Tavern Tales: Skyrim, Volume One (Legend)

[charlescrowe]

"Bah, you're a shrewd one, Manan." Raurke spat out, admiring the old codger's logic and linguistic prowess. Manan only smiled and offered his bound hands to the Breton, sighing with relief as his bonds were removed. Raurke then fixed his attention on the newcomer; a Nord, going by her sharp features. "And who might you be, m'lady?" Raurke gestured warmly, turning on his charm. "Shove off it. I heard you in the ruins." Duncan jested, then mocked an impression of the Revenant; "Sorry miss, I'm married." "Right. At any rate, we need to get our gear back." Jayn interrupted. Raurke nodded his agreement at that. "I don't know about you, but I'm rather invested in that blade of mine."

"You there, Miss! Begone with you! You've no business with us.." Hissed the voice of one of the lead cats. "My Raven! You have my Raven!" was the reply. That caught Raurke's attention. Raurke whispered "You folks might want to err..." he was cut short as the Khajiit who had spoken screamed, cut down by the mystery woman. The caravan stopped, and the group's guard went into action. Raurke seized the moment and started shoving his friends out of the wagon. "Go! Get your gear!" following suit.

"She's a Daedra!" several of the slavers had screamed when Malori disappeared in a cloud of smoke, only to reappear in front of her next target, scimitars flashing. Duncan and crew made their way through the chaos to the other wagon, and luckily finding all their gear intact within it's confines. With his saber at his waist, Raurke spoke up in the dead tongue "Malori, my love. I'm here!" the words a throaty growl to the living around him. He looked to his comrades; "Lucky us. My wife is here. I'm not keen on letting her win the day alone. What you do from here is up to you."

Edited February 20, 2012 by DarkRider

[ResolveThatChord]

The morning was misty, and a few, light snowflakes drifted down, untouched by the dead wind. Raurke was tightening a buckle of his scabbard belt, crouched down by the wheel of the halted horse-cart, eyes alert for the caravan guards. Jayne was sitting on the dewy ground beside him, rubbing the lingering effects of the burning toxin out of her eyes. Duncan was in the cart, rummaging with increasing agitation.

“Our swords aren't here. And half my stuff is missing.â€

“Are you sure? My sword was there.†Raurke stood to look into the cart. It was piled with disorganised junk, their packs carelessly thrown on top. Duncan moved from the packs, searching through the rest of the cart. He tried to shove aside a pile of furs, only to find an eye open amidst the fur, regarding him balefully. It was a Khajiit who had curled up on the furs to sleep. It closed it's eye and rolled over. After a moment it realised who had woken it, and leaped up, only to be felled by a heavy punch from Duncan.

Raurke looked up at another cry from Malori, somewhere further along the caravan, and the sound of clashing steel. “We don't have time for this! Grab your packs, and come on! Where's Manan?â€

They looked around. Duncan frowned. “The old bastard's fled without us!â€

“No, there he is,†said Jayne. “The fool's still in the other carriage. Is he waving at us?â€

Manan was standing up, his hand raised, clearly trying to signal them. A huge, black-furred Khajiit emerged from around the side of the prisoner cart. Seeing Manan, he climbed aboard. Manan started speaking, only to receive a blow to the stomach. He crumpled to the ground. The Khajiit turned to see the escaped companions, and began to walk towards them.

“Right. You ready?†Raurke drew his sabre.

Duncan shouldered his pack, and tossed Jayne hers. “I say we cut down this one, grab the old man -you can carry him, Raurke, if he can't walk- and head West before anyone else notices. Do you think your wife will be fine to disengage and track us again?â€

“She would, but that's not what we're doing.†Raurke began advancing on the black Khajiit, his eyes narrowed. “You can arm yourself with the weapons of the fallen. We're hitting them from behind.â€

Their opponent was close enough to see clearly now. It was advancing in an almost leisurely way. None of the trio had ever seen a Khajiit this big. The brute was bare chested and broad shouldered. His fur was completely black, without any pattern. His eyes were a fierce yellow, and one of his ears was missing. With his left hand, he drew some kind of short staff or sceptre from his belt. A whip was coiled about his right shoulder.

The snow began to pick up. The mist was growing deeper. Steam rose from fur and skin. Shouts could be heard further along the caravan, accompanied by brief flashes of light. Jayne drew level with Raurke, exchanging a glance. She began flanking the Khajiit's right, Raurke advanced to his left. The brute grinned, flashing a jaw full of sharp teeth.

Jayne broke into a run, raising her had to point at the cat. Fire lanced from her finger tips, streaming out to envelope him.

Duncan, weaponless, had hung back. Now he suddenly felt unease. His gut was trying to tell him something. “Why is he so confident?†he muttered to himself.

As if in response, Jayn's flame spell suddenly cut off. She fell, landing heavily in the dirt, clutching her forearm. The Khajiit hadn't moved. Raurke saw an opportunity, and struck with a leaping thrust. His opponent seemed prepared for this, and dodged backwards out of reach, raising the sceptre. Pain bloomed, sudden and intense, along Raurke's wrist. A nauseous dizziness swept through him, and he felt his magicka draining rapidly. Pulling at his sleeve, he saw something painted in an ochre band around his wrist. Daedric runes. Of course. A slave's manacle.

His arm was going numb from the pain, but he kept his grip on his sword. A growl escaping his lips, he moved to attack again. The black Khajiit was visibly surprised, but parried the blow with the sceptre, dashing Raurke's hopes that it could be destroyed that easily. Disengaging, it grinned again, and deftly cracked it's whip. Raurke felt the snap in the air near his face, and knew it was toying with him. An arrogant mistake. Still, his right side was stiff with pain; the brute had a clear advantage. He needed to get closer, where the sword would win over the whip.

Raurke tensed to spring, only to be met with another tirade of agony as the Khajiit raised the sceptre again. This time it was accompanied by the whip, cutting through his clothes, sending spasms of enchanted lightning through him. The assault was relentless, and Raurke was forced back. Yellow eyes burned with hungry malice.

Raurke's breathing was becoming laboured. When had he last fed? Distantly, he realised that the sounds of conflict ahead had ceased. More Khajiit were approaching through the mist. Behind the black cat, there was a flash of steel: Duncan was silently closing in, his hunting knife drawn. Raurke quickly looked back at the Khajiit, but his gaze had already betrayed Duncan.

To his credit, Duncan read the situation immediately, striking before the Khajiit could turn. The cat was quick, rolling with the blow, the knife cutting a deep gash across his back. With a hiss, he spun and struck Duncan. A wave of the sceptre, and Duncan collapsed.

This was Raurke's chance. Switching his sword to his left hand, he pushed forward, building momentum for an attack. His head spun from the movement, and he stumbled. Falling to the ground, expecting another wave of pain at any moment, he struggled to his feet.

More Khajiit had arrived. They were cautiously encircling him. One was pointing a Dwemer crossbow at him that Raurke was sure he'd seen before somewhere. Another Khajiit came closer. This one was older, grey-haired, and he wore a patched, ragged, fur-lined mage's robe. His face was painted into broad regions of yellow, white and ochre, overlaid with spidery white symbols. He reminded Raurke of the hermits of the Anequina desert.

Raising his sword, Raurke stepped towards the hermit. In response he raised an open hand, and blue fire formed in a ring around Raurke. His vision swam, the world spun, and he collapsed. Some part of him was aware that he was hallucinating. He was the shadow of a cloud, crawling across the face of Nirn. He wasn't real: the revelation was huge, inevitable. He was just a shadow, and when the blue-white light obliterated him, there would be no Aetherius, no Oblivion, just absence. Nothingness. One desperate need filled him, he had to escape the light! But it was all around him. There was no way through. He blacked out.

Duncan woke once again, jolted by the cart coming to a halt. Blearily he opened his left eye; his right was swollen shut. By the angle of the sun, he guessed it was a bit past midday. Manan and Jayn sat opposite him. “Where's Raurke?â€

“I'm back here.†Raurke was on foot behind the cart, his wrists tied together, and roped to the back of the cart.

“How are you holding up?â€

Raurke scowled at him. “Oh, fine, just fine. Had a nice nap?â€

“Could have been longer. Why have we stopped? And why are you walking behind?â€

“Running, actually. I'm resistant to the slaves' enchantments. They can't paralyse me, so they're getting creative.â€

Manan snorted derisively, but said nothing.

“Look!†Jayn pointed. “Divines- A legion patrol!â€

A burly Imperial man in the uniform of a legate was riding up parallel to the caravan. The hermit walked up to join him, accompanied by the black-furred Khajiit.

“That dark one's the slave master. That one's pure Valenwood.†Manan muttered, speaking for the first time. “A real jungle cat. Must hate the climate here.â€

“What about the mage, with the painted face?†asked Raurke.

“More like a priest. Well, not like an imperial priest, he's a northern Elsweyr priest. I guess you'd call him a shaman. I gather he's the senior of this caravan. He's the one who decorated our wrists.â€

The legate hailed the pair from atop his horse. “Khajiit. I trust your journey fares well.â€

“Warm sands, sera. Khenarthi's winds favour us.†The legate wrinkled his nose at this. The slave master was silent.

Eyeing the slave cart, the legate asked, “What business brings you this way? What cargo is this?â€

“Livestock, sera.†The hermit/shaman was poker-faced. “And deliveries along the way. This package is for you.†He tossed the Imperial a coin purse. The legate caught it, and gauged it's weight.

“Livestock, eh? Very well.†Seeming satisfied, he was about to turn his horse around when his eye fell on Duncan. “Ah, well then!" A smirk crossed his face. "If it isn't the Nord. I see you're keeping good company. How is your dear family?â€

Duncan's expression was pure, furious hatred. He was about to rise when Jayne kicked him savagely on the leg. She gave him a look that said “Don't.â€

Looking pleased, the Legate trotted back to join the rest of his patrol. Along the caravan, Khajiiti shouted, cracked whips, and the procession continued.

“Who was that?†Jayn asked. Duncan was silent, staring at the floor, his fists clenched.

They were silent for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. Raurke jogged stoically behind, keeping the rope slack between himself and the cart.

Finally, Jayn broke the silence. “They let us get away before, didn't they.â€

“That they did.†Manan was sullen, not at all his usual crabby self. “It's one of the first things they do to break you. Make you think you have a chance of escape, then take it away from you.†He scratched absently at the runes on his wrist.

“You certainly know a lot about the slaving business.†said Duncan, his voice bitter.

“I was born a slave.†Something in Manan's eyes made him look suddenly much older. “Listen well you three, you'll soon learn this the hard way: Nothing in life is free. Not the road at your feet, not the wind on your face, and not the light of the sun. They're all bought and paid for. And now they'll be taken from you, one by one.

“ You lot are fighters, and I'm old and ugly. It'll be the mines for us. Or the plantations. You might get something better,†He nodded to Jayn, “I'd keep your mouth shut and your eyes down if you want to grow much older.â€

“Not a chance,†Jayn immediately replied, making Duncan chuckle. “We're not going to be slaves. Have you already lost hope?â€

“What of Malori?†Raurke asked. “What happened to her?â€

After a moment Manan answered. “As far as I gather, the shaman with the painted face either killed her or drove her off, probably with the holy fire. You know, I'm surprised. You don't smell like a vampire.â€

“She's not dead.â€

“Then we can count on help from outside.†Jayn spoke with determination. “And there must be a way to get these off.†She held up her wrist, looking imploringly at Manan.

Manan sighed. “We wore steel manacles when I was a slave... But it happens that I know about this kind of magic. With the right things I could make the ochre dissolve, after about six months. Three if you don't mind a rash.â€

If this discouraged Jayn, she didn't show it.

“How is it so powerful?†Duncan asked, scratching fruitlessly at the runes. “It's just paint.â€

Raurke answered this time. “Enchantments need souls to be used. The sceptre must be the power source. It activates when you use magic, or on the wielder's command.â€

“That's right,†Manan said. “But if you're thinking of getting your hands on it, forget it. One wave and you're down. Although... You seemed to fare pretty well against it.†He nodded at Raurke, then a toothy smile broke out across his face. “You couldn't get it off him, but maybe you could make him use it on you until the charge depleted.â€

Raurke couldn't tell whether Manan was serious. The old man did seem more encouraged now, however, and his face had reformed into it's usual shrewd expression.

“They can't smuggle us through the border, so there'll be a ship. There will be more slaves, and more slavers. Perhaps there'll be an opportunity for us. Look for it, and trust your experience. Maybe I'll try to get my hands on some of that shaman's pigments. That would be interesting.â€

Edited February 25, 2012 by ResolveThatChord

[Jheuloh]

Glynis, Berach, Akash, Haunt, Nina, Grond, and Red were off riding their way back to the Mill Tavern to regroup, having noticed the markings on the rock near their horses. They made a slow descent down the mountains, following the road despite knowing that bandits and forsworn would probably be watching, as they collectively understood that their numbers and combat prowess prevented them from being threatened by anything short of a small raiding group. The talk of the journey consisted mostly of Grond talking about the glory of alcohol with Glynis, Red teasing Grond about his growing desire to be completely smashed, and Haunt dropping the occasional witty remark. Nina occasionally spoke, but looming near the end of the seven horse line behind Haunt, hence isolated from the best opportunity for chatter. Akash was in lead, with Berach and Glynis behind him, although that didn’t stop him from taking part in the banter.

“So, what’s with that little thing you called a scarab key, anyway?†Akash asked to nobody in particular. Grond, Red, Nina, and Haunt thought for a moment, and realized that they didn’t particularly know what it was good for, asides from getting them out of the dungeon alive. “We don’t have a clue, and frankly I could care less, I’ve had enough undead and spiders for a lifetime or two.†Nina retorted, breaking her silence to the surprise of the others as they briefly looked back. “Maybe someone back at the Tavern would know what to do with it.†Grond added.

The band of adventurers were now at the boundary line of the snowbound peaks, snow growing more and more patchy as they rode on, up until they were low enough in elevation for there to be no snow patches. “Finally, out of the cold, but I will miss you, wondrous snow.†Red spoke in a mock-prose voice; Akash and Glynis agreed with her, and Akash smirked as best his Argonian anatomy allowed “Hides-In-Trees, we’re back at your natural habitat.†Glynis answered his facetious remark with a smirk “Watch out for your extended family, Dragon Face.†She returned to talking with Grond about ale, and Berach explained to Haunt and Red the story behind the nicknames Akash and Glynis referred to each other as.

In the plains at the midpoint between the mountains and the Mill Tavern, the line broke formation as the folks of the band engaged in deeper discussion with one with one another, getting more excited about returning to their base of operations. Berach, Akash, and Red formed a trio their creative endeavors, the breton suggesting “Perhaps one day we could band together as storytellers, with our song, writing, and art.†Nina grouped up with Haunt, and Grond bellowed “We’re almost at the Tavern, new folks. Better yet, I’m almost at my alcohol!†Red chuckled, and was about to rib him about his choice of words, but then she saw a Legion patrolman approaching them, his horse in an extended trot. The band stopped to let the patrolman meet with them, and Sindri, who had previously been making circles around the band, stood by Akash.

When the patrolman had met up with the band, he spoke “I and several other patrolmen have been told to intercept anyone heading to or passing by Dragon Bridge, in search at least one of three things. This includes two men, a redguard by the name of Carter and an imperial by the name of Duncan, and a ‘scarab key.’ You wouldn’t happen to have those two men or the key, would you?†Red spoke up as Savior took a few steps forward “No Duncans and Carters here, but we do have a scarab key, and we're not exactly sure what we're supposed to do with it.†The imperial nodded and looked over the group, then looked back at Red, saying "Good, now if you hand the scarab key over, you will be paid handsomely for the endeavor." Before anyone could say or do anything, Grond spat out "Deal." Nina took the scarab key from one of her pockets, and handed it over to the imperial.

"Thank you, ma'am, and here is the reward. I'll leave you to your business now." The patrolman handed Nina a respectably sized sack of coins, who then handed the money to Grond. Once the group was on the move again, some discussion between Nina, Grond, and Red was had over the significance of the patrolman’s inquiring about Duncan and Carter. But that was eventually eclipsed by their return to the Tavern as the lumber mill, stables, and Tavern itself was now insight. Once the band’s horses were secured at the stables, Grond spoke to Nina, Red, and Haunt about dividing the coin sack amongst one another as they walked into the Tavern.

Akash, Glynis, and Berach stayed behind to take in the details of the Mill Tavern. While petting Sindri, Akash discussed with his companions “Before going off to search for the bosmer merchant we were assigned to rescue, let’s wait here until our companions have rested up. It’s not necessary, but extra hands would definitely be helpful this round.†Berach nodded, while Glynis glanced at the Tavern, and looked back at Akash “Yes, very well. Not sure how far we’re going to get around with the one nord, Nina. She thinks I’m out to turn them all into the Thalmor.†Akash looked at Berach, then up at Glynis “I’ll try my hand at getting her to loosen up.†He returned his gaze to Berach “In the meanwhile, we’re basically sitting around and making friends, although I’d like for you to make additional potions, in preparation for potential allies who join up with us.â€

Berach nodded again, and the trio set off to enter the Tavern and arrange with its caretakers for what they thought would be temporary residence.

[Xinimator]

“I can't believe you just did that.â€

Grond chuckled and turned his head upwards to look at Nina, who was resting her arms against the back of his chair and giving him a look of astonishment, “Just did what, dearie?†he asked, feigning ignorance.

Nina rolled her eyes at him and said, “That. Back there, with the Legion.â€

“Oh, that,†the Nord said and shrugged, “What about it? We didn't have any need for the key. And the gold was nice, wasn't it?â€

“Aye, I will admit the gold was sorely needed,†Nina muttered as she made her way to the chair next to Grond and sat down, “I'm just concerned about the fact that you didn't even take a split-second to think before sealing the deal. Did you forget a little something about the Imperial Legion, hon?â€

“Is this paranoia talking or just plain distrust?†Red asked, cupping her warm mug of ale in her hands, “Granted, not many of us would trust the Legion as far as we could throw them, but what else would you have done with it? We don't know where the key goes.â€

“Pfft, I'm not concerned about the Legion using the key,†Nina replied with distaste, “It's the knife-ears who own the Legion are what concerns me. To be honest, I'd rather trust the Stormcloaks with that key. Even if they are a bunch of apes that don't know one end of a sword from another...†she muttered as she took a sip of her own drink, chuckling lightly.

“Even though you were within their ranks yourself?†Haunt said quietly behind her, a small smirk on his face.

That brought an unexpected reaction from Nina, who reared her head towards the Breton with a dangerous look in her eyes, “Oh? And I could label you for a necromancer, Haunt. If you don't want a knife stuck in your gut, I suggest you think carefully next time you throw an accusation like that around.â€

Haunt only shrugged quietly before wandering away from the trio, leaving Nina to fume in her seat, “Bastard....why'd you guys even brought him along, anyways?†she whispered harshly to the other two.

“We needed the help, Nina. In case you didn't notice...†Red replied sharply, “We would have been draugr meat if Haunt hadn't solved that puzzle as fast as he did.â€

“I just don't trust him, is all,†the Nord said with a small sigh, “He may not have lied to us directly yet, but he's still hiding a lot of things about him. For one, I don't believe he's a Breton. And two, I'm pretty sure his name is not 'Haunt'. What kind of parent would name a kid that?â€

“Hm, you know...same could be said for you,†Grond said, forcing Nina to stare at him, “No offense, lass, but you seem a bit more than just a 'mercenary'. You didn't think Red and I wouldn't pick up on that, did you?â€

Nina was silent for several moments before saying quietly, “There's no reason for you to know any more than that. Currently, I am a sort of mercenary. But I'll admit you're right, Grond: I used to be someone else a long time ago.â€

“A Stormcloak?†Red guessed, a hint of curiosity in her tone.

“I never said that, now did I?†Nina muttered before waving them off with a free hand, “Come on, now...is this really the conversation we want to be having now? We just escaped from a group of murderous draugr, nearly escaped having a huge spider drop on our heads thanks to our mysterious stranger....Can't we just relax for a couple of minutes?â€

“Mm, alright...†Grond said before grinning, “But on one condition.â€

“I'm not wearing a dress,†Nina answered quickly, “You can shove me into Oblivion for all I care, but I'm not wearing one. Period.â€

“Why? What's wrong with dresses?†Red asked, laughing.

“I'm just not the kind of person that wears dresses all for the sake of pleasing some guy. Not to mention I can't run in the damn thing even if I wanted to. Oh, did I mention how ugly they are?†the Nord said with a shake of her head, “I'll go to a dinner party with what I got right now. And I don't care if I have bloodstains all over my shirt. If it scares the living Nine Divines out of them, all the better.â€

Grond was laughing so hard that his voice could be heard almost across the whole mill and rivaled even the waterfalls gushing nearby. It was a miracle, at least in Nina's opinion, that he hadn't spilled his drink yet from how much his was laughing, “Haha, I like you, little one,†Grond finally said after he managed to stop laughing for a couple of seconds, “But no, I wasn't suggesting you'd wear a dress, though now you got me curious...â€

“Don't you even dare, Grond,†Nina warned, but was grinning herself, glancing at the redhead Imperial laughing next to her, “And don't you start plotting with her either! Or else I'll just have to do something nasty to you too...â€

“Oh please, do tell us, Nina,†the Nord said with a smirk, “I would love to hear this grand plan of yours for gaining revenge on me.â€

“And what makes you think I'm going to tell you, hm?†she said with a raised eyebrow, “I didn't survive this long being a dumb as a common soldier, you know what I mean?â€

Grond nodded, “Hmph, fair enough. 'Course, I could just get ye drunk enough to spill something.â€

“Good luck with that. No, really,†Nina said sarcastically with a wide smile, “Just do me a favor, aye? Could you probably run by either one of us before you make another deal with someone? To, you know...lessen any consequences that might happen in the future?â€

“Don't bother, Nina, I tried that. Whenever he hears the word 'gold', he's just like a little puppy greyhound on a bowl full of treats. There is just no way you're going to stop him,†Red said, narrowly dodging a pillow being thrown by the said Nord they were talking about.

“Well, worth a try...†Nina shrugged with a smile until, out of the corner of her eye, she saw an Argonian moving towards the group, “You want a drink, Akash?†she asked him, turning her head towards the lizard, though quietly predicting what could actually be on his mind.

[charlescrowe]

The northern snows felt cold against Malori's skin. The Khajiiti shaman had taken her by surprise with his holy fire; he would be trouble, he had to be taken care of first next time.

"Why in the sixteen planes of Oblivion are we just lying here?"

"The shaman. He is dangerous. Our Raven is in danger!"

"Yes, so why are we lying here, in this cold snow?"

"So tired, the shaman's fire is powerful."

Malori slowly sat up, resting on her haunches.

"Yes, up. We need to feed, regain our strength so we can free Our Raven from his cage." Malori grumbled, walking over to one of the cats she'd slain earlier. The pitiful creature was dead; his soul gone to Aetherius already.

"Should have fed while they were in shock." she lamented.

"No, he told us we're too fragile to feed like that. Black souls aren't good to eat, cause problems with our head."

"He is limiting us!"

"No! He is protecting us. Says we'll become like his other half..." Malori put her hand to the burned and scarred flesh around her right eye. "The one that burned us."

Tears welled up in Malori's eyes, desperate to find Raurke, she followed the carriage tracks further north.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

[DarkRider]

The air was turning cold, the heavy brush between the trees was thinning, and the slaving caravan would be back in the high country before long. Behind the wagon, Raurke’s breathing was becoming labored and every other step was punctuated with a gritty dragging sound as he struggled to keep his footing on over the loose cobbles and gravel paving. Manan was curled up against a pile of grain sacks in the front of the wagon snoring comfortably; his familiarity with such a life seemed to be serving him well.

“Strange company you keep these days, Greyhame,” Jayn said quietly, breaking the long silence between them as they rode side by side, the wagon rocking in a steady rhythm, “your friend won’t make it to the port at this rate he’ll die…if he can die,” she added recalling the aura changes Raurke had displayed in their earlier confrontation, “we need to do something.”

“I’m open to suggestions,” Duncan answered, his eyes searching their surroundings for anything that might be an advantage, “maybe we can find a way to send a message.”

“To who?” Jayn asked doubtfully, “the only ones close enough to help us are holding us captive…” her voice trailed, “actually, that gives me an idea. Can you untie me?” she held up her rope tied hands.

Duncan shrugged, “Dunno,” he considered it trying to inch forward, “can you reach mine?” he leaned forward so she could access his hands, now bound with steel manacles instead of rope.

Jayn pulled against her bindings to get her hands close to his. He worked at the ties for long minutes before she finally felt them give enough that she could work her hands free, “Good work,” she used his shoulder to push herself up to a crouching position. The daedric cuffs would certainly siphon the strength out of any destructive spells, but uttering incantations under her breath in time to a few distinct and subtle hand movements, she hoped a bit of conjuration would get through unnoticed. Duncan watched through the slats of the wagon as a small dark purple haze began to form outside in the tree line, moving along with them as it shifted and shaped until a ghostly rabbit was dashing along on a faint magicka trail over the snow.

“Well done,” Duncan said with a heavy sigh as he dropped back against the sideboard, “our fate is in the paws of a snow hare.”

“Huh, I was trying for a wolf at least,” Jayn shrugged, “looks like the bands have dampened my magic whatever school I try, but it’s something…enough I hope,” she pointed toward the head of the wagon and the familiar scampered off into the growing darkness.

“While he’s gone then, care to fill me in on the plan?”

Jayn looked at him for a long moment, “No,” she finally answered, “It’s been a few years since the last time we worked together, but as I recall you don’t like my plans.”

“That’s because they almost always end badly for me,” he scowled.

“You’re not still blaming me for that Minotaur in Orotheim are you because…” she started to defend herself in one of their old arguments, but the wagon suddenly idled to a stop, punctuated by Raurke flopping against the back of the wagon and onto the ground; hanging by his wrists with a groan. The wagon doors were opened and the powerful Khajiiti shaman was standing there eying them with interest. It wasn’t long before his eyes lingered on Jayn, her hands held open in a gesture of serenity, and the shaman began to mutter in Ta’agra waving for her to follow.

Jayn nodded and climbed out of the wagon, meeting Duncan’s silent protest with a look that begged him to trust her and to wait before causing some more trouble. Her hand dropped to Raurke as she passed, finding life remained in him yet. She followed the shaman to the lead wagon which had pulled off the road. She followed him inside as the caravan pulled away from the road to rest. The inside of the wagon was cramped with scrolls and books, ancient etchings lined the walls, and the air was thick with burning sage.

“You have some talent,” the shaman spoke in her language, taking her by surprise. It clearly wasn’t easy for him, but he was trying to speak, which meant she could negotiate, “sit, there is tea,” he said motioning for her to settle on one of the cushion near a squat table.

“Thank you for speaking,” she said, trying to keep her words simple to avoid confusion, “the men who sold us deceived you. We must be set free.”

He tipped a small ceramic carafe to pour tea into her cup, “This is what slaves say.”

“Maybe,” Jayn answered, bowing her head politely and sipping the tea. It tasted of mint, and changed her senses to cleanse the sage from her lungs, “I am truthful.”

He squinted at her, sipping his tea thoughtfully before he answered, “Yes,” he said finally, “it is unfortunate for you,” he said, sounding genuinely regretted, “One pays many gold for slaves.”

“And you paid your share for us,” she finished, “what if I could repay you, would you let us go then?”

He nodded, “Yes, this I would do.”

“What do you want for payment?”

“In three days, we reach slaving port,” he began surely, “you must bring what I ask to the port, or it is too late.”

“I understand,” she said with a nod, her tea growing cold, “tell me what you want for our freedom.”

The shaman’s eyes glinted in the moonlight, “There was a ship called Hela’s Folly that sank in the north; it carried a great treasure. Travel to north into the sea, and bring me the cargo of the ship hold.”

“Where is the port?”

“Near the broken oar,” he answered cryptically, releasing her magical binds, “you go now, three days will pass quickly.”

“Three days,” she repeated, climbing out of his wagon.

The Khajiit guards stood nearby, warming their hands by great hanging torches that swung in strange un-burning baskets. They looked at her curiously as she collected her gear from the wagon nearby and started walking toward the trees, but made no move to stop her. Almost immediately after she stepped into the concealing shadow of the woods, Odin appeared at a trot, nickering softly as she patted his neck and swung herself up into the saddle. Glancing up at the stars she got her bearings, Dawnstar was the nearest town, but it was a few miles behind them already. She turned Odin’s head and kneed him forward, feeling a pang of guilt as she passed the wagon holding her companions.

”I’m coming back Duncan, I promise. Just wait three days.” she promised him silently. There was no way to know if they could hold out that long, but she was glad to see Raurke’s limp form being heaved back into the wagon at any rate. They were together; they had a chance to stay alive.

--------------------------------------

For a long time the only sounds in the night were Odin’s pounding hooves and his woofing breaths as they sped along the cobbled road toward Dawnstar. She heard nothing by way of a warning before she was suddenly thrown from Odin’s saddle and into the snow under a heavy mass of dark fur. Odin’s angry cries shattered the silence and it took her a moment to realize a sabrecat was looming over her. The cat pressed against her shoulders with heavy paws as it pushed itself up for the strike but before it could swoop in for the kill it made a strange guttural sound and half jumped, half stumbled off of her allowing her to roll away unscathed. Odin was immediately over her, his forelegs kicking angrily to drive the cat back away from his rider, but the cat slumped into the snow weakly. Jayn reached for the stirrup on Odin’s saddle to pull herself up, her eyes trained on the cat. There was a shrouded figure crouched over the cat.

Odin continued to stamp a foot, as the ashen figure looked up from its kill and whispered a haggard, “My Raven…”

Jayn’s breath held in her chest, she had heard those cries from the creature who’d attacked the caravan; Raurke had called it his wife, and in the moonlight she could faintly make out the features of a frail waifly woman, though she clearly possessed a strength her frame did not suggest. The woman’s eyes were feral and wild and Odin clearly registered her as a threat, rearing up to paw the air when she began to move closer.

Jayn took his reins and steadied him, “Thank you for saving me,” she said gently, hoping to soothe the beastly nature of the woman with a gentle manner, “I know you want to save your raven, I do too, that’s why I must reach Dawnstar. If I can bring the slavers the treasure they desire they will let our friends go…will let your raven go.”

She wasn’t sure the woman could understand but suddenly, her body language changed, “My name is Malori...and I will help you do this.”

[DarkRider]

Back at the Caravan...

“We should do something to revive Raurke,” Duncan said aloud after watching the other man lie curled in a motionless heap and barely breathing for the last couple hours, “Manan?”

“Yes, I heard you boy,” the old man grumbled, blinking at the first beams of sunlight beginning to pierce him through the wooden wagon slats. Its warmth would be welcome and no doubt fleeting this far north. At least the sky was clear, “you recall, they tied us up rather well last time; what do you propose we do then?”

“I propose you slip your hand out of its cuff the way you have been in your sleep all night and find something to pick my cuffs loose with.”

Manan leaned forward and raised a hand, finger poised to wag his argument forth, but stopped when he realized his hand was indeed loose from the cuff that had bound him before. It seemed old age and swelling joints came with a few perks after all, “A sound plan,” he conceded, and began rummaging in the pile of hay, burlap, and clothing he had be resting against for a bit of metal he could fashion into a pick.

“Curiously though…once you’re loose, how do you intend to help him? I suppose you could sacrifice yourself, but then who’s to stop him from having a feed on me once he’s polished you off? Ah haaah…,” his fingers came up from the dust with a pin, “turn your back to me, as far as you can manage Duncan.”

The Imperial turned, the steel digging into his wrists, but as Manan reached out with his one free hand they managed to fit the pin into the lock.

“That’s the way, still as you dare, boy,” Manan directed him, working the pin with the mastery of his age and experiences. The cuffs suddenly cracked open and Manan grinned, “There, you’re free,” he said leaning back to work the cuff that still bound his other hand.

Duncan rubbed the feeling back into his hands and wrists as he moved to crouch over Raurke. The revenant’s body was nearly lifeless, but every few minutes he would take a shallow breath, not unlike a fish out of water. It was some sort of hibernation state, probably the long evolved key to his long life and ultimate survival.

“He needs to…” he hesitated; Raurke was clearly uncomfortable with his more bestial nature he might not appreciate it being discussed freely.

Manan snorted, “… to drain the life essence outta some other poor soul just so he can drag his useless corpse around this world for a few more centuries?” he finished as his last cuff fell open to free him, “let’s not play semantics boy, our friend here has exotic tastes and sating them is the only way to wake him at this point. So, what do you have in mind?”

The wagon began to rock as it slowed, the caravan was pulling off the road; likely to break their fast, rest, and water the horses.

“We’re stopping,” Duncan confirmed moving to the wagon’s end to get a better look.

“That might not be a bad thing,” the old man offered, “when slave caravans stop there’s usually a lot of gambling and drinking to ensue, might be an opportunity for us to get our hands on something we can use, if we can get their attention…”

Duncan turned back toward his companions, but before he could utter another word of planning Manan’s fist was colliding with his jaw, throwing him so hard against the back of the wagon, the wooden slats of the door broke open around its chain and he tumbled out into the dirt with a thud. He shook off his shock in time to roll away when Manan leapt after him; hearing the other man grunt when he pounded into the earth.

“Don’t just lie there boy,” Manan growled through gritted teeth, “hit me back.”

-----------------------------------

It was no easy task convincing Odin to bear Malori after their frightening introduction, but once managed, they were riding toward Dawnstar, and the big steed thundered over the ground bearing the two women effortlessly. When they finally reached the port town, Malori dismounted and vanished at the fringes leaving Jayn to search the town alone. It didn’t take long to learn about Hela’s Folly. The local ice fisherman even claimed to know where it was, but every tidbit of information came with a litany of foreboding; warnings of death and cursing to any who ventured close to it. When she led Odin out of town on the furthest beach, Malori was there, perched on a rock like a bird waiting.

“You know our road,” Malori said quietly, more a statement than a question.

Jayn nodded as she stepped up into Odin’s saddle, “If we follow this beach we’ll be able to see the wreck offshore unless the snow kicks up. The locals marked my map,” she held out a hand and Malori took it climbing atop Odin behind her. As usual in the high North Country, the snow was never far behind a lonely rider. By the time Dawnstar was out of sight behind them, the hills were a ghostly wall of white looming over them and to the other side the sea a haze of fog and swirling wisps of snow. Their reality was reduced to a small pocket of surreal visibility encircling them, Odin’s breath, the subtle lapping of the water alongside them, the crushing of sand and stone beneath them, and all around the howling of wintry winds. The landmark the fishermen had given her suddenly appeared and Jayn pulled Odin’s head up hard before they collided with the stone formation.

The women dismounted and Jayn dragged Odin by his reins under a stone outcropping to protect him from the wind and snow. He bent his head to nibble the sea scrubs that had managed to still grow in this sheltered place.

“We’ll have to go forward on foot now, across the ice,” Jayn pointed to where the sea had carried several large chunks of ice to the shoreline, “Can you manage?” Malori only nodded and followed as Jayn lead the way onto the ice. After only a few minutes she stopped her breath misting from the exertion as she struggled to maintain her balance on the floating ice.

The young woman scanned the horizon, at least what she thought might be the horizon, “I can’t…see anything,” she said cursing under her breath.

“I can show you,” Malori said, coming up beside her, “it’s this way.”

“You see the ship?”

“I can smell the death,” the revenant clarified, stepping across the floating ice without disturbing them. Their slight statures worked in their favor, something the Khajiiti shaman must have anticipated when he sent Jayna on this errand to begin with. The advantage became more evident as they nimbly crossed a large labyrinth of ever changing ice paths before they finally set foot on rock. It was a trek no heavy armor laden man or beast could have managed, but before long the broken bow of an archaic shipwreck pierced the whiteout of the snow storm before them.

Hela’s Folly, the name carved into the hull was still visible despite the wind, salt. and weathering. The ship had gotten lost and collided with a sudden rise of stone, devastating the front of the ship, and likely drowning the crew years ago. The air was eerily still, though the wind whipped over the sea enough to howl, the tattered remnants of the ship sails barely swayed.

Soundlessly, Malori’s twin blades were suddenly in her hands, “You should prepare for battle.”

Jayn drew her cross bow, listening she could hear what Malori most certainly reacted to, the shambling of rag and steel, and bone, “I hate skeletons,” she said as she loosed a bolt to scatter the bones of the first crewman to shuffle out of the wreckage.

Malori dashed into the horde swinging wildly like a whirlwind. Jayn used crossbow bolts and short bursts of fire to dispel the skeletons from clustering around her. It was a full crew, at least twenty seven by her count, but as they took them down, one by one, they started to reanimate.

“We cannot win with this curse, we have to get inside the ship,” Malori called.

Jayn incanted a starburst of flame that erupted from the ground up around Malori temporarily knocking all of their foes down long enough for the two women to sprint into the gap in the ship’s hull. Scrambling over rock, wood, and bone they found a door within that was still intact and might be sturdy enough to bar against the horde. Once through, Jayn turned the lock and then helped Malori drag a pile of loaded crates against the portal. They listened as the horde began pounding against the door, but they seemed secure for the time being.

“Let’s hope we don’t need a quick escape this way,” Jayn said with a grin, her smile fading at Malori’s blank expression, “come on then, we need to get deeper into the ship hold,” she said, lighting a hanging lantern with a burst of flame, and then taking it in hand to lead the way through the pitch.

-----------------------------------

Duncan and Manan found themselves unceremoniously deposited back into their wagon, a little more bruised and bloodied than before from their brawling. The Khajiiti guard spat and threatened to skin them for their evening meal if they didn’t ride out the rest of the journey in quiet before slamming the tail hitch closed and tying down the batting over the broken wood slats.

“That went marvelously,” Duncan growled, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth to wipe away the blood.

“Bah,” Manan waved him off, his face was screwed up angrily, “I thought they’d be more fun, let us gamble a bit, barter for some goods, maybe a soul gem or two, but no….ignorant inbred animals….bah,” he flopped back against his pile of rags, “we get out of this remind me to send them a thank you gift for their hospitality.”

“Was that the plan? The--these are slavers, Manan, not traders!” Duncan half shouted in disbelief, “You think they have a habit of cajoling with their cargo?”

The old man snorted, “Such narrow thinking, typical Imperial brute,” he withdrew his hands from his sleeves and scattered several items onto the wagon floor he’d managed to pilfer from the Khajiiti he’d come close enough to pickpocket, “it wasn’t a total waste of time you know,” he argued. He’d managed to get his hands on a minor healing potion, a bit of gold, a small dagger, and some small stones that might contain crystals.

Duncan sighed, “It’s not much is it,” he palmed the dagger, “but maybe enough. I don’t know what Raurke is, but I know he needs souls to regain his strength…what are our options?”

“Most obviously, we kill a guard,” Manan offered, “but we have no means of soul catching and our friend is probably in too deep a slumber to help himself.”

“We’d run into the same problem catching an animal as well,” Duncan agreed, “we just need something to get him awake, maybe then he could do a proper feed himself,” the two men sat in silence a long time, Duncan turning the dagger over and over in his hands in contemplation, “what about…blood?”

“He’s not a vampire far as I can tell,” Manan answered, “but blood does contain a life essence similar to soul energy as I understand, it might be enough to wake him….yes, I’m surprised it took us this long to think of it, that’s the answer. A commodity we have and enough to get him awake, at least in theory.”

A plan set Duncan moved into action without hesitation, “get him on his back,” he said opening his leather bracer enough to pierce his forearm with the blade, and then closing the leather to let the blood through but protect his skin, “Try to…hold him?” he asked, Manan nodding and pressing down on Raurke’s shoulder.

Duncan moved closer to the revenant and held his forearm over Raurke mouth, which was just barely open with his breathing. The blood dripped slowly at first, spattering on their companion’s white teeth, and then dripped more forcefully, working its way into the still form, carrying its life essence into the husk of a man. Slowly Raurke began to writhe slightly, as if Duncan’s life essence was rousing the form without consciousness. But then, his eyes fluttered open, grey and lost. He rose against Manan’s hold, taking Duncan’s forearm to his mouth and drinking, feral instinct, unthinking, fighting against the long sleep…survival without thought.

“Hang on boy,” Manan said, moving one of his hands to brace Duncan, “he’s getting stronger.”

Duncan could feel it. He’d lost blood in battle many times over, but this was different, it wasn’t a weakness of bloodletting he felt as much as a losing of himself. He was beginning to feel faded and unattached to the world. Manan’s hand on his shoulder, the strange kindness in his voice, these things were his anchors to the living.

And then suddenly a light rekindled in the grey lifeless eyes, Raurke awoke and tore himself away from Duncan with force, backing into the wall of the wagon as the Imperial dropped to the wagon floor in his place.

“No no,” Raurke shook his head, “why did you do this?”

“You’ve been unconscious near death for two days,” Manan answered, moving to aid Duncan, “we had to wake you, you wouldn’t have survived had we not,” the old man pushed Duncan onto his back and slapped his cheek, “You still with us lad?”

“Mostly,” Duncan managed to utter with a groan, feeling his soul settling its way back into his form.

Raurke looked at the other man with sympathy and regret, but immense gratitude for his sacrifice, he knew they would have to discuss what they shared someday, but for now, he needed to hunt. His eyes searched the wagon and landed on the sky hatch in the wagon’s roof. Beyond the hatch darkness was returning, and their captors were unlikely to notice him slip away for a short time, he motioned to Manan, “Can you give me a leg up?”

The old man stood, “Do my best, but you can’t be gone long, do what you must and get back here. If that warlock turns the power back on in these cuffs we’ll all pay the price.”

“Yes, I understand,” Raurke said, knowing how much they’d already paid for him, he slipped his boot into Manan’s interlocked hands and stepped up, able to pull himself out through the hatch. The surrounding woods would still be teaming with deer; with any luck, he’d be able to regain his strength and return before he was missed.

Duncan was recovering quickly and stood beside Manan, “We better figure out how we’re going to cover for him,” he said, pointing to the slats of the wagon. Through them they could see a Khajiit guard walking their direction with their day’s rations.

[charlescrowe]

Raurke carefully picked his way through the slaver camp, all too aware his khajiiti captors could see just as well in low light as he could. Once or twice he'd almost been made when reching for a wineskin to wash the taste of blood from his lips; he never really enjoyed it's sour, rust-tinged flavor, and it left more than just a bad taste in his mouth. After he'd scampered into the woods, out of the sight of any prying eyes, Raurke relaxed and let his facade diminish; he'd need any remaining strength to feed this night.

The old man was right, Raurke pondered as he stalked through the wilderness, at least Vampires don't have to kill their prey. Lost in his thoughts, he'd almost missed the slight chittering sounds around him. Raurke halted, peering into the darkness, catching glimpses of the small, blue humanoids he'd seen back in the dwemer ruins. What had his companions called them? Some of them were wearing crude armor made from some strange chitinous material, most of them wielding weapons fashioned of the same dark substance. Falmer, that's what the young mage had called them. Snow elves. The hunched monstrosities reminded him of the goblins of cyrodiil, though likely far more dangerous; they'd once been a proud elven race. Raurke could see they'd had lost all traces of humanity ages before, and the creatures surrounding him now were operating on base instinct and cruel obsession, much like himself. Killing them would be an act of mercy; feeding on them would be no sin against his moral code.

One of the Falmer, a fierce Gloomstalker, crept forward, chitinous axe poised above it's head and ready to strike a grievous wound to anything or anyone unlucky enough to find themselves in it's path. Raurke wheeled around on his heel to face it, monstrous visage giving the Gloomstalker challenge, hands contorting into bony claws, sharp as Mehrunes' Razor itself. The two beastly foes rushed each other, one fueled by ancestral rage, the other by base hunger. Both vying for blood. The Falmer ducked low, aiming a vicious blow at Raurke's ankles. Raurke backpedaled, only to surge forward while his foe was off balance, claws rushing towards the Falmer and striking a glancing blow; If their ancient Dwemeri enemies hand't rendered them sightless eons before, Raurke's claws would have done it to this one. The Gloomstalker staggered back, sightless eyes gouged and bleeding. It was only a fraction of a second, but the delay was enough for Raurke's Feral form to tackle the Falmer, claws digging into the beast's chest.

The Falmer writhed and struggled beneath Raurke, slowly starting to eminate a soft blueish glow as Raurke's bony claws took hold of it's very soul. With little effort, Raurke brought back his free hand, swiping it across the Falmer's frail throat, leaving four ragged lines of crimson. Bleeding out, the Falmer's struggles faded to twitches, then stillness as Raurke pulled a faded, ethereal wisp from the corpse. Raurke brought his hand to his mouth, the Wisp's form distorted, flowing on profane currents into the Revenant's mouth. The remaining Falmer felt the profane presence and scattered into the darkness, in search of the safety of the underdark. The Revenant would feed on the Falmer no more this night, Raurke didn't mind; he'd had his fill, and it would be at least another day before he'd need to feed again. He contemplated asking almost exclusively taking bounties on these dreadful creatures should he and his companions ever return to the Mill Tavern. Strength restored, Raurke made his way silently back to the slaver camp.

Edited March 8, 2012 by charlescrowe

[ResolveThatChord]

The Khajiit guard was approaching the slave cart, carrying a bowl of stale bread and hard cheese.

“We have to cover for Raurke!†Duncan frantically looked about the cart. “Maybe we can make a pile of clothes, furs...â€

“Won't work.†Manan said, obtusely. He was seated near the door, arms folded.

“What happens when they find out he's gone?â€

“We'll get the whip, the stick, and the sceptre for good measure. They'll hunt Raurke down with fire and silver. Kill him since he's so much trouble. Won't be hard to find him while he's marked.â€

“How can you be so bloody-â€

“Hush, he's getting close. Don't meet his eyes.â€

The Khajiit was indeed closer. Duncan readied himself. He'd have to be quick, strike when the guard opened the door, stop him from spreading the alarm.

But before the Khajiit reached the door, Manan threw himself against the bars, reaching out to him, shouting “Sera! Sera!†garbling madly in what Duncan assumed was Ta'Agra. The guard was at first taken aback, then snarled angrily. He opened the door, kicked Manan aside, threw the bowl to the floor, and slamming the door behind him, left without another glance.

Manan groaned. “Steel caps. At least I didn't get the claws.â€

Duncan helped him up. “That was foolhardy.â€

“Misdirection. Don't underestimate it.†He coughed, wincing, and shambled over to the door. “Here's the best part.†He opened the door. Pulling the pin they found from the lock. “Stopped it from locking again when he shut it.â€

“...Good work then. Now we just need to wait for Raurke and Jayne.†Duncan yawned. He was definitely feeling that lost blood. He needed to get some sleep.

“No. This is an opportunity. The sun's setting, any minute they'll change the guard. I think I can get something to help us. Sabotage the caravan, maybe buy us more time. And find out what happened to your lady friend.â€

Duncan regarded him distrustfully. “So...â€

“So I need you to stage a distraction.â€

Duncan groaned.

Manan spoke quickly. “The cart where they keep our things- search through my pack, see if you can't find a scroll sealed with black wax. Read it. It'll summon a distraction. A daedra. Don't let it see you. If it does, tell it to bugger off.â€

“Or words to that effect?â€

“No, those words exactly. If it notices you, say 'bugger off', and get back here as fast as you can. And I'll need another thing from my pack, a little leather pouch. Rectangular, about this big. Don't open it.â€

“Alright, but this had better be worth it.†Duncan checked the coast was clear, and then prepared to leap out of the cart.

Manan grabbed his arm. “Wait, one more thing!â€

“What?â€

“Take care. You've lost a lot of blood. Surrender if they find you. I'll be fine if they catch me, don't worry. Just look out for number one, alright?â€

“Sure, fine.â€

The carts of the caravan were parked in a circle around the Khajiit's camp. After a tense few minutes of ducking out of sight and crawling through the dirt under the carts, Duncan made it around to the one where their packs were stored. It was one of the open topped ones common to Skyrim. There was a leather-clad Khajiit sitting with her legs dangling over the edge, talking to someone, her back to Duncan. Slowly and gingerly, Duncan pulled himself onto the cart. Moving painstakingly to avoid making any sound, he crept towards the pile of junk where all the gear was haphazardly stashed. The Khajiit was in arms reach, chatting happily to another, thankfully out of sight. Eyes fixed on her back, Duncan felt for the buckle to Manan's pack, gripping it so it wouldn't clink. Finally he got the pack open.

Inside was all manner of junk. He fished out the leather pouch Manan mentioned. There was also a collection of notebooks filled with scrawling, uneven writing; enchanted earrings you'd expect to see on a Redguard pirate, a suspiciously light pouch full of identical gold rings, some rolled up maps, and -aha- some scrolls sealed with black wax. Duncan supposed that any of them would do. He was extremely concious of the Khajiit who was close enough for him to count her hairs, but he stayed still for a moment, trying to think what else he could grab and bring back. Light-headedness was getting in the way of his thinking, and he had to keep blinking to clear his eyes. Their weapons seemed to be gone, and wouldn't do them much good anyway... He delicately opened his own pack, and fished out a bundle of lockpicks. That would have to do for now. He crept over the side of the cart, leaving the Khajiit blissfully unaware of his visit.

The last red sliver of sunset descended behind the Druadach mountains. Duncan hid himself under an unoccupied cart. He made sure he could see the slavers' camp fires and tents. Should he use the scroll? The old man was vague about what it would do or how it would help. Come to think of it, why did he need to use it in the first place?

After a few minutes, he decided to trust Manan. The old man had been in a hurry back then, after all. And if it was a scroll of summoning, he should be the Daedra's master... shouldn't he?

Putting aside his doubts, be broke the black seal. Daedric runes in red and black ink burned into his eyes. His lips moved, softly intoning a language he didn't understand. There was a crackling sound. A bright crack opened in the air next to the cart, a draft blew from it carrying the stench of sulphur. A stooped, impish figure appeared. Sharp clawed, with a stunted nose and flaking skin, it reminded Duncan of the Falmer. This must be a scamp; a rare sight in this day and age. The crack faded.

The scamp sniffed the air, looking around. Duncan remained motionless. The scamp waited, then seemed to make it's mind up about something. Turning away, it suddenly spotted Duncan. It regarded him suddenly.

Duncan tensed, unsure what it would do. It seemed to be under his command, but better not take risks.

“Bugger off.â€

A wicked grin appeared on the little beast's face, and it shot off with alarming speed towards the camp. Duncan decided not to stick around to see what would happen.

When he returned to the prisoners' cart, Raurke was back. He was sleeping on the floor, looking haggard, but better. Duncan inspected him. His breathing was regular, but beyond that, who could say what condition he was in? If he checked for a pulse, what would he find? Perhaps that would better remain a mystery.

Feeling fatigue, Duncan slumped to the floor, and set about secreting lockpicks in his boots, and about his person. He remembered Manan's leather packet, and pulled it out to look at it. The old man said not to open it, but-

“Ah, you got it, splendid!†Manan hoisted himself into the cart, shutting the door carefully so it wouldn't lock. “Nothing like a bit of tabac' to stave of the ills of this misbegotten climate. Pass it here.â€

Duncan wasn't sure he heard Manan correctly, but the old man lifted the pouch out of Duncan's hands, and pulled from it a carved stone pipe and a little flint and steel. He set about filling and lighting it.

“Tobacco. You made me risk our lives for that?†Duncan felt too exhausted to get angry.

“Clearly you're not a smoker.†Manan puffed contentedly on his pipe. He seemed inordinately pleased. “Not to worry, not to worry. I got something for you too. Here.†He tossed a Duncan a green bottle.

“And wine. Manan... I'm going to beat you senseless after I get some sleep.â€

“Don't sleep, drink. And look, some jerky! Not sure if it's beef. Probably horse, but with Khajiit you never know... Oh, don't look at me like that. Do you know how much blood you lost? You need to eat. And the wine should do you good, just... drink it slowly.â€

“This... was all for me?â€

Manan flashed his gold tooth, and puffed his pipe. “With the present threat of slavery, you two are my best friends in the world right now.†He looked over at Raurke, and after some hesitation, checked his pulse. He raised his eyebrows, but passed no comment. “Which reminds me, I have some interesting news. First of all, what's her name.â€

“Jayne?â€

“Yeah. It seems that she's been set free. Or at least the guards seem to think so. I heard one say she found a way to pay the Shaman. Personally I'm sceptical, but it could be that he's sent her on an errand for the promise of freedom.â€

“She'll have a plan to free us.â€

“I hope so, because there's no way that they're going to let us go. She comes back, he'll clap her in irons again. This,†he held up his wrist to show the painted slave-mark, “Do you understand what it means?â€

“We're slaves.â€

“We're less than human. In Elsweyr, if you have this mark, you can't buy food, you can't get accommodation, peoples' gaze will just slide off you. We not entitled to equal or honourable treatment. A promise to a slave is no promise.â€

Thinking of no reply, Duncan took a swig of wine, and bit into the jerky. It was horse. Probably horse. “That was the first thing. What else did you find out?â€

“Don't finish that wine, I'll want some too. The second thing is that we've been bought. By the Shaman. Seems he's not a slaver, he just likes the company of his own kind. I thought it was odd that a holy man would get into that kind of work. I assumed he had authority, but everyone just defers to him out of respect. It's the black cat that runs the show.â€

“Could be useful to know, but does that really change anything?â€

Manan shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. One thing though.†his expression became serious. “That shaman is powerful. Far more powerful than I expected. Dealt with that scamp as cool as you like. Nice job with that, by the way.â€

Duncan finished the jerky, and took another swig of wine. He held up the bottle to look at it. “Either I've lost a lot more blood than I thought, or this stuff is strong.â€

“You should get some sleep.â€

Nodding, Duncan lay down on the hard wood floor.

Manan made himself comfortable, looking out of the bars as he finished his pipe. Carefully, he emptied the ashes into a neat pile on the floor.

When he heard Duncan's breathing change, he got up, and picked up the wine bottle to take a swig. He checked to make sure Duncan and Raurke were asleep. Satisfied, he returned to where he had been seated, and pulled two tiny rocks from his boot. One was a chalky white rock about the size of a fingertip, the other, a rich yellow. Cleaning out the bowl of his pipe with a finger, he spat into it, and set about using it like mortar and pestle, grinding the stones into a fine paste. Occasionally he would add some wine, or ash, or, once, with the assistance of their stolen knife, a few drops of his blood. Each time he would hold the pipe up to the moonlight to gauge the colour of its contents.

After an hour or so of this, he seemed satisfied. He had three small lots of paste, one bone-white, one a rich yellow, and one an earthy orange. Prising a large splinter from the floor of the cart, he dipped it into his makeshift palette, and holding up his wrist, began to paint.

When he was done, he carefully cleaned out his pipe, and rubbed away any trace of his activities. He checked again to be certain his two companions were sound asleep, then curled up to sleep, a smirk playing across his lips as he dreamed.

[DarkRider]

Back at the Mill Tavern…

Red was in the stables early, the sun was just starting to wind its way along the high cliff faces and into the little vale where the Mill Tavern sheltered. She finished running a slicker brush over Savior’s coat and lifted her saddle onto his broad back; he trembled beneath her touch in excitement ready to be on the move again already.

“Me too boy,” she said patting his neck. She had hoped for a longer stay in the Mill Tavern with her friends, but upon returning to her room the night before she’d found a rather odd note crammed under her door which read ”I’ll see you in the Imperial City. Red, remember your promise…” It troubled her that her memory could in fact not remember what the note could be beckoning her toward, but she felt compelled to go, and that was enough to take her south.

As she lead Savior out she paused to pat Ghost’s black muzzle as he reached out to her, “When your master gets home, thump him one for me would ya? He’s taking far too long to get back.” Ghost nickered and went back to eating his breakfast. It was then she noticed Flint was also gone from his stall, Carter must have left in the night, and any farewells would remain unspoken between them as usual. But a shadow fell over her that managed to bring a wry smile to her lips.

“I get to squnch ye once before ye go, tha’s the rule,” Grond said with a toothy grin. She gave him a hug and he lifted her up off her feet when he straightened his back, “Take care now.”

Red dropped back to her feet, “You too, staying put for awhile?”

Grond shook his head, “Nah, ye know me, I’m not ready to settle down here just yet, after breakfast I plan to drink me way through all the ale on tap, then get on Mik and take a nap while he picks our next camp,” he laughed heartily at the thought, “go on then, Stendarr mind yer way, I’ll see ye soon lass.”

With that they parted ways, Red mounted Savior and rode down the narrow path toward Dragon’s Bridge and the south folds beyond it as Grond carried another barrel of ale up to the Tavern with a whistle on his lips.

-----------------------------------

In the dark North of Skyrim…

The haggard corpse of Hela’s Folly creaked and resonated with a subtle rhythmic sway on the water as Jayna and Malori carefully navigated the shadowy narrow passes within the ship’s hold. The muted sound of water lapping the decaying wood was the cadence they traveled to, broken only by their footsteps and the occasional shifting of debris sprinkling down onto the plankway; blown asunder by some wintry draft. At first, their descent into darkness was occasionally relieved by a smattering of light and swirling snow through open slats in the hull, but the deeper they pressed, the darker the pitch became until they were consumed by it. At the lowest point of the hull, they found the heavy weighted door to the cargo deck, immersed at an angle beneath several feet of water, visible below the surface only by the heavy chain that ran up to the pulley system in the ceiling by which it could be raised and lowered.

“Should we flip a coin?” Jayna asked dangling the lantern over the pool and finding it did little to penetrate the mire.

“That is not necessary,” Malori said quietly, “I will permit you to proceed.”

Jayna looked at her odd companion with mouth agape for a few minutes before she passed Malori the lantern, “Gee thanks,” she said, slipping out of her cross bow and handing it over. She pulled a few lockpicks from her belt and clamped them between her teeth before wading into the water. Within the sheltered hold it was easy to forget just how cold that water was; it almost burned when it touched her skin. Taking a deep breath Jayn dove under and swam for the door, her arms reaching through utter silence and black hoping to meet the door before the frigid waters drove her breath out.

Fortunately the water was shallower than it had appeared topside and she grabbed the door frame to tether herself before feeling around for the lock. At the front of the door she found a thick metal hoop with a heavy lock wrapped over it but it was hanging loosely, the jaws of the lock unclasped, she could barely make out the shapes as the silted water stung at her eyes. The latch was open, something else was holding the door closed, and her lungs were beginning to ache for a breath. Quickly, Jayn pulled herself around the door frame to the back where the heavy chain was pulled taut in the winch. Tracing her hand down the length of the chain looking for a blockage she suddenly withdrew with a startled gasp that cost her valuable seconds worth of air. She had no choice but to kick back up to the surface for air.

Malori was crouched at the doorway to the lower hold watching for trouble when Jayn’s sputtering drew her attention back into the room.

“Did you get the door open?”

“No,” Jayna gasped, gulping in the musty air greedily, “there’s a hand in the gear, I’ll have to pry it loose but the chain is taut. Can you try to push some slack down from the top pulley?”

Malori nodded, “Yes, yes, but we must go quickly, I don’t think we are alone in here.”

Jayn nodded her understanding before taking a breath and diving with determination back to the jammed winch. She gripped the skeletal hand in her own, trying not to think about the sinewy bits of flesh and tattered cloth dancing in ribbons off the raw bones. She started to pull steadily but it was wedged tight, the chain need only give a fraction to loosen it. With perfect timing, Malori had crossed to the far side of the pool, edging her way across the framing of the hull, to where she could just push on the chain. As soon as she did, the bones ripped free in Jayn’s hand and the heavy door dropped, washing her into the abyss along with the murky water.

“Wha-hah!” her voice echoed distantly in the darkness as she fell.

Malori moved to the now dry portal to peer down into the hull, the lower half of the ship was quite gone, the hull opening into a deep cavern below. She could hear water rushing through the tunnels, but no other sound or sign of movement, “Jayn?” she leaned over the portal, “Jayna Wind-Arc?”

Jayn splashed to the surface to her name, managing to pull herself out of the underground stream and onto the mossy belly of the cavern as Malori called again, “I’m here. Can you find a way-“ her question was cut short as Malori dropped through the trapdoor and landed neatly on the rock beside her, “-down…well…that must come in handy.”

The other woman didn’t respond only stared distantly down the length of the cavern, “There is silence here but…life also,” she said quietly, handing Jayn her equipment as she stood.

Jayna slipped back into the strap on her crossbow and shifted it on her back as she had a look around the cavern for herself. The cavern floors immediately under the trapdoor were littered with broken crates and decayed goods, torn and molding books, bits of cloth, but the cargo was clearly picked over.

“Looks like someone beat us to the take,” she said coolly, “no telling how long ago, but I don’t think we have any choice but to follow this cavern to find a way out, what do you think?’

Malori nodded, “yes…but we must hurry, my Raven…”

“I know,” Jayna supplied the rest, “I’m worried about our friends too.”

-----------------------------------

The smell of salt was becoming more prominent on the icy winds that whipped against the caravan as they continued ambling along toward Broken Oar Grotto. Duncan’s hands were stuffed into his armpits for warmth, but still they felt cold. He knew his teeth were clenched but was trying his best to hide his overall discomfort, scooting further down into his hood. He was used to the long colds, but in Skyrim’s wilderness he could build a fire, or keep moving to stay warm. Trapped in the back of the slaver wagon there was nothing to do except will himself not to freeze.

“We’re stopping again,” Raurke said, breaking the silence of the last few hours.

They didn’t have time to speculate on what was happening as the doors in the back of the wagon swung open. There were three Khajiit standing there. The tallest, silver coated cat climbed into the wagon and grabbed Manan, dragging the old man out where they examined him briefly before pushing him down into the snow, chaining him to the wheel of the wagon. The tawny Khajiit looked at Duncan then Raurke, then back to Duncan. He exchanged a smattering discussion with his red coated companion before motioning for Duncan to come forward. The Imperial eased his way to the end of the wagon and hopped down to stand in front of them. There the tawny cat nodded and prodded at him, checking his eyes, feeling the muscles in his arms and legs like weighing the price of a head of cattle. Finally he nodded, and secured a heavy leather collar around Duncan’s neck, before leading him away by a bit of braided leather.

Duncan cast a glance at Manan as he passed following the Khajiit, but the old man only shook his head in a non-descript fashion and pulled his cloak around himself.

The red cat waved Raurke forward and the Revenant obeyed slowly; they had to bide their time. If Duncan was correct, Jayna had a plan in motion and if she failed, surely Malori was nearby planning another assault herself; they needed to wait for the opportunity to turn the tides in their favor together. The cat fastened a similar collar around Raurke’s neck and led him after Duncan and his handler. He took stock of their surroundings as they crossed the camp. There were more wagons now; it appeared their caravan had met up with one or two other caravans, likely all heading toward the slaver port. They had taken shelter far off the main road in a large clearing of trees and rocky outcroppings; the wagons were positioned to form a perimeter to block the cold and biting winds. Just inside the circle were many tables set up for trading, interconnected by small campfires and groups of Khajiiti warming paws and roasting great hunks of meat. There was an excitement in the air. He became aware of two young Khajiiti, mere children following them, looking up at Raurke and whispering. He contemplated giving them a scare but instead honed in on their words.

“That one looks strong,” one of them whispered, “I bet he lasts the longest.”

Raurke frowned. He had heard of these sorts of gatherings before, rumoring that slavers sometimes pit their chattels against one another for sport, the victor increasing in value with every round he wins, like a prized dog. Seemed the tawny cat had decided to toss his lot in with Duncan and Raurke was the red cat’s fighter.

In the very center of the camp some Khajiiti were busily constructing what could only be the fighting arena, several half buried posts, being tied together with rope to form a ring. There were other Khajiit handlers from other caravans; one with a particularly nasty Orc at the end of a heavy chain. The first match seemed a ways off yet but the camp was abuzz with preparations. The red cat stopped at one of the vendor tables and piled some tasty morsels of food onto a plate, offering it to Raurke roughly and chattering at him in Ta’agra; his meaning was clear enough, he wanted Raurke to eat so he obliged, following as his handler lead him toward a sort of staging area where many of the cats were sizing up the various competitors and planning matches.

Raurke was reunited with Duncan as their handlers passed one another and began discussing the strategy for their team while the blacksmith repaired Duncan’s armor.

The Imperial cast him a sideways glance, “We haven’t been fed so well in days, what in Oblivion is all this?”

Raurke polished off the cooked beef he had been enjoying and shrugged, “Some sort of sport I think, a fight maybe, we’re the players from what I gathered.”

“See this is why you should never buy slaves from Khajiiti, their goods always get to market slightly dented,” Duncan grumbled, allowing his handler to help him back into his newly restored chest plate. He cast a glance over to where Manan was still sitting against the wheel of their wagon; a female Khajiit was offering him food and a blanket so he might be comfortable watching the fights, “Old bastard, enjoy your show,” he growled as his Khajiit handler gave him a tug toward one of the trading tables for a bite to eat, at least if they were killed it’d be on a full stomach.

-----------------------------------

Manan chuckled as he tucked the blanket around himself and began devouring the tasty morsels given to him by one of his hostesses. He’d been a young man the last time he’d seen this spectacle, and in the ring, he was near gleeful at being deemed too old to fight. He would watch Duncan and Raurke fight for the chance to be sold as slaves, and in the meantime, would enjoy the distraction of his captors and work on increasing their chances of escape when the time was right.

[charlescrowe]

The fact that they were merely collared was comforting to Raurke; they'd be allowed atleast some freedom. He cast a glance around for any of the khajiit that had been in his caravan, but found none, perhaps they were off inside the groto itself, buying, dealing, or using skooma. His thoughts were interrupted by Duncan, and Raurke snapped his attention back to the Imperial. "Hmm?"

"I was hoping you could explain what you are." Duncan repeated himself, still eating what appeared to be either beef or venison. "Since we've got a bit of free time to kill."

"I suppose we do..." Raurke sighed. "Would you like the long version, or the short?"

"I'd like the long version..." Duncan said, a dry smile on his face. "If we make it out of this and back to the Tavern. Until then, I would like to know the company I keep/"

Raurke smirked and gave a heartfelt chuckle. "I'm a Breton Spellsword and undead hunter." Raurk'es tone became more serious. "I'm also undead. Somewhere between Lich and Vampire, but neither. Revenant, wretched obsession incarnate." Raurke spat as he uttered that last sentence.

Duncan frowned. "I'm not familiar with undead other than Draugr and Vampires... But I suppose that makes sense. I suppose I can trust you; you didn't kill me." Duncan gave Raurke a friendly slap on the back. "We'll cover the details later.

A shadow loomed over the two as the burly black-furred Khajiit from their caravan examined them. "You, dustman. Fight well. This one has many septims on you."

"Aye, sure. We wouldn't want you running out of coin for skooma, would we?" Raurke spat defiantly. The khajiit balled his fist in anger, pulling it back to strike.

The red Khajiit handler stepped in, wielding a long khajiiti blade and snarling in Ta'agra. Whatever he'd said made the burly black khajiit stomp off back towards the grotto entrance.

[ResolveThatChord]

“Well aren't you two just a pair of choirboys, keeping me company with all these attractions about.â€

The atmosphere was festive; the air was heavy with camp-fire smoke, the spicy scents of exotic cooking mixing with the smell of horse dung and the musky, sweaty smell of the Khajiit. Preliminary entertainment had been pitting the weaker slaves against captured animals. Raurke had just returned from facing a pack of ice wolves, maddened and enraged by spells of illusion. He had lost his spear, but had managed to kill the last two with his bare hands.

Duncan offered him a crust of oily bread which had been dipped in seeds and spices. “Try this, I've never had anything like it!†Noticing Raurke's expression, “That was savage what they made you do. It'll only get worse, so enjoy the small miracles.â€

Raurke accepted the food. Manan chuckled. “I think he's more upset at being lumped in with all the weakest slaves. Don't take it personally, you just look like you've recently died. So, any chance of getting these chains off me? If we're going to try something, now's the time.â€

Duncan fished a lockpick from his boot and set to work, struggling with the finicky mechanism. “This would be easier if you weren't so fat.â€

There was a commotion nearby; the Orc they had seen before had broken his chains, and was sending his captors flying with heavy punches. More caravan guards rushed in to subdue him. “You can fight that one,†Duncan said to Raurke, observing with mild interest.

“No thanks.â€

Finally freed, Manan stood, rubbing the blood back into his joints. “Thank you, that's much better.†He stretched and looked around. “I didn't think there were this many Khajiit in all of Skyrim.â€

Duncan had to agree. There would often be a small group camped outside a hold capital, but never had he seen this many. Khajiit hated the cold, but there were entire families here, cooking at fires, eating and drinking, talking and laughing as they sat around wooden tables. There were more than Khajiit here, though; quite a few Redguards, some Nords, and of course slaves of every stripe.

He felt a twinge of nostalgia; what had happened to all the festivals? As a child he remembered many: bright flags, masks, treats. Games with his little sisters, riding on his back. Then there was the Great War, and suddenly there were no more games. Not even here in Skyrim, so separated from the troubles of the South. Although, he had heard somewhere that in Solitude they were bringing some old traditional festival back.

“You look like there's something on your mind,†said Raurke. Duncan shook his head, gesturing that it was nothing.

Duncan's handler, the tawny Khajiit, approached, looking furious. People were getting up from their tables and heading over to the ring. It seemed that the real fights were starting. Without a word, the tawny cat grabbed Duncan's arm and pushed him towards the ring. Duncan saw the Orc also being pulled, in chains.

The ground had been made into a veritable arena. In a few short hours, the caravanners had dug out a flat circle for the fights, and set up a kind of scaffold around it, which formed seats for the audience. A few opulent tents were erected right at the front row to the action, reminding Duncan of the boxes at an imperial theatre. In one of these boxes, an enormously fat, tabby Khajiit lounged on a pile of purple cushions, idly dipping a claw into a bowl of moon-sugar. He grinned at Duncan, beckoning him closer.

The air was noisy with shouting as the spectators placed their bets, and Duncan had to stand in the cat's tent to hear him.

“You look strong. I bet you'll fetch a high price, if you survive this night.†There was no trace of Elsweyr in the tabby's accent, it could have been a Colovian speaking. “How do you prefer to fight? With your fists?â€

Uncertain of the degree of this Khajiit's authority, Duncan replied curtly, “I fight with two swords.â€

The Tabby nodded lazily. “And light armour. Very well. Well, good luck... They say that no-one bests an Orc.â€

The Orc, still chained, was dragged into the ring. Duncan was spotted by his handler, who promptly approached to drag him to the Black-furred slave master's box. The Black Khajiit looked angry. “Why were you talking to him? Talk to no one.â€

What appeared to be a referee walked out to the centre of the ring, holding up his hands for silence. In a booming voice, he announced: “Ra'Kouro's Imperial slave, against Ra-Gergio's Orc! Ra-Kou-Ro! Ra-Gergio! What manner of fight will this one be?â€

Duncan noted the name Gergio; a very Imperial name. Odd for a Khajiit, to say the least. The Black-furred slave master, apparently named Ra'Kouro, spoke up: “Sword and dagger!â€

The fat tabby replied “Bare claw!â€

A coin was tossed, falling in the fat Gergio's favour. He settled into his cushions, a smug expression on his face. The noise of betting spectators intensified. By contrast, black Ra'Kouro was scowling heavily. He turned to Duncan, and proceeded to rip off his armour and shirt. The Orc was already bare chested.

“Sera, might I offer you a private wager?†Manan had snuck into Gergio's tent, and approached him with an obsequious, bowing posture. Nearby Khajiit looked on with interest.

Gergio eyed him contemptuously. “Slave? How could you have anything to offer. Keep your coin, your master will take it from you if he sees it.â€

“My master is the Black one, and I have no coin. Only a secret. About my master.â€

“A secret?â€

“Aye. A small one. A fifty Septim secret.â€

Gergio licked moon-sugar off his claw, settling his enormous body more comfortably in his nest of velvet cushions. He considered Manan's proposal for a moment, then smiled. “I'll bet twenty Septims against your fifty Septim secret.â€

Manan smiled obligingly. “Done. Who do you wish to bet on?â€

This provoked an incredulous smile. “My Orc of course. You think that pretty Imperial stands a chance? I look forward to hearing your secret.†With this he turned from Manan, clearly indicating he was done talking.

Manan wandered about the crowded scaffolds until he spotted Raurke. He was sitting on a higher beam of the scaffolds, with a good view of the ring. Manan had to awkwardly climb up to sit next to him, panting and wheezing as he pulled himself up.

Raurke regarded him. “How you've survived so long with so little grace perplexes me.â€

Manan harrumphed. “Show some respect for the elderly. What do you reckon our boy's chances are against that brute?â€

“I've seen few people with a right hook as good as Duncan's. And as for your venerability, do I need to remind you that I'm undead? I was old before your granddaddy was born.â€

For some reason this caused Manan to burst out into a fit of chuckles. Nearly falling from the beam, he recovered his balance, wiping his eyes.

Raurke continued. “He's a pro; seems to have good awareness, keeps his head in battle. Don't know much about that Orc, but if he's your typical stronghold outcast, he'll rely on his strength alone. And die rather than yield. Could go either way, but something tells me I'd put my money on Duncan.â€

“Well, the general mood here disagrees with you. The betting is three to one, in the Orc's favour. But they don't know Duncan.†Manan pulled out his smoking pouch, and set about filling his pipe. “I have a plan.â€

Raurke raised his eyebrows.

Manan continued, “We can get free tonight. But to do that, you and Duncan are going to have to win.â€

“Just like that? I didn't know you had so much faith in us.â€

Manan smiled. “Oh, I do, I do. But you'll need to have good odds. They think you're sickly, use that. You're resilient; let them hit you, look like you're losing, and when you win make it look like a fluke.â€

Raurke frowned. “I'll try, but I'm no actor, and you're clearly not a fighter- even a weak opponent shouldn't be underestimated like that.†he noticed a figure in the crowd. “It seems my handler is looking for me.â€

“Better go to him then. We can't be seen scheming; if they think we'll misbehave they'll lock us up again. Go out there and win. Make me rich, and maybe we'll get out of here with our hides.â€

“Make you rich? Can slaves bet?â€

“This one can. Trust me, we'll need some things that are easier bought than stolen.â€

Raurke hesitated. “Alright, I'll go. But you're going to explain this plan to me- before you put it in motion, you hear me? I don't like to be left in the dark.†With that he left.

Betting was closing, and the hubbub was quieting down in anticipation of the first real fight. Duncan was shirtless, but the air was warm from the hanging braziers and the crowd of people. The Orc's handlers removed his chains, and pushed him into the ring. The brute stood tall, carrying an attitude of belligerence and contempt towards his captors.

The referee signalled for the fight to start, to cheers of approval from the crowd. Duncan could see Manan in the crowd, making bets with a pair of Alik'r Redguards. And there was Raurke, sitting as the black-furred slave master spoke to him.

Returning his gaze to the fight, Duncan raised his fists and began to circle his opponent. The Orc stood defiantly, avoiding Duncan's gaze and making no move towards him. The crowd booed at his reluctance, his handlers shouting vile threats.

Duncan lowered his fists and went to talk to the Orc. “I can't fight you if you don't fight back. They'll only make it worse for us if we don't.â€

The Orc nodded, and looked at Duncan apologetically. He hit him.

Duncan's head snapped back. He stepped backwards, lights dancing in his eyes. The Orc looked at him approvingly. “Most people I hit, they don't stay up.â€

Duncan's ears were ringing. “No kidding.†He hit back. Pushing up from the ground, sending force all the way up his body, through his fist, and into the side of the Orc's face. The Orc didn't step back, but he swayed after recovering from the recoil, spitting blood and a tooth into the dirt. Duncan shook his hand, hoping he hadn't sprained it. The Orc let out a low chuckle.

Duncan was ready this time, stepping back and rolling with the punch. He grabbed the Orc's upper arm, and pulled, pushing up from the ground again to drive his head into the Orc's jaw. He followed with an uppercut, sending the Orc sprawling. As he tried to rise, Duncan kicked down, slamming his opponent's face against the ground. This was repeated a few times.

“Yield, damn you!†Duncan was worried that the Orc would push himself until killed. Gergio had stood up from his cushions, and was yelling at the Orc. Face bloody, the Orc turned his head to look Gergio in the eye.

“I yeild.†He said, taking evident satisfaction in Gergio's frustration.

The clamour of the betting spectators rose as the bets were settled. Duncan's handler came and slapped him on the back, and pulled him back to Raurke and the slave master.

Ra'Kouro regarded him with approval. “You have just lost me one thousand septim. I should be lucky to sell you for that much.â€

If Manan was right, Duncan was already sold, but he decided not to mention that. “You shouldn't have bet against me then.â€

“Indeed, it is so. But who could have known that fearsome Orc would be such an embarrassment? But maybe one thousand septims is a good price to see Ma'Gergio so annoyed. Next time, you will win again. But don't stand there as they strike you, that was stupid.†He looked at Raurke. “You, dustman. They think you weak because you are skinny and pale. Let them think that. Win for me, and make me much gold.â€

Raurke scowled. “Why should I do anything for you? The Orc had the right of it.†He expected this to rile the slave master again, but was disappointed. The black cat was actually quite composed, and seemed to be considering his response.

Finally, he spoke. “All things filthy pass through a slave's mouth. One can stop the worst of these things, the gossip, the back-talk, the lies and whimpers. You just cut out the tongue. But, it is a shame...†he sighed. “filth still passes through, and infects the cut. The throat swells, and they die.†He lazily traced a steel-tipped claw along Raurke's neck. “But you would not die, I think. Not if I cut you and cut you and made you wallow in filth. Most Khajiit, they would fear you and burn you, rather than keep you. Not this one. This one sees how you could be useful. To serve on and on, alone in the dark places, where other slaves go mad. But you are so proud, yes? You may be telling yourself, you have nothing more to lose? Trust Ra'Kouro.†He leaned closer. “There is so very much more I can take from you.â€

He stepped back , and waved the red-furred handler over. “See to it he fights.†He left to walk across the ring to his caravan.

-----------------------------------

“No, slave, I do not think so. A promise to a slave is no promise. Keep your wretched secret, and run back to your master.â€

Manan smiled at Gergio. “Of course, sera. But you should know that it's you own fault you lost.â€

Gergio's eyes narrowed further. “Don't test me, slave.â€

“But it's true. You bet twenty gold against a fifty gold secret, against a penniless slave, even though you had three to one odds. Great Ban Daar could surely not resist foiling such arrogance.â€

“Why, you- if you think I'm as superstitious as some of these-†Gergio stopped abruptly, as he noticed the Khajiit about him listening with keen interest.

One spoke up. “Vaba, it is true. It is ill luck indeed to cheat a beggar.â€

Grudgingly, Gergio counted out twenty gold coins, handing them to an attendant to give to Manan. “There, you lucky idiot. Now get out of my sight.â€

Manan was still all smiles. “At once sera. Unless, of course, you think you can win it back?â€

[ResolveThatChord]

So far Raurke had faced four opponents. The first had tripped, and the stumble had broken his arm. Raurke was particularly proud of pulling that off. The second was bribed to yield, a sure sign that Ra'Kouro held serious weight among the caravanners. The third was unfortunately killed; an ex-bandit with some skill at cloak-and-dagger who's handler had thought Raurke an easy opponent. By this point the general opinion was that this pale, gaunt slave possessed some manner of supernatural luck. Now he was being pitted against far more dangerous opponents.

The one-eyed specimen grinning at him from across the ring had been transported, caged, from Morrowind, especially for this event. According to Manan he was tipped to be a finalist. Manan had also warned Raurke that he was a prized knife-fighter, homicidally insane, and it was likely that the referee's coin was loaded. Sure enough, the coin landed showing the arrogant profile of Titus Mede II: the match would be knives. The knife-fighter's grin widened as he selected his preferred weapon. Raurke chose the longest dagger the judges would permit. After a moment's consideration, he made a request to his handler, who fetched him a bandage to tie around his left hand.

A table had been placed in front of Gergio's tent, where the obese imperial Khajiit sat, wearing an expression that was part greed, part bewilderment. Manan also sat at the table, sheets of parchment covered in scrawling notes on the contestants, from the results of their matches to their birthsigns.

“Bet on Ra'Kouro's slave. I'll be placing six hundred septims on him.†Manan handed a heavy pouch to a courier, who went to place the bet.

“Are you sure?†Gergio poured over Manan's notes, brow furrowed. “Knife-fighter, Nord, Three matches to, zero against. He's survived five Gatherings, a feat I've never heard of before. Odds are four to one for him. Your choice seems to have fluked it so far.â€

Manan settled more comfortably into his chair. “You asked me to tip for you, and that's what I'm doing. How much did you lose the last time you ignored my advice?â€

Gergio winced. Last calls were made for bets. He made up his mind. To his courier, he said, “Fine. Five hundred on the pale one... and one hundred on the other.†He looked at Manan defiantly. “But this time, explain. How are you always so sure?â€

Manan sighed. “I told you: Raurke is under the sign of the ritual, which is currently holding court in the heavens. This other fellow is under the Tower, which is waning.â€

Gergio's eyes narrowed. “I don't believe you really buy into that nonsense. You're trying to put me off the truth. It's ridiculous, making me pay a hundred gold for that information.â€

“You'll get it back. And much more, you'll see. Trust my boy, he didn't win four matches by accident.â€

“I had better.†Gergio ponderously twirled the tip of his claw in an ornate bowl of moon-sugar. “You know, I'd happily lose that five hundred to see Ra'Kouro lose. I can't stand that thug. The poor slave would be better off having his throat slashed in this fight than to have him for a master.â€

Manan raised an eyebrow. “You don't say?â€

“Oh yes. Horribly brutal, so I hear. A lot of leaders here would love to see him taken down a peg. If only my Orc had been, well, a real Orc, I might have gained some prestige from beating him. As it is, it looks like both his slaves are going to win him honours, if you're right about this match.â€

Manan listened without comment, stroking his beard.

Meanwhile, Duncan sat with black Ra'Kouro as the two handlers paced nervously.

Ra'Kouro appeared calm, but he was sitting very still, eyeing the two combatants intently. “The coin, it is fake. Ri'Shazr will be betting much on his slave.†he nudged Duncan. “The dustman, can he fight with knives?â€

Duncan shrugged. “Never seen him. I dare say he'd make short work of that Cyclops if he could use destruction magic.†He scratched at the painted runes around his wrist.

“Ha. Magic is not for slaves.†Ra'Kouro's nose caught some scent, and he suddenly stood, bowing shortly, and gestured, offering his seat. Duncan turned to see the shaman standing behind them, a stormy expression contorting the ochre paint on his face.

The Shaman's voice was low, and deadly. He spoke in Ta'agra, and the sound of it reminded Duncan of sabre-cats as they fought.

Ra'Kouro regarded the shaman coolly. He replied in Cyrodiilic, Duncan thought perhaps to make a point of who was in charge. “Yes, you have bought them. They are not yet yours. They will be yours when the ship sets sail, and not before. Now they are mine, and now they will fight. You are a healer. If they are hurt, then fix them. Get the old one to work if you need a slave.â€

The shaman spoke again. One of the handlers excused himself, the other stood looking very worried. Ra'Kouro did not move, and his expression didn't change. The shaman finished whatever it was he had to say, and turned to Duncan. Gripping Duncan's jaw, the shaman inspected his face. He placed his hands over the bruise across Duncan's eye, and he felt the tingling sensation of healing magic. When this was done, the shaman looked Duncan in the eye. “Tell your friend, don't die. Need him.†With this he left to return to his cart.

Raurke stood as he watched his opponent. Both contestants were shirtless. The knife fighter was tanned for a Nord, wiry and muscular, his skin criss-crossed by scars. By Raurke's judgement, some but certainly not all of them were self-inflicted.

The hubbub of the Gathering lessened as the grey-whiskered master of the ceremony stood and announced the match begun. Raurke and his opponent approached one another, beginning to circle.

[the-manta]

Felix awoke in the Hall of Attainment at the College of Winterhold. Odd, since he distinctly remembered going to bed in the tavern. He slowly rose and, after casting his eyes around his familiar bed chamber, stepped out into the entrance hall. So far nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No one was around, but it wasn’t that unusual for his fellow apprentices to be out studying.

A draught across the floor caught his attention, and he noticed a faint whisp of snow flutter into the entry hall, calling his attention immediately to the door. It hung ajar, swaying ever so slightly with the wind, and as Felix watched the handle began to quiver. First slowly, then gradually faster and faster it shook, until it rattled furiously against the door. As he closed his hand around it, the young mage felt the cold metal vibrating still faster, sending an unpleasant tingle up his arm.

For the first time it occurred to him that he didn’t want to see what was behind the door. He knew what it should be, he knew what it had been, but now…

But the cold walls of the Hall of Attainment pressed against his back, and the handle shook so violently that it seemed almost one with his hand. He threw open the door into a roaring cacophony of sounds and images, a thousand swirling shapes screaming, howling and whispering, pressing him from all sides and blinding him with their blackness. A cold, unyielding something slithered around his neck. It felt heavy, so heavy it dragged him down like a horseshoe, down to the floor and into the nothing beyond.

~~~

Felix awoke once more, back where he should be, in a cold sweat. He had not experienced a nightmare of any kind since he left the college, and was now reminded of the full horror of his time there. But no, he reminded himself. Vaermina could not touch him so far from the coven and under his lady’s protection, and the nightmares he had suffered at her hands had been far worse than this one. He rolled over, burying his face in his pillow, and felt a cold sharpness in his chest. Reminded unpleasantly of his dream, he rolled over once more to find a fine chain about his neck.

Feeling his own gulp as he did so, he followed the chain to the source of the coldness, finally recoiling as if he had been burned. Hanging from the chain was the grey metal skull that had been the symbol of his coven at Winterhold.

~~~

It took Felix less than an hour to have everything set for his journey, but he knew it would take much longer to complete it. He had transferred the sinister pendant to his pack, but he could almost feel its presence, gnawing away at the back of his mind. The sooner he could have this done, he thought, the better.

[Jheuloh]

Some days after their initial visit, Akash and Nina were chatting again, Akash telling her "Once I’ve done what I need to do I'm definitely up for a drink." She nodded, and Akash then returned to fill out his immediate duties. Once he had finished with his tasks, Akash bought some ale and visited Nina’s table. After taking a light sip, Akash set his drink down and took a seat facing Nina’s direction. The nord inquired “So, what’s kept you from going off and retrieving your merchant?â€

“Well,†Akash explained, “As I said when we first met, we were off to find a bosmer merchant who’d been captured for ransom. We were hired so as to get him back to Markarth. Their captors are well armed and have encountered us before, so currently Berach, myself, and Glynis are preparing beforehand if peaceful negotiations fail. We were told they were located nearby Dead Men’s Respite.†Nina nodded, and then Akash questioned her in turn “In turn, might I ask you why you have remained in the Tavern? It seems odd for the adventuring type like you to just stay here.â€

Nina shook her head while wearing a light smile, and gave him the un-answer “It’s a long story, maybe if we get to know you and your friends better we could explain.†Akash gave Nina the argonian equivalent of a raised eyebrow and an amused smirk “Ah, so the lot of you are attached to this place. Have I guessed correctly?†Akash uttered, to which Nina replied “Maybe the short answer.†The argonian decided it was time to move on to something else, perhaps now was the time to see if he could convince anyone to join him “So, going back to our rescue mission, I mentioned that the bosmer’s captors had encountered us before. Glynis, Berach, and I fear that if worst comes to worst, we may not be able to save the merchant on our own.†Nina was no longer in a slight slouch, now attentive as to what Akash might say next.

“Might I ask if you’re interested in assisting us? I remember that you’re wary of Glynis, but recall that in the mountains, you demanded proof only achieved through actions. Perhaps our quest would grant you that proof you’re looking for. If you go with us, we’ll divide the pay with you and anyone else who helps us.†Nina furrowed her brows and looked down, then looked up, giving him a dark look for his criticisms. She restrained her temper, and stated “That’ll be something I have to think over.†They both silently agreed perhaps it was time to move on so that their talk wouldn’t die. It was successful, and they continued to talk and ask questions, then Glynis and Berach appeared into the front room of the Tavern briefly.

Eventually, Nina and Akash’s drinking and chatting would come to an end, and Akash went outside to tend to Sigrid. Glynis and Berach had gone out to tend to their horses as well; Akash took this time to talk to his friends about how things went “Well, I may have one person on board with us; Nina, of all people. She’s a wild one though, I don’t know what her decision was, or if she made one at all.†Glynis remained silent but attentive, while Berach spoke up wearing a smirk “Seems like you and Nina are becoming buddies.†Akash wore a ‘maybe’ expression, explaining to him “Maybe, maybe not, she’s a tough one to predict.†Sensing uneasiness in Glynis, Akash shifted the topic to alchemy “So, Berach, do you think you have enough to make what we need and what ‘extras’ might need?â€

The breton answered him with a yes; their talk continued up until they were at the door of the Tavern, which they agreed would be not be where they make plans. Sindri had been with Akash the entire time, and once the trio had reentered the Tavern, the dog went back to the stables, keeping watch for any unlucky small animals to cross paths with him, despite already being fed.

[Xinimator]

Nina sighed, watching Akash walk off to be with his friends. As much fun as it would be to teach a few bandits a lesson, she was still wary of his Altmer friend. She wasn't sure if she was ready to put her life in the hands of the same race that's trying to kill everyone. But perhaps what they said about her is true...?

“Gods, why do you guys have to throw these things at me?†she muttered and slammed her mug onto the table in fustration before leaning back and closing her eyes, her fingers rubbing her temples tenderly. She wasn't that strapped for cash. But she was itched for a nice fight and bandits sounded like an opportunity where she could forsake her bow for once; not like that encounter she had with the draugr.

She shivered at the thought of those dead bodies and quickly pulled herself away from her chair, looking around eagerly for some sort of distraction. Seeing the big chair void of the familiar Nord, she figured Grond must have run off in the dead of night in a drunken stupor and chuckled at the thought. But then again, there went once source of entertainment.

Ugh....Rain's gonna hate me for this... Nina thought, but she knew it was necessary. Rain was starting to look like a mess and if she didn't brush him soon, she would have to be dealing with him bucking her off every time she climbed onto the saddle.

“Hey, your horse supplies are in the stables, right?†she asked the bartender, “Or do you guys need some ID for me to mess with those?†she joked, smirking.

“Plan on stabbing someone, are we?†Balow asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Me? Nah, I'm innocent,†she grinned and shrugged, “Now....I can't say the same for the horse, but if you see blood in the stalls....not my fault. He just hates being cleaned. I can't help that.â€

Balow laughed, “Aye, that sounds familiar....tools are in the stables, aye. I can't say where exactly. The young lass likes to hide that stuff where I can't find them.â€

“Eh, I'll figure it out. Thanks, though,†Nina shrugged and pushed a few septims towards Balow. The bartender grinned and nodded towards her, happily sweeping the coins away to a safe place.

Once outside, she paused for a moment to enjoy the cool breeze that tickled her skin. She always contemplated if it was such a good idea to be this far up north, especially this close to Solitude. But for the most part, she seems to be finding the peace and quiet she's been begging for a while now.

She took a second to enjoy the moment before she sighed and headed towards the stables. It didn't take her long to find the bag of supplies, tucked away neatly behind a bench, and pulled out a couple of brushes and a hoof pick. “Alright, come on Rain...†Nina muttered and turned to face her horse, “Let's make this as nice and painless as possible, hm?â€

Rain snorted and looked at her warily as she approached him. She petted him gently on the flanks to assure him before she began brushing down his body. She tried to be gentle for him, but the burrs were trying very hard to make her life difficult....and succeeding.

“Rain, come on!†she yelled as he slammed his back foot into the wall, not enjoying having the sticklers pulled out of his hide, “Look, it's either I try to get rid of these or I just don't ride you anymore. I'm fine walking! Just don't blame me if you can't scratch your own back, alright?â€

Rain huffed and swished his tail in annoyance, but otherwise did nothing to prevent her from going back in. Muttering something under her breath, she started back on the task at hand before she heard a couple of twigs snap behind her.

She froze, her hand frozen in midair as she tried to listen for the intruder. Several more twigs snapped, and unfamiliar footsteps entered the stables. She frowned and cautiously called out, “Who's there?â€

“I'm only a courier miss,†said the man behind her and Nina turned her head a little to look at him. From what she could tell from the corner of her eyes, he was very scrawny and toting around a large bag that looked a tad too heavy for him. Indeed, he seemed to be leaning severely to his other side to make up for his lack of strength. “I have a letter for a Mrs. .....Nina Alamain, is that how you pronounce it?â€

Nina turned her head around fully so she could look him in the eyes, “A message?†she asked, her eyes narrowing at him. A letter, for her? She didn't think anyone would guess for her to be all the way in the mountains....or even in this exact spot for that matter...

The courier nodded, “Aye, I uh....I don't suppose the lady is staying here?â€

Nina sighed, “Look....for one, it's Miss. Not Mrs. And second....how'd you know where I'd be?†she asked bluntly.

“The lady who gave me the letter said you would be here....or at least somewhere close to here.â€

Who? the question popped into Nina's mind and she asked, “Uh huh....I don't suppose she gave you her name, did she?â€

The courier shook his head and pulled out the letter, holding it out for her to grab, “She just said to get it here as fast as possible. She paid good money to do so too.â€

“She's not a.....noble woman, is she?†Nina asked with a half-groan, seeing no handwriting on the surface of the folded paper.

To her surprise, he shook his head, “Er....no ma'am. In fact....she looked more like an alchemist than a noble woman. Is there a problem?â€

“No....I'll take care of it, thank you,†she said quietly before coughing her throat, “Is there....anything else for me?â€

“No ma'am. You have a good day!†With that, he turned around quickly and rushed back out the door, no doubt he had more packages to deliver. She just hoped the poor thing had a horse and she chuckled gently. Turning her attention back to the letter, she flipped the paper in her hand a couple of times, as if some hidden name would pop out at her, but she knew sooner or later she was going to have to break the wax seal on it.

Rain tilted his head towards her and she shrugged at him, “Well....might as well figure out who knew we were here....gods, I just hope it's not her...†she muttered darkly. She wasn't looking forward to meeting up with either member of her family, or at least those who were left.

Opening the letter, though, left her in surprise and in confusion. There was only one line on the page, written in what looked to be in a haste:

Come to Windhelm. Now.

Nina frowned and flipped the page around, looking for some sort of name, address, or anything to symbolize where the letter could have came from. But coming up with nothing, she was left to staring back at the words with a dark expression on her face.

“'Come to Windhelm'......talk about a deathwish...†she muttered absently to Rain and sighed heavily. She wanted nothing to do with Windhelm anymore, and even if she wanted to, she was sure going there would mean her death in some way.

But the writing....it was so familiar that it left a constricting feeling in her gut that she couldn't shake off. She couldn't remember who it belonged to....but she had a feeling it would be very bad if she just ignored this particular summoning.

Okay....I'm going to Windhelm, I'm sure as heck not doing it alone. Let's see....Red's gone. Grond's wandered off gods know where.... Nina thought as she leaned against the wall of the stable and rubbed her face with her hand, Akash? Dead Man's Respite is nowhere near Windhelm, and I'm not sure if he would want to go to the freezing city anyways....not to mention Glynis... She groaned and slammed the back of her head against the wall, regretting it immediately as a sharp pain radiated from that spot and left her seeing brief stars, “Dammit!†she yelled and clutched her head, “Who sent that damn letter?â€

Her answer was only the sharp huff from Rain and she glanced at him rather sadly before sighing, “Alright....stay here, boy. I have to go tell Akash the bad news. Hope you feel like going home.â€

---------------------

The two of them were trotting down the trail that lead to the main road, her bags filled to burst and bouncing uncomfortably against her back. At least the weather was behaving itself for the most part: sunny skies for what seemed like miles.

But Nina couldn't find it in her to appreciate the fine weather, not at that moment. Her mind wandered over the mysterious letter, and the handwriting in it. She still couldn't figure out who it belonged to...and why this person would be begging her to come back to Windhelm, of all places.

If this woman knew her so well, then surely she must know that it would be dangerous for Nina to go back, right?

Unless that was the woman's intention.

Nina's head started to pound and she bent herself over Rain to press her hands against her forehead, hoping to ease the pain a little. She tried to run it through her mind again: woman, seemed to leave an impression of an alchemist....not a noble woman...

Jeez, how many people do I know who fit that description? Twenty, thirty even? she thought and closed her eyes briefly. The name was on the edge of her mind....it just wasn't willing to come forth when she wanted it to.

Her thoughts were interrupted by distant yelling up ahead, yelling she would have been more than happy to ignore if it hadn't sounded so familiar. Nina tilted her head up to try and look up at the path, straining her ears to listen for the man's voice again.

Is that....the bard from that first night? she wondered and frowned, his name escaping her for the moment. The yelling was becoming more intense, and by the sound of it she figured it was going to escalate into a full blow fight very soon.

“Finally....something I can actually hurt..."

[DarkRider]

Firelight danced in the darkness casting shadows through the deep woods, the flame flicking and crackling in the cold night air from many fires. The atmosphere was thick with smoke from wood and tobacco, laden with spice, and echoing with the formless patter of many voices talking, cheering; there was a clapping of hands and the clinking of coins.

And then there was Raurke.

The revenant was walking into what could only be an arena, the dust and snow blew loosely over his boots as he palmed a long curved knife in one hand. His white face, already darkened by undeath, shrouded in the long shadow cast by his colossal Nordic opponent. Through his eyes arose a mountain of combat hardened flesh and bone, a heavy jagged knife clutched in each muscular scarred hand, one piercing eye narrowing on him; the moment ripe for battle and demanding blood.

The brute threw back his head and made a primal roaring sound before charging at Raurke to the rhythmic stomping from the crowds. Though the ground tremored beneath his feet Raurke remained quite still, his eyes were locked on his opponent, and ever so slowly, his head began to lower in bracing. The Nord thrust one blade low toward Raurke’s belly and the other arced high to come down through his skull, but the Revenant leapt and twisted away between both strikes like a whirlwind and neither hit their mark. Raurke’s hand was instantly on the other man’s collar bone and, using his opponent’s momentum, swung himself around over the Nord’s shoulder and kicked him hard in the chest with both feet, sending both men flying backward; Raurke landed crouched but on his feet while the Nord sprawled onto his back hard and gasping.

The Nord came up to his knees struggling for breath, the crowd drawing silent, a look of confusion etched his face. Slowly his hand moved under his arm and withdrew to reveal dark red blood dripping down his fingertips from a gash Raurke had dealt him in the blur of their brief meeting. It was a death blow, but he wasn’t ready to die just yet. The Nord staggered to his feet and wiped his own blood down one side of his face before stepping again toward his undead assailer; the crowd erupting into wild cheers.

-----------------------------------

"Malori, are you alright?"suddenly Jayn was standing over he, the young woman’s expression was marked with concern, "What is it? What did you see?" she ventured in a harsh whisper; despite an uneventful trek so far, her eyes flitted over the cavern around them watching for danger.

"Fire and blood," the undead elf struggled to slow her own breaths. Had that been a vision? Or a waking dream? She and Raurke had always shared a connection but such vivid glimpses into his mind were rare and frightening for her. Still she found her composure, "I saw my Raven, in battle. There was cheering and coin changing hands."

"A gathering," Jayn groaned inwardly, "no wonder they didn't want to let the others go, they needed them for their banner,” she could have spit for her anger, but instead moved away to re-examine their surroundings. There was no sun down here to judge the passing of time but it felt like they had lost a day wandering the dank passages. The remnants of the Hela’s Folly cargo were fairly distant memories until they had stumbled upon an encampment where several of the sailors, including the first mate had taken shelter once upon a time. According to the first mate’s journal, they had learned too late of their Captain’s intent to destroy his ship and drown them all. They had called the ship cursed and doomed any that trespassed after them to their fate. A few passages described the many winding tunnels in the sunken caverns and the efforts of a crew searching for a way out, but unless the journal was abandoned, a scattering of bones nearby finished the tale grimly.

“We’re running out of time,” Jayn said finally, collecting her things, “we need to get back to the caravan before they reach Broken Oar Grotto.”

Malori was on her feet, “Yes, you’r -,” her voice faded as a strange sound filled the space around them, like a long burst of steam venting somewhere up ahead followed by the skittering sounds of rock being disturbed, “what is that?”

Jayn drew her crossbow and nocked an arrow in the chamber, “I’m not sure we want to find out,” noting Malori had her weapons at the ready Jayn nodded once before leading the way into one of the narrow tunnels ahead.

[charlescrowe]

The Nord's vision was getting fuzzy; the wound in his side was letting blood faster than he realized. He had to cut down his opponent now, or he'd never survive the night. He readied his blades, and charged the Breton, feinting right and bringing about his left hand for a fast and heavy strike. The brute blinked, and felt his blow connect; or so it felt. When he opened his eyes, his vision cleared to see the Breton had caught the blade in his bandaged hand; a black liquid seeping from underneath the linen.

"Do you fear death?" Raurke whispered in the dead tongue, pulling a frightened confirmation from the Nord. "Your name. Give me your name, and I'll provide some small solace before you go to your ancestors."

"Bronwulf. My name is Bronwulf, of Ivarstead." The Nord croaked out, voice raspy and on the verge of death.

"Arkay guide you, Bronwulf, and hearken to your absolution at my call." Raurke spoke softly in the dead tongue, plunging his own dagger into the Nord's neck.

As Raurke made his way out of the Ring, Duncan waved him over. "What was that last bit you said to him?" the Imperial inquired, apparently having heard the exchange. "Just a prayer for a dying man." Raurke lied. There'd be little rest for the wicked in the following days for such a sin. "What's the old man up to?" Raurke spat, spying Manan consulting the hedonistic Ra'Gergio about something.

[ResolveThatChord]

Duncan swung his left arm in a wide arc. His buckler met his opponent's hand, knocking the dagger from his grip. Duncan's opponent stepped back, tripping and falling, as Duncan raised his dagger and assumed an aggressive posture. He could see despair in his enemy's eyes, and he could hear, dimly, the roaring chant of the spectators. He hesitated. What were they chanting? Did they expect him to murder this poor slave? He looked at his downed opponent and cocked his head questioningly. The slave nodded, face flushing with relief.

“Yield! I yield.â€

Duncan had won the semi-final. One more fight to go. The battle over, the world came rushing back to him. Suddenly the noise of the arena was louder, the smell of the pit abruptly sharper. The spectators were still chanting, cheering. As the battle haze dropped from his ears, he finally heard what they were chanting.

“Greyhame! Greyhame! Greyhame!†The call shifted and rolled as it roared across the arena.

So they weren't chanting for him to kill. How did they know his name? In spite of himself, Duncan felt an exultant pride.

Ra'Kouro walked into the ring, standing across from Duncan. He stood for a moment to survey the spectators, then gestured to Duncan. “Come.†He turned to return to his viewing tent. The message couldn't be clearer: The victory belonged to Ra'Kouro. For a moment Duncan felt anger. But it wasn't Ra'Kouro's name they were chanting. Duncan gave a satisfied grimace, and followed after the slave master.

A tall Redguard woman stood in the tent. She was wearing soft, expensive furs, enough gold jewellery to start a mint, and copious quantities of Kohl highlighting her eyes. She looked exotic for Skyrim, to say the least. Raurke was sitting with the two Khajiit handlers.

Upon seeing Duncan enter, the Redguard put her hands on her hips. “So this is the Greyhame finalist! I am not disappointed.†Sauntering up to lean against him, she brought her face close to his. “Even more handsome up close.†Duncan smiled in spite of himself. Stepping back, she turned to Ra'Kouro. “Four thousand.†her voice was businesslike now.

Ra'Kouro seemed slightly miffed at finding a her here uninvited. Nevertheless, he spoke civilly. “Sai Ranya-â€

“Think you can do better? Name your price then. He's perfect.â€

The two handlers gawked at this. Raurke regarded Duncan. “I think she must have hit her head.â€

Ra'Kouro glared at them. “Sai Ranya, I will not be taking offers until after the fights end. They are still competing.†He turned and politely gestured for for her to leave.

Ranya did not look pleased. “And what if he gets cut up or killed? He won't be worth spit to anyone then. Sell him to me. I'll have better use for him than you or any other trainer.â€

The red-furred handler failed to suppress a snigger at this, prompting another glare from Ra'kouro, who remained silent. He gestured again for Ranya to leave, and this time she pouted and nodded assent. First though, she looked Duncan up and down once more, and coming to a decision, pulled a ring from her hand. In it was set a massive ruby, like a faceted drop of blood. Taking Duncan's hand, she slipped it on his little finger.

“You'll win out there for me, won't you? Take this as a token, my... champion.â€

Uncertain how to respond, he remained silent. Duncan couldn't tell whether she was mocking him. Something about her made him believe that she was neither admiring nor benevolent. There was a fierce intensity in her eyes that made him uncomfortable. She was beautiful, though.

A smile played across her lips. “Tell me, is it true you stopped a man's heart with a single punch?â€

Ra'Kouro cleared his throat, a sound that was almost like a growl. Still smiling, She turned from Duncan and left.

As she left the tent, she remarked to Ra'Kouro, “Be a gentleman and don't take that ring off him. I'll buy him yet, if he lives.â€

“And stays pretty.†Muttered the red-furred Khajiit.

Ra'kouro sat in his chair, resting his chin on his hand as he surveyed the arena. “Four thousand... I must find a way to buy these two back...†He seemed to reach a decision, and stood up, gesturing to the two handlers. “You and you. Come. And next time be silent, or I will have your eyes.†To Raurke and Duncan he said, “You two, stay here and watch the next fight. Learn of your enemies.â€

With that he left, the two handlers following.

No sooner had they left when the tent's back flap lifted, Manan ducking inside. He knocked the dust off his coats, grinning idiotically.

“Greyhame champion! Sounds good doesn't it?†shuffling over to the table, he helped himself to Ra'Kouro's wine. “An undefeatable fighter. Kicked from the Legion in disgrace for saving the little daughter of a Stormcloak rebel. Once stopped a man's heart by striking his chest: a technique long lost to the whispering claw.†He raised his cup in a mock toast. “Stopped a few ladies' hearts too, I'll bet! Everyone expects you to win. Not only that, but they love you! And I see Bloody Ranya's taken a shine to you. Let's see that ring then.â€

Duncan was bemused, but obliged, holding his hand out for Manan to inspect it.

Raurke frowned. Arms folded, he seemed aggravated. “They can't possibly believe all that. If you're going to spread rumours, at least make them plausible.†To Duncan, “And don't get a big head. You still look ugly from where I'm sitting.â€

“Ha!â€

Duncan tried to look at the ring over Manan's head. “You look pleased. Been winning then?â€

“Like you wouldn't believe. These chieftain cats are loaded. Especially that Gergio.†Manan pulled a jeweller's loupe from one of his pockets, screwing it into his eye socket to get a better look at the ruby. “I've been shopping. I've managed to buy back most of our possessions, plus some rather unique finds. They say that anything can be found at the Gathering, if you have the coin.â€

“Like what?â€

“Ooh, like maps of Akavir. Not originals, but very accurate reproductions of those from Uriel the Fifth's invasion. I love maps. Also some real Argonian jewellery for Black Marsh, some of those paints that Shaman uses, and,†here he couldn't help smiling a thin, wicked smile, “Have you ever heard of langourwine?†he pulled a tiny phial from another pocket. It's contents were as clear as water, and it was labelled with nothing but a picture of a black apple. “Poison. Untraceable. Nearly impossible to mix, and it takes months in the right conditions. No? It was also called the sleeping death... It's the one from those stories about the two lovers. You know. And the one with the Night Mother and the sleeping princess-â€

“Enough!†Raurke stood, glaring down at Manan. “We're risking our lives out there, harming innocent slaves, while you waste time with these... frivolities and gambling! What of the plan you said you have?â€

Manan looked uncomfortable. Returning the loupe to his pocket, he said to Duncan, “The ring's fine. Thought it might hold another spell of enslavement, knowing Ranya. I'd keep it on if I were you. She's the kind of woman who can open a lot of doors-â€

“Manan!†Raurke's patience was over. “What are you hiding? I've been fighting because you said it could free us, not to satisfy your vices!â€

Sighing, Manan spoke, not looking Raurke in the eye. “Well... there's something, but you're not going to like it. I... I didn't expect you both to do so damn well in the arena.â€

Duncan exchanged a glance with Raurke. “What do you mean?â€

Manan was silent for a short while, clearly trying to put something into words. “Well, you see... There's this old tradition of the Gathering. The grand champion has a chance at freedom, but I'll have to be convincing enough.†He rubbed his neck nervously. “Thing is see, well, I can only get one of you free that way. There's only one champion. The other... will have to wait.â€

Duncan did not like the sound of this. “Does this mean I'm going to have to fight him?†he pointed his thumb at Raurke.

“I haven't won the semi-final yet.†Raurke began pacing. “What about you, Manan? How are you going to free yourself? Surely slaves can't buy their own freedom, if everything they own belongs to their masters.â€

“Never mind about me. I'll be fine.â€

“I wasn't asking out of concern.†Raurke stopped pacing and looked at Manan. “Something tells me you've already found a way to secure your own freedom. So who's it going to be? Who goes free, and who waits for rescue?â€

Duncan shook his head. “We don't need to go there now.â€

“Are you enjoying yourself so much you've forgotten the position we're in? We're nearly out of time. It's not going to be easy for either of us to escape if we're on a slow boat to Elsweyr. It'll be even harder for us in the Dominion territories.â€

Manan excused himself, “Well, I'll let you two sort it out between yourselves. I've got to get to work now for either of you to get free.†He ducked out of the tent, again via the back flap.

"Bastard."

For a while the two were silent. Both stared out at the two fighters in the pit, Duncan sitting at the table, Raurke standing. The roaring cheers of the crowd grew and shifted around them as two slaves fought for their lives, and for the glory and wealth of men with no honour.

The night was at it's darkest. Soon the rays of dawn would illuminate the Gathering, but for now an insidious chill stood in the air and bit into the lungs, despite the warmth of the crowds and fires. Torchbugs danced between the trees outside the encampment as little pinpricks of golden light, and to the North the sea stretched out, a black plain reaching to the night's horizon.

Duncan broke the silence. “I'll come back and set you free.†Raurke took his gaze from the fight and regarded him. Duncan continued; “If I win, that is. These people will take nothing from me. And I don't abandon my friends.â€

Raurke exhaled. Some tension seemed to leave him. “Likewise, my friend.†He smiled for the first time in what felt for a long time. “But you won't win.â€

Duncan smiled at this too. “We'll see.â€

Out on the pit, one slave's weapon was knocked from his hand. His opponent killed him without hesitation. The crowd roared. Ra'kouro returned and fetched Raurke. He headed out to take his place in the second-last fight of the Gathering.

As a soldier, Duncan had trained hard. He had trained to serve, and had proven himself competent time and again, but never before tonight had he had such confirmation of his abilities. He was a realist, and never had he imagined that he could fight, and win, as he had tonight. When the crowd had chanted his name, he had felt invincible. But an opponent like Raurke was another story. He had no idea of the scope of Raurke's strength, or of the dark power that he struggled to suppress daily.

Duncan watched Raurke enter the ring, facing his challenger. Somehow Duncan knew that Raurke wouldn't lose this one. He felt a sense of inevitability that he would face Raurke in the pit, and couldn't honestly say if he would emerge the victor.

He looked down at his hands. Smiling grimly, he clenched them. At least he knew one thing: he owed it to himself to try.

[Xinimator]

“No, no....stop. Just stop,†Felix sighed heavily and leaned his head against his hand, absently rubbing away the headache that was threatening to take over.

“Gods, what's wrong this time?†the young man asked sarcastically, glaring at Felix, “Lemme guess, wrong pitch? Too rough? Or perhaps I missed yet another set of words?â€

Though Felix wouldn't like to admit it so bluntly, the singing was definitely the weakest point in this aspiring bard. Being in no mood for company from his latest worries, he tried to pass by the wandering merchant along the road and hoped he wouldn't strike a conversation with him. But alas, the merchant didn't have to. His horrendous singing was like nails on rough glass to Felix and, being the kind, gentle person he was, he couldn't help but at least try to teach the man something.

Obviously, that was a mistake.

“It's.....you were okay, that time,†Felix mumbled, hoping the bard wouldn't see past that white lie, “it's just the wording. That's an old song you're trying to sing, probably as old as the Great Dragon war itself. I know some of the lyrics doesn't make any sense, but if you keep trying to flip the words around like you are doing right now, the whole meaning of the song could be destroyed. Does that make any sense?â€

“No, that really doesn't,†the man muttered and frowned at him, “What does it matter how the words are arranged?â€

“Ugh....look, it's a very simple concept,†Felix said impatiently, “You're changing the meaning of the song and confusing everyone. Trust me, bards confusing noblemen doesn't end very well for said bard.â€

“Well, exactly! As you said, confusing them is not very productive, so the last thing you wanna do is start spewing out what sounds like nonsense, right?â€

“Nonsense....?â€

“'Now sooth I say of what first I saw as I passed to the world of pain...',†he sang and Felix winced again. He was about to open his mouth to try to interrupt him when a feminine voice said behind him, “Oh for Sheogorath's sake, will you shut up already?!â€

“What?†the merchant said surprised and both of the men turned around to face the newcomer riding up to them. She had a very tired look about her, but that apparently didn't stop her from giving the merchant a rather venomous glare, “Shut up? How dare you--?†he started.

“Oh? How dare I? I'm sorry, but I could have sworn back there that you were some sick dragon trying to kill the poor guy over here. Did I mention it was a sick dragon?â€

“Sick dragon?†the merchant looked at her, rather offended, “I will have you know that I am one of the best bards in all of Cyrodiil, much more than what you barbarians can do!â€

“Really?†Nina said with a chuckled and rolled her eyes, “Barbarian? Me? You know, I've heard better insults from drunkards. Calling me a barbarian is more like a compliment, if anything.â€

“And I suppose you can do better?â€

“Not in the mood.â€

“Ha!â€

Nina glowered at him, which made him flinch, “I. Am not. Singing. Not for you, or anyone else. In case you haven't noticed, I am not in a very good mood at the moment. So with that said: tick me off even just a little and I may just kill you to spare myself the headache.â€

“Woah, wait a minute!†Felix said quickly and guided his horse in front of hers to confront her, “You are not seriously considering--â€

“If he keeps singing, I will!†she yelled and leaned over to glare at the merchant behind him, “Out of mercy, at the very least.â€

“M-Mercy?!†the man stammered.

“Mercy for everyone else. No one should have to endure that pathetic voice of yours.â€

“I can sing! Y-You just do not appreciate the innovative style I have created!†he said and crossed his arms, holding his chin up rather haughtily. This only annoyed her more, however.

“You are kidding, right? 'Innovative style'? Is that an excuse for 'can't sing worth a cow's behind? What, did standards fall that much ever since Meche or Meda or whoever's that guy take over?â€

“It's Mede. Emperor Titus Mede the second,†the merchant mumbled, staring at her in shock, “By the Eight, woman, shame on you! Have you no respect for the Emperor? Of Tamriel?â€

“Not ever since he gave up nearly the whole continent to those knife-eared bastards.â€

“Gods....you're parents must be ashamed of you. Ashamed!â€

“Parents? Ashamed? Ha!†Nina exclaimed and smirked, “I was been raised by mutts. Smelly, nasty ol' mutts in an abandoned farm. Whereas you, I don't know who the heck raised you, but I bet they are turning over in their graves just hearing your voice every time you open that hole of yours. Come on, a land dreugh can sing better than you! And the ironic thing is....they can't sing! Go figure. Hey, ya know, if it's any comfort....our famous Orc-bard is better at singing than you are. Just to let ya know.â€

“That's enough!†Felix growled.

“Hey, hold on, I'm not done yet,†she said and looked at him, “You wanna lecture me afterwards? Fine. At least let me vent on what little I am allowed, will ya?â€

“You are going to let her continue to harrass me?†the man asked Felix, affronted.

“If he still wants his skin, he will,†she growled warningly.

“You can't--†the man was interrupted with Nina growled annoyed and pulled out her knife, waving it in front of his face, “Last warning, bud. Start singing again, and I'll cut out your tongue. Try to sing after that, and more....sensitive parts go flying. Got it?â€

He clamped his mouth shut and nodded quickly, eyeing that knife as if it was going to attack him at any moment. “Good,†Nina smiled and patted his cheek, “Now you can lecture me....well, after we get away from giant Big-Nose over here.â€

“Was that really necessary, Nina?†he asked when the two finally parted ways with the merchant.

She couldn't help but chuckle, “What? And you're telling me trying to teach that guy how to sing was a better idea?â€

Felix shrugged, “I dunno, I guess I felt bad. I tried to give him a few pointers, but he just wouldn't listen to me.â€

“Yeah...that was apparent by all the screaming...â€

“Really? I thought it was his singing. …..Did he really sound like a sick dragon?â€

“What? It didn't to you?!â€

“More like scraping nails against a window.â€

Nina thought for a moment and shrugged, “.....that might be a little kind, for him anyway. Okay, maybe not a sick dragon, but I thought you were being mauled alive back there. Literally.â€

Felix raised an eyebrow at her, “And....you decide to come and try to help me?â€

“Sorry, Felix, but I kinda liked your performance back at the tavern a little too much just to let you fend for yourself, ya know?†When Felix only shrugged, Nina frowned a little at him and tilted her head, “...what?â€

“I'm fine!†he said just a little too quickly and shook his head, earning him an odd look from her, “I am. Really. I'm just tired, is all....â€

“Tired, pale, and you look like you're going to throw up,†she chuckled, and it was Felix's turn to stare at her, “Wow....was his singing that bad? Maybe they should enlist him in the army instead. The Ultimate Shout: Ear Bleeding! Hey, a distraction, if nothing else, right?†she snickered and slapped Felix on his back. Only he didn't laugh back.

“Agh....Alright, I know we're both not in such good moods today, but this is kinda pathetic. What's with the Mr. Moody act, buddy?†she asked and nudged him, “What? Did someone slip a vampire into your bed or something?â€

Felix paled even more at the mention of a vampire and Nina winced, “Oh.......wrong thing to say, eh?â€

“I'm just not.....very fond of....undead....†he said carefully, not looking at her.

“Well, you know what? You're not the only one either. Especially those that can't seem to stay down,†she muttered, rubbing her wrist where that draugr had been holding her. She shook her head quickly and looked back to Felix, “Sorry, man.â€

“It's alright.â€

She let her gaze settle on the bard for a few more moments before she decided to try to find another topic to distract the two of them, only to notice his bags threatening to burst with furs, “....jeez, what'd you pack in there, a family of bears?â€

Felix looked at her and noticed where she was staring, “Close enough to it, I think. There may be a pack of wolves in there if you dig deep enough.â€

“Pack of..... where in Oblivion are you heading to? Solstheim?â€

Felix gave off a quiet chuckle, “No.....but it is cold up there where I'm heading....â€

“Cold......as in Windhelm cold?†she asked, straightening up on her saddle as she thought of something.

Felix shrugged, “Erm....may I ask why?†he asked, looking at her with a frown.

“Because I have a proposal to make you,†Nina said, “Look, it looks as if we're both going in the same general direction. So....how about we just ride together for the journey until we have to part? Trust me, frost trolls up there....not the little buggers you wanna be fighting with alone. Even if you are a mage...â€

Felix's ears perked up as he heard the tone she used when she said “mage†and looked at her, “How'd you know I was a mage?†he had to ask first.

“You just give off that vibe. Plus, you have a dagger for a weapon and you're wearing robes.â€

“But....you wear robes too!†he said, smiling and pointing at her apparel.

“Ya? I also got leather, buddy,†she smiled back and lifted up her shirt to reveal her armor, “And a bow. These clothes just cover up the ugly stuff.â€

“Uh huh.....†he nodded and tilted his head, “And....something tells me you're not very fond of mages, are you?â€

“And what makes you say that?â€

“You just give off that vibe,†he smirked, “Plus....that wasn't a particularly cheerful tone you used when you said 'mage'.â€

“Don't look at me like that,†Nina muttered, “Look, I'm just not very fond of this magic, in fact I'm better off just without them. But I'm not going to be a jerk about it. Just....don't blow me up. I've already had enough of that for one lifetime, thank you very much.â€

“I'll try not to hurt you then....so long as you don't start jumping in front of my fireballs,†he chuckled.

“Oh trust me....I am going to be staying as far away from you if you start shooting those things. Now, with that in the air and done with....what do you say? Wanna just tag-team until we hit Winterhold province? I'll behave! Erm....for the most part.â€

Felix shrugged, “I'll....think about it. Alright?â€

Nina nodded, “Eh, alright. No, I won't threaten to kill you if you decide you can't handle some psycho like me,†she laughed.

“Now you tell me you're a psycho...?â€

“Oh, you didn't catch that vibe either? I could've sworn it was so obvious, especially back there with the elf-lover.....speaking of which, what song were you trying to teach the guy, anyways? You got me kinda curious...â€

“...Now sooth I say of what first I saw

 as I passed to the world of pain:

with singed wing birds—souls they were—

flew there as many as midges.

From the East saw I the Black dragon fly—

he lighted on Akatash's path;

his wings he shook so that far and wide

were heaved up Aetherius and Oblivion.

Lorkhan saw I, from the South faring—

he tethered the two together;

with his feet standing steadfast on earth,

his horns touching very heaven.

From the North there came kinsmen riding—

seven saw I of them:

out of full beakers pure beer they quaffed

from out of Kyne’s burn.

The wind ceased, the water stopped;

  then heard I dreadful din unfaithful wives or their wicked lovers

    ground there mould for meat.....â€

Edited May 16, 2012 by Xinimator

[charlescrowe]

Raurke's next opponent was a Redguard, and going by the man's walk, had been a sailor of sorts until recently. Ra'Gergio had, not surprisingly, won the coin toss and both men were given cutlasses. Raurke smiled; here was a fight in which he'd be comfortable. The two crossed swords, and wasted little time; neither would yield having made it this far. Raurke had the advantage, his opponent having just come from the previous fight. The man fought fiercely, regardless of his physical condition. No doubt the result of a hardy life at sea. They cut and parried relentlessy, both scoring small cuts, but a well-timed feint and dodge sent the Redguard forward, off balance. Raurke batted the man's cutlass away, pinning it to the ground with his foot and pressed his blade to his opponent's neck. "Do you yield?"

The Redguard was taken aback; he'd given no mercy until now, and mercy was the last thing he expected to receive. All around them, the spectators booed and hissed. Blood lust clearly had taken hold of the various cats. He looked towards the small, tawny khajiit who'd captured him, and recieved a glower of disappointment. "No, I'll not yield yet!" His final view was the look of sorrow and pity on the Breton's face as his sword ran across his neck.

[ResolveThatChord]

Manan sat with Gergio at the table covered in pages of Manan's notes and calculations. A Khajiit in a robe and turban had been brought before them, and he was glancing about himself nervously.

Gergio tried to put him at ease. “Please, relax. You are amongst friends.†The robed Khajiit did not look convinced, so Gergio got to business. “We merely heard, which is to say, it came to our attention...†He looked to Manan, who nodded and made an encouraging gesture. “...That you personally overheard a certain conversation between the chief Ra'Kouro and his slave, the fighter Greyhame.â€

The robed Khajiit was poker-faced.

Gergio had built up some momentum now, and continued, “We wish to know... if you know whether he made any demands of his slave to... guide the events of the final fight.â€

The robed Khajiit regarded them mistrustfully from under his turban. “This one knows much. Tells some.â€

Manan sighed, and tossed him a pouch of gold. “Did Ra'Kouro command Greyhame to take a fall?â€

Gergio winced at Manan's frankness, but the robed Khajiit nodded clearly, pocketing the pelf.

“Thank you. That would be all.â€

Gergio turned excitedly to Manan as the Khajiit sauntered off. “So this is it then! Shame that either way, Ra'Kouro wins. Still, how perfect- We'll be rich as emperors.†He summoned a courier. “All or nothing on the pale one. Twelve thousand, six hundred septims.â€

Manan stretched his arms, and leaned back in his chair. “Money in the bank. It's been a pleasure, sai Gergio.â€

“Yes. listen, Manan, who is your master?â€

Manan seemed surprised by this question. “Didn't I already tell you? Why do you ask?â€

“I want to buy you. Whoever your master is, surely he doesn't appreciate your talents as I do. I can put you to work we're you'll be comfortable, in your element. Also, let's not forget that the thousands of septims you've made tonight technically belong to your master. If we keep it under our hats, that can transfer to me when I buy you, and you won't have to lose it all.â€

Manan couldn't help looking bemused. “I, ah... Thank you, I suppose, for the... gesture, but I'm afraid I'll have to refuse.â€

Gergio was taken aback. “You do realise that you don't get a say in the matter? Surely employment under me is preferable to the plantations. What kind of work does your master put you to? Don't tell me it's that Ranya woman?â€

Manan stood. “I'll be placing my own bet now. I'm going to try to find a closer seat to watch the match.â€

Gergio twisted in his seat to speak to Manan as he walked away. “Who do you think would win, if it weren't for Ra'Kouro?â€

Manan pondered this for a moment, then shrugged. “Does it matter? The match is thrown.â€

“I suppose so.†Gergio settled back into his seat, humming to himself, and helped himself to another pinch of moon-sugar.

The final round was bare-fist fighting. Almost every attendee at the Gathering was present to watch it; stalls were closed, meals were hastily finished, and skooma pipes lay unattended in the grotto as their owners braved the pre-dawn chill to watch the highlight of the event. Duncan, standing in the blood-splattered dirt, rubbed his arms vigorously; the chill was starting to get to him. Raurke was also shirtless, but seemed unfazed by the cold.

After Raurke had won the semi-final, the grey-whiskered Master of Ceremonies had brought him to a separate tent so that Ra'Kouro would be unable to communicate with him; a mostly symbolic gesture that the match would be fair. Duncan had also been fetched, but not before Ra'kouro had privately said some words. Now that they were both in the ring, they had a brief opportunity to talk as the betting closed. They approached one another, meeting in the centre of the arena.

Duncan spoke first. “Seems Ra'Kouro's betting on you. He told me to lose. And he'd free me as a reward.â€

Raurke nodded. “That would be convenient. Ra'Kouro frees you, Manan talks them into freeing me. Everybody wins. Do you believe him?â€

Duncan's smile was humourless. “Not for a second.â€

The Master of Ceremonies announced the betting closed, and the hubbub and shouts of the spectators gradually subsided. Raurke took a breath, and exhaled deeply as he turned his gaze to look around the arena. It was packed, but he spied Manan, who had somehow squeezed himself into the very front row. Manan gave a grin and waved his right hand, his gold tooth glinting as it caught the firelight.

Raurke returned his gaze to Duncan. “So.â€

“So. We're doing this. Fancy your luck?â€

“Ha. Pay attention and you might learn a thing or two.â€

They were called to take their positions on opposite sides of the ring. Duncan jogged on the spot to bring warmth back into his limbs. He could see Ra'kouro in his viewing tent, leaning with his hands on his table, watching intently. Behind Duncan, Gergio sat at ease, once again on his pile of purple velvet cushions, grinning smugly and chuckling to himself. Manan sat stiffly at the front row, fists half-clenched, smiling nervously. And across from Duncan, Raurke stood ready. Knees bent, he flexed his fingers, a look of unassailable confidence in his eyes. Slowly at first, then rapidly, the noise of the crowd grew into a deafening roar. Different chants were taken up at every quarter of the arena, combining into a muddled cacophony, though Duncan thought he could hear “Greyhame†from every direction.

The Master of Ceremonies stood, signalling the match begun. The roar of the audience reached it's climax. Duncan and Raurke began to advance to the centre of the ring, slowly circling each other.

[ResolveThatChord]

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?â€

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.â€

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.â€

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!â€

“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.â€

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?â€

“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.â€

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-â€

“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?â€

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.â€

“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!â€

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.â€

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?â€

The handler shrugged, gesturing to Duncan. “They say this one can stop a man's heart by striking him.â€

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!â€

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...â€

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.â€

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?â€

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!â€

For the first time, Ra'Kouro really looked at Manan. Then he burst into laughter.

Gergio was getting his second wind. “How dare you-â€

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.â€

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.â€

Rakouro turned to look at the handler, who shook his head. “I think not, slave.â€

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!â€

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.â€

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!â€

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.â€

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.â€

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...â€

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.â€

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.â€

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?â€

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-â€

“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.â€

“No. Get a hold of yourself, Duncan. He can't harm us any more.â€

“I'm fine.†Duncan hesitated, then sheathed his sword. “Raurke, is he...â€

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.â€

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?â€

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. â€

“This one does not think it is so. What of your hand?â€

“This?†Manan held up his palm, the paint on it still wet. “It's in reverse.â€

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?â€

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.â€

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.â€

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.â€

Manan bowed. “Thank you. Warm sands, Dro'Rasha.â€

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.â€

“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.â€

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.â€

Duncan patted his breast pocket. “No need to mother me. You seem like you've got something to say, what is it?â€

“Well, just that... I'm sorry. I thought I had things under control, but... Well, I was wrong.â€

“It's nothing. We've made it through.â€

“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...â€

Duncan waved his hand. “You can pay me back later.â€

“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?â€

“Give it away, I suppose. Not for free though.†Manan stared into the middle distance. “Have you heard of the Gathering before?â€

“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.â€

“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.â€

“Caravans don't stay in business by being secret.â€

“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.â€

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.â€

“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.â€

“You too, Greyhame champion.â€

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.

Edited May 17, 2012 by ResolveThatChord

[the-manta]

Felix could feel the thick dark cloud of despair billowing about his ears, the weight of his worries and fears seeming almost to press him down into the saddle. The world seemed to have been painted with a charcoal tint, grey sky, grey earth, grey trees. Felix sighed and dug his nails into the reigns, pangs of worry and doubt…

“Hold up, who are these clowns?†came Nina’s strident voice.

His air of melancholy irrevocably shattered, Felix looked up.

“Clowns?â€

At the other end of the twisting road, the dull clank of steel boots turned Felix’s stomach. Three grey-robed figures were making their way towards them with more determination than the mage was comfortable with, silver gleaming at their belts.

“Perhaps we should go the other way…†he timidly suggested.

“The ‘other way’ is, what, a mile back?†Nina replied.

The Breton swallowed a lump in his throat. With every step the robed men took his apprehension grew. The weight of their footfalls, the set of their shoulders, the look in their eyes.

“Halt, in the name of Stendarrâ€

Nina sighed audibly as the pair reigned in their horses.

“Are you the mage Felix Rosaire, formerly of Solitude and Winterhold?†demanded the lead Vigilant.

Felix answered in the affirmative, now confident of where this was going. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Nina slip her feet out of the stirrups and flex her index finger.

“We request that you submit to Stendarr’s justice in his hall, or by our handâ€

Felix nodded and, hands above his head, slid from the saddle.

“Submit to Stendarr’s justice?†Nina was incredulous.

“Indeed, for trafficking with daedra and consorting with their sectsâ€

“Hey look, I don’t know who you are… Vigilants I guess, but…â€

“We have no business with you, girl, unless you wish to be punished with your friend.â€

Nina’s look of indignation told Felix he didn’t have much time. His polite suggestion that the Vigilants leave peacefully was met with a stony stare, and for a brief moment, a familiar tense glance passed around the circle.

The Vigilants were first to draw, their maces and swords flashing silver, but they made the mistake of assuming a show of strength would be sufficient. The talkative Vigilant received an arrow in the forehead before his mace was raised; Nina’s brand of vengeance. Felix sent Tallow galloping into the undergrowth before filling his hands with lightning.

Edited May 24, 2012 by the-manta

[DarkRider]

-----------------------------------

Muscles still aching from the night’s events, Duncan was grateful when the landscape swept under a rocky outcropping and offered him enough shelter from any prying eyes to set Raurke down. He winced when the revenant collided with the hard earth rather unceremoniously.

“Sorry about that old man,” Duncan said a bit haggardly over his panting breaths as he knelt beside Raurke, grasped him by the shoulders, and shifted him up to recline against a rotted log that was overgrown with fine moss. He rummaged in his satchel and withdrew the vial of curative Manan had given him. For a moment he rolled it over in his hand, watching the sunlight glint off the colored glass, pondering what it may truly contain knowing Manan. He jammed the cork between his teeth and pulled it loose before tipping the contents into Raurke’s mouth, and then he sat back on his heels to wait. Long minutes passed and overhead the sunlight was beginning to dim; the sky clouding suddenly as the weather often turned in Skyrim.

“Raurke?” Duncan leaned in to check for any signs of life. How long was this cure supposed to take to restore him? The wind began to whip up in the trees in generous gusts and Duncan shivered, “We’re going to need a fire I think. I’ll be back,” he promised before leaving Raurke’s side. He didn’t want to leave the unconscious man alone, but if the Nordic gods decided to drop a snow storm, they would both freeze to death.

Stealing a glace back at Raurke, he palmed a small axe from the gear Manan had managed to barter for them and headed deeper into the woods.

-----------------------------------

In a none too far away seaside cavern…

“Come now, lads, we can still work something out can’t we? Yah?” a rather unclad young Imperial asked as he was shoved, hands bound behind his back into a rusted hanging cage, “This is just a big misunderstanding. Hron? Leiffan?”

Hron Helm-Bringer, a dark mountain of a man, snorted, “Tell that to me daughter.”

The Imperial moved to the bars, “Listen to me Hron,” he said in earnest, “I didn't know she was your daughter. If I had, I swear I'd have kept my hands completely off.”

“Isn’t yer hands that got ye into trouble, Jack,” the old man growled as he locked a heavy chain around the cage gate.

Jack smirked, “Well actually, you'd be surprised by the trouble my hands can get me into.”

The two Nords exchanged an annoyed look and the second man Leiffan pushed the cage toward the edge of a black chasm where several other cages hung bearing bones.

Panic began to mount, “No, no, no listen to me now,” Jack pleaded desperately, “You still need a scout to get you through the pass and onto Windhelm, you're putting your entire caravan at risk of freezing out there and for what? It’s not like I deflowered her!”

Hron eyed him darkly before stalking away, “Stendarr have mercy on ye, if he feel so inclined,” he muttered as he left the cavern.

Leiffan resumed pushing the cage toward the chasm’s edge along a long wooden plank way, “Ye should have stayed in Cyrodiil Imperial,” he said evenly, “we’ve had our fill of ye Imperial pigs…burning ar lands… raping ar women…killin everything that’s Nord in Skyrim. Believe me Jack, no one’s gonna sing a sad song for one,” he grunted, “…less,” he paused to wipe his brow, “…scavenger from the Empire,” he finished giving Jack’s cage a kick into the chasm.

As he dropped through the darkness, Jack’s knees buckled and he fell to the bottom of the cage. His hands managed to find the bars and gripped tight, his eyes closed, and quiet prayers escaping his lips were all that prevented him from screaming. Suddenly the cage reached the length of its chain and jerked violently as it came to an abrupt stop. His body was tossed about as it bounced but soon the cage was swaying gently and he groaned as he unpeeled his aching fingers from the bars. He rolled onto his back and managed to pull his hands to the front. Bound though they were and still quite trapped at least he was slightly more comfortable. The pit was dark, but slowly his eyes began to adjust to the low light. The chasm walls were wet and slick, the rocks below him were too, littered with bones, and the remains of a few iron cages. There was a heavy, echoing clatter nearby as a bundle of his personal effects collided with the hard cavern floor somewhere out of sight.

He pulled himself up to sit with his back against the bars, “Well Jack,” he said aloud quietly, “this is a fine death you’ve won for yourself. Naked…again, slowly going mad and starving to death in the bottom of a pit…” his grumbling was interrupted by a shifting of rock and bone and a loud hiss of air, “…oh well that’s better…death by pit monster.”

-----------------------------------

Jayn grunted as she used her elbows to drag herself along on her belly through a narrow, eroded, cave shaft; the rocks worn smooth by water, and covered thick with a slick, stinking, moss. She found herself wondering just how they had gotten into this predicament; one moment they were walking down a wide cavern tunnel, then a slightly narrower one, then they were stooping, and before long the two women were crawling through the mire in a tunnel that could barely accommodate their weaponry. Through the darkness, Jayn kept her eyes forward where the glow of distant sunlight beckoned them on, giving them hope that they would soon escape Hela’s Folly, before they shared her fate.

Suddenly behind her Malori made a sound that could only be described as a smothered giggle, “I’m sorry,” her voice came quietly from behind, stifled laughter behind her words.

“No please,” Jayn answered with another grunt, “if you’ve found something in this worth laughing over I’d love to hear it.”

Malori hesitated, she was not one for idle chatter with most people, but she had grown comfortable with Jayn’s presence. The other woman’s serene strength was calming to her and she found herself able to speak freely, “This just reminded me of another time when I was very young, not long after I came to be with Raurke,” the revenant began, “I know you think I’m grim, that I am serious always but, that’s only because of my worry for him, you see. I don’t always have such worries and…sometimes it has gotten me into troubles.”

Jayn laughed once, “You’re right, I do find that hard to imagine.”

Malori seemed unfazed, “One day while we were camped near the river I noticed a strange swirling in a little pool beside the river. I can still remember having never seen anything like it and being completely lost in my explorations of this. Looking back, I should have stayed in camp as Raurke asked, I’m far too curious for my own good.”

“A woman after my own heart.”

“When I got close to the pool the ground opened up and swallowed me whole, and I found myself sliding down a shaft much like this one…only more vertical. I probably slid twenty feet before I managed to catch myself on the muddy walls. I suppose someone else might have started calling for help but all I could do was laugh, I couldn’t stop laughing, when Raurke returned from the hunt he could hear my laughter but couldn’t find me for a long time,” she was laughing at her memory and Jayn couldn’t help but laugh, “I just felt so foolish and relieved. When Raurke found me he was so angry, I don’t think he knew how he would get me out,” her laughter began to fade, “Well it was probably funnier in my mind.”

Jayn understood, “Don’t worry Malori, you’ll see him again, and when you do I’m sure he’ll have his share to say about what we’ve been up to all this time.”

“Yes,” Malori agreed, “you are right about that.”

The tunnel before Jayn open at last and she pulled herself out into a much larger cavern and onto a wooden plank way. The cave system must have been inhabited at some time, by bandits, or thieves, she didn’t know, but it looked like the wooden planks would lead out of the chasm and up to the surface where she could clearly see the dim sunlight that had been guiding them.

Malori dropped to the plank way beside her and surveyed the cavern. There was a strange scent in the air, something like decay, but something intangible; it gave her an uneasy feeling. Though the sun overhead was quite bright at the very top of the chasm, it was almost pitch black at the bottom where they stood. The floor was littered with bones and the remnants of iron cages.

“This is a place for sacrifices,” she whispered, “We need to be careful.”

Jayn nodded silently but her eyes were trained on one of the paths that lead straight out from their tunnel into the chasm, she could make out the shape of two hanging cages and inside one of them, there appeared to be someone moving, “Do you see that?”

Malori followed her gaze and nodded, “Draugr perhaps,” she said, drawing her blades, but she waited when Jayn motioned for her to hold and watched the Breton move on to investigate.

As Jayn drew up to the cage she could see this was not a draugr but a man, a naked man, with his back mostly toward her, struggling to pick the lock on his shackles with a bit of metal between his teeth. She cleared her throat and smirked as he froze, slowly lowered his hands to cover his manhood as he turned to face her.

“Who’s there?” his tenor voice came as he peered through the dark.

She moved closer to the cage and the man’s mouth dropped agape, his bit of metal falling to the cage floor with a clink, “Are…you some sort of apparition?” he asked finally.

Jayn rested her hands on her hips, “Of course not, how long have you been down here?”

The man shrugged, “Not sure, it’s been ages…maybe an hour or two at least,” he answered seriously, “Listen, I don’t know who you are but if you could, help me out of here I’d find a way to return the favor.”

Malori came up behind her, “There is something moving over there,” she whispered, pointing into the black. For a long moment Jayn saw nothing but then she began to make out a subtle rise and fall in the earth as if it were….breathing.

“Give me your hands,” she said urgently, ignoring his protests of indecency she reached for his shackles and slipped a lockpick inside. It was an easy lock, standard for stationary prisoners, probably from an Imperial fort. In only a tick the shackles were loose and she turned her attention to the gate lock.

Malori was closer beside her now, to where their sides touched as if offering physical support to Jayn’s efforts, “Hurry, it is rising,” she said, her eyes still locked on whatever lay in the pitch.

“We’re coming, go,” Jayn ordered sending Malori to begin the ascent up the rickety plank way that rose along the sides of the chasm. The revenant disappeared as the lockpick worked into the lock on the cage gate, “It’s not going,” she sighed.

“Give it here,” the man took the lockpick from her, “Can you see a bundle nearby? My weapons…” she moved away from the cage, spotting the bundle on the floor of the chasm just below the planks on the left. But the time she retrieved it he was out of the cage and she tossed him the bundle. He wasted no time getting dressed and slipping into his holsters; he had the dressing skills of a man who’d escaped death by jumping out of many a young woman’s bedroom window, “Let’s go.”

Just as the two began their ascent, there was a crack of splitting wood from above. Even under Malori’s tiny frame some of the wood was simply too aged to bear weight and gave way; they watched as two of the planks fell through the air and clattered onto the bed of bones; the cave filled with a terrible hissing sound.

“Time to run, my dear,” the man pushed her forward and as they ran the whole cave floor seemed to be moving, writhing, rising up. As she ran, Jayn couldn’t tear her eyes away from the scene opening below and her heart began to pound as a large set of glowing white eyes opened, then another and another.

It wasn’t until one of the great masses rose up that they realized they were being hunted by a great black serpent…the secret treasure of Hela’s Folly. The creature swung it head, biting for Malori’s dashing form, but her quick feet carried her right through its gaping mouth to safety. As it began to fall, its mass crashed through the plank way, in three places, breaking the once solid structure into many spinning swinging parts. Jayn and her companions grabbed onto the rails of the plank way as they were swung out over the chasm suspended by the rope lines that supported the structure.

Overhead Malori called out to Jayn as she tied off one end of a plank section and cut the other end loose with her sword dropping it down to make a ladder before she began climbing again.

She was being pulled to her feet and shoved forward, “Move girl, we’ve got to move,” the man was shouting at her but everything was happening so quickly she felt locked in her own mind. Somehow she managed to get her feet moving again and though they were swaying wildly they made their way down the plank way and jumped for the next section that was still stationary. Once their footing was solid, Jayn regained her focus and lead the charge up the wooden steps. They were making good distance when the structure began to pull away from the walls.

“One of them is trying to climb it,” the man said, as gravity began drawing them to the outer rail.

Jayn pulled a fireball to her hand and cast it down at the one climbing the structure unable to recall it even as her companion shouted for her to stop; it was loosed. The fireball collided with the snake and it tossed its head with a sharp hissing sending ember and sparks flying this way and that. Then the aged wood of the plank way ignited and the fire began to climb as the snake fell away.

Jayn growled, “By the Nine…really?” they started back up the steps trying to get to the next section before the one they were on gave way.

“Do us a favor yah?” the man gritted at her as he followed, “don’t set anything else on fire.”

One of the serpents was scaling the plank way across the chasm sending more shudders through the structure. It had managed, in their distraction, to climb almost level with them. Jack withdrew his pistols. As Jayn began to climb the ladder Malori had made for them up to the next level, the serpent darted off the chasm toward her. Jack fired, but not at the snake, at the chain holding one of the hanging cages. Striking with precision, the chain snapped and the cage knocked the giant snake out of the air and back down into the pit where it was quickly entangled in the length of iron chain.

“Well done,” Jayn exhaled, realizing she had stopped breathing when the snake had left the opposite wall. She hurried the rest of the way up the ladder and when her companion had reached the top she cut it loose. The plank they were standing on swung away to the other side of the chasm, at least getting them away from the burning side, but another serpent, now the smallest of the three, had made the long climb and snapped at them just as they jumped to the wall. Jayn withdrew her crossbow and fired a bolt, catching the beast squarely in the eye. It reared back shaking its head angrily. They scrambled to their feet and up the plank way once again. Malori was above them.

“Jayn this way, stay to the left!” she guided pointing to the bridge ahead of them. Part of it was missing altogether; presumably where Malori had broken through earlier. The other part was precariously balanced between the support lines. It could easily swing or flip. Behind them the serpent was still thrashing, shaking the structure, but moving toward them. It looked hopeless; they’d never make it out this way.

“Keep going Malori, and be ready when you get to the top!” Jayn shouted, crooking another bolt in her crossbow. She loosed it into the snake’s other eye then slipped back into the strap of her crossbow, settling it on her back, “Hold still and quiet but be prepared to jump,” she told the Imperial evenly watching intently as the great snake’s writhing slowed in disorientation at being rendered blind. Its tongue flickered sensing them in the air, but its sense dulled by smoke and pain; it moved toward them slowly. Just as the snake drew close there was a banging sound overhead, a metallic clanging, and the snake’s head looked up though unseeing. Malori had reached the top of the chasm and was beating a discarded shield against one of the cages and shouting fiercely.

The snake darted forward and as it passed them, Jayn and her companion scrambled up onto its back. Jayn gripped the scale flaps on either side of its head and held on, the Imperial settling in behind her. They held on silently as the beast scaled the chasm. Lighter than its brood mates it was able to traverse the plank way and compensate by skimming the walls to get passed the broken sections. It was focused so intently on pursuing that sound it paid them no mind on its ebony back. As it neared the top, the great serpent had built up momentum and Malori stood unflinchingly beating the cage and calling it all the way in. Just as it dove for her, its riders leapt off and Malori dropped back as if hinged, slicing upward with both blades and cleaving the snake’s head clean off. Its body thrashed and recoiled before dropping back into the abyss, the burning plank way collapsing in on the nest and finishing the task.

The great beast’s head lay still and Malori appeared from behind it unscathed, “It was a good plan.”

“I’m glad you understood,” Jayn answered.

“We’re alive!” the Imperial shouted as he came to his feet in disbelief, he grabbed Jayna and before she could react, planted an exuberant kiss right on her lips. She followed it with a right hook that sent him reeling back onto the dusty cave floor.

“We’ll be going,” she said coolly as she and Malori turned to leave, but then she paused, “Thank you for your help back there.”

He climbed to his feet rubbing the sting out of his jaw, “After that last bit there I’m pretty sure it’s still I who owes you m’lady,” he said dashingly, having noted her accent which always betrayed her noble birth, “My name is Jack…Jack Rackham. Sorry about the uh…kiss.”

“Jayna Wind-Arc,” she replied after a moment, “and this is Malori.”

“A pleasure,” he replied, “well ladies I know where we can get a couple of horses if you know where the nearest tavern is for a pint.”

Jayn smirked, “We’ll take you up on the horses, but you’ll have to find the mead hall on your own. We have friends who are in danger and need our help. We have to get back to them.”

“We’ve been gone too long,” Malori added more quietly to Jayn.

“I see,” he replied, “then allow me to accompany you, perhaps I’ll be able to repay that debt in our traveling together. “

The young woman looked to Malori who shook her head but she relented, “Alright, Jack,” she began, “but keep your hands to yourself.”

“Believe me m’lady, that is one lesson I have learned today,” he replied, “in earnest.”

-----------------------------------

The Nordic gods of snow must have opened the sky and dropped a blanket over Skyrim’s cold north. Despite his best efforts, Duncan struggled to keep a fire fed enough to stay lit and they were too exposed to resist the elements for long. Raurke still slumbered in a strange deathlike sleep and he was forced to choose what course to take without his companion’s counsel. He had decided to abandon their meager camp and carry Raurke to the nearest settlement. The slave caravan had passed through a mining colony of some kind not long before stopping for the gathering, it couldn’t be far. Now hours after that judgment, with Raurke slung over his shoulder, sloughing through snow halfway up his shins, that colony might has well have been in Cyrodiil for all they could reach it.

Duncan lost his footing in the snow and dropped to one knee with a grunt. He managed to not drop Raurke but had no choice except to set him down in order to catch his breath. The snow blew all around them, light was fading fast and it would be night soon. All around them Duncan saw only trees, and snow, and the white veil of the wintry storm; not a single marker for a road or path. The effort of carrying Raurke was enough to keep his core warm, but his arms and legs were getting cold without his furs; they needed shelter soon. With a determined sigh, he pulled Raurke back up over his shoulder, if he stopped moving now they would certainly die and he wasn’t ready to quit yet. As he stood, a sound carried on the wind like distant thunder; he listened hard, trying to make out a source over the howling winds. Then through the twilight and mist he saw a small light dashing over the snows. It seemed to bring the thunder with it. As it darted about and drew closer, Duncan could make out its form as a small rabbit.

“Jayna,” he breathed in relief, recognizing the indigo glowing outline of her familiar.

Dark shadows broke through the veil, six horses took shape before him; three with riders. They brought their chase through the woods to a stop and Jayna leapt from Odin’s saddle followed by the other riders.

Jayn and the other woman he didn’t recognize helped remove Raurke from his shoulder, “he was poisoned,” he explained to the woman’s wild pleading gaze, “I gave him a curative, but, he won’t wake,” he handed her the empty curative bottle hoping she might know how to save the revenant from whatever dream world he seemed trapped in.

There was a man with them, Duncan hadn’t noticed him until he spoke, “We need to take shelter,’ he said urgently, “I know where there’s an abandoned shack near here, shouldn’t be occupied. I’ll take you there.”

Jayne and Malori both nodded their agreement with this plan. After tying Raurke into the saddle of one horse, they mounted up, and rode west following the young Imperial.