Varis Henna's Story

Bolgrim walked through a wide hallway within an old, Nord ruin. He couldn't remember the name at the time, but it was obvious the place had been picked clean by treasure hunters weeks earlier. But the Altmer wasn't here for plunder of gems and septims dancing upon armor and weapons, he was here for something far richer than that; knowledge. He loved delving into these ancient crypts, more so for his own curiosity of exploration and the occasional thrill of slaughtering draugur, but also the ironic nod that an Altmer that was once part of the Thalmor Dominion, was now roaming the halls of the dead of Nord ancestors. He made a right act to disrupt, destroy, and all out act disgraceful or offensive towards the halls in his own odd ways. Removing the clothes, breaking the weapons, denting the armor, stealing what little coin and trinkets he could find, before burning the bodies in another room. The draugur were mocked openly with zeal and Bolgrim made it the most obvious initiative to spit and urinate on the small totem dedicated to Talos. He further confirmed his mark and hate for the race by yelling mockery and Altmer war chants to piss off the spirits. In short; Bolgrim acted like a right prick within the sacred burial grounds of the Nord dead. Nevertheless, all the jeers, mockery, and lewd acts of insults ceased when he came to a main chamber where a Word Wall stood proudly before him. At an instant, he made camp and decided to stay a bit longer to translate and indulge himself in the little bit of sanctuary within Skyrim for once. He hated this province, he hated the cold, he hated the people, and he sure as hell hated marching around in it. Too many bad memories and too much of a risk that he couldn't show his faces in the majority of the holds. Why return to a location where your bounty is high enough that even a Jarl of other holds is sending his guard and hired muscle to hunt you down?

Yet it wasn't the chance to mock the spirits of the dead or any basic intention that drove Bolgrim out of hiding, it was the letter he received days earlier from a friend at the College of Winterhold. Admittedly, their 'bond' wasn't really formal or practical, let alone was it anything sturdy to rely upon, but Bolgrim entrusted Hollindir in that odd acceptance of mentor to student method. They hadn't talked in what felt like years, though. Hollindir was a prodigal Bosmer when it came to alchemy, rough around the edges, but Bolgrim honed the Bosmer right as a worthy apprentice in the arts and in no time Hollindir seemed to border on worshiping the Altmer in some odd ways. Sadly, companionship ended and Bolgrim forced to flee. Still, it was good to hear from Hollindir, he was one of the only few beings in Skyrim that knew of his whereabouts on a monthly basis...



Bolgrim ceased reading for a moment and rolled his eyes. What gave this whelp any right to scold him like a parent!? He shook his head, mumbling something about cheeky Bosmer and tensed up when he heard something. He halted with his slow pacing of re-reading the letter and frowned as he looked around the chamber. He could have sworn he heard something....and what was that smell? He looked up at the stairway that led towards the upper corridors to other rooms and glanced over at a corpse of a draugr, hoping it was that, but this was something fresh. Something new. What was once musty tomes and embalming materials lingering in with the stench of the undead, was now the familiar stink of Orc ass crack and stale food. Bolgrim took one more look around and returned to his reading once more by skipping over the bits of perpetual nagging.



Suddenly, Bolgrim felt a sudden surge of pain wrack up his side and body, the scream he tried to let out was silenced by someone coming from behind to gag him with a dirty cloth over his nose and mouth. He fought back by ramming his elbows into the being and reaching sideways to yank the arrow from his torso. The bleeding hole dribbling against his robes while the feeling of a poison coursed through his veins. He felt the numbing of a paralyze potion rush up his arm, causing his hand to go limp and the entire limb to ragdoll. He panted, a bite of fear making him shiver as he whipped around fast enough with his hand glowing bright in warning. The orc hunter stood with his bow drawn, and arrow ready to fire again.

"YOU SON OF A BI-"

The Altmer was cut off again, this time by another orc, much larger, bullrushing him and slamming him to the ground. The muffled crack of a rib breaking caused Bolgrim to cry out in pain as he felt hands grab his arms in hopes to pull them behind his back. He didn't allow this! He rolled hard, freeing himself from being touched yet again before using his foot to kick at an Orc in the head. A loud yelp from the Orc, then the twang of a bow letting an arrow fly struck him in the back. Another poisoned arrow riddled with paralyzing affects made him stagger.

Bolgrim spat out blood from his mouth and shot an electric blast of energy at the Orc warrior making a mistake to move in. The blast of magic sent the being flying across the room, crashing into the table and the stink of sweat and burnt to a crisp skin clashed with the melting of hot metals. Bolgrim panted hard, a painful heave made him loll his head sideways to stare at the Orc archer. Face showing livid fury and rage, he moved forward. Then he collapsed. Panting and body flopping to the ground due to the paralyze poison making him unable to move. He tried to move, face smeared over with dirt and blood while a heavy boot rammed itself into his stomach. He felt the pain, he wanted to cry out, but found himself unable to speak. With one swift motion, he was picked up and dragged out by two Orcs. Hands bound, and bag swiftly thrown over his head. Captured like a Horker.



"Alright! Listen up! Gather around! Yeah you! Hey! SHUT UP!" Dirge barked loudly at the small contingent of Guild Members he was required to lead. He and this lot of newcomers were given a basic task; roam around the holds, get information, and report if anything has been found. Simple, clean, and not oh so hard to fuck up. The lot of them had spent nearly a week and a half running on the roads between holds and villages asking anyone or anything about their search. For the time, there was nothing to be had. Nobody knew whom they were looking for, and those that knew were lying and keeping their mouths shut. Dirge had quite a hell of a time finding what he managed to snag, but after much persuasion (and a fat lot of coin) he managed to get a lead that would hopefully point them in the right direction.

The lot of them sat in The Winking Skeever in Solitude, some were drinking, others were eating, many were indulging themselves with music and laughter. Dirge was the current leader of about fifteen of these bastards, five of them somewhat new and fresh off the chopping block would be watched over carefully. In a way, this would be another initiation and expectation to make their reputation hold firm with their fellow guild members.

"You got an hour to collect your things, sharpen your weapons, and get stocked up on whatever you need! We leave for Morthal!" Dirge barked while tossing a bagged something on the table. One of the members leaned in, curious of the bag while staring up at Dirge. "Managed to ask around Solitude and it just so happens the fell'er we're lookin for often comes in and out of here every once in a while to shop for clothes. Right faggot, in my opinion, but guess where he shops?" Dirge said while folding his arms over his chest.

"Radiant Raiments. Owned by those two stuck up Altmer bitches. They couldn't tell me shit, but I managed to get a word out of one of the guards, says he saw a strange looking Elf skulking about before leaving town and heading towards Morthal. You know the routine! Now get to packin! Meet me near the docks. If you're late, you're fucked. Either catch up or go back to explain why you can't be competent enough to pay attention!" Dirge snapped bluntly before turning away to leave the tavern, his armor clinking nosily behind him.

The dark-scaled argonian that called herself Nine-fingers was quick to pay attention when called to do so, however she had been ready a few moment before attention had even been called. She was fairly observant, and could often repeat a conversation word for word, even doing voices. At this point the skill only served for her to know when the group of ruffians and sellswords were about to get their orders.

"Now get to packin!" Nine-fingers chirped happily in a oddly cheerful rendition of Dirge's voice.

Nine-fingers drummed her ten clearly normal fingers on the bartop as she spun around and hopped to her feet gracefully. She was clad in leather armor that wasn't particularly interesting in itself, but featured a few belts that were loaded with pockets, all of which seemed to hold either potions, or whatever odd object the argonian had decided to stuff into them. A bow of some sort of ebony material rested on her back with a quiver of crow-feathered arrows, and a pair of shortswords rested on each hip. Sure she seemed a little light for the average fighter, but even her most casual movements held a sort of fluid grace to them. She slung a bag over her shoulder, which currently held two books, and what looked to be a human skull that was bleached by sun and the harsh elements of the outdoors. It jingled when she moved, and sounded a little bit like a bunch of silverware was filling the bottom of the bag.

"Nine-fingers says that the time for gill-growing is over, and the time for sleeping is now. Songs of sleeping, songs of dreams, songs of waking up when time is come for docks." She paused to regard the others of the Fighter's Guild with a fang-filled smile,"Lazy bones in lazy meats, go to bed and get up early. Loud songs in the morning."

She wandered up to her own room, singing about "loud songs" and "clinkity-clanks", somehow making a statement that the team was a bunch of drunken louts. Some of them were, but it was a generalization anyways.

The tall Nord had been leaning against the wall near the exit, arms folded over his chest and a scowl on his face. He was covered head to toe in his strange black leather armor, a dragon motif helm covered most of his face. The armor featured metal plates which had been wrapped in the same black hide as the rest of the armor, and it gave him the advantage of the armor being especially tough in addition to much quieter than most armors of a similar coverage. Indeed, the only skin showing to tell what race he might be was his hands and the lower half of his face, though his long gold hair might give away his parentage as well. Up until the speech had been given, he'd been examining the other patrons of the establishment, attempting to ascertain who among them were members of this supposed guild of fighters he has been recruited to not hours before. This was to be his first mission, one he'd agreed to as soon as it was described as being too dangerous for someone fresh into the clan. He didn't care about the pay, he didn't have a lot of expenses. What he did care about, however, was that there might be enemies worth fighting.

Once they'd been told the meeting place, he'd leave immediately, since he carried most of what he needed to survive on his person at all times anyway. He preferred to lead a simple life, devoid of material possessions other than those necessary for combat or survival.

He headed directly for the docks, taking the straightest path available to get there, and disdaining going around anything he could quickly climb, jump over or onto, or sprint across. A rare smile touched his lips whenever he had freedom to roam a city in his preferred manner, running along the paths he chose rather than those cobbled. Some of the most interesting sights in a city could only be seen from atop a roof.

He arrived at the docks a few moments later and waited for the rest of the fighters to arrive.

Varis awoke with a start at the songs, his hand instinctively going underneath his bunk for a knife, finding only the pulps of his Nix Hound, it slobbered and playfully bit at the dark fingers of it's owner. Varis slammed his head back on his pillow and swung his legs over the bunk and rubbing at his eyes.

He couldn't be angry at Nine-Fingers, she was probably one of the only truly happy with the recent events happening around Skyrim, a lot of people lost their families to dragon attacks and civil war disagreements, like those two families in Whiterun and with the vampire attacks in the past, people were still recovering.

Varis slid on his shirt, strapped on his leather armor and flexed his arms, untying their strings and sliding throwing knives into the gauntlets and tying them closed again. The Dunmer paused to listen to the tunes of his guild-sister and frowned, clinkity-clacks and drunks? She'd come to the wrong guild, maybe she took a wrong turn at the sign that said Bard's College and Fighter's Guild.

The Nix Hound padded over to his owner, it was a strange creature brought in from the coast of Morrowind, like a dog in every way except for the lack of a muzzle and spider-like palps, a feeder tube for a mouth and bug-like eyes. In every way it was both weird and unnatural, but it was closer to a dog than it was a monster.

It was crunching on something with it's slimy palps, running something silvery along the long feeder tube. The shine caught Varis' eye and he bent down, clicking his fingers and holding out his palm. "Give."

The hound looked up at the Dunmer and gave a low trill-like growl, moving it's palps to drop it before leaping away and bursting down the corridor of the tavern much to the surprise and shock of many of the patrons.

"I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU KEEP THE HIST-CURSED THING INSIDE!" shouted the Argonian barkeep, frowning and shooing it with the end of a broom until it came to a stop at Nine-Fingers door and spat the object in it's palps at the feet of Nine-Fingers. Despite the dents and ichor-like spit, it was still evidently a fork.

Varis sighed, holding his forehead and raising his voice. "You all heard Dirge and Nine! Get your asses out of bed and movin', that newblood nord in the dragon armor already beat you, you gonna let him take all the pay?" Varis clapped his dark-skinned hands and whistled a few times.

"Get a move on!"

Shya sat off to the side in the tavern, nursing a mug of ale and scowling faintly as Dirge's barking interrupted the song the bard had been playing. No one had an appreciation for the arts anymore. But, there was work to be done. Downing the last of her ale, Shya listened carefully to Dirge's orders. At least Morthal was close, she was not keen on another long trek across the wilds, even if she was used to it and somewhat glad to be back in her rugged homeland. And more importantly, there was likely to be no Stormcloaks that far west. She was grateful enough the Guild band had come to rest in Solitude Shya had come along on this venture to be paid handsomely, not deal with past troubles.

Hefting her shield over her shoulder, Shya left the tavern, paying little attention to the others that echoed Dirge's orders, and made her way towards the city's fletcher. She had already checked over her equipment in the morning, her padded leather armor and cloak were still in good condition, and her axe was well sharpened. And a few coins later, she had restocked arrows for her quiver and was set to depart. As she left the shop, Shya glanced over to the courtyard of the nearby barracks, grimacing at the sight of Imperial soldiers milling about and training. The poor fools.

But that was not Shya's war, and she made her way towards the docks, already considering the trip before her. She had not been to the area in some time, but the approach to Mortal was flat, albeit full of swamps and muck. Still, a relatively simple task if she was ordered to scout ahead of the group as she often did. Shya nodded politely to the others of the Guild who were beginning to assemble at the docks, once again checking over her equipment to occupy herself while she waited.

Dar'Kiir took another long swig of her drink, setting it down on the table again. Voices rumbled around her, people speaking about the current mission, others just talking about menial things that didn't matter much to her. She wouldn't have been able to pay much attention anyway. The world around was already beginning to spin quite a bit, twisting and turning in her view. She couldn't think straight, much less speak to anyone without sounding like she was speaking another language. The Khajiit only stared down at the table, hoping silently that she wouldn't throw up all the drinks that she had just downed. Above the murmur of voices, one rose louder, a harsh and rumbling voice that sounded so familiar. Who was that? She had spoken to him before....he never really liked her in the first place. Oh yes, Dirge, that tall fellow with the silly name. Who named their child Dirge? Who called themselves Dirge? Rather than listening to his speech and orders, Dar'Kiir only snickered to herself, whispering the name outloud a few times until it became nothing more than the mumbled slur of a drunk. Dirge was the one who stood guard by that little Thieve's Guild den, the bar underneath the main city of Riften, that place that everyone called The Ratway...oh, no, she couldn't think about that again, those memories hurt just a bit too much to travel in them. She shook her head slightly, whisking away the thoughts, only to regret the quick movement a few seconds later by the rumbling of her stomach.

Oh, she wouldn't have been able to get up anyway if someone had told her to. So she sat still, unwavering, the mug in one hand while her other rested on the wooden table top. Her amber eyes lifted up slightly, her gaze focusing briefly on the few rising from their seats. The dark Argonian woman, Dar'Kiir quite liked her, she was very humourous...then some Nord. She didn't much like Nords, they were all too serious, whining all the time about 'those Imperial assholes' or those 'Thalmor idiots'. Some commotion was going on somewhere, she could hear the shrieks of a few surprised guests and the pounding of footsteps. Upstairs? On this floor? Somewhere, she had no judgement whatsoever of anything that was going on. Somewhere in her mind it registered that she was supposed to be leaving. She pondered this thought for quite some time, her free hand wandering down to her waist. Surprise, she actually was ready to go! She had a leather bag lined with wolf fur, and as she reached inside, feeling around for the contents, she did a mental checklist in her head.

Dagger? Check, although she didn't need it. She found that her claws were sharpened quite enough. Money, yes, quite a bit of it, though she wouldn't dare tell anyone where she got it all. A small bottle with a cork to keep it's contents inside...she wouldn't tell people what that was either. She'd lie about it being some sort of potion or poison, and in no way was she addicted to the contents inside. No way. At all. Dar'Kiir smiled blissfully to her herself, thinking about all the tiny and numerous secrets she held. The Khajiit forced herself to slow down and think, pulling her hand out of her bag, resting it on the table once more. Where did she have to go? She didn't remember anyone saying any certain destination...or maybe they did. Maybe that was when Dirge had been speaking, and she was making fun of his name. She probably should have listened to that.

The Khajiit rose to her feet, almost instantly falling to the ground, yet she rested her weight against the table and just managed to save herself. The mug slipped from her grasp, landing on the wooden floor with a loud clang, the little bit of its contents spilling onto the floor. A few people turned to look at her in surprise, and she only gave a toothy smile. She threw the bag over one shoulder, looking around the room desperately for anyone she recognized, hoping maybe she could find someone that could possibly tell her where exactly she was supposed to go. Then like someone had been reading her mind, she heard another loud voice amongst the mumbling around her. The voice wasn't directed towards her, no, it was the people that may have still been in bed, though she could still hear clearly the voice of the elf. She always loved the voices of the elves, they all had some sort of accent, a nice tone that she liked to listen to...was that odd? No, of course it wasn't....but again she found herself drifting away from what she was supposed to be listening to.

'Get a move on!" where the only words she caught. Get a move on where? She racked her mind trying to remember, and then it came to her. Yes, people before were talking about some docks, some clothing store, some...elf! She did remember Dirge's shouting after all. At least a bit of it anyway, enough to find her destination. Dar'Kiir began forward, not exactly in a straight line, and pushed open the door, the fresh air washing over her like a wave. She had to move quickly though, Khajiit weren't allowed in the city! Of course, she had forgotten that earlier on she had bribed the guard captain to let her in, since all Khajiit were always stopped. They were only thieves, trouble-makers, sellers of skooma and moon sugar! And she of course did not fit this stereotype, ha! Not at all. The cat moved onwards, her tail swaying side to side with each movement. She pulled up her hood, shadowing her white face slightly, and continued along her way to the docks, having to stop every now and then to resist the urge to upheave. She regretted briefly having that many drinks, though knew the effects would wear off soon. Khajiit were resilient to alcohol, it couldn't hold her forever!

Eventually she arrived, and found a group of people. She didn't approach them though, only gave a small sigh of relief and sat down by the edge of the dock, her fur boots nearly touching the surface of the water. Now she just had to wait.

Dirge stood by the docks with a cigarette between his fingers. He blew out smoke from his nose and kept his eyes focused forward. The stink of fish, tripe, and algae lingered about. Actually it reeked more of a wet dog on a hot day, but it was better than other places. The distant fogs and swamps across the lake brought an ominous feel of dread and mourning, the movement of shadows and ghosts being seen out of the corner of one's eye along with subtle movements of frost spiders crawling slowly towards prey to ambush. Dirge hated the place, and the fact that they'd be treadding through it didn't ease him much less. Morthal was known to be foreboding and intimidating. More like outright creepy if one were to be of facts.

Nevertheless, he fought back the chills and swallowed his fear. Behind him he could hear the others approaching. Some standing away from the group, others milling about and waiting for his order. The lot of them were pretty impressive, though he had seen worse so he couldn't really judge too much. He'd also seen better too. Still, the group had skills and their own talents so he couldn't complain. Most looked like sneaks and cutthroats, he wasn't surprised by that either since the Guild didn't mind hiring mercenaries from time to time.

"Bah! Another group!? By the Nines I swear if my boat sinks by lugging around fat asses all day and night then someone will have to pay for reprairs! Fat lot you are! If you askin for a way across the lake you can forget it!" snapped a boatman. The guy was old, haggard looking too, but common clothing upon his back and fishing tools at his feet while he started to throw a rope at one of the poles to tie his boat in place.

"What was that?"
"I said tha' lot of you can bugger off!"
"No no, I mean about groups going across the lake. Who's been here?" Dirge asked sounding suspicious.
"Well asides from you, about three or four days ago I got damned near threatened with my LIFE to lug a group of Orc stink'arses across the damned lake! Heavy lot they were. My boat almost sank! So's I ask em 'You gonna pay for it?' and they said 'Yer grateful ta be alive. Get!' BAH! Hate Orcs! Filthy things!" the old boatman yelled.
"Orc group..." Dirge mumbled under his breath darkly while rubbing his chin. "They say where they were headin?"
"Yeah. Towards Morthal or whatever. Said something about hutin' down a criminal of sorts for the Jarl. Right idiots and buncha liars if ye ask me. What would a buncha Orcs stomping around the swamps want in Morthal? An' fer that matter, what idiot would be skulking about in the swamps to begin with? Dumbasses.."

Dirge watched the man climb the steps upon the docks with fishing pole and bucket of freshly caught fish in hand. The old boatman glared at every one of them and even shoved past a few to get by with the usual grumbling of rude comments. Dirge himself stared across the lake once more, thinking over the situation then rubbing his temples in annoyance. He looked back at the others and gave a loud groan. "Apparently we're two shits n' a fuck behind of some others. We gotta pick up the pace and leave now," he ordered while stepping down the dock stairs and looking towards the water. Fish of all sorts darted from his reflection as he gave an idle rub of his chin.

"Yeah, let's move. Anyone left behind will have to play catch-up.." he grumbled while glancing sideways down the pier. Luckily it seemed a courier was nearby with the task of sending their last messages to some East Empire Company guards. Dirge hailed for him swiftly and darted towards him. Awkward mumbles and the clink of money was heard before the courrier darted off into the night. Dirge was quick to return to the group and climb into the old man's boat while giving obvious command to the others to climb aboard.

"We'll reach Morthal just before morning and we're cutting through the swamps. Much easier than taking the main road only to get there by late noon. I ain't gonna lie, we'll prolly have to deal with some trolls or something, so keep your guards up and try not to get yer arses handed to ya. Any questions?"

Nine-fingers had been delighted with the nix hound, and even more so with the gift of the slobbery fang-marked fork. She hugged the insectiod beast, and fished a chunk of some sort of dried meat from her bag to reward the hound with, before tucking the fork away to jingle with the rest,"All's fair in trades and forks! But the trades fair is today and yesterday!" She chirped happily as she gave the hound another generous scratching and a pat before making her own way toward the docks. She lingered just long enough to make sure that at least most of the group was moving, though a few that were too drunk for travel were left behind. Much like Bjorn, the argonian's movements were light and quick, as well as perfectly linear, making up for the time lost in shepherding the rest of the group. She made it to the docks quickly enough, falling quiet, so to take in whatever information she could from the stray fishermen and dock workers.

She managed to listen in as Dirge questioned a fisherman who was less than enthusiastic about the assembling group of fighters. The argonian turned her ice blue eyes to the far side of the lake, as she listened, serene for the moment, as if she hadn't been singing about forks and drunks just moments before. It seemed the orcs were hunting the same prey, and very likely had caught up already, if luck was against them. Judging by the description, however, the group that went before was likely a bunch of bandits turned bounty hunter, and would fight if it came down to it. She turned to Dirge to give her thoughts on the matter, and to offer to try scouting ahead, since she didn't really need a boat to get across the lake.

"Nine-fingers says, water is for swimming and ground is always running, but time is for catching with big sticky webs! Quick, quick in the dark, stabbing stinky sticky fingers!" She grinned brightly, happy that she could put her skills to use for this job. After all, she had already proved herself quick on her feet, and she was sure this wouldn't be any harder than any job her family asked of her,"Nine-fingers says, time for tea and tea for two, but two for many and lots of cheese."

She glanced around at the rest of the group as she figured that there were at least a couple good trackers among them, and even gave a thought to borrowing the nix hound. She loved the cute hound anyways, as it had proved to be much better company than anyone else. Everyone else just seemed to look at her as if she was speaking gibberish. Honestly, she couldn't speak any clearer! It only served to prove that outside of her loving family, that the majority of the world was full of idiots.

The tall armored Nord climbed aboard the boat without comment, as indeed there seemed very little for him to comment on at present. Once aboard, he'd take up position near the bow and keep his masked eyes facing forward, toward the boat's destination. He didn't seem interested in much beyond accomplishing the mission, nor did he seem to even acknowledge the other crew members or guild-mates, the only thing betraying his awareness of his surroundings at all was his slight nod of acknowledgement to Dirge once the silent order to join him had been given. Provided nobody sought to speak to him, he'd remain silent and aloof for the entire journey, simply staring off into the distance as the boat came about from the docks and headed onward toward their goal.

Varis had followed the group to the docks and had listened to the conversation between their leader and the fisherman. The Dunmer caressed his chin, leaning down to scratch his Nix hound behind the beak as he leaped onto the boat, looking back as the hound glanced at the boat, then at the water beneath it and scampered aboard.

The elf sat himself on a barrel, kicking his legs up and looking between Dar'Kirr and the scout called Shya Snowstep. Varis let his eyes form crimson slits as he kicked off and gestured for them to come closer. "You two look like scouts, which is something we'll need if we're expected to navigate this marsh, the fisherman's going to be avoiding the reeds, rocks and mudcrabs." Varis made a concentrated face as he stared at Nine-Fingers.

Varis screwed up his face. Nine-Fingers was crazier than a bag full of cats. Half of what she said made no sense, but if water was for swimming and time was getting caught in a web, did she want to go swimming? He'd only seen and heard her a few times, but the times he had talked to his grandfather's slaves back when the Red Mountain hadn't erupted had given him a slight edge over most crazies.

Swim. Webs. Quick in the dark. If that wasn't offering to scout before, it was an offer now.

"Go with the Argonian, make sure we get a warning, this is the swamps, it's crawling with trolls and other monsters, come back to the boat, we'll work as a team to take down whatever gets attracted to us first." Varis gave them a quick gesture to Nine-Fingers.

Varis leaned close and said to the two less-zany scouts. "Tell her you three are scouting ahead, got it?"

Varis bent down and gave his hound a quick pet, holding him back as the beast tried to savage his face with it's pulps. "You go with the sneakier types." Varis gestured at the three scouts and growled a quick word to follow them as the beast scampered off and dived into the water and did it's best impression of a doggy paddle.

Varis got up and walked over Bjorn and put a hand on his shoulder. "Be ready to fight at a moments notice. Dirge knows whats up in these swamps." Varis leaned over the railing. "See something interesting with that helmet of yours?"

Shya was leaning against the side of the boat, staring off at the steadily approaching shoreline when she heard Varis call her over. She crossed the deck to him, listening without comment and nodding as he gave his orders. A simple enough task, even if she had not been through the region in some time as the swamps were poor ground to travel over, much less hunt for decent skins. Still, with a good pace they would reach Morthal quickly even through murky swampland.

She peered down at Varis's strange pet, grimacing briefly. She had no intention of caring for the strange creature, much less dragging it out of a swampy pit or from the jaws of some beast. At least most of the Guild members were mostly capable of watching out for themselves, even the most brute-like of warriors had some sense more then an animal. Fortunately her fellow scouts seemed competent enough, even if the chattering Argonian was a bit odd. Shya hoped she would not continue said chattering in the wilderness and alert something or someone to their presence.

"Come along and keep close, lest something drags you into the swamp for a meal. Morthal is only a short distance to the southeast." She said to the Dar'Kirr and Nine-fingers, hopping off the boat as it pulled onto the dock and landed on the wood without another word. Shya looked across the land for a moment to orient herself, then took off in a steady jog without looking to see if the others would follow.

A rather short bosmer stood out from behind a light pole in Shya's way. She grinned and nodded at the Nord in greeting.

"Greetings! Is there any way in which I could be of assistants?" She widened her stance, taking up a good majority of the walkway. Her hands rested on her curved hips, and the dark leather cloak she wore wafted in the breeze. Suddenly, shock filled her face as the rest of the party looked at her in confusion. "Oh! Forgive me! I am Willow Blurbranch." She announced, holding out her slender gloved hand to the Nordic warrior. "Pleased to meet you all. I just arrived here myself and have no idea as to where we are headed. I may or may not have been slipped a bit of skooma from some friendly argonians whilst I was visiting Black Marsh, leaving my brain a bit..scattered. It should clear up soon, but....Oh dear I'm rambling aren't I." She retrieved her hand, chewing nervously on the metal of her glove. Her eyes looked at the others and back to the nord before she whispered to her "I think i'll just shut up now.."