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Long time player, Thought I would try and get in touch with my artistic side. Haven’t found it yet, Might have been sitting on it too long.

Check out the latest review in the TESA Blog: Mods for Modders

2 lbs ground meat 1 lb pork or beef chorizo (Mexican sausage) 1/2 cup diced onions (half of a large yellow onion) 1 10oz can of tomatoes and chillies (Ro-tel or similar) 1 10oz can of tomatoes and chillies with lime and cilantro (Ro-tel or similar) 2 gloves garlic mashed and diced 3-4 tortilla shells 1 bag of shredded cheese (about 2 cups). I use a four cheese blend. 1 16oz can of pinto or black refried beans. Preheat oven to 425 In a dutch oven* or cast iron chicken fryer (a 2 quart skillet) brown the meat, garlic, and onions. Drain and return to the skillet and add in both cans of the Ro-tel as well as the chorizo. Reduce until the liquid is gone and place the mixture in a bowl. Liberally lube the bottom of the dutch oven with oil or lard (lard melts, so a Tbl should be fine) and place a tortilla shell in it. Top with about 2 tbsp of the beans and spread out, covering the shell. Layer on the meat and top with some of the cheese. Repeat with the rest of the shells, beans, meat, and cheese until you reach the top. Bake in the oven for about 10 minutes or until the cheese on top is melted. Serves about 6. *or any large sauce pan that's oven proof. You can also use a round casserole dish for the oven baking, but I like keeping things to as few dishes as possible.

As the distance between them shrunk, Duncan raised his fists into a defensive boxing pose. He had a hunch that Raurke would begin on the offensive, and wasn't disappointed. Raurke darted forward with series of quick, hard strikes. Duncan had hoped to block and counter, but Raurke's fists were like steel hammers- gods, how strong was he? Duncan began falling back and moving with the blows. Raurke advanced, keeping an unrelenting pace of attacks. He seemed effortless: his breathing slow and regular, expression calm, his footwork light and graceful. His blows didn't feel heavy so much as hard, as if quickly propelled with inexorable force. Duncan was being forced back closer to the edge of the ring, but he was keeping apace with Raurke, moving with the blows and protecting himself. He was getting a feel for the dance; Raurke was falling into a sort of rhythm. Perfect. He struck. Duncan's left fist appeared from nowhere. Raurke had only a glimpse of a movement before it collided with the side of his head, sending him staggering. Quickly he regained his stance, raising his fists for another encounter. “Using my blind spot? Very good! Who taught you how to box?†Duncan threw another punch, moving onto the offensive. Instead of backing away as Duncan had done, Raurke stepped across the blow, whirling around and dodging, forcing Duncan to swing his line of attack. “A Redguard. Master-at-Arms at Castle Bruma.†Raurke grunted, dodging our of reach of another attack. “Let me show you something they don't teach in the border forts then!†He suddenly darted forward, low, his left arm rising above his head to deflect a punch from above. Raurke's head collided with Duncan's chest, his right arm grabbing in a lock around Duncan's neck. The air was knocked from Duncan's lungs as he began to fall back. He brought his fist down uselessly on Raurke's back, when suddenly he was yanked forward. Raurke's stance was wide and low. In one motion he pulled Duncan forward and kneed him in the gut. Duncan was completely off balance, and before he could scramble to get his feet under him, Raurke's free arm grabbed him around his knee. Holding him by the neck and leg, Raurke lifted and flung him bodily through the air. Duncan sailed a good ten feet through the air before crashing down into the dirt and rolling. The crowd's cheering was like thunder. Doggedly, he pushed himself off the ground and stood. Raurke was further away than Duncan had expected, it seemed he had been pushed back by the force of his own throw. Duncan took the opportunity to get his breath back, leaning bent over, hands on his knees. “That's a nice wrestling move,†he said between breaths, “but I don't think lifting and throwing your own bodyweight... is something you can teach.†Raurke, walking towards him, nodded as this: Fair enough. He was moving into the offensive again, but Duncan remained as he was, inviting attack. He breathed in, and out. The pounding of his pulse through his ears grew and as Raurke stepped into range, it slowed, as time itself seemed to decelerate to a crawl. This was it: this was his fighting state. A cool, calm clarity swept through him, the battle haze that dulled his senses to all distractions. His mind would focus on all things and one thing. Here he savoured the pattern of the sand scattering around Raurke's feet as he shifted his stance to attack. Now the tension in his muscles tautening his skin as he threw the blow. Now the fine wrinkles on Raurke's knuckles as his fist accelerated towards Duncan's face. All of this occurred in less than a space of a breath, but to Duncan it stretched out into minutes, as his focus rapidly observed every detail presented to him, one at a time, discarding and forgetting all but a few. It occurred to him how little movement evading any blow would take, given precision and anticipation. He was reminded of Carter, showing him Hammerfell fencing. And as Raurke's punch inexorably approached, instead of stepping back to block, Duncan stepped forward, and ever so slightly to the side. He felt Raurke's fist move past his face, brushing against the hairs of his stubble, for a vanishing moment reminding him he needed a shave. Duncan's right fist was already in motion, launching his counter attack. His stance was low, slightly stretched. With all his strength he pushed against the ground, sending force up through his body and along his arm. Suddenly he noticed Raurke's eyes. In the battle haze, all people moved as sleepwalkers, slowed down, unreactive, unaware. Yet those eyes regarded him calmly, and he knew that Raurke saw as he saw. Both were powerless to change the courses to which they were committed; Raurke still following through on his failed attack, Duncan's mass forcing upwards as his legs pushed against the ground, fist soaring towards Raurke's centre. Then the blow connected. Duncan could immediately tell it was a good one. Right in the solar plexus, and the force of his inertia was still following behind. He could feel the friction against his knuckles as they broke the surface of Raurke's skin; by this point Duncan's knuckles were already raw. Raurke's follow-through was cut short as the blow countered his momentum, forcing him backward. Duncan grimly thought that Raurke would not forget this punch in a hurry. As the momentum of the blow expended itself, Duncan pulled back his left fist, ready to follow up on the offensive. But... what was this? He abruptly felt a sickening sense of wrongness. Raurke was no falling on his feet, he was not regaining his stance. He was falling back, like a rag-doll, like a drunk. The battle haze was swept from Duncan like breaking the water's surface, and he was left standing in confusion. Gergio was watching, comfortably nestled in his pile of cushions. He saw the Pale One throw a quick punch when somehow, suddenly, Greyhame went from standing still like an idiot to past his enemy's defences, dodging the blow entirely and countering with a punch that seemed to lift the Pale One off his feet. He hit the dust on his back. Gergio felt a twinge of apprehension, but, well, the match was young. The final was chosen as a fist fight so it would be long, bloody and entertaining. Plenty of time for theatrics before the money started changing hands. But Raurke didn't get up. The roar of the crowd slowly lapsed into relative silence, a disquieted muttering interspersed with shouts. Members of the audience stood, trying to get a better look at what had happened. Gergio, with some effort, got to his feet, frowning. Greyhame was standing over the Pale One, wide eyed and panting. An official knelt by the Pale One, then suddenly stood. Grabbing Greyhame's wrist, he lifted his arm to the air, signifying victory. The arena erupted with cheers, and the chant: “Greyhame! Greyhame! Greyhame!†“WHAT?!†Gergio felt a chill run down his spine, and a clamminess under his fur. “Impossible! Why? Ra'Kouro would murder Greyhame for this-†He then spotted Manan, and began to shake with fury. Manan stood from his seat, face slack as he stared at Raurke's fallen form. He barely seemed to notice as a Khajiit courier approached, hauling a heavy sack, brimming with gold. With a grunt the courier dropped the sack at Manan's feet. “My master says he wishes you to enjoy his gold as you burn in oblivion.†Manan nodded absently, still staring. The courier left. Then came another, dropping a bundle of bulging pouches next to the sack, and leaving without a word. Then came another. And then another. And then Gergio was grabbing him by the lapels, shaking him, yelling hysterically. “What have you done? It was wrong! You've ruined me! How- How could you let this happen?!†Manan prised himself free, stepping back. Another courier came and deposited a sack of gold with the rest. Gergio finally saw the growing pile of riches, and looked at Manan in horror. “What... what is this?†“Private bets†Manan replied, and seeing no change in Gergio's bewildered expression, elaborated: “With every rich tosspot who heard about our little interrogation. Or heard that after winning all night you bet your entire fortune on Greyhame losing.†Gergio began to shake with rage again. “This... This is my money?!†Another Khajiit came and made a deposit to the pile. “Well, no, you lost to the house. But the house lost to me, so-†“You- You knew! Right from the start! How did you-†Something dawned on Gergio, and his expression cleared. Narrowing his eyes, he grabbed Manan again. “Who is your master? Who sent you to ruin me?†Manan tried to struggle free, but there was a strength born of rage in Gergio's pudgy hands. “I already told you, you fat idiot! The black one.†“The black one? Who-†Light suddenly dawned in Gergio's head. For a moment he shook his head, as if to deny it, and then his face twisted into a snarl. “Ra'Kouro!†Duncan was kneeling, shaking Raurke by his shoulders, his face an expression of utter disbelief. Suddenly he felt claws dig into his shoulder, drawing blood. Ra'Kouro, with one arm, hauled Duncan to his feet. Duncan caught a glimpse of the slave-master's furious expression before he was dealt a staggering blow to the face. He fell to the ground. Ra'Kouro stood over him, pointing the sceptre with his arm extended, at Duncan's heart. The black cat stared at him, head tilted back, his eyes wide and startlingly white against his dark fur. His voice was a hiss. “You. You will pay with pain the cost you have caused me.†The red-furred handler, who had been kneeling over Raurke, now stood. “He's dead.†The confirmation sent a wave of nausea through Duncan. Ra'Kouro turned his head to look at the handler, his sceptre arm remaining deadly still. “Dead? What do you mean dead? How?†The handler shrugged, gesturing to Duncan. “They say this one can stop a man's heart by striking him.†Duncan was struck by a recollection of the Redguard Ranya, her face close to his, that strange ferocity in her eyes. Her voice playful, mocking. He could almost hear the whispers, the amazement as it echoed back and forth across the mass of spectators: “It's true! He stopped his heart!†But that was impossible. Ra'Kouro sneered condescendingly. “Ridiculous. Such a power never existed.†But his voice became doubtful as he looked at Raurke's unmoving form, and his calm, unblinking eyes. Staring at nothing. Duncan noticed a shift in the noise of the arena. The murmur was growing, he could hear shouts and jeers. Was there a fight going on? The handler was staring across the arena, agape. Duncan followed his gaze. After a moment, Ra'Kouro did likewise, his scowl changing to slack-jawed incredulity at what he saw. “RA-KOURO!†Gergio was waddling across the pit towards them, dragging Manan with him in a stranglehold. By the light of the fires in the chilly air, steam could be seen rising from his fur. His eyes were wide with wrath, his gait a determined march. Or at least, his best attempt at a determined march. The effect was spoiled by the awkward way he had to rotate himself each step to accommodate for his own girth. By the time he reached them his breathing had changed from a furious venting though his nostrils to a laboured panting. Ra'Kouro was a head taller than Gergio, and he looked down on this newcomer bemusedly. Gergio, undeterred, raised his finger of the hand that wasn't busy choking Manan, and began breathlessly exhorting. “I'll have you exiled from the territories for this! I'll set the black-coats on you! Do you think you can gut me with one filthy trick? I still have influence! I – I'll...†Ra'Kouro was silent. He stared down at Gergio, his expression now one of contempt. Gergio spluttered into silence under the oppressive gaze. Ra'Kouro held the silence for a moment, then, “Let go of my slave.†Ra'Kouro was emanating menace, and Gergio had vented enough now to realise disobeying was not an option. He let go of Manan, who staggered away, gulping air and rubbing his neck with one hand. “Now.†Ra'Kouro had not moved his gaze from Gergio's eyes. “Why are you bothering me, you pathetic, fat fool?†At this some fire came back into Gergio, and he lifted his chins in outrage. “You deny it? You deny that you sent this senile racketeer to... to rob me of my winnings and riches?†He gesticulated across the arena, to the pile of bags. The red-furred handler peered towards the pile. “Is that... by Jode, that's gold!†For the first time, Ra'Kouro really looked at Manan. Then he burst into laughter. Gergio was getting his second wind. “How dare you-†The laughter stopped. “Get out of my sight, fat one. I am done with you.†Ra'Kouro resumed his usual, humourless scowl. To Manan, he said, “I hope you back is strong, old goat. Fetch the gold to my tent.†Finally, Manan spoke. “No. Aurum potestas est, Kouro. I am your slave no longer.†Ra'Kouro hissed a sharp intake of breath at this, and was about to speak when Manan cut him off, nodding at the red-furred handler. “Two thousand gold, if you cut this one down an give me his sceptre.†Rakouro turned to look at the handler, who shook his head. “I think not, slave.†Manan shrugged. “Already bought with fear then? Raw deal. Your loss.†He raised his voice. “Any other takers? Two thousand for a black cat's head!†None had until then noticed that the drama they were playing out was the centre of attention of the entire arena. A Khajiit stepped into the pit, saluting Manan with a curved sword, to cheers of enthusiasm from the spectators. Informal calls for more bets echoed back and forth. Ra'Kouro stood askance and unarmed as the challenger approached. “You cannot be serious.†The challenger grinned in reply. As he lashed out at Ra'Kouro with his sword, the slave-master stepped towards him, grabbing his wrist and halting the blow. He yanked the Khajiit toward him. His free hand violently slashed across the challengers neck. The steel-tipped claws tore his throat open, and he fell gurgling to the dirt. It was over in an instant. The crowd roared in approval. Ra'Kouro shook the blood from his hand, turning to look at Manan. “Grab him.†The red-furred handler stepped forward and grabbed Manan's arms, holding them in a lock behind his back. Ra'Kouro sneered. “You were saying? Gold is power?†Manan had no answer. His brow was sweating as Ra'Kouro advanced on him. “Gold is no use to you. Have I not been clear, slave? All you own belongs to me. Everything. If you will not listen, then Ra'Kouro will demonstrate.†To the handler: “Hold him to the ground.†Manan's eyes were darting wildly about for some avenue of escape. As the red-furred handler forced him onto his back, he began to struggle, fruitlessly trying to fight free. “No! No, don't! Don't let him, I'll pay you! No! Help! Duncan!†Duncan, though still in shock, had been quietly dragging himself to the fallen Khajiit. He had been holding onto the vague hope that Manan had some trick up his sleeve that would get them through this, but whatever the plan was, it had gone awry. Now he lunged for the sword and stood, but he was too late. Manan's pleads turned to screams of pain. Ra'Kouro was leaning over him, one foot on his chest, one hand on his head, forcing it to the ground. The slave-master's other hand, in Manan's mouth, suddenly jerked upwards. Manan let out a final, blood-curdling scream, and was released. He curled up in agony, coughing and clutching at his mouth. Ra'Kouro stood, looking down at Manan dispassionately. Held between the bloodied claw-tips of his hand was a gold tooth. Duncan was ready to run the slave-master through, but the handler spotted him, and drew his own sword. Wasting no time, he lunged at Duncan. Duncan caught the blade on his own, then slid his sword up and into the handler's neck. He dropped like a rock. “Greyhame! Greyhame!†Came the chant across the arena. In a flash, the sceptre was in Ra'Kouro's hand. Duncan raised his sword in challenge. To the arena at large, he said “Why don't you put that away and face me like a real man?†to roars of approval. Ra'Kouro sneered. “You think I need to prove myself to these ones? I am not stupid, Greyhame. Whatever trick you used to kill your friend, you should have saved it. You will not have a chance to try it on me.†And with a snarl of savage satisfaction, he tightened his grip on the sceptre. Duncan was struck, as if by a blow across his entire body. His muscles locked up, and he was racked with lightning spasms of pain that lanced from his wrist through his boy. He tried to scream, but it was as if a force were constricting his throat. All he could manage was a strangled gargle. He fell to his knees. Suddenly the pain abated. It left him feeling weak, and sick to his stomach. The crowd around them was booing Ra'Kouro, but it wasn't the crowd that had stolen the slave master's attention. The shaman was in the pit, walking towards them, calm and serene as usual. “It is enough. Let them go. You have killed my dustman... I have no business with you left.†Ra'Kouro looked to the shaman, then at Duncan. He turned his head and spat at the ground in the shaman's direction and returned to torturing Duncan. Any hope Duncan had that the shaman might deliver them to a less cruel fate fled. The shaman made no move to stop Ra'Kouro, his eyes only looked to the ground in disappointment. Did even the shaman fear Ra'Kouro? Until now Duncan had only been on the receiving end of short blasts from the enchantment. It had been one of the most painful things he had experienced, but this time it was unrelenting. He was shaking and sweating, bile was rising to his mouth. Too weak to stay up, he fell forward onto his elbows. The pain, like hunger, like electrocution, wracked his body. Still the torture continued, and as the pain blotted out everything around him, he felt within himself a terrible determination. He could beat this, he would beat this, at any cost. He prayed to the Divines, to Talos, even to Azura for any chance, any price. And then, it occurred to him. A heavy cost. He did not know if this was his own inspiration or an answer to his prayers. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that he would end the pain, and then he would kill Ra'Kouro as slowly and horribly as possible. An even more agonising spasm shot through him, and he threw up. The enchantment had gutted him; he could barely move, and he was so weak. Still, he forced himself, inch by agonising inch, to grip his sword, and raise it. Slowly he brought it up, over his arm that supported his weight. Over the wrist where the vile runes were painted. He steeled himself. And then suddenly, the pain left him. He collapsed onto his side, shivering. The terrible constriction was gone, and he could breathe at last. Delirious, he was certain that Stendarr had delivered him to Aetherius. Then the world, dilating from the void the pain had left, came back to him, and he could see Manan, kneeling, reaching up to grip Ra'Kouro's wrist. His knuckles where white as he pulled at Ra'Kouro's arm. Blood ran down from the corner of his mouth, and his expression was desperate. Pleading. “Please...†There was no hint of compassion on Ra'Kouro's face. He stared down at Manan like he was a cockroach, and slowly moved the point of the sceptre from Duncan to Manan. Manan did not let go. Ra'Kouro activated the sceptre. Duncan looked at Manan's face, and suddenly, he felt the calm coolness of the battle haze. Once again time slowed, and slowed until it seemed to stand still. The debilitating, sickening pain-memory disappeared. The tableau stood frozen to Duncan. The Shaman watched on, face motionless in an expression of disgust. Gergio, already forgotten by all, stood out of place, sickened and unsure what to do with himself. Ra'Kouro's posture was wide and tall, betraying his own mad sense of power, eyes full of hatred. The ground was littered around them with corpses. The red-furred handler, who had at first defended Raurke from the slave-master, lay wide-eyed and bleeding from his neck. How had he given in to commit such cruelty? Nearby, the corpse of the unnamed Khajiit who had stepped forward to defend Manan for the promise of gold. And of course, Raurke, his leg twisted under him, his eyes still open and staring with the cool, calculating focus of the battle haze. And then there was Manan, kneeling like a beggar, clutching Ra'Kouro's arm. His face was pleading, but as Ra'Kouro had levelled the sceptre at him, something had changed. Something important, something that had triggered Duncan's senses into the battle-haze. A feeling that had been growing in him all day made itself clear: the feeling that there was something happening that he was missing. Something that he was seeing but not understanding. Where had he felt that before? Chess. Duncan could see before him the checker board; kings, rooks, pawns arranged in a dance of strategy. Across from the board was his father, so tall and weathered, his face calm, blank. Duncan reached out to attack his father's bishop. The hand that reached was the hand of a young boy. He took the bishop. His father was poker-faced, but there it was in his eyes. Something about them... and then his father made his move. “Checkmateâ€. And now the rest of his expression broke into a smile. Training. Boxing against that rugged bastard of a Redguard. Duncan had been unmatched until he was stationed at Bruma, but he had taken on the master-at-arms, and there it was, in his eyes, as his fist appeared from nowhere, moving in his blind spot and knocking him out. Manan's hand, rubbing his neck. “There's an old tradition of the Gathering. The champion has a chance at freedom...†That guilty hand, rubbing back and forth across his neck. A tell. He's lying. But about what? That there's no tradition, or no chance? Why was he lying? So that I would fight Raurke. Dark eyes. Sensual lips. A ruby was slid onto his finger. “Is it true you stopped a man's heart?...†There it was. Ranya's eyes. Mocking. She knew something he didn't. A drop of red blood dripped from a ruby. Raurke, falling back like a rag-doll, like a drunk. Calm, smiling eyes. Red welling where Duncan's blow had torn his skin. Manan, poring over his hand, looking intently at a red ruby. Holding a tiny phial. A black apple. “Langourwine.†Manan, clutching the black cat's arm, the sceptre pointed at his face. His whole posture, his face, pleading, desperate.... except for his eyes. That smile... it was victory? How? Duncan almost expected Manan to perform some martial arts trick and throw Ra'Kouro to the ground. There was some kind of intent in the white-knuckled way he gripped the slave-master's arm. Manan's sleeve had fallen back from his wrist, betraying the slave-mark... Half asleep, half drunk on wine and blood loss, through half-closed eyes, he thought he saw... Moonlight lancing through the bars of the slave-cart... A mortar and pestle... or a pipe and tobacco? Piles of ash, ground rocks... “...Some of those paints the shaman uses... that would be interesting.†Paint. Manan in the moonlight, painting on his wrist. And time came rushing back. Ra'Kouro activated the sceptre... And fell to his knees, twitching and gurgling in pain. Manan stood as the slave master fell, pulling the sceptre from his unresisting, steel-tipped claws. As Manan let go of Ra'Kouro's arm, Duncan could see, on the palm of Manan's hand, wet paint. Daedric runes. Written in mirror-writing. And on Ra'Kouro's wrist where Manan had gripped him, the slave-mark burned. The arena lapsed into what passed for silence. Manan wiped blood from his mouth, and helped Duncan to his feet. Duncan tightened his grip on his sword, and finding his strength, stepped forward and stood unsupported. “Duncan. I... I was a fool. I am... so sorry,†Manan said. Duncan ignored him. “Ra'Kouro. Can you hear me, you bastard?†Ra'Kouro was still incapacitated by the slave-mark's enchantment, but his eyes moved to look at Duncan. Duncan's voice shook with righteous fury. “There is no pain I could inflict, no execution that could possibly serve you justice. You are a monster, and the only fitting thing I can serve is your death, so that you never commit your atrocities upon another person.†Duncan raised his sword in both hands, ready to plunge it into the slave-master's chest. “Duncan, stop!†Manan grabbed his shoulder. “He's our prisoner. He's defenceless, you can't kill him-†“What? This monster imprisoned us, tortured us- he made me kill innocent men! Five minutes ago you were a scheming bastard. When did you become a saint? Killing him is the least we could do. In fact, hand me that sceptre.†“No. Get a hold of yourself, Duncan. He can't harm us any more.†“I'm fine.†Duncan hesitated, then sheathed his sword. “Raurke, is he...†Manan's expression was answer enough. “We're not free just yet.†He turned to address the shaman, raising his voice for the arena to hear. “Shaman! I, Manan, assert my freedom.†The shaman's eyes were narrowed inquisitively. “Do you?†He raised a hand, and Duncan's wrist exploded with pain again. Ra'Kouro twitched and writhed on the ground. Manan did not move. The shaman relented. “How is this so?†Manan steadied Duncan. “Well, those runes can be tricky to get right. A stroke in the wrong place could send the whole enchantment awry. I suppose you must have made a mistake. †“This one does not think it is so. What of your hand?†“This?†Manan held up his palm, the paint on it still wet. “It's in reverse.†The Khajiit smiled. “It is so! This one will remember this. So. By Riddle'thar, by Baan Dar, you are free. I name you Dar'Manan, who stole himself. What now?†This caused some murmuring among the spectators. Manan exhaled in relief. “Free. Then I wish to buy my friend Greyhame. And the body of my friend Raurke, to be buried in his ancestral home. I will trade them for Ra'Kouro.†The shaman shook his head. “Ra'Kouro is a wild beast, a poor slave. But, so is your Grey-hame... Very well, Dar'Manan. But you see, I lose t'ree slaves, gain one. It is not... a fair deal, see. And the pale one, he is the one I wanted, but still worth much to me, even dead.†Manan nodded. “Gold? You may have half of that.†He gestured to the pile of sacks and bags. This got a response from the spectators. Not even the champion was worth that much. The shaman raised his eyebrows. “You are a clever one, but you are no good at deal making. Dro'Rasha accepts.†Manan bowed. “Thank you. Warm sands, Dro'Rasha.†Duncan an Manan were in what was formerly Ra'Kouro's viewing tent. Duncan winced, squeezed his nostrils shut and drained a phial of red liquid. His skin flushed, hissing as the potion worked it's magic, fixing his bruises and aches. He batted Manan away. “I'm fine. Relax, will you. I just need some rest.†“There's no time for that. Khajiit are more than just thieves and cut-throats, but they're still thieves and cut-throats. You're still valuable as a slave. You need to get out of here to Solitude immediately.†Duncan shook his head. “I'd rather stick around here than Solitude. Trust me, going there is only going to create worse problems for us.†He stood, strapping Raurke's sabre to his waist. “I'll head to the Windmill Tavern. It's a good place to lose heat, and it's not too much farther south.†He hauled the straps of a heavy pack over his shoulders. “You've got the antidote? And that bandoleer of soul gems? He'll be hungry when he wakes.†Duncan patted his breast pocket. “No need to mother me. You seem like you've got something to say, what is it?†“Well, just that... I'm sorry. I thought I had things under control, but... Well, I was wrong.†“It's nothing. We've made it through.†“No... it's not nothing.†Manan sat down, looking old and weary. “I saw. You were going to cut off your own hand to free yourself. It was you who fought through the arena, who fought the enchantment. You kept getting up. If you hadn't fought to defend me, I...†Duncan waved his hand. “You can pay me back later.†“Well, you gave me a shot at Ra'Kouro. But if I had failed, you would have carried us through, even at the cost of your arm. You would have freed us. You're a rare man, Duncan.†He smiled wryly. "A better man than I. I put all our lives at risk. I could have used that paint trick earlier. I could have kept you in the loop. Instead I let my own hubris win out. It's not like we can keep the gold anyway, if we want to keep our throats uncut.†He sighed. “What are you going to do with the rest?†“Give it away, I suppose. Not for free though.†Manan stared into the middle distance. “Have you heard of the Gathering before?†“I knew it was a thing that the Khajiit do. I didn't know what it was called. Didn't know it happened in Skyrim, must be because the Dominion's got their claws into Elsweyr.†“Yes, I think you're right. Well, the Gathering is an ancient tradition, but it's older than many realise. There's another one; an older one. A travelling bazaar. And it's said that anything lost can be found there. I've been searching for it for most of my life.†“Caravans don't stay in business by being secret.†“Hah. But this is no ordinary caravan. I believe it exists. And in all of Tamriel, the Gathering may be the best place to find information of it's whereabouts.†Duncan shook his head. “It's safer if you travel with me. You can't trust these people. They won't miss the chance to imprison you again.†“I'll take the risk.†Manan got up from his chair, resuming his usual, businesslike air. “Don't give him the antidote until you're well away from here. If they found out, we'll be lynched. I'll head over to the Tavern when I'm done. I expect to see you and Raurke when I get there." Duncan picked up Raurke and slung him over his shoulder. “Until then. Safe travels.†“You too, Greyhame champion.†Duncan's boots crunched as he marched across the snow. It was cold away from the fires and bodies, but he was dressed again in his armour and furs. He shifted Raurke's inert form more comfortably over his shoulder. To the west, gathering clouds veiled the Druadach mountains. But to the east, he could see along the coastline. The northern razor-edge of the world. And in the far distance, the sun rose from the ocean. The night had passed, and he was free.

Check out TESA's new blog article continuing our education with Modding Skyrim at The Enclave - Graphic Artistry Course Lesson #2,