer. There were particles of ice all over the front of his helmet, but unfortunately didn't seem to be obscuring his vision any. Deciding to try fire instead, to perhaps melt through the armor, Drayk hurled a fireball at him, only to have it completely disappear. The Stonehammer had dropped in behind his roundshield, a ward-like magical effect appearing around the rim of it, and the fireball was simply absorbed by it. Before Drayk even had time to call this out, the Nord slammed his hammer into the ground with a powerful force, the magical effect of the weapon triggering and blasting away anyone nearby. Drayk was included in that group, and found himself planted on his back once more.

Maya avoided the worst of it, her attention taken by the dragon. Their initial attacks had mostly hit, but had little effect. It would take a long time to wear the beast down from range, and even a single one of its attacks could seriously injure or kill them. They needed to find some way to get in close, and reliably hit something vital. For the moment, they would need to keep the dragon on the ground. Or get it back on the ground, as the beating of the wings implied that it was taking off again. The rush of wind helped to clear some of the dust away, and Maya watched as the beast lifted up into the air, clutching two large chunks of rubble in each taloned foot as it went. "Sinder!" she called out, hoping perhaps Soren could hear her as well. "We need to keep it down. Let's put some holes in the wings." She went first, firing off a conjured arrow to sail through the relatively thin membrane of its right wing.

Tarquin, meanwhile, had located Adrienne, pulling up beside her, but keeping his eyes on the Stonehammer at all times. "If you have any acid left, it might help to weaken a spot on his armor." With the numbers advantage here, they would only need a small opening, and they could whittle him down.

The whipping wind made hearing very difficult, but fortunately Anirne was of a mind with Maya anyway. Arrows, she did not have, but ice spikes and lightning bolts should do just as well, if she could successfully hit. She didn’t have quite the reliable range that a bow did, especially not in conditions like this one. In order to hit the dragon, she’d have to get it closer to her, and there was one reliable way to do that: look like the kind of thing that a large rock could and should be dropped upon.

To this end, the Psijic shot a light spell straight into the air, willing it to explode once it reached a certain height. A half-smile pulled at her lips, and she relinquished her stoicism to it. This was probably a stupid idea, and she was not generally known for stupid ideas. But if it worked, well
 she’d be able to get a good hit in on the dragon, and the others would have easier shots in a direction that they, too, could now identify. The hard part would be surviving.

Wasn’t it always? There was a screech overhead, and Anirne abruptly turned on her heel and started running over the surface of the snow. She needed Golztunah to swoop, because that would commit him to a predictable trajectory. She wasn’t as light on her feet as her brother, but she wasn’t clumsy by a long shot, and had gained some decent distance before the dragon’s wingbeats became audible, and it was then that she stopped dead and reversed direction, hoping he’d go by too far overhead. She was partially successful—she did indeed see the belly of the dragon above her, and was able to fling two lightning bolts for the right wing, both of which seemed to hit. Only the fact that the wing in question lost enough strength to veer the creature slightly to the side saved her from the boulder, however; he’d been quick enough to drop it on her before his momentum carried him past.

Anirne dove to the side, getting twisted up in her cloak and covered in snow, but she scrambled to her feet before Golztunah could double back, and could only hope that she’d managed to give her friends a chance to pelt his wings with arrows.

Elsewhere, Adrienne bit her lip slightly in thought before she nodded, keeping her eyes on the field but directing that gesture to Tarquin. Reaching to her belt, she withdrew two flasks and held out one for him to take. “We’ve got a better chance at hitting a good spot if we’ve got two angles to hit from,” she reasoned. There was also the chance that he’d be able to block one of the vials with his shield. Perhaps
 “I could act as a decoy, if you want to try and get his armor from somewhere behind?” He was much better at stealth than she was, after all.

Tarquin took the flask after sheathing his own dagger, taking a brief moment to weigh her proposed plan. He was certain that some of the other members of the party would not be agreeable with putting the weakest melee combatant directly in front of the Stonehammer, but the Shade was still able to see the value in it. "Do not force the issue if he doesn't take the bait," he

His plan was rather thwarted when the dragon took off, and Sinder made an inarticulate noise of frustration in the back of his throat, cutting himself off only when he heard his name over the din. He supposed that Maya’s suggestion was the best one they had, and so he withdrew his bow, nocking an arrow to the string and peering through the driving snow. He need not have tried so hard, as a burst of light went off not too long afterward, and he made for it, able to make out the figures of the dragon and his sister. It didn’t take too long to figure out what Anirne was doing, and while it was obviously more than a little reckless and perhaps not something he would have advised her to do, he couldn't deny that it was an excellent opportunity—the dragon’s trajectory was predictable, and Sinder took aim for the same wing Anirne had hit with her lightning, loosing a pair of arrows to tear twin holes in the leathery flesh.

At least one of them hit, though he could not see if the other one did. What he did notice was that the creature dropped an enormous boulder where Anirne had been standing, and he flinched before running as she had, over the top of the fallen snow, in an attempt to reach her location. He was brought up short when an arrow, not his own or purple like Maya’s, went whizzing by his cheek, only for the shaft to sprout like a sapling from Golztunah’s eye seconds later. Soren, clearly responsible for this, smiled to himself, but then turned back around. It wouldn’t be long before the creature was grounded, and after that happened, arrows would only annoy it. He was better placed trying to help put down the Stonehammer, at least for now.

The sensation of being flung through the air was one not unfamiliar to Lynly. This time though there was no Soren there to catch her and she landed hard on her back, expelling all air from her lungs. The next few moments were spent trying to regain that air, flipping over on her hands and knees and giving her head a good shake to free herself from the ringing. Even she had to admit, it was a mighty fine hammer. It'd look better on her wall though. She pulled her hands up and stood on her knees, and that's when she noticed something very important was missing. Always attached to her arm, her shield was now missing. At some point during her flight, it'd come loose and fallen somewhere in the dust storm. Where she sat, she couldn't pinpoint its location. She growled and punched the ground with her now free hand, before jumping up to her feet.

She still had her sword and that would have to be enough. Slipping her other hand around the base of the hilt, taking on the form she'd once taught Adrienne, she decided to play a far more defensive game. She slipped close enough in range so that she could see Stonehammer's silhouette, but refrained from drawing any closer. She'd have to watch from that distance, and wait for a weak spot to present itself. With her shield gone, she wouldn't be able to force those weak spots herself, so she'd have to be patient.

Vanryth did not have wings, nor did he have a bow. The only thing he possessed that could reach the dragon was magic, and even then the range was far more than he was comfortable with. Not to mention his aim wasn't great even on the best of days, much less when their vision was obscured by dust that refused to settle. Suffice to say, Vanryth felt completely useless, and out of that uselessness borne a fire that lit the fuse to his temper. The ground shook as a boulder was thrown somewhere nearby, leaving Vanryth glancing in that direction for only a moment before igniting a lightning spell and launching it in the dragon's general direction. Followed close by with a pair of icicles. He'd throw everything he possibly could to bring the dragon down so that he could fight on his terms. After the last sliver of his magicka was drained with a fireball, he drew his swords from his back and waited.

The plan settled as much as it could be, Adrienne knew that now was the time to act. Making a quick decision, she shed her heavy black cloak, the fabric pooling at her feet as she summoned a frost cloak to hide herself. The closer she could get to Stonehammer before he noticed her, the better. There was less chance of getting her skull crushed in, that way. She only needed to hold his attention for long enough for Tarquin to get a better shot in, and then for someone to do something with the weakness they would have created. Hopefully, that was when she and her ice-coated self could disappear into the rest of the snow. There were a lot of variables and maybes in this equation, but nothing got more solid by just waiting around.

Gripping her flask tightly, she nodded to Tarquin, indicating that she was going to move then. Locating Lynly first, she used the Nord woman as both a beacon and cover, spotting the Stonehammer some distance beyond her. If possible, she needed to put his back to the Shade, which meant she should probably go for his left side, forcing him to turn in her general direction. The snow didn’t bog her down too much, but she was not as straightforwardly fleet as Sinder or Anirne, what with the long Altmer legs and natural sense of balance they both seemed to have, so it was somewhat-cumbersome going.

“Catch, Vodrin!” she shouted, thankfully at least mostly audible over the wind and the sound of
 whatever was going on with the dragon. It sounded dire, but she didn’t have all that much time to contemplate, considering her own predicament. As she spoke, she hurled the vessel of acid for his off-hand, the one that held the shield. It would of course be advantageous if it actually hit there, but the important part was the distraction. She had the acting skills to look a bit panicked afterwards, as though realizing that she may have made a bit of an error in drawing his attention, though
 not all of it was entirely false.

Any time now, Tarquin


Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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The Stonehammer turned his faceless visage towards the youngest Sellsword and swatted the vial away with the face of his shield, the glass shattering on contact and hissing loudly against the metal surface. Unfortunately, it seemed to have little effect in the way of damaging the enchanted piece of equipment, and Vodrin didn't give it a second thought, instead advancing at a quick walk towards the panicked looking girl. He moved swiftly through the snow, plowing ahead until he was just about in melee range, where he pulled back his hammer for a powerful strike.

A second shattering of glass emanated from directly behind him, a vial exploding in the middle of his back. His shield was enchanted enough to render the substance worthless, but the armor was designed for purely physical weapons. The acid burned a small hole through the back of the breastplate, large enough to fit a knife or a sword through, while also weakening the area around it. Tarquin immediately moved to take advantage of this, drawing his dagger and leaping upon his opponent's back, driving the knife into the vulnerable area and being reward with a spurt of blood leaking out the back. He had to wrap his legs around the man's midsection to avoid immediately falling off.

It had the desired effect, and wholly removed the Stonehammer's attention from Adrienne, instead causing him stagger about momentarily stunned, and temporarily incapable of doing anything about it. When he was able to gather himself enough to think, he slammed the hammer down on Tarquin's left knee, where it was situated near his hip. The explosion quite clearly shattered a good portion of the bone, and the Shade gave off a cry of pain, his grip loosening. Vodrin bent over and pulled him off with the same hand that held the hammer, tossing him forward onto his back in a heap some ten feet in front of him. Clearly enraged at the wound he suffered, or perhaps at the sight of his primary target, Vodrin rushed forward to finish the job, aiming to bring the hammer down on Tarquin's head.

Drayk arrived first, though, interrupting another of the Stonehammer's attacks. The hammer blow skidded down the face of his shield, deflecting it to the side, though it quite nearly knocked Drayk down in the process. He'd managed to snatch Lynly's shield on the way over to help. He didn't mean to steal the woman's best method of defense, but there simply hadn't been time. The Stonehammer took a brutal swing Drayk's direction, and he was only just quick enough to sidestep it. The backswing, however, caught him off guard. How he was able to redirect such a heavy weapon so quickly was a mystery, but the effect was anything but. He caught the blow with the center of the shield, the blast knocking him flat on his back and away from Tarquin and Vodrin alike.

The dragon, meanwhile, now had numerous bleeding holes in the membranes of his wings, and one severely damaged eye. It was unlikely Golztunah would be able to see anything on his right side. He flapped madly, but the wounds proved too much, and he was forced to land heavily amidst the wreckage of the Library, blindly roaring fire in his anger. Maya took aim for his other eye, but ended up punching a hole in his cheek instead. In the air he was untouchable, and while they could actually inflict the necessary wounds here on the ground, he was still a deadly opponent. They needed to move quickly.

"Sinder!" she called, making her way over to him quickly. "Can you shift? We can distract him, and you can hit him from his blind side." If Sinder could just get in close without getting cooked or bitten in half, the dragon wouldn't stand a chance. The issue, then, would be for everyone else to avoid those things. They had Anirne, though, and Maya didn't have a doubt in her mind that Sinder would come through for them.

What were the weak points on a dragon, anyway? Eyes were obvious, the inside of the mouth was probably a safe bet as well. The underbelly, maybe
 though they’d largely lost their opportunity to hit that when it landed. Soren figured he’d be best off going for muscles that needed to move a lot and thus would not be protected terribly well by the thickest hide. His barbed arrowheads might have more of a chance against the finer scales than they did against those spines on is back, say. At this point, he was distraction, and harassment—someone else would need to come up with something bigger and more devastating to actually kill it. He heard what Maya said, but it didn’t really register so much until his first arrow had flown for the wing muscle on Golztuna’s left side, and he saw Sinderion nod out of the corner of his eye.

Sinder was initially hesitant at the suggestion—this situation was a lot more chaotic than the last one had been, and the prospect of an opponent this challenging was already feeding his bloodlust. But
 he’d proven to himself that he could do this, and all that remained was to actually do it. So he nodded shortly, not quite trusting himself to speak even so, and sheathed his weapons, concentrating as he had the last time he reached for the transformation intentionally.

It came much easier this time—there was no longer any cage, simply a quiet shadow in his heart, if he were seeking a more appropriate metaphor. Only
 it wasn’t that quiet at the moment, and the power he sought seemed also to seek him, springing to life beneath his skin the second he asked for it. The transformation was quicker, and not nearly as painful as it had been, though the grinding of his own bones still caused him a deep discomfort. He knew it was done when he looked out at the world from almost two feet higher than before, when the snow and the wind and the dust seemed to at once be more evident and less relevant. He feared not the cold, and the lashing force of the ice was itself nothing; he could even smell and hear past it now. The tawny werewolf stood in place for a few seconds, orienting himself, and then moved to the right at a swift lope, apparently both understanding of and willing to implement Maya’s suggestion.

Third time's the charm, she had to tell herself. Lynly's patience had paid off, and now the Stonehammer finally had a weak point she could attack. Not only that, but he was occupied with someone other than he, giving her an open avenue of attack. She rushed ahead, keeping a firm two-handed grip on her sword. She closed the distance quickly, and before Vodrin could turn and finish Tarquin, Lynly was there. She angled her blade for the weakspot in his armor, jabbing it forward but unfortunately the blow wasn't as fatal as she would have liked. Running forward had given away her approach with all the clinking and clattering of her mail.

But she did strike a blow. Her sword slipped into the hole in his armor just as he turned, slicing a bit of skin on the way in, but more importantly providing Lynly a bit of leverage. Thinking quickly, she took a step forward and pushed on her blade. Her skysteel sword proved unyielding and more of his armor peeled away, revealing the bloodied flesh underneath. Now instead of a single hole on his back to contend with, she had an entire flank to work with. A good thing too, she doubted her ability to get in behind him to capitalize otherwise. She ducked under the counterattack with his hammer.

Learning from Drayk's experience, she expected the devastating backswing and danced backward. The hammer smashed into the dirt in front of her, the force of the resulting explosion helping her retreat. Putting the ground back under her feet, she settled into a stance where she leaned forward and held her blade at a perfect angle in her hands with her elbows bent in anticipation of the attack.

Lynly stood defiant in front of the Stonehammer, understanding the full dangers of both his hammer and shield while acutely aware of her own lack of shield. Still, she was never the one to back down from any fight, especially not this one. She had no more words to spare, no mentions of honor or pride. Her words were all used up, there was only the fight remaining. She freed a single hand from her blade to undo the cloak around her shoulders, letting it fall into the dust and snow at the ground. The odds were against her, but she had what the Stonehammer did not: friends, and she'd not trade a single one for a dragon.

Lynly might have stood right before her opponent and faced him down with a true Nord’s honor, but Adrienne was not a Nord, and honestly, she’d never gone in much for honor. Ruthlessness was a survival instinct in her, not innate but pressed firmly into her consciousness as she was made into what she was. It was not a quality that had any place among friends, but amidst enemies
 that was a much different story. The small woman, garbed lightly and probably still inaudible over the sounds of the fight and the wind, gathered the ice to her hand and shot the spear from her hand right for the Stonehammer’s exposed side. The projectile buried deep, the icy sharpness and momentum carrying it easily through the man’s flesh. Underneath all of it, the Representatives had just been people, from the Webspinner right down to the Light. Stonehammer, mighty as he was, was no exception. “Lynly!” she shouted over the din, but the implication need not be voiced. Finish this, now. For all of us.

She needn't be told because as soon as it looked like the Stonehammer had taken his eyes off of her, she went into action. Her sword dipped low and her legs pumped, taking her across the expanse and putting her right in front of Vodrin. His eyes had returned to know, and she had come to expect the downward smash of his hammer. Holding her sword sideways she held the Skysteel up to intercept the blow, using her forearm to take the brunt of it. Even so, the hammer came down hard. She had enough sense to not try to block the head of it, instead angling toward the shaft. The weight was still present and the hammer pushed hard. She had just stopped it from caving in her shoulder, but the head still lingered.

Next came the shield. Lynly had seen it coming from a mile away-- in fact it was something she would have done herself if things were reversed. Perhaps that's why she was expecting it. Her forearm slipped off of her sword, leaving a nice gouge in her armor for the effort and went for the edge of his shield. She didn't grip it, instead she simply guided it. Putting strength behind it, she guided his shield away from her as she stepped back, slamming the it's face into the hammer than had been on her shoulder mere moments ago. Stonehammer had overextended himself-- with Lynly's help of course, and as the shield slammed into the hammer, the magical effects of each canceling the other, he was drifting far to Lynly's side-- leaving his own wide open for her to strike.

Lynly didn't waste the chance. She struck quickly and efficently, stepping further inside his guard. Returning her hand back to her blade. She thrust the Skysteel deep into the already open wound and worked in inside, twisting and turning until it forced the man to his knees. It was only then she pulled it back. She stepped back and stood in front of the kneeling Stonehammer. She lifted her sword and angled toward his throat, perfectly parallel with her face. He paused for a moment, to allow the moment to sink in for the both of them. Stonehammer had been defeated. All that remained was the final blow. She spoke a few words, "We'll do this again, in Sovngarde. Just me and you," and then she struck. Her blade slipped under his helment and pierced his throat, ribbons of crimson dripping from the gap where the sword had slid.

The Stonehammer was dead. Only two representatives remained.

The dragon was on the ground, finally. It was the moment Vanryth was waiting for, now he could do something else other than throw ineffective spells at it from the ground. Now he could fight. He took a couple steps forward before something didn't sound right. Maya imploring Sinder to shift. The mere mention killed Vanryth's step as he threw his incredulous gaze in her direction. Why would she say something like that, now of all times? The surprise he felt at the suggestion was soon dwarfed by the revelation that he listened.

Vanryth watched in worried shock as the Altmer soon became something else entirely. The only thing that remained of Sinder was the man's golden hue. He had a flashback, back to Dawnstar, when the two of them suppressed the beast. And now he was going right into its arms. At first he felt betrayed by Sinder giving in so easily. Then angry. A snarl made his way to his lips-- but then he noticed something else. The werewolf didn't have the same look as the Sinder did back in Dawnstar. Vanryth did not feel the same danger from this creature.

He'd have to trust his friend. If Sinder believed he could control the beast, then Vanryth would believe that he could too. He couldn't have any doubts about him, he couldn't even think about Sinder losing control. He wouldn't think of the man as weak, he was strong enough to keep the beast caged for as long as he did. He didn't necessarily have the luxrury of time for these thoughts, and by the time he had snapped back to the present Sinder had already taken a number of lopes forward. Well, if he needed a distraction, Vanryth would provide him one. Turning his gaze back toward the dragon, Vanryth ignited his Ancestor's Wrath, wreathing himself in flames of those who came before him.

He then began to dart toward the dragon, hoping the flame cloak would eat up some of the dragon's own flames, and what did come through, he could suppress with a frost spell. Either way, Vanryth painted himself a rather large target, and he wouldn't let up his assault. If Sinder failed to kill the dragon, then he'd be there to aid the effort. But after all of that, they were going to have a discussion.

Vanryth was a large, flaming target, and he knew that Anirne and Maya and Soren were also nearby, pestering the dragon with whatever magic or blade or arrow could do. There was something satisfying in this thought—even a wolf knew the value of hunting with pack, and this was what they so evidently were. He knew sister-smell from brother-smell, and all of these were distinct from Maya-smell, so he was content in his knowledge of his surroundings. Now before him lay a challenge, and beside him those who would meet it with him. Such a straightforward creature could want for little more than that.

The dragon was drawn to the sight of the spell-cloaked man, and from the way its chest expanded, filling with air, it intended to try and show him the folly of fighting fire with fire. Indeed, the gout of flames that rushed from Golztunah’s maw was fierce even in the blizzard conditions, and his jaws seemed to drip liquid fire, which spattered irregularly on the ground at his feet. Sinderion’s claws flexed, and without any indication that he’d ever planned on doing differently, he charged in for the creature’s blind spot, slamming into the right side of its head with enough force to jerk the entire neck to the left, interrupting the jet of fire and immediately drawing its attention and its ire.

He did not care. The claws of one hand dug brutally into the eye that had been put out by the archer, tearing the liquidinous orb entirely out of the cavity with a squelch and crushing in in his grip. The dragon jerked to try and get away from him, but the beast had known with the certainty of instinct that it would do this, and with that same certainty, his jaws sought that tender part of the throat where the jawbone had given way to the windpipe. Too much flesh, not enough protection. The scales were initially troublesome, but his teeth were made for cracking through bones, and the pressure he applied only increased as Golztunah reared back, taking Sinder from the ground and thrashing about with the frantic intensity of a creature that knows its death is immanent and fights it with everything left. His back claws dug, mostly ineffectually, against the smooth scales further down the throat, but his forelimbs worked in tandem with his teeth, tearing rents in that tender part of the neck that his prey had exposed to him.

And then Sinder, too, began to thrash, this the much more concentrated, focused kind—he worried at the flesh between his teeth, lashing his whole body from side to side, anchored mostly by upper body strength alone. But gravity was in his favor, and even for a dragon, it would be difficult to bear the burden of a creature of his weight. Gradually, under the pressure of the assaults from all sides and the wolf’s persistent grip, Golztunah’s head drooped, and when at last the werewolf pushed himself backwards, a large chunk of draconian windpipe hanging in a bloody strip of flesh from his mouth, the dragon’s body went slack, and he collapsed upon the ground, to move no more.

Sinderion tossed his head back, reorienting the slice of flesh so as to shred it more effectively with his teeth and then swallow, licking his bloodied jaws with evidence of a particularly animal kind of satisfaction. Even so, he did not seem inclined to continue his violence—he sensed that by now, all those remaining were pack, or close enough, and he was quite content with the damage he’d inflicted. In fact, the more bestial part of his nature ceded control willingly to what was mer, and though he staggered a bit upon regaining his usual form, he seemed not much the worse for wear—save perhaps the fact that his mouth and chin were still covered in blood. He wiped at it with a hand, looking vaguely disturbed, but in the end, he only shook his head. It hadn’t been a person, and it had been trying to kill his family—he would take the bad with the good, for what had been accomplished.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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For once, the Sellswords found themselves with no immediate threat to contend with.

The last of the Representatives that opposed them had fallen, leaving only Maya and Tarquin as the remaining competitors, and it was obvious that both had silently agreed at some point to abandon all thought of turning on the other. The group departed the ruins of the Library weary and cold, rowing slowly back to the mainland, where they disembarked and headed for slightly warmer territory as quickly as they could. Only limited daylight remained to them, but they managed to find ground not entirely layered in snow before the last tendrils of the sun's light slipped into the abyss.

There was no one stalking them anymore, so Drayk felt comfortable lighting a larger fire than usual, since it was colder than usual. That he felt comfortable lighting the fire at all still seemed like a miracle to him, but there it was. The Library had a way of forcing them to confront the demons that had plagued them throughout their journey, a test for them to prove that they could truly overcome them, and Drayk had done it. He could see it in the others' eyes, too. Everyone had been through something, and come out stronger for it. Sinder's actions in the battle earlier had not gone unnoticed by him, but he figured his friend would explain when he felt comfortable, and when the icy wind was no longer whipping in their ears from a hard day of travel.

The fire crackled in a way that seemed almost joyful. Perhaps it was more... relaxed. Their fate, for the moment, was their own to decide, even if it seemed there wasn't any good option moving forward. It was their move to make, at least. He sat down with a sigh next to Adrienne, wrapping an arm around her and letting his head fall on her shoulder. He was tired, they all were, but there were things that needed to be said. He wanted to know what his friends had overcome to still be with him here.

It had not escaped Sinderion that he had some explaining to do. Presently, he sat beside the fire, for once content to remain within the vicinity of camp rather than out in the wilderness surrounding it. Perhaps it was simply that he could not recall ever having been this exhausted in his entire life. Maybe it had been this bad when the Mentor had first changed him back, he knew not, because he’d been half-delirious at the time. Now, he was in control of his rational faculties, and with the battle-high out of his system, deep fatigue seeped into him, right down to his bones. It would pass, and perhaps even grow less with every transformation. He still wasn’t sure how many of those there would be, but at least he had shown himself, once and for all, that he need not fear destroying that which he held most dear.

He’d planted himself wordlessly beside Maya when she selected a spot, and of his own volition, they were sitting close enough that on the occasion that either of them moved, they tended to brush the other incidentally. It wasn’t much for most people, but to him, it was rather strange. He found he didn’t mind it at all. Sinder stared contemplatively into the fire for a while, trying to arrange his words the way he wanted them. In the end, though, he expected that they’d all been forced to confront something in there, and that perhaps, their understanding would be easier than he was initially inclined to assume.

That in mind, he began without preamble. “The Librarian gave me a choice, and then an ultimatum,” he said. It was quiet, but not so much so that they should have trouble hearing him. “He offered me the cure, to my lycanthropy; showed me what I would always carry with me if I refused. When I did anyway, he forced me to accept what I had chosen or remain trapped.” That wasn’t the entirety of it, of course, but much of what had taken place in the last room, he considered to be between himself and Maya, and he was not inclined to make the details all that specific.

Adrienne rested the side of her head atop Dom’s, savoring the warmth that he seemed to just exude. It was distinctly pleasant, actually, going to sleep and waking up beside him, though it made it harder to motivate herself to get up. She ran her fingers idly through his hair as she listened to Sinder talk—she’d completely missed the earlier appearance of the werewolf, given how preoccupied she’d been with trying to help take down Stonehammer, but she could relate, in a way, to what the Library that put him through. “I’d suppose we were all given choices,” she mused quietly, “and then made to face the consequences. He offered me the chance to fight on even ground with our enemies, but I’d have given up my voice for it.” It seemed a bit
 petty, compared to what Sinder had to choose, but in a way, it was the same. Her words had damned her in the past as surely as his beast. And she, like him, had been given the opportunity to be rid of them, in exchange for something she knew she wanted.

Anirne toyed absently with the end of her long braid, staring into the fire with a faint frown on her face. “I was offered the Library itself,” she said with a soft sigh. “It is a waste that it fell, but I would rather lose it than you.” It was said simply, and she shrugged. That was the core of these tests, wasn’t it? It had seemed so—they were tempted, and in the end, they had to decide that their devotion to the others was worth the harder path.

Vanryth had to stretch over to deliver a gentle punch to Sinder's shoulder. The glare he gave the man was chilling as he stared a hole into the man's forehead. He then reeled his hand back in and placed it where his heart was and gave a little shake, cracking a small smile as he did. The meaning was clear, Sinder had about given him a heart-attack. Truthfully, while the sudden appearance of the werewolf did nearly frighten him out of his skin, he was glad that Sinder had somehow learned how to control the beast. He'd respect the man's privacy by not asking the how of it, content as he was that Sinder had done it. There was one less burden weighing his shoulders, and one less worry Vanryth carried around with him. Warn us next time, Vanryth signed, shaking his head with the smile.

Figuring it was his turn to tell what he had faced, he turned to the others and shrugged simply. Strength. Physical perfection, He signed. He was offered the strength to fight, the strength of his prime, in order to battle the odds for his family. Instead he had chosen to fight with them. The cost was far too high, and he wouldn't trade in his emotions just to be an unneeded aegis. He then turned toward Adrienne and a single chuckle wracked his form, And my voice. There was a parallel between their offers, and he noticed it. In return, my soul. Emotions and feelings, gone, he finished. He slowly looked around at the others and then grinned, raising a rude gesture as he did. That's what he thought of the offer.

Maya raised her eyebrows when Anirne declared what she was offered. It had occurred to her that without the Librarian, the tower itself would become more or less useless, but she hadn't thought that he would offer it to one of them. It was wise to choose Anirne, she thought, and actually she wondered how the Psijic had been able to refuse. Perhaps she really had become truly close to them all, like Maya had herself. She shifted her legs to rest sideways on her hip, leaning slightly on Sinder's shoulder. "I was to be as powerful as the Wolf Queen reborn and more, he said. I suspect I could have brought that dragon back to life, had I accepted." Even now, she wondered just how that power would have corrupted her, and if it truly would have torn her away from the others. Perhaps it was best not to think about it.

"I was offered a return of Molag Bal's gifts," Tarquin confessed from where he stood at the edge of the light cast from the fire. "I've come too far to side with him now." He crossed his arm over his torso, gazing into the fire rather than meeting the gazes of any of the group.

"And now there's just the two of us," Maya said. "The Mentor's still trapped in Coldharbor. I don't suppose any of you found anything in the Library that would help us find a way in?" Drayk picked up his head from Adrienne's shoulder. "The Webspinner said that it was Daedra who came and took the old man away from her. There must be some kind of spell, then, that can take us there. Maybe someone at the College knows how it can be done." Tarquin shook his head slowly.

"Unlikely. Even if it was possible... this isn't so much a matter of kicking down a door, as it is getting Molag Bal to open it from the inside, and invite us in. His realm is a vast place, and simply forcing our way in would likely put us in a place no more useful than the one we are in now. If we are to have a chance at this, it will likely come when he allows it." He took a few measured steps towards the flames, just as an idea came to Maya.

"The door," she said, as though the words were all the explanation that was needed. "The one below the Dwemer ruins that the Horizon trapped us in. The construct down there was guarding it, only letting the final Representative pass. The Librarian didn't know what was behind that door. He said he couldn't, actually." Tarquin scratched the end of his chin in thought. "The door is meant for the Game's champion," he said. "I have no more knowledge of what is behind it than any of you do. The colossus, though... it would be the most deadly foe any of us have encountered, but I can think of no better way to send a message to Molag Bal than destroying it."

“And it is his attention we need, if he is to let us in at all,” Anirne pointed out, leaning forward slightly to warm her hands closer to the fire. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to how cold it was in this part of the world. If she survived to try. “I assume that he, like the rest, is quite aware of what we’re doing, but asking nicely is unlikely to gain us admittance.” Actually, he probably wouldn’t let them in unless he saw some gain in it for himself that was worth the bother. Or perhaps felt the need to put them in their place. But gods did not bother with ants
 so a show of strength seemed like the best idea they had.

“That makes sense,” Adrienne replied, “But you’re assuming we can kill it. Not that I doubt us, exactly, but it won’t work if we just run up to it and start hitting. I hate to say it, but last time I saw the thing, it looked pretty invulnerable.” And huge, there was that. “I know some things about such constructs, but that is by far the largest I’ve ever seen, yes. I expect it would be resistant to
 everything.”

“Helpful,” Soren drawled, his tone sarcastic but lacking in any real malice. Still, it was an idea, and basically the only one they had, given then fact that the giant repository of knowledge was just a pile of rubble now. Something told him that if they went back and dug through it, they’d just find dust and snow. He shot a glance at Lynly, well aware that she was not likely to take the news very well, considering her hangup regarding large moving things of Dwemer construction.

And pleased she was not. However the fight they were talking about was to be a real fight not one of these dreams, or tests, or any of the other hoops they'd been through. What they were contemplating was to be a straightforward fight, and if there was any solace she could find, it was in that. They've fought a dragon, the Stonehammer, and even waged a war. What was a single colossus in comparison? Still didn't mean she was happy about it, but she had to take what she could get. And that displeasure played out on her face, not even trying to hide it. But that was the only choice left to them. She was not about to suggest attacking either Maya or Tarquin.

Instead, Lynly raised her arm and revealed the gap in her armor at the armpit. She pointed it out for the others and spoke, "They're weak at the joints. Jab something solid in there and we could be able to slow it down a little." Of course, the last time she tested this theory, she was inside the Omen's dreamscape, but the logic was there. The thing was an automaton, a mechanism of gears and steam. If they could damage a gear or two, then it should provide ample opportunity to finish it. Of course, they also had something else that wasn't in her dream. Her neck straightened from the realization and she turned, and reached for something behind her. What she found was none other than Vodrin's hammer. She hefted the instrument and gently tapped the head against her palm, wary of the enchantment triggering. "Two or three hits to the back of the knees could fell anything with this," She said, At least she hoped so. Lynly especially didn't want to be proven wrong now.

"You'd have to jump just to hit its knees," Maya said. "Still, that's probably the best place to start. If we can stop it from moving around, we can rip it apart piece by piece."

"So long as it doesn't rip us apart first," Drayk said, looking rather uncertain with the plan. He didn't doubt them, either, but going up against something of that size and strength... what were the odds that all of them would make it out alive? And what if the way to Coldharbor opened up right then and there, and they had to face yet more trials immediately after surviving that one? They were better equipped than ever. Lynly had possession of Vodrin's powerful hammer, and Drayk had commandeered the magical shield. They could even rest as long as they needed to before diving in. But he dreaded the thought of everyone taking the risk, after all that should have killed them already. How long would their luck, or he supposed their skill, hold up?

"The end of the nightmare lies beyond the colossus," Tarquin said firmly. "We've defeated all the threats that have faced us before. This one will be no different. We will find my father, and free him from Molag Bal's clutches."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives
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It wasn't in Tarquin Aurelius to let his guard down.

He felt a little silly, taking a night watch outside of an inn along a major road, one arm crossed over his chest for warmth while the others stayed near the fire inside, but... well, it wasn't in him to let his guard down. Their enemies were dead and defeated, all save for one, and he was, for the moment, beyond their reach. Tarquin had learned from his many years that they were never beyond his. If Molag Bal truly wished them dead, then they would have had small armies of foes to deal with in the moments they least expected them by now. Perhaps he was trying to delay it, by expecting it.

The Nightgate Inn was set alongside a small lake called Yorgrim, which flowed east past Windhelm and eventually out to the sea. It was frozen over by a good deal of ice at the moment, a light dusting of snow covering that and creating a solid white plane over which Tarquin stood. The little fishing dock was ringed by icicles, like he was standing atop the snout of some great frost dragon of a hundred icy teeth. Despite his wariness that he was loathe to be rid of, it was a peaceful and utterly beautiful place, if a somewhat frigid one, and he found it calming him, more than anything.

The last few days had seen a contemplative shift come over Anirne, and though she was still perfectly happy to make light conversation with anyone who wished to, there was something at the back of her mind now, something that had her shifting into a thousand-yard stare and frowning slightly whenever there was nothing else for her to be actively paying attention to. It drew her brows together a little, and though she was perfectly physically comfortable at the moment, she could not shake the slight restlessness that would not allow her mind quite the same peace. That much, at least, seemed to have been something this journey had taken from her—her ability to be at ease nearly anywhere and in any situation. The impending end of it, though, only seemed to make things worse, and she recognized that it was attachment that created the anxiety. Peace was achievable when there was nobody else to worry about, because she was at least reasonably centered in herself. She could have it again, should she desire it. But perhaps it was not quite worth losing this.

The fire was almost as warm as the company, but she found herself with the sudden itch to leave both, for just a while, and without speaking, she stood, draping her grey cloak over her shoulders and pulling the fur-lined gloved onto her hands. She was still far from accustomed to the cold of this region, especially in the dead of winter, as now, but it was at least tolerable.

The boots on her feet crunched the snow as she threaded her way around the inn and to the lake, somehow rather unsurprised to find that Tarquin was already present. She hoped he would not mind the company, and for a moment actually considered simply leaving him be, but in the end she walked over to stand beside him, her breaths creating small clouds even exhaled through her nose. The tips of her ears were already feeling the chill, but she was not presently inclined to pull up her hood. She might have said something about the futility of a watch, were the things sent after them to be of daedra’s design, but she didn’t. He would know—perhaps the watching itself was some form of reassurance.

“There is not long, now,” she observed quietly, releasing a soft sigh into the winter stillness. In a sense, it was part of what made her restless, but she was also interested in gauging his thoughts on the matter. This goal he had not originally had, but since made for himself, was approaching with an almost startling swiftness, and though in one sense something felt done, at least for her, what lay ahead was even more harrowing still, but so immediate. It left her unsure whether planning for the afterward was even wise. On the one hand, they were truly most likely to die—a sobering thought on its own. But if they did not, then
 she would need some kind of direction, after what she supposed they would see.

The Shade was always alone.

His father had made him that way, the Master of his life and destiny. In the years that he had runaway and been alone to suffer his conversion to the undead, he had been alone. He was alone when he made his first kill, starving of the blood thirst, a monstrosity to behold. The decades passed while he served his Lord and his Lady, gathering their chosen and stealing them away, delivering them to the Master however necessary, that they might be trained and given the honor to die fighting for what they had chosen to believe in, and all that time he was alone. He was alone when his father fled and seemingly betrayed him, alone while his mother descended into madness and succumbed to the monstrous power she carried, alone while his brother hopelessly tried to keep her head above water. Aeneas had always had the better heart, even if it failed to beat, as his did.

There had been a brief moment, when he had forced the Game into its opening, and stolen his father away, when Tarquin had not been alone. They were together for a time, a time that he had pissed away as worthless while it passed. He would give anything he had, little though that was now, to have that time back, and realize that they were the most important moments of the centuries he had endured. But clarity had been slow to reach him, and by the time he grabbed it, he was alone again. He joined these Sellswords in their fight, but still he did his best to remain alone. Death trailed them at every turn, and it lay ahead, waiting in the shadows. When it took him, it would not be in the sight of the others, because Tarquin was alone.

But there was a difference now. The Shade was a dead man, taking blood when he wished and taking lives when he was told. Tarquin was alive. The beating of the heart in his chest still felt strange to him, and the way that it called out, finally crying in outrage at the endless solitude, the isolation. It was something only a dead man could endure.

"All I ever had before was time," he said, looking down at his feet. "It's cruel, that only now, when I have found something that truly matters, is my time fleeting." He was ready to die, if that was what it took to free his father, to make things right. But he wasn't sure if he was ready to handle not being alone, when the future seemed so poised to tear that away again. Death seemed a more merciful fate.

Anirne smiled, a close-lipped expression caught somewhere between melancholy and resigned. She did not really know what it must be like, to confront such a fact after so long, but the fact itself was something she certainly had experience with. “That, I’m afraid, is the nature of life. The only thing certain is that it will not last forever.” She could see the good in that, too, though. What need was there to fight, to grow and struggle and change, when one had forever? If things would always change in time, and one had all the time in the world, why
 patience alone would attain a person what they wanted. Not so for mortal beings, ones that had to be the changed they wished to see in the world, else they might never see it at all. Striving was valuable, and it was limitation that enabled striving.

She supposed she’d turned down immortality, when she’d refused the Librarian’s offer. It hadn’t been the most pertinent concern for her at the time, but the implication was nevertheless there. The Library itself had seemed to exist almost outside of time, and if she had become its keeper, she would have done so too. But her issue with that would have been the same as her issue with spending too much time in the cloister: it created a sort of indolence, a lack of dynamism. One existed, but living was something different. Of course, such abstract matters were not, in the end, what made her decision, but when it came to things so important, they shouldn’t be. “Perhaps it is better to think of it this way: you have found something that truly matters, and there is still time. You have not missed it.”

She had missed more than one important thing, in her erroneous judgement, but this one, she had not, and she at least was glad of it. It was as temporary as everything else, but sometimes, the effervescence was part of the value of something. One might appreciate a flower a little less if it bloomed all year, rather than only in the springtime. One might appreciate a life less if it never ended. Shifting her weight slightly from one foot to another, Anirne blinked out at the lake, the surface of it given false solidity by the way the light reflected from it. “And who knows? It might not even be that fleeting. By comparison, perhaps, if one thinks of time only as duration. But
 much can be lived in a year, in a decade, in any span, really. So long as one uses it wisely.”

There was a pause, and Anirne decided that she might as well ask. Or rather, preface, then ask. “I remember you saying that you feel you’ve yet to really experience any of the places you’ve been, because of the circumstances that took you there. And I
 well, I expect I’ll be doing a fair amount of journeying, should I make it out of all of this alive. There’s really no place for me back on Summerset anymore, and I’d like to do a little more living myself.” That much at least, she’d always known. There had always been a certain sense of finality about her departure, even if she’d been loath to acknowledge it. She had certainly not expected things to work out this way, but—she was fundamentally an adventurer, and she was remembering this now. Strange, how cloistered conditions had almost made her forget.

There was no mistaking the connections she’d made here, and the fact that she would want to return frequently, but where she most wanted to be was seeing things, and experiencing them. Learning as much as possible. It was why she’d felt so compelled to leave her home in the first place. This time, she would not make the mistake of failing to return, but she wanted to really give living an effort, not take for granted that everyone else was right about what it should be. “If you’d prefer to stay with your father, or perhaps the others, I’d certainly understand, but
 I wouldn’t mind the company, if you were interested in seeing things again with these new eyes of yours.” It would be nice, to have someone else along, and it was somehow something she could see them doing, were the circumstances right. She wouldn't push the matter, though—he had every right to do with his life as he pleased, and she’d not want to stop that, not in the slightest.

His smile was strained, held back by something. Perhaps it was just a difficult expression for him to be wearing on his face. The idea was extremely pleasant to him, almost overwhelmingly so, and as a result it seemed to him like something he was dreaming, something that bordered on the blissful, and utterly impossible. How could things work out so well? How could they save his father, save themselves, and return from Coldharbor without being destroyed? He didn't know, or even believe, that it could be done so cleanly. It was something he knew with startling clarity that he wanted, but he could not yet reach out and take it. He felt as though accepting such a future would doom it to never be.

"I..." he started, struggling with the words. "I would like that." He immediately regretted saying it. They were true, but he saw what the others were beginning to do, and he could not force himself down that path as well. They were finding peace within themselves, and as result they were allowing themselves to envision futures where their lives did not hang in the balance every day. Futures where they were happy, happy with themselves and happy to be with each other. He saw visions of it himself, now, but Tarquin swiped them away every time they approached.

"I cannot promise it, because I cannot know what awaits us, but... yes. I wouldn't mind the company, either." If they could make it through, he would finally remember what it was to not be alone. It was perhaps too tantalizing a thought to allow himself to imagine for long.

Anirne seemed to understand, choosing simply to nod. There was a very real possibility that what lay at the end of this for her, for any of them, was death. But she did not think that allowing herself to think about what she’d do if it were otherwise was a bad thing. It was connections like this, plans and thoughts and bonds to other people, that would make Coldharbor bearable, if indeed such a thing was even possible. She hoped he would find it so as well. “No promises necessary,” she said easily, reaching over to touch his shoulder lightly for a moment. “But I’m glad to hear it, all the same.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives
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The morning dawned warmer than expected, given the sheen of ice the previous night. Maya sat at the edge of the lake, enjoying the rays of the sun that filtered through the tree branches, weighed down with snow as they were. She was surrounded by a steady dripping sound as all the ice and snow melted into ponds, puddles, and the lake. It sounded almost like a light rain, but held to only scattered but concentrated areas. The layer of ice over the lake was already cracking into jagged pieces that floated about until they gently bumped into one another.

The grass was damp, but Maya didn't mind sitting. It was a rather lonely inn, sitting along a more scarely used road as it was. There wasn't a good deal of travel to and from Dawnstar. The innkeeper would have been much better off building along the south road, to Whiterun. Maya had come up that way a dozen times over, at least. She'd seen just about every last part of this frozen country. It was home, after all. And now she had friends to fill it with. Real friends, people she had shed blood with, bonded with closer than she could have imagined. She'd never lacked for interaction, given her status in her old coven, and her various contacts in the cities, but Maya had always been a nomad at heart, a wanderer of the wilds. Such a strange way for a Breton girl to live, but she was raised amidst the cold and the wind of Skyrim, not the cities of High Rock. She belonged here.

Winter was not usually given to melting the ice in Skyrim, but the fresh smell of such a dawning was not something he’d ever take for granted. It was moments like this that reminded him that spring was coming, as it always would. The symbolism was not lost upon him, though he would be wise to remember that winter had not yet done its worst. Or had it? Truly, it was hard to conceptualize even something as terrible as Coldharbor must be and see it as worse than what he’d already beaten. Not just the Representatives, but himself, or rather, what of himself he could not reconcile. If he’d faced the first part of this task as half a person, he was whole now, and it gave him some of the confidence he had lacked.

Perhaps he was more than a whole person, even. He did, after all, have them, and they made him better, as they always had, even when he hadn’t thought there was any getting better, only less horrific. His expression, so accustomed to the habitual slight frown, turned itself almost without prompting into the shape required for smiling, and he found that, come what may, it was quite appropriate.

He’d intended to simply take a short walk before they left the inn, as the others prepared their things, but he smelled her not far away, and that was all it took to change his plans. So he moved towards the lake, taking note of the ponderous pattering of the melting ice, as the water dropped in thin ribbons from snow-laden trees. False spring, but nice all the same. Sinderion dropped into a relaxed crouch beside where she sat at the edge of the lake, the splayed fingers one one hand providing a third point of balance, though it was not really necessary. The melting snow was still cold on his fingers, but that didn’t bother him, either. He felt so much
 lighter that he doubted much would perturb him at all, anymore.

“You look like you’re thinking happy thoughts, for once,” he said simply, and it was true. It wasn’t an expression many of them had had cause to wear, over the course of their journey. Even the lighter moments had been humorous or wry rather than truly happy, after all. “Mind letting me in on them?” He smiled, thinking that maybe, he could get used to wearing such an expression, after all.

Were they happy thoughts? Maya hadn't really noticed. She supposed they were. They were fragile things, of late, and while analyzing that threatened to shatter them, they were a bit stronger this morning, and held their shape. "I've never stayed at this inn before. It's a nice place. Pretty, and secluded. I was thinking that I should come here more often. There's good hunting here." Lakes were usually good for that, and this forest was likely a gorgeous place in the summer months, when it wasn't regularly buried under mounds of snow. Not that it wasn't attractive now, but... it would be more habitable, when it was warmer.

She could see that some in the group weren't allowing themselves to be optimistic yet. Tarquin in particular seemed troubled by the happiness of the others. Maya, however, was finding it to be a rather intoxicating experience, one that she didn't want to end. Ever since she had been chosen for this, she had been certain she would never live a day past thirty, but the other side of it was so close she could taste it now, and she could see the lush green valley it would let her descend into. Of course, she had yet to reach the peak, but compared to what they had already climbed, what trouble could a little more possibly cause them?

"You're looking well, yourself," she said, reclining onto her back with her fingers threaded into her hair. She sighed, more or less contentedly, peering up at the snow-heavy limbs of the trees. "I know that look, actually. Seen it quite a few times. You're thinking about a girl. Nothing like a girl to pull a boy out of his melancholy."

She smiled, in her sly way. "Tell me about her."

Sinderion arched an eyebrow, feeling, as he always seemed to in her company, a little thrown off-balance. It wasn’t, he’d discovered, a bad thing, by any means, but
 did this prompting have a wrong answer? It would be just like him to screw it up, honestly, even though he did have a reply. Actually, his problem was that he had too many answers, too many things he could say, and perhaps it was that more than anything that made him pause before speaking at all. “There’s
 a lot to tell,” he admitted. “Some of it is perhaps best left to the bards and the poets, because I’m not very good with words and it would honestly be an injustice to take my word for it.” He shrugged, lifting both of his shoulders in what looked a bit of an odd gesture, considering the fact that he was still crouched.

It was comfortable, though, at least for him, so he didn’t bother thinking overmuch about it. “Other parts of our, uh
 acquaintance would probably have been conveyed best by the Bard, because there was an awful lot of the improbable involved.” He smiled, shaking his head faintly with amusement. “And an improbable number of trees, actually.” He’d never really thought about it before, but there it was. If it were anyone but them, it might have been strange, but the apparent constancy of setting was one of the least strange things about this whole
 thing. Was there a better word for it than thing? Sinderion, at least, could not be certain.

“But, as there seem to be no bards or poets about
” He took a deep breath and stared straight ahead. This was going to be embarrassing, he just knew it. “She’s clever. Incredibly clever. Enough so that sometimes, I think it gets her into a bit of trouble. Because she was not wise, when I first met her. She’s perceptive, and observant, and most days I suppose she knows me better than I know myself. She certainly saw a lot of things that I was blind to. She is subtle in ways I have yet to fully understand, and perhaps never will.” His eyes dropped to his hands for a moment, and he clicked his tongue in a pensive sort of way. “Patient, if she’s learned to deal with me. Funny. Incredibly charming. A huntress in every sense of the word I have learned.” Ah, there it was—his face was heating up. As though he weren’t hopeless enough already.

Well, since he was being truthful anyway, he might as well
 Sighing slightly, he turned so as to be facing her, tilting his head to the side. “I do believe she saved me. Not alone, but
 her part in it was the largest, and entirely irreplaceable. It’s a bit odd, really, that despite the fact that she is utterly beautiful, I should consider it to be the least of her virtues.”

Maya had shifted onto her side, propped up on one elbow, about halfway through Sinderion's description, so that she could better look at him. She imagined quite a few other people would have reddened at least as much as Sinder did; it was difficult to receive so many compliments in such a short period and maintain composure. But then again, she had asked for it. Maya was not someone to become flustered or embarrassed in situations such as this one. In fact, she seemed to revel in them. She certainly enjoyed dragging Sinder through them. She figured if she pushed him into the water enough times, he would eventually learn to swim. He most definitely wasn't floundering about like he was before.

"You know," she said, reaching out to take one of his hands, and pulling it to her, "for someone who claims not to be a bard or a poet, that was pretty good." She kissed the hand softly. "You're charming, too, I think. In your own way." In all honestly, it was probably his lack of charisma that she had needed most. He was her pillar of honesty and kindness to lean upon when she had begun to doubt her own ways. They were ways that she doubted she would ever be truly rid of, but at least now she felt as though she had cast out the parts that were hurting her.

"If it's not too early to ask... do you have any plans in mind? For after all of this, I mean. I may or may not have let my mind wander to some of my own, but I wanted to hear yours before deciding on anything." Whatever awaited them after this, their lives would never be the same. And Maya could not possibly be happier about it. There were still a great many things she needed to right with herself, but this... adventure, had given her the base she had always felt she lacked, to build the person that she really wanted to be.

He snorted softly, the sound escaping him as more a huff than anything, and rolled his eyes. Yes, his ability to fumble over himself at every opportunity was probably quite charming, in the way that watching newborn fawns try to get their legs underneath them was charming. But
 well, he was here, and they had this, whatever it was, so
 he couldn’t find it in himself to complain too much. His expression softened, his mouth twitching upwards faintly at the tender gesture, and he at last rolled back to be more properly seated, crossing his legs beneath him and making no move to regain the use of his arm. It wasn’t like he needed it, at the moment.

He considered the question, for a while, glancing up at the morning sky overhead and pursing his lips. “I’ve never been the sort to make plans,” he confessed quietly, after a lengthy pause. “It seemed a futile exercise, all things considered.” He’d spent the most recent years of his life waiting to make everything go horribly wrong while hoping dearly that he would not, but he could never bring himself to plan any further ahead than absolutely necessary. Even in their mad journey to kill the Representatives, he’d not thought ahead further than the next target. Why bother, when he’d been more or less convinced that each would be the last, deep down?

“I suppose that makes me flexible, which could have some benefits, if you were inclined in a particular direction,” he pointed out pragmatically. He might as well take the good that came of such a state along with the bad, surely. It wasn’t something he had a lot of practice with, but he was certainly willing to try it, now that the attempt itself did not seem so very far beyond him. It went without saying that he wanted to go where she went, be where she was. He’d not felt such a way before, but then that was hardly surprising.

Her own thoughts were not so much a plan as a collection of ideas, mostly things she had decided she didn't want to do, leaving her with some guidelines as to what was left. "Well, I'm fairly certain I'll be taking a break from the coven for a while," she said. That one was easy. Sinder would no doubt appreciate it, given the aversion to the Glenmoril that he was unlikely to break just because she had come along. The witches themselves would no doubt be understanding, given what Maya had put herself through recently in the name of the Daedric Lord they served. "For a couple of years, at least. I can't see myself leaving permanently, but they will understand if I spend a few years away."

She wondered what the others might decide to do. She'd heard some talk of travel, which was attractive to her as well, but she doubted many of them were looking for large amounts of company. She wouldn't be either. "There's something I should probably get out of the way first, though. I'm not really the type to settle down anywhere. Not yet, at least. I don't think I could handle waking up in the same place every day for more than a month..." She hadn't done so since she was a child, really. All of her years she had spent moving from once place to another, seeing and doing and meeting and stumbling across things that caught her eye. She knew some of the others would be settling down if they made it through this. But not her.

"But I could definitely wake up next to the same person," she said, wondering if it was too forward. Not that she usually seemed to care about being too forward when it came to Sinder. She had yet to drive him away with it, after all. "Apart from that, I'm not dead set on anything. I like plans well enough, I just don't really have much experience working on plans like this." It was a new experience for her as well, feeling tied to someone, drawn to be where they were.

"Do you want to tell the others more?" she asked, rather abruptly. "Sorry, I mean... they saw you take apart that dragon, and you told them about what the Librarian offered you, but I think they might still be, well... rather concerned for you. Understandably." It wasn't everyday someone managed to turn into a werewolf and only selectively give in to their bloodlust. She seriously doubted any of the others didn't trust him with that power, but it still might be difficult to fight closely alongside him when he needed to give in to it.

"I know it's very personal, what happened for us in the Library, but if you want to talk to the others about it, I'm with you."

He hadn’t been an expressive child, and he’d become a deliberately recalcitrant man, so naturally, her frankness in such matters still knocked him a bit off his kilter, so to speak, but he was growing accustomed to being so tilted. He would maybe never get used enough to the frankness itself that it didn’t throw him, just a bit, but he could learn to expect it, and in some strange way, to appreciate it. Whether he’d ever be able to emulate it was doubtful, but he could at least be honest. He’d always tried to be that. “You know me well enough to understand that I have trouble settling down for a single eve without being tempted to wander again. The road is no foe of mine.” He wouldn’t mind a nomadic lifestyle. His years with the Mentor had been good ones, in their way, but never without a persistent sense of restlessness. He’d slept more nights outdoors than in even there.

Sinderion didn’t bother to deny that he was more than a little pleased, though, that she really did want him along for the next part of their lives, wherever it happened to take them, in the end, and the force of his smile narrowed the corners of his eyes, something he was decidedly unused to. Just one of many things he would learn to grow accustomed to, he supposed. “And I
 would very much like being that person,” he said simply, and let the comfortable silence descend again after that, at least until her sudden thought.

It gave him a moment’s pause, but she was right. He could not simply ask them to trust him on this without explaining anything, and he’s always, always trusted their judgement, even when it hadn’t been the smartest thing to do. Perhaps because at the time trusting his own was an even worse proposition. “I do need to talk to them, at the very least,” he said, a small exhale escaping his nose with some weight. “And I will, before we leave this morning, I think. But first
 that dagger I gave you. Do you still have it?”

The dagger. She wasn't overly fond of thinking about that. In the moment, she had really only taken it because Sinder never would have been able to go through with the transformation otherwise. Maya seriously doubted she would have been able to force herself into using it on him, even if it meant her life. Really, it seemed like a symbol of doubt to her more than anything. She didn't really want to have it anymore, nor did she want Sinder to have it. They didn't need it anymore. Her trust was strong enough, as was his control.

"I have it here, one second," she said, reaching into her bag. She had long since developed a habit of not carrying any physical weapons on her person. She withdrew the weapon with some measure of distaste, examining it for a moment. "Are we getting rid of it?" she asked, somewhat hopefully.

“We are,” Sinderion replied with a smile. Holding out his hand for the weapon, he gripped the sheath tightly in his hand for a moment. This was it—his last piece of insurance. As soon as he let it go, he would have nothing to rely on any longer but his own control. Well
 that wasn’t exactly true. It might have been true, once, but that was before he had friends, and before he had her. They had certainly proven that there were people devoted enough even to believe in him. He had them, and regardless of where their lives after this point took them, he would always have them. They’d left marks on him deeper than any of his scars, mental or physical, and that would never be undone.

It was enough.

Taking a deep breath, Sinderion drew back the arm that held the dagger and threw it as far as he could, casting the silver weapon out into the melting lake in front of them. It landed somewhere in the depths of the water, and it was as though he could feel the last of his self-imposed chains breaking. It was at once liberating and terrifying, like falling with no rope to stop the decent. Even so, he couldn’t stop smiling. Resting a hand, fingers splayed, at Maya’s back, he leaned over slightly and propped his chin on her head, just for a short moment, and a sense of grounding returned to him. He wondered if he’d ever grow accustomed to that. He supposed that, assuming they managed to get over the last hurdle remaining to them, there would be plenty of time to find out.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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The two of them returned to the inn, to find that everyone else seemed to be finishing with their preparations. Items were fitted into satchels, weapons sheathed and slid into belts, shields slung over backs. It has become something of a pattern, almost an intricate sort of ritual, and they certainly all knew the motions by now. It was a bit of a reality check—what had seemed far away a moment ago was suddenly very close at hand. Surprisingly, his certainty did not waver in the face of the reminder.

It was not until they were mounted and out on the road again, however, that he gave voice to his thoughts. It could perhaps be said that he was getting a bit better with expressing himself, but he still managed to feel awkward every time he had to. So he picked out the gentlest and most welcoming face in the grouping of his closest friends, that being of course the one that belonged to Adrienne, and though he spoke to all of them, he used her as something of a centerpoint for the words, few as they were. “I, ah
 appreciate the lack of questioning regarding what happened with the dragon,” he said haltingly, “But
 I think perhaps it might be best if something was said on the subject.”

He paused, trying to find the right ones. “The Librarian forced the transformation, initially, but
 I believe this to have been for the better. I am at something of an accord with it, now, and though
 I would still perhaps advise a bit of caution, I can say with the highest degree of certainty any of us ever get that I won’t harm you.” He swallowed, and his lips parted as if to say more, but then he simply shook his head. There wasn’t really much more that he could think of to say, though of course, he was inviting the questions now that he’d been a bit leery of before, so perhaps someone would have a concern he could address.

Adrienne paused in the act of adjusting a stirrup, straightening to regard Sinderion, who was riding not too far from her. Her brows ascended her forehead in slight surprise when he spoke—she hadn’t really expected him to address it, or rather, not now. Tilting her head to one side, the young woman smiled slightly, and shrugged. “Okay,” she said simply. She knew it had been a seriously uphill battle for Sinderion to deal with, this part of himself, just like all of them had fought uphill battles to overcome their darker natures. She would admit that his was more literally dangerous than most of them, with the possible exception of Drayk’s affinity to fire, but
 if he thought this was for the better, then she trusted him, simple as that. “I’m glad to hear it, Sinder.”

Drayk wished he could say he was never going to hurt any of them again, but it was fire's nature to burn, and his spells had a tendency to explode. There was always that chance that he wouldn't see one of them, that he wouldn't be able to react fast enough, and they would be caught in the radius of a fireball, or that he would stray too close to them with his cloak. The highest degree of certainty any of us ever get, he had said. Drayk supposed it held true for him as well. Those days where Adrienne or Sinder had to literally smother him with their own bodies to get him to stop were gone. Never again would he see them and simply not care because the fire was in his eyes. Accidents were still possible of course, but the same was true for any man.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, with a sort of apprehensive curiosity. "The transformation, I mean. It didn't look comfortable. It's just... fire magic has never been that way for me. It was always a euphoric thing, to give in to it." It was actually something Drayk had always been somewhat ashamed of, that anything so terrible could feel so good at the time. No matter how many times he felt horrible afterwards, in the moment, it was always a bliss capable of making him forget. But with that tentative certainty they had now, he could say that he wouldn't forget again.

He hadn’t wanted to expect it, but he had anyway. Adrienne’s easy acceptance was so typical of her, really. Even back in the early days of this venture, when he and Van and Drayk had been wary still of themselves and each other—and not without reason—she had professed to believe in them. That belief was being borne out, now, and he supposed he should not be surprised that in the end, it was she who was more or less correct. She had always seen the things that other people could not. He was immensely grateful for that, because he was sure at the time he had not realized how much he needed that. But he had needed it; his friends had given him something to lean on when he had been unable to stand on his own, and that belief of hers, of theirs, had reminded him of the direction he was supposed to be moving in. Smiling slightly to himself, Sinder considered it for a moment, then reached out, leaning slightly sideways on his mount so as to be able to lay his hand atop her crown.

“Thank you,” he said simply, withdrawing the hand and straightening. Drayk’s question got him thinking, and Sinderion tilted his head slightly to the side. Did the transformation hurt? It certainly had in the library—he’d never felt anything like that, at least not anything that was in his memory still. He’d forgotten large chunks of his adolescence by this point, whether because the beast had poor memory generally or from some kind of trauma, he did not know. It seemed to be the latter, because he remembered his most recent two changes well enough. So he didn't know if it had hurt before.

“It
 rearranges bone structure and muscular arrangement,” he answered, shrugging slightly. “Not to mention the foot-and-some of extra height. I think it would have surprised me more if it did not. But
 once it is done, the pain fades. I don’t feel that the same way, when I’m transformed. Pain only makes things
 sharper. More certain.” It heightened the desire to kill, certainly, and the smell of blood, his own or anyone else’s, provoked an adrenaline response. He knew not what magic had originally made such creatures as he, but it had made them to be even more dangerous when wounded, he thought. “And it is not so bad now as it was the first time.” Certainly not enough to dissuade him from its use, should the extra assistance become necessary.

Van looked up from his book as the conversation about Sinder’s condition flew around his ears. He patiently waited until there was a suitable lapse in talk and then added his own opinion. If hand gestures had the ability to convey tone, then Vanryth’s would be steeped in worry, surprisingly. He’d come to find that worry was more often than not his default emotion these days. All I ask is that you warn us next time. Almost gave me a heart-attack the first time. His facial expression was expectedly hard—for all of a moment before his features softened and he shook his head. He had nothing else to add, for what else was there to add. He trusted the man with his life, and if he felt like he can control it, then it was not Vanryth who was going to doubt him. He gave a short thumbs up to show that he was behind Sinder in whatever he did. Vanryth then returned to the book in his hand, dragging his quill through the pages as he wrote something.

Lynly too gave a short nod, all of her words stolen by the others. Aside from that, she was too busy with what the Dunmer was writing to pay too much attention. They’d gained her trust enough so that she’d never second guess their choices, and Sinder’s insistence was enough for her. She rode a pace behind the Dunmer, ever peering over his shoulder, silently reading every word he wrote as he wrote it. At least until she spoke up, laying a hand on his shoulder as she did, “You need to use more flourishes. Be exciting in your writing, no one’s going to want to read ‘And then they went to Markarth’. It needs to be something like
 ‘As the sun began to set before them, dipping behind the highlands that surrounded them, the Sellswords had nearly arrived in Markarth...’ It makes for a much finer read.” Vanryth managed a sharp glare at the Nordic woman before returning to his book and scratching out his last line. She had a point.

Lynly let a chuckle escape her throat as she patted his shoulder.

Anirne, presently riding on Vanryth’s other side, had not made quite as close of an inspection as Lynly of exactly what he was presently scribing, but the words exchanged managed to pique her curiosity. “You write your story?” she asked, a small smile appearing on her face. A worthwhile endeavor, probably, though ambitious. “I cannot say you should expect many to believe it if they read it, but it’s certainly quite the tale.” Thinking about it in such an abstract fashion really was the best way to get a sense of the enormity of it. It was one thing to march the next mile or fight the next enemy, to slog their way with more determination than finesse through the next obstacle, but it was quite another to realize that what they had done was manage to defeat some of the strongest mages and warriors she’d ever heard tell of, all while fighting back their own darker natures and keeping one another alive. And that was without mentioning the Daedric involvement.

They’d come so far, done so much, to save one man. Not that she thought it was only about their Mentor now. He still motivated the journey, and there was no mistaking his importance. But looking at them now, she could not help but think that his absence had done more to bring them to a point where they could accept themselves and conquer those darker natures than even his presence had managed. Perhaps he’d known it would all along—the way they spoke of him was almost reverent enough to resemble the way other people spoke of their gods. Almost
 but not quite.

Quite the story, Maya agreed, though she didn't say so. She wasn't as sure about the whole endeavor as Lynly seemed to be, though. It seemed wise to make some record of what had happened, certainly, especially in the wake of the Library’s destruction, but
 why did anyone else need to know about it? Why were flourishes necessary, and why did they need to write something exciting that people would want to read? Their journey had been an intensely personal one for all of them, without exception, and there were many details that would be nearly impossible to convey to the common man.

Were they heroes in this story? Maya was inclined to think not, though perhaps she had more reason to think so than some of the others. They fought and they killed people that the world had no reason to know about, and thus no reason to either love or hate. They took a side in the battle at Whiterun, but that would cause half of Skyrim to only see them as villains. Tarquin, and to some extent Maya, had antagonized the group for much of the trip. Would Vanryth’s hand simply cover that up? Would people understand the struggle of individuals like herself, like Sinder and Drayk, like Adrienne and Vanryth? All of them had done terrible things in their pasts, and this quest was one about saving themselves, saving each other. She didn’t know if it was the right kind of story to be spread to the masses, and she didn’t think it acceptable if words twisted it into something it wasn’t.

“Just
 be honest, please,” she advised. “Don’t allow your flourishes to distort the truth.” It wouldn’t be the first time a story grounded in fact was warped into a fanciful myth for the sake of entertaining a crowd. She would rather let their deeds go on in silence than see that happen.

Sinderion wasn’t entirely sure he was comfortable with their story being the stuff of public knowledge, believed or not, but then
 there were a lot of things he wasn’t comfortable with, and he wasn’t going to protest it. Perhaps Van only intended it as a matter of historical record, for in fact very few. It wasn’t like the majority of Skyrim’s occupants could read very well, if at all. He supposed that wouldn’t be so bad. It also seemed unlikely that anything would come of it—how possible was it that someone would hear such a story and connect it to any of them in the future? Well, whatever the case, his friend could do as he chose. Sinderion trusted that he was doing the right thing.

Soren, on the other hand, actually furrowed his eyebrows and shook his head. “Don’t
 give it to a bard. Trust me on that one. No matter how true it is when they get it, it’ll be artifice when they’re done.” Ordinarily, it would have been hard for him to care less—as if he gave a damn what some idiot sang about him in taverns. But in this case
 the details of the adventure had revealed things to these people that he just didn’t want anyone else to know. It was why he was such a sarcastic ass in the first place. If people stopped looking, they didn’t see. And he really had no desire for his considerable character flaws—the real ones, not the ones he bandied about in quips and japes—to be known to anyone outside of these. How even they’d gotten this far sometimes still puzzled him, but then, perhaps that was what fighting beside people did for you.

A throaty chuckle escaped his throat instead of an ornery grunt. He was getting criticism on how he should write his book, if it could even be called that. It certainly wasn’t a chronicle, it was simply an old warrior’s attempt at finding something other he could do besides fight. He was not unaware that their next trial would surely be their last, whether it ended good or bad. But if by happenstance it did turn out for the better, then he wanted something to do that did not involve bloodshed. The others had some sort of plan, so why not he? But this book in particular
 Once the laugh had its run, he shook his head and flipped the book to an empty page near the end, began to scratch something down. A few strokes of his quill and a smile later, he passed the note around so that everyone could read it.

Vanryth Galero wrote:You all say this as if I’m looking to impress someone, to simply throw it at the first bard I come across and hope he croons it in the bars at night. The only audience I’m looking for is the one I have now. I could not give a damn what anyone else thought of my writing. This story is ours and ours alone. What I put in between these pages doesn’t hold a candle to what we’ve already experienced, what we’ve already done and this quill can’t take that away from you. It’s just a way for an old man to remember what we’ve been through so that he doesn’t forget. This book is for our eyes only—a terrible start for an aspiring writer, but this is something that can only be shared between us.


With the note written, he flipped back to his place in the book, and began to write again, about the bar that they first visited. It was a clichĂ© he knew, but in their case it turned out to be true. Vanryth couldn’t hide his amusement if he tried.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Chapter X
Coldharbor




Where once there had been sixteen, now only two remained.

For all intents and purposes, The Game of the Shadow was over for the Sellwords, their companions, and the two Representatives that traveled with them, wholly ignoring the will of the Daedric Lords, ordering them to slaughter one another. It was likely that for most if not all of them, it had never been a game to begin with. Few individuals would ever walk as hard a road in their entire lives as this small group endured in a matter of months, and such trials have a way of changing the very fabric of one's being. None of them were the same as when they started. On the outside, many were marred by a host of new scars, battle wounds that would travel with them for the rest of their lives. On the inside, the gauntlet they'd run had a way of sorting everyting into order, showing them what was truly important in their lives, helping them see clearly for perhaps the first time in their lives.

But it was not yet done. The last test lay ahead, with no obvious way to succeed. For the moment, the door to Coldharbor, the Mentor's prison, would remain shut, guarded by a behemoth of a dwemer construct, a colossus chained to the will of the Lord of Domination. Sworn to guard the portal through which every game's winner had passed, it appeared as though the only way to reach their goal was to challenge it, and hope to defeat it. The only other option was sacrificing one of their own, and that was not an option at all. Instead, all would take the risk. As they had lived together, so too would they face death.

One way or another, their rest would await them on the other side...





It was a very little door.

Maya was tempted to laugh, knowing now the enormity of what awaited them within, but any sound she might have made died a pitiful death in her throat. Fear was such a sharp thing to feel, like the point of a razor sharp knife poking her ribs. She knew the feeling well enough, but she was still getting used to feeling it like this. She had never expected death to be a pleasant experience, but she'd had years to grow accustomed to the possibility that hers would be an early one, and a bloody one. No one had ever prepared her to go on while others fell, though. One single stroke from that construct's sword, that was all it would take, and one of the people beside her might simply be... gone.

Perhaps it was the unknown she feared. She did not know what it would feel like to see this group fractured, and she never wanted to find out.

Drayk wondered if the others had the same thoughts that he did. They were like little birds that flew around Cyrodiil in early spring, chirping through the rotting wooden walls of whatever hovel he and his friends found to sleep in that night. These ones fleetingly suggested turning around, forgetting the thin bronze door with the golden handle, forgetting the old man and taking the happiness that they had. He wasn't like his friend had been. He wasn't a gambling man. He was a fool, wrapping himself in his feelings, clutching them tightly ever since he'd learned to feel them at all.

Now that they weren't being played by another Representative, Drayk doubted there was a front door to this place. This little door in front of them was the only way in, and the only way out. It was the only way they could go forward, and it was the only way they'd ever get free. He shrugged his shield into a more comfortable position on his back, taking a step forward through the ankle deep snow.

"Might as well get out of the cold," he suggested, leading the group to the little door. He remembered it being comfortably warm inside, in that cavern with the hole in the ceiling, that beautiful place with the waterfall and the light streaming down onto the ruins. It had been their one moment of solace after the nightmare on the Omen's ship, a night and a morning filled with the most powerful feelings of anguish and joy that Drayk had ever felt. He would never forget that place.

Maybe they could see it again, when they were done with all this.

It was also a particularly poignant place for Adrienne. The last time she’d walked this humid, warm path, she’d been half-comatose with shock, and not long after, she’d succumbed to the grief that came with being everything her mother had assumed she would become. Not just a seductress or a poisoner, but a cold-blooded, calculating murderer, more reptilian than any Argonian in Blackmarsh. She had regarded the door with a tiny frown on her face, but when the time came, she’d forced her feet forward once more, following in Dom’s wake to the insulated inside, warmed presumably by whatever was carried through the bronzed piping. Steam, she suspected; much of Dwemer artifice seemed to run on it, including constructs like the one they would be facing within.

She was, she reflected as she padded down that corridor, afraid on some level. But that fear was no longer such a sharp feeling for her. She’d been afraid, in some way or another, since they began this venture, what seemed like years ago. Now, she was still afraid, but the feeling was one she’d become accustomed to, such that it was now like a permanent ache around her heart and lungs, a leaden weight in the pit of her stomach—unmistakably there, but somehow settled. It would only stir now when her adrenaline did, and then it was simply one more edge to her movements, a little bit more desperation to feed her strength and her reflexes and her senses. They were not the things that Sinder’s or anyone else’s were, but every little bit helped. It was enough. She was enough, at least for them.

And somehow, that made her less afraid.

Anirne was successfully maintaining her equanimity, for the most part. The cavern still reminded her unpleasantly of the one where she’d had her accident, but that ruin had been something far older than Dwemer. There was a little bit of electric tension beneath her skin, one that set her fingers to tingling, but that was familiar enough—the anticipation of imminent, unavoidable confrontation. She was as at peace with it as she could be. Ani wanted to lose someone no more than anyone else did, but that was something best dealt with no sooner than if it happened. Anxiety, she knew from experience, would not serve her personally in any good way. Her strength was her ability to remain clearheaded and rational, and that was, therefore, what she would do here.

The silence felt sacred, in here, and so she did not speak. It wasn’t necessary—she could tell just by looking at them what most of them were thinking, because her own thoughts were along the same or similar veins. It was strange, that; they were all incredibly diverse as individuals, in terms of personality and background both, but they were also unified by circumstance, in a way that seemed to overcome their discrepancies and unite them to one greater purpose, as the links in a shirt of chainmail. Separate entities, but bound together strongly, and in being so, better than they would be alone. If there was anything to be trusted in this uncertain situation, it was that.

The group soon reached the elevator, stepping inside and beginning the long descent to the chamber where the massive guardian centurion would be found. Sinderion could feel the anticipation crawling under his skin like something alive, setting his nerve endings on fire. It was a bit of an effort to keep himself still and relatively impassive, something he did more for the sake of the others than his own. He was a bit restless, and wanted to move, but fidgeting may be taken for nervousness, and he didn’t want to make anyone else’s any worse. In truth
 part of him was nervous, but mostly he was actually looking forward to it. Not precisely the fight itself, but what happened after—the opportunity to enter the lair of a daedric lord and take back someone they held most dear.

He made eye contact with Maya out of the corner of his, and his mouth twitched upwards at the corner, as much reassurance as he could offer, but with luck, all that was needed. Sinder had confidence in their ability to succeed. The Sellswords had proven time and again that their worst enemies were themselves, and they had managed to conquer those adversaries. What was a physical challenge—or a mental one, even—next to fighting a battle in their own souls and emerging the victors?

Soren leaned slightly sideways, his forearm resting on Lynly’s shoulder. It was partly a casual gesture of affection, and partly just him making sure she wasn’t reacting too badly to being back down here. His own body language betrayed no unease, but then, he’d always been a cocky bastard, and he well knew that much wasn’t likely to change. Insurmountable odds usually weren’t, and that was a fact of his life now. Of their lives. The fact that he was once again part of a they—several for that matter—was really the most unlikely thing of all. They might live, they might die, but either way, he’d have done it well. They would have done it well. Cold comfort for some, but quite a bit of reassurance for him. He’d much rather live of course, now that there was something to live for, but
 come what may, he would not regret being here.

She wasn't the nervous wreck she thought she'd be. Maybe it was the enchanted hammer she held in her hand, constantly readjusting her grip to become familiar with the weight and heft. Maybe it was the group she found herself with, among friends she could rely upon and draw confidence from. When Soren leaned on her she turned and met his eyes, spinning the hammer as she did and responded with a smile-- a hint of nervousness lingering in the edges. Lynly was still nervous, but this time she wasn't alone, and a she took solace in that. This would not be a repeat of history, she would not crawl out of these ruins, desparately clinging to life. Still, she hoped it would be over soon, uncomfortable as she was in the ruins.

Meanwhile, Vanryth walked with an even gait, his arms wrapped around each other and an expression on his face that neared the bored. They'd faced many challenges, big and small, they'd fought many things, some of this world, some not. Some mundane, some extraordinary. What was one more Centurion? That was the only thing that stood between them and Coldharbor, and the Mentor. They were not the same people that began this journey, nor were they the same who had first witnessed the Centurion. They were stronger, and they were ready, he felt. It had been a while sense he'd last felt the strength in his arms that he felt now. All they had to do was pass through one more challenge.

Tarquin's missing arm twinged uncomfortably, itching at the shoulder where it had been separated from his body. Though he hadn't traveled down here with the Sellswords before, he knew full well the size of what they were walking into. How or why the colossus had been originally constructed was not something he was ever told, as it had been something he simply didn't need to know. Given that he'd never been a participant in the game up until this point, he'd never had cause to deal with the thing. That had always been the business of the previous winners, and that of whatever force controlled the hulking metal monstrosity's will. He supposed he and Maya were the winners now, though he doubted the construct would accept that particular line of thought.

"Our greatest advantage here will be our numbers," Tarquin said softly, as he need not attempt to speak over anyone. "Large and powerful as it is, it can only focus its attention on one or two of us at a time. Maintain your distance from one another, and opportunities to strike will present themselves."

"I'm going to try and stay in front of it," Drayk announced, sliding the Stonehammer's magic shield off his back and onto his right arm. "This thing's Daedric, so I figure it could stand up to most of what that thing can throw at me. If anyone needs healing, just get behind me and stay down." He didn't plan on casting many fire spells against the colossus, as it was probably quite resistant to such magic, and he'd be more likely to injure a friend than anything else. Only a few of the party were strong in defense; Drayk figured he and Lynly would be best put to use taking up as much attention as they could.

"Strong as it is, I wouldn't try catching a blow from that thing's sword with it," Maya said. She had been wondering at how best to use her own skills. There would be no enemy dead to raise, as there had been against the orcish berserkers or the spider sisters. Lightning magic would probably have minimal effect... but there had to be a soft spot they could find, one they could tear at until a true weakness was exposed. Nothing was indestructible.

“Arrows are unlikely to do much,” Soren pointed out, “But I can certainly spot for anyone else.” The sharpest eyes in a den of thieves were nothing to sneeze at—his aim wasn’t as good as it had become because he could smell where to hit things, after all. Perhaps standing back and trying to pinpoint any likely weaknesses would be the best use of his talents, since illusion magics were unlikely to be helpful and his sword wasn’t any better than anyone else’s at hacking through metal plating.

“If you need someone to take the heat of for a while,” Sinderion said to both Drayk and Lynly, “I suppose I’m a rather large distraction, now.” One could not tear the throat out of a Centurion the way one did a dragon, but he could certainly keep it busy and focused on him, if need be.

“If you find a weak spot, let me know,” Adrienne said, to everyone, of course, but mostly Soren. “I’m not sure how much use I’ll be otherwise. It’s not like I can talk it down from attacking us; it’s a machine.” She shrugged; the time for desiring that her strengths were more straightforward was past her. She’d left it behind for good in the Library, shedding pieces of it all the way along. She was who she was, and she might not be able to do too much here, but she’d do what she could. Anirne was mostly silent, as by this point, it was quite well-established that she was a magical heavy-hitter, and would primarily utilize that fact unless it became somehow impossible to do so.

The elevator soon slowed to a complete stop, and the group moved through the hallway towards their target, coming out into the great empty room on the colossus' left side. The interior was warm and humid, the pipes on the walls continuously working and pumping. The massive dwemer construct stood still, an unmoving sentinel, before the great double doors, barring their way from the end of their journey. It did not move now, but Maya knew that would soon change. She braced herself, but still cringed and winced when the colossus stirred.

As before, it settled its legs into a wider, more stable position, slamming one heavy leg down after the other. Valves on the body hissed and released steam, the torso twisting to face the group at the waist. The right arm was a great sword and nothing else, a massive, deadly blade of the signature bronze color of dwarven metal. The left arm held a large number of projectiles poised to fire in their direction, by way of four identical crossbows, one attached to each side of the construct's boxy appendage. The bolts, however, were more akin to those fired from a ballista than a crossbow. The body itself was large and cavernous, heavily armored, expanding outwards in the back, giving it an almost hunchbacked shape, though it had stood perfectly upright when they'd entered. Once again it looked down at the group, its deep, guttural voice bellowing out, more from within its chest than from the head

"PERFORMING ANALYSIS. REMAIN STILL. MOTION WILL RESULT IN TERMINATION."

As before, none of the party dared to move while the colossus was analyzing them, though this time it was for more tactical reasons besides simply not being hacked to pieces. Rather, it seemed an obviously poor idea to begin the conflict while the entire group was packed into one corner, all within reach of the construct's powerful arm. Soon enough the work was completed, through whatever means the thing possessed, and it stood up straight once more.

"ANALYSIS COMPLETE. REPRESENTATIVES DETECTED."

Maya picked up on the subtle change from singular to plural, indicating that the colossus had indeed detected Maya and Tarquin separately. She supposed there was very little point indeed in speaking to it, as they were already sure it would not step aside until only one of the Representatives remained, and the masters of the game did not seem to have any intent on disqualifying either of the two because they did not wish to play. Probably for this very reason. Why deal with them when they were already on their way to be dealt with?

It was a poisonous thought, of course, and she pushed it aside, conjuring a bow for herself and making her way towards the rear of the room along the side wall, Tarquin sticking to the many shadows of the room. Drayk took a more bold route towards the center of the floor, keeping his shield raised and his eyes on the colossus at all times. The shield had begun to glow along its outer surface, a shimmering like that of a magic ward.

"THE CONDITIONS HAVE NOT BEEN MET," the construct complained, returning to a protective stance as the Sellswords spread into a formation of attack.

"Fuck your conditions," the fire mage said, smiling. "We're here to break you to pieces, and take what we came for."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Soren, too, stuck to the outside of the room, his bow in one hand with an arrow nocked to the string, for all the good it would do. Still, he had a functioning pair of eyes, and while not quite as sneaky as Tarquin, his eyes were sharp. His best bet was to try and see if a further vantage provided any information a closer one did not. He kept a close watch over the thing’s movements as the others tried various methods of damaging it—beyond noting that not much seemed to be effective, he could say with certainty that it was not built to defend itself, or had calculated that its plating would be sufficient to the task, because it made no attempts to block or dodge anything. It probably didn’t need to.

Circling to observe from different angles, he hummed something contemplative upon coming into full view of the centurion’s back. There, in a row, were five squarish plates, clearly not part of the same solid edifice as the rest of that part of the body. They looked like they might be removable, with enough strength. They didn’t even seem to be bolted down on three of the four sides, but they weren’t moving around freely, either—it was as though something was holding them in place from the inside. Magnets, perhaps?

Whistling shrilly, Soren caught the attention of Sinderion, who’d just taken a dive to the left side of the centurion to avoid a shot from the flaming cannon apparatus. “Hey Blue, come here for a second!” He had to assume any distraction would be sufficient without that one, because they needed someone both agile enough to make the climb and also as strong as possible. The best candidate was the werewolf, though not, perhaps, as the werewolf. ”See those?” Soren jerked his chin at the plates.

It took Sinder a couple of seconds, but he thought he could see what the archer was getting at. Still, this thing was three stories tall, and those plates were more than halfway up
 on a moving creature. That was not going to be simple, though
 Sinder did some quick, sketchy mental math. It might work
 he circled back around the centurion’s side, signing something quickly to Drayk once he was sure he was in the mage’s line of sight: Climbing back. Shield boost?

Sinder had to wait a few seconds before Drayk was able to get his message, as for the most part he wanted to keep his eyes on the massive construct swinging a sword at him. Lighting bright flares in his hand seemed to be drawing its attention, and Drayk was able to quickly draw it out away from the doors it was guarding and towards the center of the room. To start, it seemed to only want to swing its sword at the fire mage, cutting in broad arcs in front of it and forcing Drayk to jump back each time. His shield seemed more than capable of taking one of those crossbow bolts, and the warding enchantment would probably absorb the steam cannon's blast just fine, but he didn't like his arm's chances against a blade like that.

It was after the third missed swing from the colossus that he noticed Sinder trying to catch his eye, giving a quick signal for his help. Drayk wondered if the pair back there had noticed a weakness. Soren's eyes were certainly sharp enough for that. He looked to Lynly on his right, hoping she was up for this. He knew she hated these places, and these things. "I need to to take point for a bit, keep it facing this way. I've gotta go help Sinder." He'd be back soon enough, if this went well. "Do it fast!" Lynly commanded.

Timing his advance for the colossus' next swing, Drayk charged forward just in time to miss it, closing the gap until he was at the construct's feet, at which point it stopped trying to cleave, and starting trying to squish him instead, with its massive, wide circular bases for feet. Drayk was forced to dart around the side of one and dive forward to avoid it as it crashed down heavily to the floor just behind him. Thankfully, it worried over him no longer, turning its attention on other targets.

"Let's do this quick," he said. The idea seemed as good as any, as it wasn't immediately clear how they were going to damage this thing from on the floor. There had to be a weakness up there, somewhere where mere mortals weren't supposed to be able to go. That was the Sellswords' specialty, after all. Getting as close behind it as he dared, Drayk crouched down and held his shield in both hands over his head, peering behind him out of the corner of his eye to give Sinder a proper boost when he jumped off.

Maya meanwhile was attempting any and all forms of ranged assault, with poor results. Glowing purple arrows fell clattering to the floor, after bouncing off every surface she could hit. After that, she banished the bow and switched to lightning magic, combining lightning spells with both hands for extra effect. The electricity washed over the construct as though it were water, dripping over the surface, and having no effect on the inside. She even managed to hit its little head when Drayk darted under its foot. If nothing else, she managed to get its attention, and it raised its left arm, launching a pair of bolts at her. The witch was forced to dive sideways, feeling the air disturbed dangerously close to her skin.

Tarquin was there to pick her up, grabbing her by the back of her collar with his remaining hand and hauling her to her feet. "Stay on the move," he silently instructed, before he drifted off again, trying to find a weak spot with lances of ice, and failing. His aim was not so precise as the other mages of the group.

With the battle at hand and her allies doing their best to tackle the colossus, Lynly didn't have time for petty emotions like fear. She was anxious, yes, but she could not betray her friends with an emotion like fear. So she found herself the long shield against the creature, as Drayk had left to aid Sinder in whatever plan they had concocted. She did her part and attempted to share the thing's attention, bashing the handle of the hammer against her shield and yelling profanities at it at the top of her lungs, baiting it by drawing closer than the others.

Her bait paid off, for better or worse, as it became her turn to be the center of its focus. It swung its massive sword in a wide arc, catching his by surprise. Gray eyes grew wide as saucers as she spun out of the sword's path, feeling the wind being cut by its swarth. Wind wasn't the only thing it cut either, as at her feet lay a long gash along the flow were the blade bit deep into the stone. "You missed!" She taunted, but her voice cracked at the apex, and a nervous look crossed her face. She hid behind her shield, but with the way the sword cut into the ground below, it'd do little than maybe notch the blade-- if that. Noticably, she didn't attempt to approach the thing again, instead prefering to be out of thing's range.

A pair of fireballs entered Lynly's view, and following their trail she found Vanryth with smoke rising from his palms and a furrowed brow. He'd watched Maya throw all the magic she had at the thing only for it to the sum total of nothing. He wasn't expecting anything, but he did want to turn its attention off of Lynly. He'd seen the near miss, and he felt the need to provide her with breathing room the only way he could. The only things at his disposal was his swords and his magic, and magic seemed like the best option of not getting himself killed, even if it did very little.

He too kept out of its sword range. Though it meant little to a thing with crossbows for hands, and he suffered the same fate as Maya as a pair of bolts made their way toward him. He dodged out of the way, the bolts thumping into the empty space behind him. Not for the first time, he felt thankfulness for his newfound agility, thanks to Anirne. Still, he stood on his knees when it decided to gift him with another bolt. This one he could not dodge, so he let instinct take over and raised both hands. Switching from fire to ice, he launced a single icebolt at arrow, striking it and shattering it into pieces.

Pieces, it should be mentioned, that acted as shrapnel. Tiny splinters tore at his skin, and it was all he could do to shield his eyes and mouth. He'd already lost one eye, he didn't feel like losing the other as well. When the shower passed, he raised her head and a number of tiny cuts made their home in his skin, and he could feel the splinters resting under his skin. Blood welled in tiny specks, and it was uncomfortable as hell, but he was alive, and he could fight. Standing back up, he readied his next spell, biding his time to strike again.

As she’d expected, Adrienne had no more luck damaging the thing than anyone else, even aiming her ice spikes for places on the centurion that were usually supposed to be weaker—joints, seams in the plating, its head. She also didn’t feel much like trying anything larger for the moment—it would just be a waste of the magicka, and she didn’t have an endless supply of it to go around. Her acids were not in nearly such great quantities as to be useful, either, and poisons were flat-out useless against inorganic foes such as this one. She tried to keep moving so as to make herself harder to hit, though she could not render herself undetectable as certain others could. As a target, she was probably less significant than others who were closer to the front, so she just did her best to support from behind.

At least, that was the attempt—it came to a rather unfortunate halt when the creature’s flame cannon released a sweeping jet of flame. She was too close to the wall to really get away, and scrambled backwards as fast as she could, calling the ice to her hands as a last-ditch attempt to do something about the column of fire that would still reach her. Bracing herself, she closed her eyes, feeling the heat wash over her face, but
 she didn’t feel burned. Cracking an eye open, she came face-to-back with Anirne, the psijic holding twin wards in front of her, blocking the worst of the impact from hitting the youngest Sellsword. The monk turned slightly, her face inky-black and shiny under the influence of her armor spell. “Go, quickly,” the woman urged, and Adrienne nodded, getting back and moving away from the wall, promising herself that she’d always be able to move in all four directions from now on. This far in, and she was still an amateur in some respects, at least. Hopefully, it wouldn’t get anyone killed.

Anirne, for her part, sighed in relief when the fire stopped, but was not timely enough to notice that the automaton had used the flames as cover for one of its other attacks, and the heavy bolt lanced through her ward, striking her in the shoulder. The psijic hissed, grabbing her staff with the other hand in just enough time to swat the next one away. But it seemed to have decided to concentrate its projectiles on her for the moment, and she couldn’t do that for all of them. Her shoulder wound was bleeding thickly, spattering onto the stone floor of the chamber, and she didn’t have the chance to heal herself, not while it was still attacking like this.

He was not oblivious to the inconvenience of the effort, and he was glad that they were willing to trust him this far. He’d do his best to pay it back by making this as quick and effective as possible. Sinder backed up several paces further, leaving his hands free and his weapons all strapped to his back. Bouncing on the pads of his feet a few times, he hopped into a sprint, legs pumping with all the speed he could give himself. Several feet from Drayk, he launched himself into the air, landing on the shield as his friend surged upwards from beneath, combining the force of two people to send the altmer into a controlled arc, one which ended indeed at the colossus’s back, distracted as it was by the combined efforts of his friends.

Finding purchase against it was no easy task, but he was able to hold on by his fingers and the sides of his boots, catching the former on a seam in the metal halfway down the torso and the latter on the back of the waist-height weld. Not inclined to remain there for long, he calculated his best shot and launched himself sideways and up, maneuvering with precariously-thin footing and handhold until he was at the metal plating on the back, which, given the way it stood out at least a few inches from the rest of the plate here, was by far the best grip he had in addition to being the target of his present investigation.

Bracing his boots against the construct’s back, Sinderion wormed his hands as well as he could to grip the leftmost plate and pulled.

As Sinder was working his way up the colossus, Drayk was taking note of the construct's arm, the one used for ranged attacks. Following the trajectory of the heavy crossbow bolts, he was led to Anirne, who had been hit in the shoulder, too pinned down to be able to adequately heal herself. Readying his shield, the fire mage moved quickly around the side of the colossus, putting himself between Anirne and the incoming bolts as soon as he could. When the first of them thwacked into the metal of the shield, he took a step back to recover.

"These are heavy!" he remarked, though he suspected that Anirne knew that better than all the rest of them by now. "Heal yourself, I can take this." He determined that the best course of action from here on out would likely be to stay in front of wherever those four crossbows were pointing. They reloaded with alarming speed, but so long as they struck his shield at an angle, he was confident that he could deflect them, rather than let them pierce the shield and weigh down his arm to the point of uselessness.

The landscape of the battle changed, however, when Sinder reached the door-like plates on the construct's back. When he pulled, it seemed to notice his presence for the first time, and temporarily halted all attempts to attack the others. A sound was heard from within its core that could only have been the charging of some kind of energy. Moments later, an explosion of boiling hot steam and powerful force burst out of every plate on the construct, a clear form of countermeasure against anyone performing a tactic like Sinder's.

While Maya found herself more concerned for Sinder's fate in the blast, Tarquin was able to note that this was the first time the colossus had directly reacted to their strategy with a form of defense. Clearly it did not want enemies crawling on it, for whatever reason. Perhaps there was a way inside from where Sinder attempted to pull. Stalking around to the rear of the colossus, Tarquin watched as the doors on the construct's back slid open, to allow something to fall out rather than climb in. From each of the five doors fell spherical balls of dwemer metal. Some rolled away from the massive feet as soon as they touched the ground, while others scuttled around like small moons orbiting a murderous planet. All of them, however, expanded into agile dwemer sphere warriors, armed with shields and deadly thrusting swords. Five by five they fell to the ground, until there must have been at least thirty of them.

The doors on its back remained open, however, a way inside the colossus. "Someone needs to get in there!" Tarquin called, though it was of course easier said than done. Every member of the group now had swarming sphere warriors to deal with as well as the brutal attacks of the colossus itself, which would be far more difficult to focus on now. That, and it seemed likely that anyone climbing on the construct would suffer the same attack that Sinder had received. Unless they could find some way to counteract it.

The change in the pitch of the thing’s function hardly went unnoticed by Sinderion, and he had a feeling, probably quite justified, that unless he moved, and quickly, he was going to be in a lot of pain. Unfortunately, he wasn’t quite quick enough in choosing his route, and though the boiling water did not hit him full-on, it did catch the majority of his left side, with enough force to loosen his grip. The scalding burns were somewhat reduced in places by the leather armor he was wearing, but it wasn’t nearly enough to stop the damage of the fall, and he twisted in midair, managing to hit the ground feet-first, but lost his footing on the slippery stone, twisting one of his ankles and rising back to full standing height only with considerable difficulty. The burns throbbed with every heartbeat, every breath, and he hissed between his teeth with each one he was forced to pull in, expanding the reddened skin of his abdomen.

The sphere warriors were considerably more agile than the construct itself, and with this much restriction to his usual range of motion, he was going to be at a severe disadvantage. Unless
 Sinder glanced up at the centurion. It was true that someone was going to need to climb up that again, but he didn’t like his chances. Not injured like this. No, it was better if he stayed on the ground now. Perhaps someone smaller might stand a better chance of fitting in there


“Vanryth!” he shouted, “Consider this the warning you asked for!” One of the sphere-warriors was approaching him, but when it swung, the hit was absorbed not by flexible leather, but by a thick coating of tawny fur, failing to even pierce the skin of the massive clawed forearm. A snarl ripped from the werewolf’s throat, and he leapt, dragging the smaller metal creature down with him.

Vanryth winced when Sinder became the beast, but he caught himself. He trusted the man to keep control of himself, he had to. They'd been through too much together not to. Swinging his gaze from his friend, he turned to the first of many of the mechanical warriors. He drew his pair of blades from his back, and simply waited for the thing to come in range. A moment passed, and it upon him. Instead of directly throwing himself into the fight however, Vanryth ignited his ancestor's wrath, engulfing him in a wreath of flame. While perhaps less effective against the mechanical being, it certainly didn't hurt his chances. The sphere then struck forward with its sword, and Van spun out of its range, swinging up with one of his blades to kick the sword up and across with his other to slam it into its chest.

It did damage, but not enough to put it down, and now he had another problem to contend with. Or rather, several problems as more sphere warriors joined the fight. Vanryth had to dance out of the way of another sword, swinging his own as he spun. No good, as it struck a shield, but it earned him a bit of distance. In the ensuing brawl, Vanryth demonstrated his hard earned dexterity and flexibility, dancing and sliding out of the way of multiple blades, but not enough to completely escape harm. He was bleeding from the shoulder and leg, a pair of hits he couldn't dodge, but he gave as good as he took, making the spheres who'd hit him pay in turn. But the fight was just beginning, and it was all he could do to focus on the sphere warriors, much less the Centurion further back.

Lynly however, was faring far better with the dwarven sphere, owing her fortune to Stonehammer's weapon. Shields didn't matter when the hammer was swung with Nordic fury, denting metal and flinging the light creations far. Her battle was a symphony of thunderous booms and weak clinks against her own shield, and before long she had pounded a path forward, paved with the shrapnel of the machines who couldn't withstand Lynly's blows. The success she was having bolstered her confidence, and when the Colossus had its attentions turned elsewhere, she took her chance. Throwing her shield up she sprinted forward, toward the towering creature.

As she reached the Colossus, she reared back with her hammer and in mid-sprint heaved it in an upward arc, looking to ignite the enchantment right below where its kneecap should be. At the very least she had hoped to tip it over and allow easier entrance into the newly appeared entrance on the thing. Unfortunately, that was not the case. The hammer struck true, and the enchantment echoed a booming hit, but the Colossus appeared unfazed by the attack. It couldn't even slow the other leg down, as it reared back and kicked forward. Lynly had just enough time to raise her shield and put her shoulder behind it before the kick connected.

There was a sense of weightlessness, of sailing through the air, and of slipping in and out of unconsciousness. The edges of her view flickered and lights danced behind her eyelids, and the landing wasn't even registered. She hit the ground hard and rolled a few more feet before coming to a lazy stop face down on the far edge of the room, where she laid unmoving.

Soren was not in the best of places when she failed to return to her feet, perhaps grumbling something unpleasant under her breath. That was what he’d expected to see and hear, or maybe even some unholy yowling, because that had to have hurt enough. The stillness though, and the silence, that was uncanny, and he was surprised by the fact that his heart seemed to stop beating for several seconds, long enough, in fact, for one of the sphere warriors to catch him in the side with the sword it carried. He swore, and drew his curved one-hander, parrying the next mechanical blow. “Lovely?” he inquired, much less nonchalantly than he would have liked to.

Nothing.

“Lynly!” he tried again, swinging at the sphere-warrior with more brutality and less finesse than he would usually have deployed. A hollow clanking was the answer, and he flowed up with three more in quick succession, backing his sphere warrior up as its gears strained to move fast enough to accommodate the blows raining down on the joints of its carapace. By all damn nine of them, and the Daedra too, she’d better not be
 “Get up, lovely, you’re missing the party here!” He wasn’t even ashamed of the panicked edge he could hear in his own voice. She wasn’t, because she couldn’t be. He didn’t have any more deaths left in him—he could not bear another.

His last hit cracked into the mash of gears holding the sphere-warrior together, stabbed downwards with both hands through the gap between head and chestplate. The creature fell, but he didn't spare it a glance.

“Me,” Adrienne murmured. “It has to be me!” She was capable of the climb, though not nearly so adept as Sinderion was, and she could counteract the boiling water by freezing it—ice magic was her specialty, after all. She was also small enough to fit through one of those doors to get inside, which was, as Tarquin had suggested, quite possibly what they had to do in order to shut the construct down. How she was to go about doing that, though, was a separate question—she did not trust her agility nearly enough to do as Sinder had done and make a running jump for it. No, her climb would be arduous and from the bottom.

Anirne, back in the fray with assistance from Drayk, removed her hand from where she was using it to patch her shoulder. As none of the spheres had gone after her, she was also free to sprint to Lynly’s side and drop some curative aid on the Nord as well, crouching at her side and murmuring under her breath, sweeping her hands in the air above the woman’s torso especially. A hit like that could not have been easy to take, but she was relieved to note that the mercenary was indeed still alive.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Maya had the same thought that Adrienne had. Maybe frost magic wouldn't outright hurt the thing, but it would at least prevent it from being able to boil away people who tried to climb on it. Casting aimless frost spells would make them vulnerable however, especially if their eyes were up, while these sphere warriors scuttled around on the ground. "Anirne!" she called out. "We need to cover it with frost, stop it from blasting anyone else!" She could clearly see that Sinder was still fighting well enough, but she doubted Adrienne would be able to bounce back from the same attack, given her lack of lycanthropy.

The witch, unfortunately, had nowhere near the expertise with frost magic as she did with lightning, and thus she needed to get in closer, to blast the thing with a largely inaccurate cone of magic straight from her palm. Banishing her bow and conjuring a knife instead, she darted forward and around a sphere warrior that Sinderion tore down shortly afterwards, heading more towards the center of the dance floor. There was precious little room to work with, but she blasted the colossus with frost magic when she could, ducking down and dodging attacks when she couldn't. The constant stream of magic was going to be a severe drain on her magicka, but they had little choice.

Tarquin took up the same practice from behind the colossus, conjuring more powerful spherical blizzards, which he sent airborne to swirl over and around the chest of the construct, steadily beginning the work of wrapping it in a layer of frost. The powerful surge of magic at it was enough to draw the thing's attention, and it turned to fire at him with the crossbow arm. To his surprise, the fire mage was there to attempt to catch the bolts before they could hit him. The colossus, however, fired all four in a single burst, and while Drayk caught all four, only two hit his shield. The other two struck heavily into his right shoulder and left leg, sending him stumbling backwards. Tarquin shored up his balance from behind, but a group of four sphere warriors charged their position soon after.

"Keep freezing him, I can take this!" Drayk commanded Tarquin, taking the first blade on the bolt-riddled surface of his shield. The bolt in his leg was making it hard to move, which would make things difficult if the spheres tried to surround him, but he wasn't going to demand Tarquin's help here. Quite the opposite, actually. He was going to make sure the Shade was preventing that protective blast attack, if it was Adrienne climbing onto it.

Sinderion continued the grim work of slowly dismantling as many spheres as possible. He was gradually sustaining wounds, but the bloodlust in his nature meant that while that slowed him down, it also contributed to his rage and kept him going even so. His stride was being reduced to something graceless, something almost as mechanical as the constructs themselves, and his mouth was filled with the taste of iron and steel—their armor and his own blood—but he simply kept going, onto the next attack, fitting his claws into the next joint, trying to tear them apart with strength alone. The strokes of the swords they carried, he simply endured, blood matting his pale fur in dark, damp patches.

From the fact that Anirne was working on her, Soren surmised that Lynly was still alive, and seeing as how he was not currently engaged with any spheres, he took the opportunity to sprint over the distance between himself and the two of them. “Go,” he told Anirne, “I’ll get her up.” If the plan was what he thought it probably was, she would be of much more use than him, anyhow. Crouching beside Lynly, he tried wrapping one of her arms around his shoulders, only to be severely impaired by her mangled, likely useless shield. With a frustrated oath under his breath, he slid his sword deftly behind the straps binding the thing to her arm and cut it away. She’d probably have a go at him for that, later, but it was something he was perfectly willing to endure if they were both alive for it to happen.

Freed of the encumbrance, helping her up was considerably easier. “Have a nice rest?” he drawled. “I think the big tin can’s been missing you.”

Lynly didn't immediately respond, but instead she cried out in pain as the shield was cut from her arm. She wasn't so much worried about her mangled shield, but rather her mangled arm. The entire left side of her body was nothing but sharp, throbbing pain. As she was helped to her feet, she cried out again, but this time bit it off before she could sound any weak. "Fuck!" She yelped as she cradled her arm. She couldn't tell what was bone and what was flesh anymore. "He didn't miss," She replied through grit teeth. Her shield was the last thing on her mind. "Where's my hammer?" She asked. Despite her injuries, she wasn't just going to sit the rest of the fight out. She'd battle through the pain, and while she may not be as effective as she was moments ago, she was still dangerous.

Tarquin had rotated around the colossus from the rear, allowing Drayk to take the cluster of sphere warriors with him. He came now towards the rear of the room where Soren was helping Lynly to her feet. Another blizzard spell flew from his fingertips, the drain on his magicka growing heavy. Looking away from the construct to get his bearings again, he quite nearly tripped over the hammer Lynly was seeking, which had come to rest not far from where she had fallen. Taking a much needed break from spellcasting, he bent over and grabbed the handle of the heavy weapon, sliding it across the floor to Lynly's feet. "Keep the pressure up. We're almost there."

The sniper let go of Lynly when she found her own feet, glancing up at Tarquin as the other man spoke, but whatever he might have contributed to the little exchange died on his lips as he caught sight of what was about to happen. One of the spheres had condensed back into its round form, and was about to reassemble itself right behind the one-armed Representative.

Soren Ivarsson had never counted himself a noble man, not even at his best. Perhaps, then, it was fitting that the thought which occurred to him them was nothing particularly valiant or even really all that courageous. All he could think was not another one. He simply couldn’t stand to see another friend die. And in that moment, the semantics of friends and comrades and acquaintances, of debts and former adversaries, of redemption and sacrifice, were the furthest things from his mental computation. There was only that one selfish thought—I cannot bear another loss—and then there was motion.

He couldn’t even recall the actual moving, what he did or how he got there, but he was between Tarquin and the sphere-warrior, and then its sword flayed into him, unable to raise his own to block, slicing up through his leathers and linen from his navel to his sternum, and deeply enough that he had the distinct impression he was going to have to hold his own guts in—and his hands made to do just that. It didn’t take long for the massive internal damage to force a gout of blood out of his mouth, over his lips and chin, but despite that, his mouth quirked into the strangest of smiles.

“Figures,” he muttered, then his eyes rolled up in his sockets, and he crumpled to the ground in an ungainly sprawl.

It was Lynly's heel that caught the haft of the hammer, and as she bent to pick it up another jolt of pain ran through her ravaged arm. She fought through it with a hiss and a grunt, hefting the hammer with her good hand, and folding her other up against her belly for support. It was hardly optimal, but if she still drew breath, then she would still fight. Though the constant pain had an effect of mounting frustrations. There was then a shuffle of movement at her side and she found herself alone where she stood. Following Soren's shadow, she watched him abandon everything and thrust himself in between Tarquin and a hostile blade. Eyes widened as large as her shield and her lips parted in a warning, but it was too late. Everything slowed to a crawl, and she watched as the blade cut through his leathers, his skin, and she watched as blood began to seep out of his body.

And then everything was replaced by a pained rage. The warning died in her throat and a dangerous warcry replaced it. Despite her wrecked arm, she crossed the field following in Soren's steps. The same sphere that had struck Soren down was then destroyed itself, a deadly uppercut from the magical hammer, accompanied by a shout. Where the sphere had been, nothing remained, its scrap having been thrown across the room from the impact. She then turned and fell to her knees beside Soren, hammer tumbling out of her hand as she did.

"No-no-no-no-no," she rattled, igniting a healing spell in her hand immediately. Holding it above Soren's bleeding wound, she put everything she had into the spell, talking all the while. Fear had all but erased the pain in her arm, "No, no. You're fine. You're going to be okay. We had plans, remember?" She said, nearing hysterics. She put every ounce of everything she had in her spell, but it was clear. She was no medic, and the wound was too great. Her magic ran out long before she could stem the bleeding and as the light in her hand died, she pressed her hand against the wound, trying to force what little she had left in.

When Lynly's magic finally died, there was a moment where she just sat with her hand on his chest. It then drew back gingerly, first going to her forehead, then her cheek, unaware that she was smearing his blood over her face. Then her hand fell to her side, her knuckles brushing against the hammer. Then everything shifted, and she gripped the haft in a vice, and she rose. Tears finally made their way into her eyes, and despair was tugging at her heart, but platinum eyebrows furrowed and a grimace found its home on her lips.

They still had a job to do, and she was going to ensure that it got done. She turned and pounced on the nearest sphere, and crashing down with her hammer twice, and drew the attention of a few who were nearby. Though the pain in her arm was a pale comparison to the one she felt, she was still dangerous. With a pained second warcry, she didn't wait for them to come to her.

Tarquin was left momentarily speechless when Soren took the blow for him. His own anguish was obviously not on the level of Lynly's, but... it would very likely be a fatal blow that the archer had just received, if not treated very quickly by either Anirne or Drayk, and neither of them might live through the battle if it drew out any longer. The more they fought with this thing, the more of them would suffer for it. "This needs to end soon!" he shouted, for anyone who could hear him. "We can't hold out for long!"

The processing capability of a werewolf was admittedly different from what Sinderion possessed when not partially overtaken by feral instinct, but he was still able to get a general idea of what was going on, dimly aware of the archer’s fate from the overwhelming smell of blood alone. He also knew what Adrienne was suggesting, and he didn’t spend too much time attempting to analyze it for efficacy. His friend needed to get to the centurion to climb it? Then he would help her get there. He moved to her side, jerking his head in the direction of the metal creature, then set about clearing a path, using his superior reach to knock spheres out of the way as he dealt with others. It wasn’t a perfect methodology, but it was what he had, and he was confident that anyone else who could spare the effort would assist as well.

And assistance was not long in coming. With both Dom and Maya helping Sinderion clear the path to the centurion, Adrienne was able to advance. Not that it was easy even so—the smaller constructs seemed to be quite focused on keeping them away from the large one, probably in reaction to what Sinder had done. Adrienne wasn’t exactly sure if she was going to be able to repeat it, but now was not the time to be entertaining doubts like that. And so over the stone floor she advanced, the clangor of steel, the resounding peals of Lynly’s hammer and the crackling of the lightning released by both Maya and Anirne—all of it was a loud din in her ears, and perhaps it drowned out the nervous thunder of her own heartbeat, but she could still feel it, even as they at last reached the centurion.

This close, she tried to plan the best route up the creature, but she knew that every second they spent here was another second in which one of her friends could be seriously hurt or worse, and she couldn’t afford to spare much of it. Sketching out something in her mind that should work, Adrienne bit down hard on her lower lip and waited. When an opening in the sphere-warriors presented itself, she took it, sprinting over the fifteen or so yards that remained between herself and the nearest foot of the centurion and latching on, forced to start at the very bottom.

Progress upwards was slow and painstaking, and there were several instances in which she was nearly thrown simply because the enormous automaton swung this way or that to face an adversary or select a target for one of its longer-range weapons. She couldn’t have been more than ten feet off the ground, and her arms were already shaking. Which might have gone some way to explaining what happened next.

One of the centurion’s arms swung around, catching her unprepared and seemingly by accident, though for all she knew, it could be trying to swat her off intentionally. Given the sheer size of it, the blow could not be anything but heavy, and though she tried gamely to hold on, down to her fingertips, she was unceremoniously torn from the mechanical creature, several fingernails cracking as she was torn from her handholds, the nail beds bleeding just about the last sensation on her mind. She was more concerned about the cracked ribs she could feel from her unceremonious impact with the floor. Most of all, however, she was worried, in a detached sort of way that seemed to serve as an alternative for blind panic, about the looming foot of the thing, that seemed now to be descending, the shadow of it growing ever larger, until it encompassed her whole person and more. She had not even the wherewithal to cry out, nor the energy to move fast enough.

Was this really to be the end of it, then?

Sinderion wasn’t sure if he was the only one close enough to act, but he was close enough, at least by a certain standard. It was almost peculiar, how he could look at the situation and just know what it meant for him, and then abruptly cease to care. With a snarl, he smashed the last sphere out of his away and dove, a long arm latching onto Adrienne’s bicep and half-shoving, half-throwing her out of the way. It was not the gentlest of maneuvers, but it was all that time would permit.

The metal foot was upon him before he could scramble free, and though he managed to make it partway out, not even his strength and durability could hope to stand up to that kind of crushing force. Perhaps, if fate were merciful, he would have lost consciousness somewhere in the span of time it took the automaton to obliterate his entire left side, but fate was well known for its lack of mercy when the Sellswords were involved. There was pain—so much pain that it was impossible to localize anywhere in particular. The left half of his ribcage caved in, perforating his corresponding lung in several places, other shards of bone puncturing the right one and his stomach and his intestines and whatever else was in there, the pressure and the broken bones making a puree of his insides. His arm and leg were both caught entirely under the thing, crushed into the stone with the harsh sound of grinding bone.

His vision flickered in and out, and perhaps if he’d been able to draw breath, he would have been screaming, or howling, or whatever it was that this body would allow him to do to express his agony. But he was silent but for the sound of his breaking, and the ringing in his ears was far too loud for him to hear anything else. He didn’t quite pass out, because the pain was still present, but he could neither see nor hear nor even properly breathe to smell. All he could do was feel, and all he felt was the certainty that he was dying.

Drayk had forced himself to acknowledge the possibility of what might happen to them before the fight had began, and it was only for this reason that he was able to make himself move when he saw what happened to Sinder. The reality of it was impossibly intense; Sinder was going to die from that, and not even Drayk or Anirne's healing skills would be able to save him. But he'd given himself up trying to keep Adrienne with them, and thus far, he'd succeeded. Drayk had to make sure he didn't sacrifice himself for nothing.

Forcing himself forward and through a sphere warrior, he ran as quickly as he could to where Adrienne lay following her fall and the rough shove Sinder had given her. There was no time for gentleness; there were too many swords around for him to stop here and carefully heal her. Instead, he wrapped his free arm around her middle and hauled her up halfway onto her feet, though he doubted she'd stand on her own. Keeping his shield between him and the enemies, he half carried her away, unleashing any and all healing magic he could find in him. The fight had taken a toll on him already, but it was nothing more than cuts and slices at this point. He could carry on and fight more spheres with his injuries, but she wouldn't be able to climb that thing with hers. He had to get rid of them.

"You have to try again," he said into her ear, his voice tight and constricted. "You can't think about us, or anything that might happen. You have to try again, and end this. I'll clear you a path. You can do this. We'll be alright." It was a stupid lie, a weak lie, but he needed it as much as she probably did. But maybe they were still fine. They were still together, after all.

Maya did not see things so hopefully. She'd spent most of her magicka first freezing the thing as best she could, then blasting away sphere warriors with lightning, but she hardly cared for her flagging reserves when Sinder was half crushed under the construct's foot. The witch was not prone to rage, but upon having what had become most important to her taken, it was all she felt in its place. Pressing both hands together, she formed a storm in her palms, blasting it away with an aguished cry at the nearest sphere and watching it explode, along with the three nearest spheres that the spell bounced to. Tarquin was trying to lead the colossus away, towards Anirne, Van and Lynly, to prevent it from stepping on Sinder again. Maya tried to sprint to the elf's side.

The colossus turned away, but the crossbow arm did not. A heavy bolt skimmed across her face diagonally before burying itself in her shoulder, the weight of the piercing blow enough to send her spinning heavily to the ground, where the bolt was twisted sideways, digging into her chest. Painful as it was, she hardly seemed to care, intent on rising again. Staggering to her feet, she was confronted by a sphere warrior, and she raised her palm to blast it away with a lightning bolt. Nothing happened. Out of magicka, she thought to punch the thing, as poor an attack as it would have been for her. Instead the sphere sliced diagonally up across her torso, spinning her around in a spray of blood. Before she could react further, the sword burst out of her belly, the sphere having lunged at her from behind. She coughed a thick globule of blood down her chin, before the sword was pulled free, leaving the witch to slowly topple over onto her side.

The pain of being pulled out from under the thing was nothing on how Adrienne felt watching the ultimate result. “Sinder
” she choked, but it was cut off in an uncomfortable gasp as she was hauled upright, the pleasant warmth of healing magic seeping into her torn flesh and cracked bones somehow lost in translation. She hurt too much to be relieved. Sinder was
 he couldn’t be, but
 she could see him there, and she knew there was no spell or potion in the world that could repair that kind of damage. He was gone, and there was nothing she could do about it. Adrienne almost expected the hot sting of tears in the back of her eyes, but though they watered, they refused to release the liquid, instead just blurring her vision.

It was a beautiful lie he told her, but she knew it for what it was. Even so
 she’d always been excellent at lying to other people, and once, she’d been able to lie to herself, too. So she took those words that Dom gave her, and she repeated them to herself like a mantra. “We’ll be all right. We’ll be all right.” It gave her the strength she needed to slide her eyes unseeingly over the prone forms of Maya and Soren, to fix them on the automaton, and—perhaps the hardest thing she could ever recall doing—to step out from the feeling of safety provided to her by the person she loved more than anyone in the world and reach out for cold, unforgiving dwemer steel.

“We’ll be all right, we’ll be all right
” she latched onto the nearest handhold, her still-sore ribcage protesting the motion. It was only getting harder to see, so she felt her way up instead, allowing herself to repeat her lovely, wonderful lie to herself only every time she took a step upwards or reached for something new. She needed to hear it so badly that the motivation was more than necessary, but she spared herself no quarter. She had to do this, because if she did, everything would be all right. Everything would be fine. Whatever else she’d seen would just
 go away. Adrienne had never been one for prayer, but in the silence between one step and the next, she prayed: to Mara the goddess of her family, to Akatosh, to anyone who would listen.

“Please
 please let us be all right.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Drayk stayed dangerously close to the foot of the colossus, to guard Adrienne's back as she began her climb once more. A sword had dug deeply across his back, and he found that he didn't have much of a spell left to heal it, but he held his ground, bashing the head off the thing with the rim of his shield even as it stabbed into his side. Crouching down to steady himself, he focused his efforts on not crying out, or making sound of any kind, lest Adrienne's attention be torn away from her task.

Just as Adrienne was finally clear of the ground threat, the colossus spotted him, turning to give him its attention, and swinging its massive sword in a horizontal arc that would be impossible to dodge in his condition. Gritting his teeth, Drayk went to a knee and braced himself behind the Stonehammer's magical shield. "See you on the other side," he murmured to himself. With a loud, ringing crack the bronze slammed against the face of his shield, sending the mage airborne until he smacked unceremoniously against the door they were trying so desperately to get through. His world went black long before then, though.

It was becoming hopeless, but everything they had done up to this point hopeless as well. Vanryth didn't believe in the hopeless, he'd been through too much to ever believe in it again. Somehow, someway, they'd make it out of this. That's what he had to tell himself. His friends steadily falling around him, despite everything to the contrary, he had to think that they would be alright. Because if he didn't, then they'd already lost. It was a cold lie he had to swallow, and one that left a lump in his throat, but he fought on, backed by that vague shadow of hope.

He was battered and blood was beginning to seep into his leathers, but none of his injuries were life threatening yet. Mostly flesh wounds from glance blows, those he placed the farthest from his mind. A cut had opened above his blind eye, covering that side of his face in deep red, though he simply closed that eye to avoid the pain of blood seeping into his socket. He'd cut another sphere down when he heard the telltale sound of Lynly nearby, a hoarse warcry and the resulting thundering from the hammer. Finding himself in a rare lull, he took the opportunity to approach the Nord and caught her eye. Apart from her ruined shoulder, she was much of the same shape as him, riddled in inconsequintial wounds that gave her a sheen of red.

Pointing toward the Colossus with his sword and then pushing with his fist, Lynly recognized his meaning. "One last push? Fine, lets get it over with then," She growled. Each then turned toward the colossus and shouldered there weapons, beginning their push. The enchantment rang out and Vanryth's blades bit deep into metal signalling them as the most dangerous threat in the wound. Their attacks brought about the attention of the majority of the spheres that were left.

An errant sword broke through Lynly's lacking defenses, and it was her reaction that saved her to just having it skim along her scalp, taking a line of hair with it and opening up a bloody tear. A another sword pierced Vanryth's shoulder blade from behind. The pain caused him to drop his left sword, but then he threw himself against the blade, pushing it up to the hilt and jabbed backward with his own and destroying the sphere. As the thing slumped backward it drew the sword out with it and Vanryth howled with the pain, his legs threatening to buckle on him, but his resolve denied him to fall yet.

Tarquin didn't know how, but he was relatively unhurt, epsecially when compared to most of the others. A cut here and a slash there, but for the most part, he was far quicker than even these dwemer sphere warriors, and he never allowed himself to be caught off guard by the roaming, stomping colossus. That said... he felt strangely dissatisfied by the fact that he lived while the others were dropping. Every time he saw one of them receive a horrendous blow, he was not close enough to take it for them, as Soren had done, as Sinderion had done. He dodged around the enemies, blasting them with ice and lightning, but he could not seem to succumb to them. He did not have it in him to simply allow himself to fall, but for all that, he didn't want to be the only one to make it out of this. He didn't want to watch them torn apart, they who had come so far to pull him from the depths of his darkness. He pushed forward behind Lynly and Vanryth, throwing everything he had into the fight, occasionally sparing the time to throw a frost spell the colossus' way.

By this point, everything left in Anirne’s staff was gone, and it was more or less a useless piece of metal. As it always seemed to be, she was down to her magic and whatever her body could lend her by way of aid. Against creatures of flesh, that was quite a lot, but metal had little need to answer to skin and bone. So she utilized her agility to stay out of the way of swords and bolts, occasionally bringing up the featureless metal pipe she still held to stave off a weapon-hit she couldn’t flow around. But even her reserves of magicka were thinning, and she was trying to save everything she had left for the last push, wherein she would need to turn it into ice to save the youngest of the Sellswords from meeting her brother’s fate.

She was not beyond grief, but she could not allow it to slow her down. The slowly-healing hole in her abdomen had been the puncture of a crossbow bolt when Sinderion’s fall brought her to a stop, and it was not an event she cared to repeat. The bolt, as it happened, was in her free hand, at least until, with something caught between a snarl and a shout, she shoved it into the head-neck joint of one of the spheres, snapping it off inside and planting her boot firmly in the thing’s chest. She needed to get further forward, so as to be ready when Adrienne reached the doors on the centurion’s back. This realization had her trailing in Tarquin’s wake, more sparing with her attack spells but as judicious in her aim as she knew how to be, the occasional clang signifying the contact of her once-staff with a sphere warrior.

The group had the intended effect of drawing the ire of everything hostile and providing Adrienne the necessary cloak to complete her own task. Unfortunately, that also meant that they garnered the gaze of the Colossus itself. It felt like there were more spheres than there had been at the beginning, no doubt that the Colossus dropped more when attentions were turned elsewhere, and it was these spheres that Vanryth's main focus was on. It was then with some surprise he found himself thrown out of the center of the action and pinned to the nearby wall. At his belly and his shoulder, a pair of the bolts from the Colossus had him bound to the wall behind him.

It was only when the blood began to flow freely from the wound he fully understood what happened. The first few moments he spent trying to wiggle free, but his strength quickly left him and soon his scarred head lolled upon the bolt lodged in his shoulder as remnants of consciousness left his eyes. Meanwhile back within the brawl, Lynly had wittnessed what happened, but couldn't afford to attempt to aid him, lest the rest of them fall along with him. With a painful bark, she ordered the rest of them to, "Keep fighting! Just a bit longer now." But despite herself, she couldn't help but wonder if it would be enough.

Adrienne was oblivious to all of it. She knew with a fervency that could not be denied that she simply could not pay attention to what was going on below, lest she fail in this task and squander the opportunity that was being bought with the blood of her friends. “We’ll be all right,” she breathed, doing her best to ignore how hard it was to believe. Her limbs shook, her entire body slicked with a sheen of sweat. The machine ran hot, and her exertion was doing her no favors, plastering her ponytail to the back of her neck and her robes to the rest of her, beads of it dripping from her chin. Or perhaps she was crying—it was impossible to know. At least her vision had cleared a little.

It seemed to take an eternity to pull herself up alongside one of the doors, and her breathing was coming in short pants by the time she did. Fortunately, she had not yet spent most of her magicka—she had a feeling she was going to need everything she had and then some. She’d just have to find it within herself, because she could not, would not, fail them now. “Everything’s going to be fine,” she murmured softly, gathering the ice to her free hand. When she released it, it cloaked her in a wreath of frost, cooling her sweat immediately and uncomfortably. It wasn’t going to be so different from the time she’d charged into a flaming cyclone, perhaps
 only whatever she was going to find in the middle of this wasn’t going to be on her side.

Gatehering the air into her lungs, she called out to those below, unable to look to see if there were even any left. “If you have any ice left, now’s the time!” With that, she reached over and pulled on the neared door-flap. Sure enough, that whirring sound could be heard from within, and she scrambled as far to the edge as she could get, charging the next spell. As soon as the torrent of steaming water ripped free, she let fly with it, and she could feel at least one other person doing so from below as well. It didn’t stop her arm and a good portion of her right side from getting scalded, but she managed to hold on, unable to direct the ice beyond simply outputting it from everywhere, until frost was patterning over the whole back of the colossus.

She closed her eyes and held on for all she was worth, and eventually the flow of water subsided, and she wasted as little time as possible, reaching to open the door closest to her.

Anirne dropped her arms, completely spent. A massive frosty spine along the back of the centurion was evidence of her handiwork, but her exhaustion manifested even more poignantly—she was only able to dodge the next few incoming swings from the spheres before no fewer than five surrounded her. The first to hit skewered her from the front, its sword blossoming from her back in a bloody foot of steel. The one after caught her from behind and above when she doubled over, nicking the edge of her heart and pushing the sword out through her sternum. The third took her in the side, and the fourth managed a shoulder. She was unable to move, unable even to collapse, because they still held her up, as blood welled and spilled from her mouth and nose, hitting the stone with a sort of languorous splash. The swords were withdrawn as one, but her world went dark before she ever felt the impact of her body crashing to the floor.

Tarquin, the fool, hadn't even seen Anirne swarmed by spheres until it was too late, busy as he was frosting the colossus over for Adrienne. She had just fallen when he rammed into two of them with his lack of an arm, feeling pointlessly helpless against so many foes, and such an indestructible one. He earned several lacerations for his futile effort, but did not go down. Nor did he throw himself on their swords in grief and die, though. He darted and dodged away, leading as many of them on a chase as he could. How, he wondered, could simply dying be so hard?

Lynly found herself alone in a knot of dwemer spheres. She knew the odds she faced, but spending her flagging energy to think of them was a waste. There was only one thing left for her to do. Cause as much damage as possible. Heavy swings of the hammer ignited the enchantment over and over. The heavy weight of the hammer guided the blows rather than conscious effort of Lynly's part. Wild and wide swings destroyed whatever sphere found itself unfortunate enough to be placed in front of her, but even so blades found and made holes in her armor. Before long she found herself forced to her knees as she was drained of the necessary blood to keep her legs working, but still she fought.

At least until she accidently over extended herself, the weight of the hammer carrying her far past where he knees could keep her stable, and so she fell forward on her stomach. She felt a number of blades find home in her her back, but she swiped the hammer back and forth along the ground, tripping and toppling the spheres. She even kicked out with her feet in hopes of at least causing difficulty. She was not going to make it easy. Still, it was only a matter of time before her injuries caught up to her, and soon she began to feel raw and useless like a hunk of meat. The blades constantly hounding her back was just a dull thought as the hammer tumbled out of her hands, igniting the enchantment one last time.

Getting inside the door she had opened was not an easy task—it was a close call even for someone as small as Adrienne was. For a moment, as she tried to force her hips through the gap, she was afraid she wasn’t going to fit, but a bit of a twist allowed her entrance, and she was plunged headfirst into what resembled a very large empty metal barrel more than anything. It was dark, and it took her eyes a moment to adjust. Even then, the illumination was not the best, and she was feeling her way along the walls of the construct’s body more than anything. She could feel the metal growing warmer under her fingertips, until she dare not touch it any longer and simply followed the perceptible sensation of heat.

Within a few feet, she came across a panel that seemed to be a bit loose, and through it, she could just make out some kind of glow. Not relishing the idea of trying to get in there, she nevertheless braced herself and iced her hands over as well as she could, grabbing the panel in both hands and tugging. It gave with a creak, but only a little, and she was forced to stumble back as it recoiled. Taking a steadying breath, she refreshed the coat of frost, and tried again, this time pushing primarily with her back, legs, and shoulder, keeping her hands flat against the panel only for somewhere to direct the force. Her boots slid back on the smooth surface of the ‘floor’, but she kept replacing them and trying to keep as much traction as possible, and with one last heave, the panel snapped away with a rusty creak. Her left hand immediately found the stitch in her side and pressed against her ribcage there, trying to soothe the sharp sting of overextertion.

What the panel revealed was at once shocking and surprisingly predictable. It was a dwemer construct, so of course it ran on a soul gem. The gem, however, was simply enormous, like an oversized melon fruit of some variety found in the tropics. It pulsed with a steady blueish light, crackling lines of electricity snaking from it and over the walls of this inner chamber. It was like being in the chest cavity of something alive rather than merely animated, watching its heart pump blood to its extremities.

Though perhaps she might have had some sense of awe about this on any other day, she was hardly of a mind to be fascinated right now. The last of her magic went into firing off a pair of ice bolts, and when they only caused it to wobble, she swathed herself in everything she had left and stepped forward, wrapping her arms around the thing and tugging with all her might. The smell of burning fabric informed her that her robes were singing, and she could feel her skin starting to burn underneath. I’ve felt worse, she thought dispassionately, hauling backwards with gritted teeth.

All of a sudden, the gem gave, sending her tumbling backwards through her impromptu doorway to crash against the opposite wall. She had all of a second to pull a relieved breath into her lungs before the gem started to glow an alarming cherry-red color. Adrienne’s eyes went wide, and she pushed it off her with what strength she had left, scrambling into the nearest corner and ducking against it, throwing her hands over the back of her head. It stopped neither the explosion nor the shrapnel that embedded itself into her back, but she imagined, somewhere between the pain and the oblivion, that it might have at least prevented her from dying instantly.

Tarquin strayed too close to the colossus when it detonated from within, and the blast was more than enough to take him off his feet. He fell harshly to the floor and covered his head as metal rained down around him. He would have assuredly died then and there if the spheres had remained functional, but whatever powered the colossus seemingly powered them as well by extension, and they dropped to the floor like so much useless scrap metal. Tarquin was bleeding severely from a stomach wound, as well as several on his sides and back, but he was still able to push himself to his knees, and survey the aftermath.

All of them were gone. If not already dead, then they would soon be, and there was little he could do to stop that. Of all the Sellswords and their allies, Tarquin Aurelius was going to be the only one to make it through this fight. He gritted his teeth in agonized frustration, pounding at the ground and nearly falling over again because of his poorly balanced weight. This was wrong, it wasn't supposed to end like this, at least some of them were supposed to make it through, to see something better...

He was the worst of them all, the farthest from redemption, the longest one gone, and he was the one to avoid paying the price.

As the cacophony of the explosion and the cascade of metal subsided, silence once again filled the room, a silence the likes of which this place had perhaps never known, with the colossus constantly on standby in front of the great doors. The only sound he could hear was that of Maya, weakly writhing on the ground not far from him. The witch was clutching at her wounds, blood trailing steadily onto the floor and out of the corner of her mouth. She had not the strength to speak, but her eyes met Tarquin's as she clung to life for more precious seconds.

The light of the room did not diminish, but Tarquin felt an undeniable darkness creep in, as though his peripherals had suddenly been shadowed, like the air itself was at once contaminated with some shadowy presence. He felt a gaze on him, a thousand eyes from a thousand directions, peering down at where he knelt, bleeding onto the stone floor. A voice filled the room, deep and powerful, ominous and forboding, terrifying and awe-inducing. Tarquin shuddered at the sound.

"VICTORY IS YOURS, SHADE, IF YOU WILL ONLY WAIT A LITTLE LONGER," said Lord Molag Bal, from everywhere and nowhere. Tarquin snarled at the darkness, leaning back on his heels and trying gather his breath.

"I don't want it!" he shouted, finally beginning to succumb to something resembling grief. He felt a hot sting in his eyes, and looked around at the slain Sellswords, all of his allies. "I never wanted it! Never wanted any of this... I've been your slave since... since..." He trailed off, nearly tipping over onto his side, but somehow remaining upright. "Take it back. Take it all back. Don't let this happen to them. They deserve better."

"THERE IS ALWAYS A CHOICE, SHADE," the Lord of Domination replied, sending another shudder down Tarquin's spine. "YOURS WAS REBELLION. THIS IS THE PRICE. BUT A CHOICE REMAINS TO YOU STILL." He looked up, towards the top of the door, as though that was where Molag Bal's face was. There was a pitiful kind of hope in his eyes again. A choice from Molag Bal was often between worse and worst, but he would gladly take worse if that was the case. "Tell me."

He preferred to show him, however, as four square tiles before him, in the exact center of the room, lowered and retracted under the others, and a twisted pedestal rose up before him, black metal dark as a moonless night, wrought in the shape of twisting brambles and thorny vines, constricting and binding. Atop it was a small, empty pool, like some kind of bird bath from a nightmare. There was a hole in the base of the pool, leading down into the pillar of the pedestal.

"WAIT,", Molag Bal instructed, "AND THEIR BLOOD WILL FILL THE POOL, AND OFFER YOU SUSTENANCE, RENEWAL, AN EVERLASTING LIFE OF FREEDOM AND CHOICE. OR PLACE YOUR HAND IN THE WELL, AND DONATE YOUR BLOOD, SO THAT THEY MIGHT RETURN AS THEY WERE BEFORE. BECOME A SLAVE ONCE MORE, AND YOU WILL HAVE YOUR WISH."

Struggling, he pushed himself to his feet, stepping up to the black pedestal, the dying witch in the corner of his eye all the while. She would be dead very soon. He did not know if this would return them from the dead, but he suspected Molag Bal might have that kind of power. He didn't need to ask how much blood was to be donated. Anything powerful enough to undo what had just been done would require a great deal. But truly, this was no choice, but an opportunity that Tarquin Aurelius could not pass up. Not when faced with the alternative. It was as though Molag Bal knew Tarquin's answer just as he did. He could feel the Daedric Lord smiling cruelly as Tarquin lowered his hand towards the pool at the top of the pedestal.

"THE MASTER AWAITS, SHADE."

Tarquin steeled himself. "That's not who I am anymore." He plunged his hand into the pool.

The effect was immediate. The entire room lit in a bright red glow as Tarquin's entire body stiffened, and a howling gale of Molag Bal's blood magic swept through the chamber. Throughout Oblivion, blood was used commonly in Daedric magic as a source of healing, but here, an entire life force was donated to Molag Bal's whim, and with it, he miraculously restored the Sellswords and their allies to their former health, as they had been before the battle with the colossus had started. Foreign objects piercing their bodies were eliminated, their organs becoming whole once more, their wounds closing and disappearing as though they'd never occurred at all. Even the destruction wrought upon Sinderion's mangled body was reversed.

They lay where they had fallen, slowly waking as though from a dream while the room returned to its normal coloring. But Tarquin's body fell beside the pedestal, now filled to the brim with blood. The once-Shade was as pale as ice, cold as though he'd been dead for hours, and utterly lifeless, his eyes still open, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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She woke to a hard stone floor, and for a strange, tilting moment, she didn’t even remember who she was. Perhaps she had been so far gone that she’d managed to forget. Only
 why did it seem closer now? Her eyes cracked open to the dim light of the cavern, and the first new breath her lungs took was thick with the smell of blood and iron. Groaning, she put a hand to her head—only to realize that there was no pain there. She’d expected pain, everywhere. Or perhaps she’d been feeling it everywhere. But now there was none, as though she’d simply taken a short nap on a hard bed, and Anirne could attest to having slept in worse places.

Anirne. That was her name. Slowly, she sat up, blinking at her surroundings. She could see no few of her friends and allies doing the same, all of them apparently free of damage, even Sinderion. And she’d seen—but whatever she’d seen, she saw it no more. In the end, getting to her feet was more an exercise in reacclimatizing to her own body than anything else, and though for a moment her limbs felt too long and awkward, she flexed her fingers a few times, rolled her shoulders, and it was as though she’d never been worn down at all. Her magicka hummed pleasantly somewhere next to her blood, that warm, electric feel of the moments before a summer thunderstorm. Across the room, she saw Adrienne sit up in the middle of a large pile of dwemer scraps, shake herself, then immediately scramble to her feet.

Her eyes, unsurprisingly, sought Drayk first, and Anirne followed them to where the fire mage had been launched, but she moved her gaze elsewhere, thereafter, counting their number as they rose and collected themselves and each other—until they fell on the one person who was not rising. The altar was new, she was certain; she did not think her memory was so faulty as to have omitted something like that, even if things were still coming back to her in bits and pieces. Slowly at first, and then with greater haste, she made her way towards it, pausing in her quiet tread a few feet from Tarquin’s shoulder. She breathed something like the softest of sighs, and allowed gravity to carry her to her knees, her relief temporarily drowned in something quite the opposite—grief.

She knew before warm fingers found the side of a cold face that he was gone. It was in the sightlessness of his eyes, the pallor of his flesh. Still, she used her other hand to find the pulse point at his throat, whereat his heart had beat for such a tragically-short period of time, restarted after centuries of silence and stillness. The irony of it was not lost on her; it couldn’t be, after the things he’d told her. “Oh, my friend,” she said softly, moving her hand to gently close his eyes. Her own would not be dry, and she made no effort to cease the silent progression of tears. Perhaps in spite of them, she smiled, just a little.

“You have lived.”

The air may have smelled like blood and sweat and nasty, but he was pretty sure he’d breathed no sweeter in his entire damn life. Soren sat up rather abruptly, eyes snapping open and drinking in the details of the room, and the others beginning to wake also. He nearly choked on that gulp of breath when he noted that Lynly lay further away than he remembered, and as of yet motionless. Muttering a string of oaths under his breath, he managed to get his feet underneath him and then the whole of him to her, releasing a jet of air he hadn’t realized he was holding when he caught the rise and fall of her chest. He’d stopped believing any interference from the gods was a good thing at this point, but he couldn’t help but be a little grateful for whatever had caused this. He distinctly remembered trying to hold his own guts in as a sword opened him from stomach to chest, but though the rent in his armor and clothing remained, a quick probing check with the fingers of one hand indicated nothing but smooth, unbroken skin.

She looked even more bloodied than he expected he did, but as far as he could tell, she wasn’t actively bleeding from anywhere either. The destruction seemed to have really piled up since he’d last seen the room, and he’d be a stupid man not to bet that she was largely responsible for the spheres in various states of shambles about them. Quite aggressive, his lovely. The thought just made him smile, because hell, why not? He was alive, she was alive, from the sounds of it, they were alive, and that was more than they’d had any right to expect.

Soren crouched beside her and placed a leather-gloved hand on her shoulder. “Rise and shine, love,” he murmured gently, letting the arm fall back to dangle from his knee as the other did. He thought about mentioning how sleeping on the job was becoming a bit of a theme with her, but considering his own recent nap, he thought it would probably be in poorer taste than even he was inclined to.

For his own part, Sinderion took a bit longer to right himself, largely because he woke in the body he was less used to, his half-wild mind even more confused by the fact that he was awake at all than a fully rational self might have been. It didn’t help that the air still smelled like death and metal-men, giving him the initial impression that the battle was still on. Aggression became befuddlement as his left side as well as the right responded to the automatic command to roll to his feet, only to find that there was nothing left to destroy. It took a few more moments, but he was thereafter able to return to his usual form, and found himself standing not so far from the massive wreck that must once have been the centurion. It would appear that they’d succeeded, but this new development puzzled him. He smelled death still, heavy on the air like a lingering shroud of miasma, more toxic than anything Adrienne or Maya would bottle.

Just what had happened here?

It took longer for the light to return to Lynly's eyes. She slowly pushed up herself from the ground and sat hesitantly on all fours. She felt fine, and it confused her. She still had memory of all of her injuries of blades piercing her flesh and shattered bones grinding against each other but now she felt fine and it worried her more than if she even felt a little ache. She didn't try to look around for fear of what she might see. It wasn't until Soren's voice broke through those fears that she finally dared a look. He crouched in front of her, looking no worse for wear despite the fact that she saw him get cut down. Her first reaction wasn't to return with words of her own but to reach out with her hands.

The wounds that she had taken were all but forgotten. Her fingers went to the rip in Soren's leathers, peeling them apart and checking for the wound she saw him take. Beneath the leathers there was nothing to suggest he'd even been cut, and had she not seen it with her own eyes, had not his blood mixed with her own, she wouldn't have believed he'd even been hurt. Tracing a tender finger down where he was bleeding only moments before, she looked up into his eyes with confusion and questioning filling her own. Only for a moment, everything she felt melted away and she launched herself forward, tackling Soren to the ground and placing her lips upon his.

Once the kiss had passed, she let her head fall limp onto his shoulder. She had questions, but it didn't matter if they were answered or not. The only thing that meant anything to her was that he-- they were okay, they were still breathing, though she was unsure if they were dead or not. If they were, though, Sovngarde looked suspiciously like the room they'd died in. She allowed herself a small chuckle of sorts, brushing the tear that was forming in the corner of her eye as it escaped her hoarse throat.

"I really don't want to."

The answering chuckle was a bit breathy, largely because he’d just had the wind knocked out of him, but he couldn’t say he minded. Almost absently, Soren reached over to smooth a thumb over Lynly’s temple. Her hair, much like the rest of her, was sticky where it was smeared in blood, but he didn’t mind that either. He didn’t exactly look like a model of good hygiene himself at the moment, though his hair had the advantage of being the same general color as the blood in it. “Well, as much as I’m enjoying this, I rather think we must.” Even so, he made no particular move to dislodge her. A few more minutes wouldn’t go awry, would it?

Finding himself crumpled between the wall and his knees, Vanryth's eyelids were drawn wide as searching fingers looked for evidence that he had been at death's door. The blood on his body was still wet and sticky, but the source was nowhere to be found. All of the cuts and bruises he'd experience had been wiped away like grime in a river. Even the bolts that were lodged in his shoulder and stomach were removed, sitting beside him with a sheen of his own blood slathered along the shaft. He picked one of these shafts up and inspected it before tossing aside gratefully. He didn't fully understand, but then again he didn't need to. One thing that he did, that they were all alright, was all that mattered.

Looking across the room he even saw Sinder, no longer in his werewolf form and in entirely one piece standing among the wreckage. Rocking himself to his feet, Vanryth stood and strode across the room join his friend. During his short walk, he too noticed the piece of architecture that hadn't been there before, the altar with a motionless Tarquin nearby and an Anirne who hovered above him. He averted his eyesight, turning it back to Sinder. The pieces were there in his mind, but he couldn't seem to put them together, he still didn't understand. What had he missed?

It was question that would be answered later, because Sinder stood across from him. Vanryth raised and extended a hand in a handshake. A handshake that relayed many feelings. Relief that they both were alive, muted joy that they had succeeded, and just thankfulness that they were able to share it, together.

Sinder took the proffered handshake, clasping Van’s forearm firmly before letting go as his eyes too, found where Tarquin had fallen. It was clear from Anirne’s body language that the man who had once been the Shade was now dead, and the werewolf grimaced. The price for what they had gained here was steep; he could only hope that it would be worth it. That it could be worth it. Judging from the setup, he would have to guess that Tarquin had done something voluntarily, but what exactly had happened, he could not say. He averted his eyes from that part of the room though, seeking instead to find Maya.

The witch had not passed from consciousness throughout the entire ordeal, instead being left to make a futile attempt to keep her blood in her body while Tarquin conversed desperately with the Lord of Domination. She rose now from the pool of blood that had spread under her, matting down one side of her black hair and starting to crust along her cheek and jaw. The hole from the crossbow bolt, as well as the sphere's slash and stab, were plainly visible in the way her feathered robes were torn, but indeed, as she pressed her hand to where the wounds had been received, she found all evidence of them upon her body to be gone.

Sinder reached her just as she pushed her way to her feet. Shakily, she let her head fall on his chest, putting her arms over his shoulders, feeling as though what she'd seen happen to him was little more than a bad dream now, one she would never be able to forget. Even if she was healed, she felt too emotionally drained for any kind of display such as Lynly's. They were alive, yes. But Maya had watched with her own eyes as Tarquin bought their lives back with his own. The pair of them had been many things since they had met: tentatively friendly acquaintances, knowing they might come to blood someday, and then fragile allies, cunning partners, and finally fearful enemies, the majority of the fear Maya knew had always been on her side. She did not know if, in their lives, they were ever truly friends, so dark were the circumstances of their relationship, but she was certain that they were now, and that the fallen man among them had finally brought forth his true potential.

"He gave up his life for all of us," she said, closing her eyes as tears sprang to them, unbidden. "I watched it happen. His vitality was the fuel for the magic that saved us." She clutched Sinder tighter.

Sinderion said nothing in return, for what was there to say? The information weighed down the atmosphere like something tangible and heavy, with all the oppression of midsummer humidity somewhere more tropical than here. His arms were leaden when he moved them to encircle Maya, too tired to really infuse them with the usual deftness, at least for now. Perhaps, in a moment, they would need to enliven once more, but for the moment, the silence and the stillness seemed most appropriate.

Drayk had returned to the group with Adrienne at his side, the fire mage leaning on her as much as she was leaning on him. He was a little dazed still, and tired, but judging by the state of his shield, he had been in much worse shape before. Alarmingly, he could still see a splatter of blood on the great door, the spot where he had hit it after being swiped aside by the great blade of the colossus. He didn't know just how it had been destroyed, but he had woken up in time to see Adrienne running to him from that direction, so he could only assume that she had obliterated it from within, as he knew she could.

Somberly, he offered Anirne a hand up, gazing down at Tarquin's lifeless body. He remembered a time when this same man had brought him back from the brink of death, when he had been trapped in the sinking ruin of the Omen's vessel of nightmares. Somehow, he didn't think that would work here, even if he knew how to do it. He supposed it was just one more time Tarquin had saved his life, expecting nothing in return. Truly, he'd proven himself the Mentor's son in the end.

Anirne sighed, a sound that seemed to come from deep in her very soul, but she took the offered hand, rising to her feet and reaching towards her face as though she thought to swipe away the tears there. The hand stilled and dropped though—there was no shame in mourning for what was lost. She did wonder, however, if her friend’s spirit might not be closer than they thought. Molag Bol was not without a twisted sort of cunning, and she had read tales. Of Soul Shriven and enslaved spirits. A small shudder shook her—whatever his fate was, she hoped it was not that. None deserved that, least of all someone who had died to save others.

“Then I think,” she said steadily, “that the best thing to do is to make sure that what happened meant something. There are steps to walk yet—and they should be forward.” Her eyes shifted to the door. It was still closed, smeared with the macabre evidence of Drayk’s old injuries, but there was no reason it should not admit them now. There was, after all, no door guardian and only one Representative remaining.

Even with the colossus having been destroyed, and their way cleared, there was no obvious way to open the doors, nor did any of them have the strength to pull such a weight of heavy metal and stone. The predicament seemed to matter much less, however, when that enshrouding darkness crept back into the chamber once more, and a god looked down upon the Sellswords with smiling eyes.

"ONLY ONE REPRESENTATIVE YET DRAWS BREATH. VICTORY GOES TO THE BLACKFEATHER." Reluctantly, Maya pulled away from Sinder and tried to collect herself, facing the doors but leaving her gaze upon the ground. "Some victory," she muttered, with whatever venom she could conjure. "Did you enjoy the show?"

"IMMENSELY, BLACKFEATHER. WHEN THEIR FLEETING LIVES ARE THREATENED, MORTALS NEVER FAIL TO ENTERTAIN. YOU FOUGHT AND MANEUVERED EXCELLENTLY, BLACKFEATHER. YOUR VICTORY WAS WELL EARNED." Her body language seemed more indicative of defeat, however. After all she had changed within herself, how in the world had she ended up achieving her original goal? They'd come here in a last, desperate attempt to retrieve the Mentor, free themselves of the shackles of gods... not to give them what they wanted.

"YOUR REWARD AWAITS WITHIN, BLACKFEATHER." With a great grinding of stone and gears, one of the doors opened a crack, large enough for one person to squeeze through at a time.

"THE REPRESENTATIVE ALONE MAY ENTER."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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“No.”

The word, singular as it was, was accompanied by a firm shake of Sinderion’s head. He was done with this, done with Games and rules and sacrifice and letting people put themselves in danger without him. Not that there had been an awful lot of the last, considering he’d been in this the whole time, but he could not help the way his throat started to close up at the very thought of letting her venture in there on her own. Whatever reward the daedra would give was probably something they were all better off without. Perhaps it was something to face, but if it was, they needed to face it together. If this journey had shown them anything, it was that they could not and must not do these things alone.

It was also true that whatever this was, it was not obviously an opportunity for them to retrieve the Mentor, but Sinderion would admit to himself that just at this moment, that was not his primary concern. There was just simply no way that he was going to accept that Maya had to walk through that door by herself and confront whatever it was that awaited her alone. He would rather simply walk away than let that happen. Even after all they had endured and all they had given to get to this point—and it was no trivial amount.

Though it was unclear exactly to whom the first statement was addressed, he spoke the next to Maya herself. “Don’t, please. We have no idea what’s behind that door—and it isn’t
” It wasn’t her responsibility to risk herself to find out. More than that though, his sentiment, his instinct, was something else. His desire, such as it was, constituted something simple, but irrevocable, something that need be whispered, murmured, because too loud and he might remember just how selfish it was. He reached out halfway, as though to catch her arm, or her shoulder, or he knew not what, but the motion was aborted halfway through in his indecision. There was little uncertain about his words, however.

“Don’t go.”

Adrienne looked back and forth between the two, feeling torn. On the one hand, she could perfectly well understand where Sinderion was coming from. Nobody should have to face that kind of situation alone, and to just let the person you loved walk into it—she wouldn’t have been able to do so, either. All the same, it wasn’t lost on her that Maya would do it anyway. She would do exactly the same thing in the other woman’s position, partly because there were people who cared enough about her to try and stop her. So, though she wanted to add voice to the protestation, she did not. What could she say in the attempt to convince that would be more compelling than the raw sentiment Sinder had? Surely nothing.

Vanryth had nothing to offer but a hand on the shoulder of Sinder, silently comforting the man who he called his brother. A time ago, he'd happily abandoned the game, and had entertained such thoughts himself, but now, she had come too far to simply give up. Vanryth didn't pretend to know the choice Maya would make, but only the choice he'd take. Lynly allowed herself a lingering glance at Tarquin's body before shaking her head and letting her eyes fall to the floor. He had given more than any of them. It was his sacrifice that won Maya the game, to reject it now... Lynly kept her eyes pointed downward and kept her tongue silent. Nothing she could say would make any of it better.

As much as she hated to, Maya remained just out of reach of Sinder, even though he halted his attempt to make contact with her. She knew that if she reached back, returned to them and surrounded herself with the possibility of her future, she would never be able to do what needed to be done. And she did need to go. The option to walk away was before her, as she had defeated all her enemies, freed herself from the clutches of the game, and won herself a future. But she couldn't take it while knowing what was willingly given so that she might have it. Perhaps it was dishonoring Tarquin's sacrifice to risk herself so recklessly on his behalf, and on the Mentor's. But if Tarquin was no longer the Shade, then she was no longer the Blackfeather, and this was something Maya wanted to do, the first step in defining her life from this point onwards.

She couldn't speak, both because she didn't know what words to use, and she expected to choke on them anyway. Without looking back, she strode forward and came to stand before the great doors, peering through the open crack, and seeing nothing but darkness inside. Steeling herself, she stepped into the shadows, and the doors closed behind her.

The great room fell into silence, the overbearing presence of Molag Bal fading from their senses. Drayk had expected something to happen almost immediately, but the group was instead met with only quiet and stillness. It seemed to go on dreadfully long, each moment throwing into further doubt Maya's fate. He found himself wondering what to do in the moment. He thought about trying to comfort Sinder somehow, a simple hand on the shoulder or some other brotherly gesture, but in the end he decided against, feeling that might aggravate him further. His hand found Adrienne's instead.

The wait felt like an eternity, but in reality they only stood there for perhaps five minutes, unwilling to acknowledge any of a number of terrible outcomes. It was then that a great rumble from ahead indicated that the doors were opening once more. Not one, but both began to swing apart this time, immediately revealing an intense orange light, made only more brilliant by the relative darkness of the chamber. With vibrations that shook the entire room the doors opened completely, revealing what was seemingly a towering pillar of fire in the doorway. Hazy images seemed to swirl in the flames, which swirled and flattened as though pressed up against a glass window. As Drayk's eyes slowly adjusted, he noticed that the fire was surrounded on all sides by twisting black columns of otherworldly metal, and that short steps led up to the flames.

A gate to Oblivion.

A figure stood before the portal, her silhouette wreathed in flames. Maya's bearing seemed heavier than ever, mixed with some anxious trepidation, but there was relief in there as well. She crossed half the distance to the rest of the group, before gesturing up at the fiery doorway behind her.

"This is the way to Coldharbor," she explained. "We've... been given safe conduct."

Sinder didn’t ask what had happened in those five minutes. He wouldn’t, because it was something for her to speak of only if she wished to tell him, just as the thoughts that had passed through his mind in those five minutes, terrible though they had been, were his own. Now hardly seemed the time for them anyway. He hadn’t moved the entire time, his eyes fixed only on the door, his whole posture oriented towards it, tenser then Soren’s bowstring, as though waiting to react at any moment, in a way that hadn’t been determined. He eased slightly then, though, and nodded slightly, flicking his glance to the fire and the metal and almost attempting to bore past it, as if to see what awaited beyond. It was no simple matter however, and to know, they would have to act, to venture inside.

His feet carried him forward, and he paused when he drew even with her, breathing a sigh so quiet only she could hear it and placing one of his hands gently atop the crown of her head. The texture of her hair was familiar under his fingers, and the sigh was matched by a slow inhale. For now, it was enough. She was alive after all, and she smelled as she always did, for the most part. This time, at least, they would all be going in together, and for that reason alone, Sinderion did not hesitate, shooting a glance back at the rest of them and dropping his hand back to his side. It was time to end their search, once and for all.

Lingering was an action without a purpose at this point, and so he didn’t do it, choosing instead to walk right up to the thing and through it. Whatever lay beyond, they would face it. And they would do so as one.

It may have been purposeless, but Maya lingered all the same, watching as the Sellswords and their allies one by one filtered through the Oblivion gate and into Coldharbor. She was torn by a number of conflicting emotions, but felt above all a sort of shameful relief. Molag Bal was a cruel sort, but he was not often the most deceptive of the Daedra, tending towards the heavy handed instead. Maya felt that she had played her cards right with him, as best she could, in accordance with the options that were available to her, and the demands of the morals that had been drilled into her by her bonded allies and friends. She doubted it would be a joyous way to end the nightmare, but it would end. She had bought the group some closure, if nothing else.

"Safe conduct," Drayk repeated from in front of her, pulling her from her thoughts. He was the last in line of the group to pass through the gate. "Safe conduct to do what?"

"To say our goodbyes."




Drayk knew the Imperial City well, even though he had only lived there during his turbulent childhood. This was not the Imperial City.

Their passage into Oblivion had been quick and painless, and Drayk was somewhat surprised at the lack of unpleasant sensations upon entering an Oblivion gate. Maya followed through shortly after him, making the group whole once more, minus the one they had so recently lost. On the other side of the portal was a recreation of Drayk's city of birth, albeit a strange mockery of that, as though they were looking at the Empire's seat of waning power through the lens of a dream, or more likely a nightmare.

They stood, fittingly, in the graveyard of the kings, that ring of tombstones that filled up Green Emperor Way surrounding the palace itself. Drayk had once read that Molag Bal's alternate of the palace was supposed to be dripping with blood and laden with corpses, but nothing so horrific lay before him now. Instead, the place simply felt cold. The sky was not on fire, as he had also read, but instead a solid blanket of clouds that seemed much more akin to smoke, constantly shifting and yet remaining entirely uniform in density. There was a chill in the air, but not so much as the biting wind that often tore through his layers back in Skyrim. The palace looked a great deal as it had in the years following the Great War, when the Aldmeri Dominion sacked the city, looted the tower, and burned it when they were done.

"They're waiting for us in the council chambers," Maya informed them, pointing to the double doors of some gnarled, otherworldy wood that led inside the palace. Perhaps surprisingly, there was no trap waiting for them, no snare for Molag Bal to claim more slaves for his realm. If that was Maya's work or simply a choice of the Daedric Prince, it was hard to say. Maya did not seem inclined to discuss it, either, instead taking the initiative to lead the group out of the graveyard and up the steps, pushing the doors open to enter the council chambers.

The interior of the palace was dominated by a large circular room with a wide open, empty floor. Depicting on the tiles of the flooring was a great map of the world, all the various lands and peoples known to the empire labeled and marked. The Imperial City was directly at its center, a black dot that was located under a beam of pale light, falling from a natural hole in the ceiling, far above. The tower in Cyrodiil had many floors, Drayk knew, but this one seemed to have only one chamber, and it expanded upwards seemingly endlessly.

Standing in that pale light, waiting for the Sellswords, were four figures, all of which seemed the slightest bit transparent.

Tarquin was whole again, his right arm returned to him, but even in this pale light the color of his mortality could be seen on his face. He offered no words in greeting, only a small smile, evidence that he was glad to see that his actions had benefited the Sellswords as he had planned. His brother Aeneas stood beside him, clad in almost jovial finery, as well as his mother. Phaedra Aurelius was no longer the monstrosity they had encountered under Skyrim's largest mountain. Instead she regained her former appearance of years past, that of a noblewoman no larger than Adrienne, with delicate porcelain features and perfectly straight raven black hair.

Lucius Aurelius, the one they had come to know as the Mentor, stood with them, a hand resting on the shoulder of his eldest son. He was dressed exactly as they had last seen him, in common leathers and furs, as though he was about to take a hike through the hills near Solitude. His eyes, while heavy with grief, were nearly overflowing with relief, and obvious pride, at seeing their faces again, whole and alive. They matched his smile.

"I knew you would find a way."

So that was the Mentor, was it? Soren elected to stand back a little, as doubtless the Sellswords would be inclined to do something a little more emotional than observe, and he felt that, in the end, he had little part in what was to come. This had always been their journey to make, or as Lynly might put it, their story to write. It was a little uncanny to see the dead alive, he had to admit, and he did incline his head at Tarquin, perhaps an acknowledgement that more was deserved, but would not be forthcoming from his quarter. There was much yet to be said and understood, but for once, he would incline himself to silence. Following Soren's lead, Lynly too stood back and away from the Sellswords, taking her place alongside him. This had always been their quest from the very beginning. And now that they stood at the end of it her place was behind them, where it had always been.

Sinderion was also silent, though admittedly for very different reasons. Rather than a strange sense of detachment, he felt a wave of crushing guilt. It as a feeling he was used to, but also one that he had to admit he was growing weary of. He remembered so clearly those first inclinations of bitterness, of the twisting feeling of being left behind. It hadn’t been resentment, but it hadn’t been so far away that he could feel entirely comfortable standing here, in front of the one person in the world who had given him everything he didn’t deserve, and accepting that warmth again. His relief, great as it was, was tainted by that guilt and tempered by something else, the nagging feeling that this was not going to be so simple as he wanted to believe. What was the chance that they could all just walk right back out of Coldharbor? He swallowed thickly, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and dared to hope that perhaps his doubt would be understood and forgiven without the need for words at all.

He didn’t deserve it. But he needed it.

“You’re here. You’re really here.” The words were breathed with an almost reverential softness, and Adrienne looked as if at any moment she might once more burst into tears. Thankfully, they were for the moment absent, and she lurched forward several steps, though the odd, ghostlike quality of his visage, and that of his family—all of them, together as they should be, and yet—gave her pause, and she stopped almost as suddenly, a hand still halfway outstretched as if to try and confirm his reality. Only
 she wasn’t sure she would like what the attempt told her.

“Aren’t you?”

The Mentor's hand crossed the other half to touch Adrienne's, and indeed, she could feel his rough, calloused fingertips on her own. "I am. For as long as you need me." Seeing Adrienne reach out to touch him seemed to encourage Drayk, and he stepped forward beside her, only the fire mage chose to throw his arms around the Mentor's shoulders in a greedy hug, knocking him back a step amidst a laugh.

"Wouldn't let you get away that easy, old man," he said, hardly able to contain his own tears. The old man, who was in fact quite a bit older than Drayk had originally estimated, clapped him on the back in return. Tarquin, meanwhile, sought out the eyes of Maya, who stood half in the shadow of Sinderion, as though she too wanted to avoid getting in the way of the reunion.

"Maya..." he said, waiting until he had her eyes. "Nothing is owed from this. This is what I wanted. After what I'd seen happen to all of you... this is what I could do to make it right."

"I know," Maya said quietly, watching Drayk hug the Mentor. She couldn't seem to think of anything else to say, so she repeated herself. "I know."

Vanryth allowed the younger Sellswords to greet the Mentor first, but the smile spreading across his scarred face couldn't have been more impatient. It only grew once Adrienne confirmed that, yes, the Mentor that stood in front of them, the man that had pulled Vanryth from the gutters and had given him a family was really him. He wouldn't hide the laughter that came from watching Drayk throw himself at him in a wild hug. Once the Mentor had regained his balance that Drayk had stolen, and Drayk had peeled himself off the man, Vanryth came next. Placing a jovial hand on the his shoulder as he passed, Vanryth extended the hand in a handshake.

Though it wasn't just a handshake. Once the Mentor's rough hewn palm met Van's own, he pulled him in for a hug of his own and clapped the man on the back with as much happiness his broken visage could hold before flowing over. Realising the Mentor, Vanryth began to laugh as he looked into the man's face. They did it, they finally found him! He couldn't help himself, they'd come so far, went through so much for this one moment. And in that single moment, Vanryth felt like he would do it all over again in a heartbeat. He was glad that he couldn't dissuade the rest of the Sellswords from their path, because in the end it was worth it.

Vanryth then began to "speak" so to say, as his hands flew up and began to dance out the signs that constituted his speech.

Sinder looked a little more contrite when he approached, but then, it wasn’t so unusual for him to be more reserved than the others. He had finally found his smile though—it was hard to linger too long in the doubt and the shame and the fear when he was standing in this man’s presence. It was just the way the Mentor had always had about him. He made it seem as though everything were really not so terrible as it seemed. He would not say that to stand here was to cleanse himself of all that had transpired, but he wouldn’t want to. What it did do was reaffirm those choices, those sacrifices. Vindicate those little pieces of hope that he’d dared cling onto.

“Vanryth says he hopes we didn’t keep you waiting, and that it is good to see you.” The Mentor, after all, did not know the language of signs the rest of them had learned in their journey to this point. “I think perhaps he understates the point a bit.”

And it was. It really, really was. Anirne could see the palpable relief and joy in their faces, and it brought a smile to her own, but she didn’t miss the exchange between Tarquin and Maya, either. She found it a little odd to see him with both arms, actually, for she’d known him longer with just the one. She moved slightly so that she was standing, hands folded in front of her, about equidistant between the reunion and where the other three stood back, as if not quite sure what to do. Something about this worried her, a little niggling sensation at the back of her mind, and she looked at all of the assembled members of Tarquin’s family, the smile slowly fading. She spoke lowly, trying not to interrupt the Sellswords and their Mentor, directing her question to the former Representatives in the room.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite know how to ask,” she said, glancing again at the four and the man who’d touched their lives in the profoundest of ways. “But what is to happen now?”

With the greetings at last concluded, and the difficult question having been asked, the Mentor looked to his son to explain, and Tarquin obliged, though he struggled to find the best words. "Maya has arranged for our release from this place," he announced, and though it was seemingly good news, he did not deliver it as such. "But... we cannot return to Tamriel with you. Our time among the living is at an end. We'll see each other again someday, I imagine... but not for some time."

"This is the end," the Mentor confirmed, solidifying Tarquin's words, "but there is no reason it cannot also be the beginning."

It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t. After all they’d been through to find him, to reach this forsaken place and bring him home again. After every last wound they’d endured on their bodies and their minds and their very souls, they surely could not simply be expected to turn around and walk back out of here again without him. Adrienne knew she should be happy, grateful even, that none of them was condemned to Coldharbor for the rest of eternity, but she couldn’t find it in her to be anything but anguished. “No,” she murmured softly, her voice thickening. “No, that can’t be it. You can’t just go. Not after
 not after this. You have to come back.” She looked at Tarquin. “Both of you. All of you. We came
 we came here. To this place—to Coldharbor. We searched for so long
”

She struggled for the words to express her heartache, the way everything in her just sank to hear them say it. “Please don’t go again. We can’t
 I can’t
” Words failed, and she threw herself into the old man’s arms, shaking but holding on as though for dear life itself. They’d come so far, and for what?

It really didn’t surprise him, in the end. Sinderion had a decent instinct now for when something was too good to be true, and while it should have surprised him that they had made their way here only to say goodbye, it really didn’t. He understood enough to know that the value of it had been in the journey, in the striving. Even if they had all thought the benefit was to be something that would never come. Likely, the Mentor had known when he left that he would never be coming back. That guess, the feeling he’d had about it, did not stop the uncomfortable constriction in his chest.

Could they really do it? Could they really live without him? It might have been a selfish question to ask, but he had a good reason to ask it. This strange, dysfunctional family of theirs mattered more to him than anything in the world; it was only natural that he wondered how they would get along without the one who’d guided them for so long. Even in his absence, he’d been there, pushing them forward, or perhaps more like pulling, as does the light at the end of a darkened cavern, with the promise of relief. Of the ability to breathe easily once again, less burdened than before. “There’s no
 no way to change that?” Would he even want to if there were?

The Mentor held Adrienne gently, cupping a soft hand over her head as her emotions poured out. Drayk, too, came up behind her to put a hand on her shoulder. There were tears glistening in his eyes as well, but from Maya's words before entering Coldharbor, he had come to expect this. This was a farewell, as much as it was a reunion. Tarquin shook his head sadly at Sinderion.

"None, I'm afraid. My family has been gone from the world for far too long. As for myself... I knew what I was getting into when I made the leap. Thanks to Maya, I don't need to stay here. What we'll move on to, I can't say... but death is just another piece of life." It likely wasn't the comforting answer they were looking for, but that wasn't how the world worked. Nothing was perfect, but for the four of them... this was as close as it got.

"The troubles that plagued you when first we met..." Phaedra whispered, her voice barely more than a whisper. It still retained that haunting beauty she had spoken with in life, but gone were the twinges of tormented agony that had come with her twisted form. "You are no longer beholden to them. You have found a peace within yourselves. The only anchors you require now are each other." The Mentor nodded, gently taking Adrienne and pushing her back, so that he might look into her eyes.

"She is right. I have always believed in you... all of you. It was only through you that I was able to find my own redemption. I never doubted your ability to find me, and to conquer everything that sought to tear you apart, both from without and from within. I wish that I could return, you know that I do, but you also know, deep inside, that you have the strength to thrive without me. Nothing makes me happier than seeing you stand here, united and whole, and knowing that the lives you will lead from this day on will be filled with happiness, love, and compassion. Never again will you know the torment of your pasts. That is as much your doing as my own."

They had fought, toiled, bled, and cried to arrive where they were. Despite all that they had endured to enter Coldharbor to find the Mentor, came the revelation that they would not return with the man himself but only his farewell. Despite all of that, a smile still made it's home on Vanryth lips. It was a bittersweet thing, happy edged with a fine line of sadness. It hurt that he would not be able to bring the man who had saved his life-- all of their lives home, but...

Vanryth took a step forward and placed a pair of firm, but gentle hands on Adrienne's shoulder. He wrapped her into a hug from behind and then began to sign with his hands in front of her, keeping her within his strong shell. We can, He signed, and we will. They were not the same people the Mentor, Lucius had pulled from the gutters. They were leagues away from the wretches they once were, and the Mentor had brought them there in spite of his absence. It was not to say he was unneeded-- that was the farthest from the truth. He was something they strove for, an idea that had healed them and put them back together.

While they were rescuing him, he was in turn saving them. And together they had found a sort of redemption. Look at them, he told her, raising his eyes from the top of Adrienne's head and to the Mentor's family that stood in front of them. He has his family, He signed, just as we have ours. The Sellswords had saved him and his family, just as he had done for them. They had all found their redemption. Vanryth would not leave Coldharbor having felt everything was pointless, because nothing was. He could feel all of his regrets simply melt away. Placing his hands on Adrienne's shoulder one last time, he took a step backward and then signed again, for all to see.

Sinderion sighed, deeply and almost from the very soul of him, if he could be said to have something like that. He didn’t really care to know. The Mentor was right, as always, and Vanryth was right in his acceptance of this fact for what it was. Seemingly Drayk had accepted it too, and Adrienne was a smart woman. Certainly much smarter than he was. She would see the need for this, also, much as they didn’t really want it. “It will be a while before we see each other again.” He wasn’t sure how much of the afterlife he really thought real, but he was translating for Van, not offering his own opinion, and that they were here at all seemed to indicate that there was something. Perhaps it was not so outlandish to assume that they might be reunited one day.

It was not a day that Sinder was going to rush, one way or another. “We won’t waste this chance.” He paused for a moment after the interpreting was done, then smiled, a little lopsided thing that looked a bit out-of-place on his face, honestly. Maybe one day it wouldn’t seem so, if he ever managed to accustom himself to happiness. He allowed himself to believe that he would. That, after all, was the chance in question. Not just redemption, not just forgiveness, but actual joy. And in this moment it seemed at once as close as it had ever been and very far away indeed.

“Thank you. May you travel well, and always together.”

Adrienne sniffled, stepping back slightly from the Mentor to lean against Van, and then at last to stand on her own when he moved back as well. “I know,” she murmured miserably. “I do, I just
 I’m going to miss you.” Her voice cracked on the last couple of words, but she drew in a shuddering breath all the same. As ever, her fellow Sellswords were so much stronger than she felt herself to be, but
 their strength was hers, and hers theirs. That was what it meant, after all, to be a family, as Vanryth said they were. There was no denying, however, that his family and theirs were not so easily separated in her mind. The Mentor would always be a part of them, and Tarquin too. She didn’t want to give them up, but
 perhaps she did not have to. Perhaps she could take them at their word, that this was so long but not goodbye. Not the end.

She managed a smile, tremulous but genuine, not wanting to send them off in tears, after all.

It seemed that the time to depart came upon them immanently, and Anirne sighed softly. Goodbyes had never been all that easy for her, though perhaps she should be used to them by now. Taking a couple of steps forward, she smiled apologetically at Tarquin, then slid her arms underneath his and hugged him, a motion brief but not at all tentative. “Thank you,” she said simply. “For being a friend to them. And to me. Until we meet again
 be well.”

"And thank you," Tarquin said. "For giving me a chance. For believing in me. For helping me find peace."

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Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: The Representatives
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Epilogue
The Way Forward




With the worst hunt of her life behind her, Maya was free.

The forests along the hills leading up to Solitude were gorgeous this morning, a vibrant green not commonly allowed to be seen in the harsh cold of the Empire's northern province. It was a warmer day than usual, and perfect for a hunt. Gathering up some supplies in the event that they decided to stay in the wild a little longer than usual, Maya grabbed Sinderion and made for the hills, running until she could turn in all directions and see no sign of civilization. It wasn't too difficult, in Skyrim, but Solitude itself had a way of looming over the land that surrounded it.

It was fair to say that she looked different, two months after returning from Coldharbor with the Sellswords and their allies. Tarquin's death was something she was not able to take lightly, and something she would always feel indebted to, even if he had explicity instructed her that it was not so. Still, she had eventually come to the conclusion, with the help of the others, of course, that the best way to repay the debt was to not waste the chance she had been given pining for another outcome. She brightened in the days and weeks that followed. She hardly looked a witch anymore, temporarily discarding the dark feathered robes in favor of clothing in more neutral, earthen tones, the only thing raven black left on her being her wild hair. All the better to hunt with, she said, but it was obvious that she had grown to not desire wearing them any longer. Another symbol of a life she'd left behind. A death she had left behind.

She planned to visit her sisters and mothers of the coven at some point, perhaps for an extended stay, but she felt she could no longer truly be one of them. In the end, her victory in the Daedric Game had not been for Hircine, not for the glory of some god, but for herself, for the ones who had won over her heart. She still respected her lord, his hunt, and her sisters, for all they had done for her, but she was going to follow her own path now. If Hircine took issue with that, well... she knew who she could call on to assist her.

Maya would not abandon the hunt, though, never. The wild raised her as much as the witches did, and it tought her to be strong, to be cunning, to be swift. She could not simply stop being that person. Sinderion as well had the wild in his heart, and she was more tied to him than she imagined ever being possible for her.

She came to a stop in a small clearing on the mountainside, setting her pack down momentarily and pushing the hair from her eyes. A slight sheen of sweat had already set in on her forehead from the run. She waited for Sinder to join her, gazing out at the land before them. "What do you think? Head down, or keep moving across? There's bear caves along these cliffs, but today I'd rather have a chase than a fight." She was tired of fighting.

Sinderion lifted his head slightly, scenting the air carried to them by virtue of the surprisingly-temperate breeze. It was the time of year for storms, and he could smell one coming, the rain-thickened air rolling over the back of his tongue with the peculiar taste of lightning-charged atmosphere. It was something he’d always enjoyed, but now he was able to really savor it, because for once he was not occupied with dozens of other things. He was not wondering what would happen if they died tomorrow, or even about tomorrow at all. He was not constantly trying to subdue himself, either, and it had begun to show, in ways both obvious and subtle.

Perhaps the claws capping each of his fingertips were obvious, but he saw no need to hide them any longer, and they had their uses, certainly. But he was also less lean than he’d been, the hollowed-out places in his face a little more filled, a few extra ropes of muscle and flesh banded around his limbs and torso, perhaps. Eating and sleeping regularly had been good to him as it was to anyone, though he would always feel this deep into his very bones. The need to be out, to be running, tracking, hunting and chasing. It was something he was happy to indulge now that he knew he need not fear the outcome.

“Storm’s coming in.” The corner of his mouth lifted, though—it wasn’t like that would stop them if they decided they wanted to hunt through it anyway, but it did have a way of sending anything else to its den. “There’s a few deer down there, I think. And
 rabbits.” One eyebrow ascended his forehead, and he glanced at her from the corner of his eye. He was all but laughing, really, but perhaps only a few would ever know the expression for what it was.

Down they went. Maya certainly didn't mind the idea of a storm. As for a rabbit, well... Sinder knew how rabbit chases went with her. More often than not the bound bow was cast aside in favor of the lightning magic in both hands, blasting away at the thing while sprinting through the woods. More often than not the rabbit seemed to get away, and if it didn't, about the half the time she overdid the power of her spell, and all that remained of the little creature were charred meaty bits. There was something about that particular chase that she valued, though, a kind of release of any tension or stress she might have built up. It certainly wasn't so for the poor rabbit... but that was the nature of the world. Things consumed other things, for their own personal reasons.

It was a deer that they came upon first however, a large buck with horns impressive enough that Maya wondered if it would not fight them if they made their presence known. Chasing such a creature would be a feat only Sinderion in his wolf form could manage, and she had no wish to see him transform at the moment, even if he was more than capable of handling it. It was a painful process, as far as she understood.

Instead, they crept closer to the buck, staying low and moving quietly, trying to get to a range where one of them might reliably be able to hit its heart with a single arrow. A cloud cover came in, darkening the woods around them. Maya paused behind a wide-trunked tree while the deer was turned in her direction, wary of its ears, darting this way and that, searching for a predator just the likes of her. There would be a correct moment to move forward here, if only--

And there was the rabbit.

For an agonizing moment Maya thought about letting the little rabbit hop on by, but in the end she decided the chase was worth more to her than securing a kill on the buck. Darting from her cover, she called lightning into her palms, sending the first bolt blasting over the head of the deer, terrifying him and causing him to bolt away. The rabbit did so as well, but Maya was hot on its heels, moccassins digging into the earth and sending dirt flying into the air behind her.

It took her onto a rather dangerous downhill slope, darting left and right, changing directions every time Maya blasted the ground near it with a lightning bolt. She wasn't aware of it, but a large smile had worked its way onto her face, and she took the slope fast, very fast. Too fast, actually. One of her lightning blasts blew apart a cluster of fallen sticks and twigs, sending them flying every which way, one coming right up into her face and nearly striking her in the eye. She turned away from the threat, in the meantime tripping over a concealed root and suddenly going airborne.

Maya had the sense to tuck her shoulder and roll into the ground, softening the fall, and after one roll she found herself sliding down the hill on her rear. The rabbit was lost, and she soon tumbled out of the decline and onto a flat surface, rolling several times over sideways until she plunked into a shallow stream. She came up sputtering, and in the midst of a laughing fit.

Sinderion didn’t really understand her fascination with chasing rabbits in particular, but it was something that he found oddly endearing. It was a bit strange, perhaps, to discover these little things after having borne the heaviest of burdens in one another’s company, knowing the very worst of what rested in another person’s soul, but he found himself a little enchanted by the process of it. And often amused, as now. Perhaps this was the opposite order from the way such things as couplings usually worked, but neither of them had ever really been usual, so it certainly failed to bother him any.

Stopping a moment to deposit their few supplies several yards back, he dropped into a crouch at the edge of the streambed, his arms draped over his knees, and shook his head faintly, though his amusement was rather easily belied by the crinkle at the corners of his eyes. “If it’s any consolation, I expect you frightened the rabbit so badly it died of fear. Scourge of hares everywhere, you are.” Mightn’t be so far from the truth, really. Of course, the fact that the first few raindrops were even now pattering onto his face and into the thick mass of his hair was indicative perhaps of the fact that there wouldn’t be much more opportunity to chase anything down today.

It was no matter—there was still food to be had amidst their scant belongings. They lived simply, but well, and never wanted for anything. He’d never really imagined it feeling as natural as this did, though it was everything his instinct had ever driven him towards.

“Hm
” He stood smoothly and toed off his boots, rolling up his pant legs such that they ended around his knees, then stepped into the water, looking down at it curiously, head tilted in a way indicative of considerable concentration. He was a little upstream from Maya, and shallow as it was, there were still fish to be found. His eyes narrowed just a fraction before he plunged a hand into the water, bringing it back up with a vigorously-wiggling fish attached. A claw punctured its head, ending the creature’s life nearly instantaneously, and he held it by the tail between his teeth while he went about looking for another one.

“I fink you schared the ofer ones away,” he said around the obstruction, then shrugged. It didn’t really matter, after all.

"Did I?" she asked, feigning disappointment. Shaking her head and sending droplets of water flying every which way, she clambered to her feet. Her clothes were all soaked already, no real use trying to keep them dry now. The mountain streams were still quite cold, and goose pimples quickly worked their way along her arms. She slopped her way upstream to him slowly, watching the water with mild disinterest for any passing fish, of which she saw none.

"No matter," Maya sighed, reaching up and taking the fish out of his mouth. "I caught the one I was looking for already." She reached a hand around the back of his neck and kissed him, a long, drawn-out kiss, savored not because she thought they might die within the next few moments and she wanted a happy moment before the end, but simply because she could.

"Got you wrapped around my little finger, I do." She tossed the fish to land on the face of a smooth rock by the side of the stream, leaning into him. "That's alright, though. I've been wrapped around yours since the moment I saw you."

“I seem to remember that differently.” There was no denying that Sinderion was a little pink in the face—she had a way of doing that, and he really didn’t anticipate being able to stem the reflex entirely at any point in the future. All the same, however, there were assuredly pieces of this that he was getting used to, and he was definitely enjoying it. He combed his fingers carefully through her drenched hair, mindful of the sharpened ivory on his fingers, then wrapped both arms around her, tucking her head under his chin. She was quite soaked, but he didn’t mind—the rain would drench him soon enough anyway. He hummed a contented note and exhaled deeply.

It was hard, sometimes, to believe that it was really all over. That he was really allowed to live like this. With her, and nothing dictating how they spent their time but their own inclination. His friends, he would see again in time, and they would always remain close to his heart. But this
 this was what he was supposed to be doing at the moment, and he knew it on a level that was instinct and intellect in equal measure.

Stepping away a little, Sinder ran his hands down Maya’s arms, letting one go but keeping the other hand in his. He laced their fingers, pressing their palms together, and smiled. “So, what shall it be? Move with the storm, or find some shelter and let the worst of it pass first?”

"Shelter sounds nice," she suggested, "but it's quite warm enough right here, if you'd rather go without."

No point in waiting, was there?