This is an Elder Scrolls/Claymore crossover. I did not list it as such because I want it to show up in the regular listings. If you have not played any of the Elder Scrolls do not worry! This story will make a lot of sense as it progresses and it is in limited third person, so you will discover things as Jean does. I've downplayed some of the Claymore's abilities and up-played every creature around them because I enjoy putting a lot of hardship and pain into my fics. Their purpose and what they're capable of will become more clear.

She has lost track of the days, the weeks, and perhaps even the months gone by in their travels.

It is only recently however, that through their trials, she begins to look upon Clare like she looks upon the twin planets above and the freckled stars and swirling galaxies clustered around them, on a lonely night in a wide field where the lands of Cyrodiil around her lay sprawled and barren for her restless feet; with virtuous awe and a bottomless sense of frightening curiosity. On cold nights, the simplest of touches and off-handed brushing can send warmth creeping along the rise and slopes of her ribs, melting away goosebumps and all at once, causing a shiver to ripple along her spine. With more existential wonder than she can invest to the seemingly endless lands and the eternal void above, Jean ponders when precisely these feelings arose. Try as she might to avoid the dangerous line of thought, it persists and distracts.

Even as Jean relishes the warmth of the fire in front of her. For miles upon miles, trekking across vast swamp lands in the southeast isles closest to the dangers of the Black Marsh (and certainly no farther towards the border), the raw dryness of the elemental pit is a luxury she feels near guilty for taking part in. The Khajiit across from her has repeatedly insisted that their company is no treachery in his slit eyes.

Her sabatons sit nigh two feet from the hungry flames, turned upside down and propped for the sludge to slither out. They were not, in her opinion, the ideal environment for marsh water and moss. Trench foot was not on her list of things to obtain within the next few days. Her spaulders and torn faulds are in little better condition. She has lain them across a stump, splayed upside down, allowing the indents and crevices to dry before Clare inevitably pressed on hours from then. But she has shown no desire to even arise from her spot on a nearby rock.

Clare's silvered eyes, too, watch the flames with unabashed interest, though she pretends to be more intrigued in their temporary associate's obviously endorsed tale of his recent venture to Morrowind.

It is the price they pay for the hospitality he has given them. His warm, accented voice conceals the solitude of the night around them. Perhaps it is truly why Clare has agreed to stop and rest. Jean does not believe it is her place to inquire when stopping does them no harm. Especially when Clare has given in to tolerating her presence and tendency to intervene more easily as of late.

"Dar' Kaleesh was well known for his ability to notch two arrows and secure his desired targets, you see. People say his eyes follow two different directions to track each arrow. This one can confirm this. Saw it himself! Almost thought he had a lazy eye. But this one did not intend to become a rug for the scale skin. Notice that I had said 'was', yes?" The Khajiit, whom they had soon and easily known to be called Do' Kir, pulled his dark lips back into a smile. He paused at length, the tip of his tail flipping, and when Jean gave a glance to Clare she withheld a sigh.

"Yes. We noticed."

"You Silver-Eyes are more attentive than most. This one appreciates it. Do' Kir has said was, because Dar' Kaleesh was once amongst the living. Once! But you see, Argonians only have two eyes. One eye for each arrow. And Dar' Kaleesh was renown for using two arrows." The cat speaks as if he is gradually building up to the pun of a great joke, while at once conveying to someone some great wisdom.

Jean resists the urge to roll her eyes. It had quickly become clear to her as the broad sun set and night settled, that their host was a very isolated, though well-traveled individual. She almost wants to suggest that he write a book. With different formatting and dialogue. The way he stalls and checks for comprehension grates against her patience. But she knows what solitude can do to the mind, and because of that experience, she leaves the matter alone.

"Argonians have smaller brains surely. Like the little sand lizards. They are quick to hide in crevices and their narrow bodies and beady eyes let them focus on and evade predators more easily. Like the town guardsmen, or Khajiit. But when a small brain tries to focus on two things - complications arise. Three things! An improbability. I gave him a third thing to focus on, ha ha! A spear between his eyes as his two notched arrows were trained on this one's smaller, inexperienced companions. Long ago. Do ' Kir has not seen them in a long, long while. I swear to you, for once in his life, Dar' Kaleesh became cross-eyed. Like this!" The Khajiit demonstrates for visual effect.

It's actually enough to get Clare to crack a bit of a smile. It is surprising to Jean and she thinks that, perhaps, her well of patience has just deepened several inches more for their host.

It was an unusual tale, but hardly the most cruel Jean had heard. The Khajiit's laugh as the most amusing.

Do 'Kir laughs as if he had just told them the funniest story of the century, smacking a gloved hand against the side of his log before he gradually lets his laughter trail, unbothered by the silence of the Warriors in his company.

"Do 'Kir has many more of these tales. Too many. I bet you have heard nothing like them. This one guarantees it. Would you like to hear about the shaved bear? The haunted room at Ill Omen Inn? Khajiit swears it is haunted, or was haunted. Was!"

"I would love to," Clare starts in quickly, and Jean uses the opportunity of attention being taken off of her to shift her position, expecting it to be a long night. But surprise hits her when Clare continues, and she shoots the Warrior a brief, discreet, questioning look.

"But I must be getting on my way now. We have many miles ahead of us, and little time to cover them."

"I have a tale about an armorer who wielded a sword of fire. Took him three tries to make it. Three lives taken."

"We really have to go. I hadn't realized how late we had been staying here until just now."

We.

Jean's heart does a clumsy flip.

Stop it.

She catches Clare's discreet motioning for her to stand, and she stands.

The Khajiit's expression falls, but he submits, digging around in his fur pack only to offer them bread he had rolled in long leaves for preservation. Jean denies the offer, claiming they are very well set in the means of food. Backtracking, he offers something that is bountiful to him and surely depleted to them. Words are in endless supply.

"She who hurries through life hurries to her grave. This one bids you, if you see Do 'Kir again and he does not see you first, give him a greeting."

"We will likely be able to return your kindness next time," Clare assures, placing her spauldings and connecting the straps of her armor. Without another glance, she turns from the glow of the fireplace, steps past the threshold of low branches, and almost immediately disappears into the smoggy darkness.

Jean is quick to follow behind her, after retrieving her own arms and being sure to keep track of Clare's energy flow, offering only a single parting half-wave before she, too, disappears into the darkness.

It takes moments for her eyes to adjust to the density of the bog, but when they do, she can see the other warrior several paces ahead. She would find herself missing the warmth of the fire, but her comrade's inclusive choice of words keep her contentedly warm beyond the means of her own comprehension. To save herself grief, Jean has selected to ignore the strange happenings of her body for the rest of the night. It was simply too distracting to dwell. Too distracting, when attention would save either of their lives.

They continue northwest, until the Marshlands begin to break up, and the bog that once reached their knees became nothing more than soggy grass. Until the sun finally begins to break over the horizon, washing them both in its early warmth.

Flat lands begin to rise into tall hills, and vines dwell within the trees instead of between them.

Jean takes a moment to appreciate the much sweeter smelling air and her comrade stalls to gauge their direction. A particularly steep hill lies to the north, so Clare selects a path between it farther to the west. They are, truly, in little hurry, and their brief stop back in the bog had done little to burden their schedule. With little else to do, they had started on the path of their assignment early, and in turn were completing it early.

It is the last days of Rain's Hand, and the weather remains brisk if not musky from a recent drizzle. Clouds hang overhead but they are not menacing; bountiful and fluffy with undersides of grey that simply promise to keep the day ahead pleasantly tempered.

Jean does not enjoy the heat. Their recent trek to the northern tip Elsweyr proved to be a reminder of the dreaded Midyear to Hearthfire that she would be enduring. The bogs of Black Marsh would only be humid. The farther they traveled from the south, the more at-ease she becomes.

She enjoys the far-off sight of the mountains. From a vantage point on the hill that she pauses at, she can see the tall tower of the Imperial City, which can be spotted from almost anywhere in Cyrodiil. Its stature is hardly exaggerated. The breeze ruffling her bangs is freeing. The amount of peace she feels lately is irregular and uncomfortable, countering into anxiety. Tranquility soon settles wrong in the pit of her stomach. The lands are rarely so quiet, and she half expects a goblin or two to come crashing through the bushes.

No such monster greets them as their heels go from marsh to clicking on cobblestone. The high walls of Leyawiin stand ahead when the sun is far past noon, though they have been advised to take the front entrance as opposed to the back. Making it seem as if they had just come from another more reputable civilization, as opposed to the Blackwoods, would be in their favor, Clare had mentioned. They already carried a questionable reputation. So they take the quick route around the massive walls and garrisons to the stables.

Several paint horses meander and graze, content, while one has its hooves tended to by a female Khajiit. She flicks her ears in their direction as they pass, but she does not excuse herself from her task to bother with them. From their distance, Jean can see the slight crinkle of recognition in the creature's brow and the deep pull of her lips.

They smell strongly of things that disgust many and cause many more to tremble; and yet they enter the city with no complication.

Jean steps ahead of Clare, pressing open one of the thick doors, and then standing to the side. It displeases Clare, she knows, but it gives Jean more of a sense of purpose, as opposed to being the ghost constantly on her tail.

As they enter, an enormous cathedral stands brilliantly to their right. The Great Chapel of Zenithar, she assumes. To the left, a sign that directs to Five Claws Lodge, accented by five long, worn claw marks diagonally down the side. A few feet behind it sits a well, and a guard who keeps his attention on an individual past them, mulling about aimlessly near some bushes. The streets are surprisingly clean, and in spite of the vines that climb the walls and the spots of blooming foliage and healthy trees it is a shocking change from the wilderness.

Is a prosperous and busy community, and that is what stands it apart from being the cornerstone to Elsweyr and the Black Marsh. The streets are wide, the houses large, and the inhabitants, though primarily Khajiit and Argonian, are a churned pot of cultured individuals from throughout the Empire. They lounge and gossip and tease and play. Some turn their attention to the duo, and are quick to advert it. The more brazen young Khajiit cubs let their gazes follow the duo, unabashed in their strong sense of curiosity. Had their parents been near, Jean is assured that the children would have been lead astray back into the comfort of their homes.

Leyawiin is, perhaps, Jean's favourite in spite of its location being significantly south. The cultures are mixed and over the span of so many years, the inhabitants are by far the most accepting of Silver-Eyed Witches in the entirety of Cyrodiil. If there was a more welcoming place, Jean would love to be notified of its whereabouts. It has changed little, even towards the suspected end of the Fourth Era.

She can hardly tear her eyes away from the stacked houses, and by the time she does, Clare is not in her sight. Jean is unconcerned by her disappearance, at the moment. She suspects that Clare went ahead to the Countess to turn in the artifact of importance that they had recovered for her. Instead, she directs her attention to the Five Claws Lodge. Purchasing a room early would do no harm. For as long as she could remember, the Lodge had been family owned, passed down successfully into each generation.

She crosses to the other side of the street, stopping briefly to allow two young Argonians to pass, one hell bent on catching the other, before she shoulders her way into the Lodge. A rectangular bar area sits to the right with a single attentive Argonian scrubbing at a mug. Directly ahead, a more spacious dining area. Jean takes in the scene before her before turning to the Argonian, who had obviously heard her come in, but had yet to look up.

She parts her lips to speak, and the scaled creature beats her to it with very unexpected hospitality.

"Greetings Claymore. Food and beds are cheap. Your hosts promise that both will always be clean. Vistha guarantees this, everything always clean, or you will not pay a coin."

"Your services have always been superb," Jean supplies, and that earns her a very pleased smile from the host, who immediately brightens at her words. "I will take one room. A comrade of mine will be by later." She pulls out a pouch and rummages, retrieving twenty gold.

"A single room is only ten."

"There are two of us. I will pay properly for the weight of our stay."

Though mildly hesitant, the Argonian takes the sum with no further complain, and hands Jean a key. " Second door from the entrance. Don't lose it. I will have Hides-Her-Eyes bring your meal later on."

Before Jean can decline, she is interrupted.

"I insist. For your past services."

It is a fair offer, and choosing to argue more would only be a disservice, and a waste of time for the host. So Jean nods, clips the key onto her person, and turns on her heel to exit.

Outside the inn, it has begun to drizzle. The commonplace state of weather in the region. Her glinting eyes roam the streets before her, and along the high walls of the Cathedral of which she cannot enter. What is there to do, but wait?

She is confident in Clare's ability to find her, and vice versa, and so she wanders.

After nearly ten minutes of meandering, avoiding eye contact with citizens, though giving a polite nod where warranted, her bangs have begun to stick to her forehead and her clothes are sticking to her skin. Her armor, frigid to the touch, clatters as the drizzle becomes rain. The common citizens around her are undeterred by the heavier clouds in the distance, and continue with their daily tasks.

After doing a full circle, or three, around the city and making her presence undeniable, a commoner in white robes approaches her.

For a moment she is taken aback, until he produces a square of parchment without a word, hands it to her, and departs just as quickly. Such is expected. She walks on into a small courtyard with a couple of benches surrounding a well. A discreet check of the area is done before she sits down, and lowers her eyes to the parchment.

West of Skingrad
By the seventh of Second Seed

- CLAYMORE

She does not need a reminder as to where the location is. She has been there countless a time. What captures her attention more is the time at which they must be there. They have almost a week to cross a heavy portion of Cyrodiil by foot. Unless they travel normally, as they have been, they would attract an unnecessary amount of attention to themselves.

The sooner she informs Clare, the better.

She knows she must seem out of place, and she is conscious of young eyes on her, so she lingers for several more minutes, pretending to appreciate the stature of the buildings above, as if she had not been doing so earlier. In the distance, Clare's presence pings. Jean twitches a little out of surprise before relieving the stone bench of her weight. She walks the opposite way that she had entered, goes around a row of houses into a more quiet neighborhood and then rights herself into Clare's last known location. The closer she gets, the easier Clare is to locate.

She turns a corner, narrowly misses bumping into a Dunmer, and spots Clare several feet away, close to the Lodge by the gates they had entered from. She squints to make out the sign by the doorway. The Dividing Line. An armorer, if she recalls properly. She approaches behind the other warrior, slips her hand beneath the other's cloak, and taps the note against her hand.

Clare is quick to retrieve it and, disguising their contact as a mere bump to the shoulder, Jean steps back and gives her room.

The Argonian merchant, who she suspects to own The Diving Line, appears to be ranting to Clare fervently, and pointing inside of his shop where the door stands to be propped open.

As Jean looks about them, she noticed that his ranting has gained attention.

"You're bad for business. Both of you! Nothing happened until you two arrived. Everything was just fine! Then suddenly my shop is overrun with rats! I had heard you were witches, but I didn't expect this. What have I done to you? Nothing!" He sneers, showing a row of serrated teeth, his arms are crossed tightly. Behind closed doors, he would be one to cower. In public, he makes a show of a misfortune that is clearly not relevant to their arrival.

Mortals are impressionable. The shop owner's anger, because he is well known and they are a foreign matter, could give a quick rise to the temperament of the many attentions being thrown to them.

Jean is content to side-eye her companion. It is not her place to intervene just yet.

"We do not travel with infectious rodents as company. It is known. However, as a potential customer, I would be happy to help you be rid of the rats in exchange for access to your services."

"My services?" The Argonian stalls, his narrowed, hostile eyes widening a little.

"Yes. You repair armor, do you not?"

The Argonian looks to his shop, then back to the duo, unfolding his arms, his right hand twitching. "How do I know you two didn't plan this? Planting rats into my shop, then offering to be rid of them for a discount. It's downright criminal."

"Were I to have use for any criminal affairs -."

"This one has been in the castle." A Breton interrupts, his voice rumbling as he gestures to Clare.

Jean remembers him lounging with a tankard of wine in hand.

"And that one has been aimlessly wandering since she stepped out of the inn. Not a single one of those creatures has been seen around. They probably squirmed their way in to get to the food you leave lying on your table tops all the time."

The Argonian turns his full attention to the Breton, animosity in his movements. Before he can reply, the sliding of metal reaches his ears, and he cocks his head back to Clare, only to be greeted by the sight of Jean unsheathing her Claymore, and stepping inside of the store. In a whole of several seconds, after a muted commotion, she returns into the open, blade bloodied though she uses a cloth to wipe it clear.

"I have taken the liberty of clearing your shop of the chance infestation. You can take care of what is left, and disregard any fees we might have usually charged." With a look to Clare, she steps past the shopkeeper, and back towards the Lodge near the northern most entrance.

The Argonian, struck speechless, simply stares at Clare as she, too, passes by him. The commotion is quick to dissolve, and as if nothing occurred, citizens continue on their way; meandering, purchasing, resuming their conversations albeit a little more quietly.

Clare steps quickly to catch up with Jean, entering the doorway right behind her, and following her closely to their room, giving no more than a glance to the host at the bar. Inside the room, Jean stands at the center, burdened by thoughts and the weight of her comrade's gaze.

"That was unnecessary." Clare finally comments, the ruffling of fabric audible. "You didn't need to intervene. You could have kept going. It would have attracted less attention."

As Jean cocks her head back, she witnesses Clare unclip her cloak, and rest it on the wooden seat. She does not comment, instead unsheathing her Claymore once again, and moving to stab the tip through a crack before she stops herself.

Hospitality is rare. She entered the room clean, she will leave it clean and undamaged. She gently rests the weapon against the wall, and takes a seat on the wide bed, adjusting her cloak as she does so.

Clare does not bother further with the matter. She finds purchase on the chair, and slides the note out to look it over. There is a short time of silence where Jean's mind wanders, and she does everything in her power to keep her eyes from grazing the other's direction. There is a knock at the door, and before Clare can so much as look up at the entrance way, Jean is crossing the room and pulling it open.

An Argonian with vibrant blue scales and a shawl over her eyes stands outside the door with a tray of bread and cheese, and a bottle of cheap wine. Had time passed so quickly? The skies had darkened, yes, but she had assumed it due to the weather.

"Sorry to intrude. Here is your meal. If you need anything more, Vistha will be available until midnight."

Jean thanks her, takes the platter, and moves to close the door.

"Do not concern yourself with Broken Horn."

The warrior stops, and raises a single thin brow.

"He is not from here. He bought the shop from the family a few years back, ending the long line of heritage to the armory. No one is pleased about it. His accusations came to everyone's ears for their own amusement. But your services did not. People will appreciate you quieting him down and they will remember it."

Surprised, Jean finds herself fumbling for words, but the Argonian seems pleased with her own, and so she simply nods, turns, and walks back towards the dining area, leaving Jean sluggishly pressing the door closed, and leaning to set the tray before Clare, who flicks her silver eyes up at her.

Something dwells within them that Jean cannot place, and it sets her a little on edge.

"We leave immediately tomorrow, before the first light." That being said, Clare stands, moves towards the bed and strips off her armor along the way. She, too, seems to give her weapon some thought before she sets it gently beside Jean's turns to stare at the bed, and shifts onto the soft but worn furs. She situates herself the furthest in, right against the wall, and turns her back towards the rest of the bed.

Jean is left to her own devices for the night. The walls are thin enough that she can make out conversation in the next room and heavy footfalls. For nearly an hour she is still, listening to the exclusively faint breathing of her comrade.

When Clare shifts, sits up, and looks Jean in the eye, she freezes in place and stands a little straighter.

"I can hear the gears in your head. Lie down before you drive me mad."

A staring contest ensues, until Jean relents and finally moves away from the door, unclipping her armor straps, and letting them settle as softly and quietly to the floor as possible. The walk towards the bed seems impossibly long, and she expects it to be uncomfortable in comparison to the safety of her claymore. When she touches the bed and settles down beside Clare, back turned to her, she deems it comfortable enough. It competes well with leaning against her sword. The Argonian was correct in assuring her of the comfort and cleanliness of the room.

Or it's Clare that's comfortable to lean against.

She cannot afford those kind of thoughts. The journey tomorrow will be long, and if Clare can hear her thoughts churning and grinding in her head, Jean fears what else she might pick up on. She falls into unconsciousness with the smell of lilacs and marshlands.

This was great stress relief, and I will very likely be posting more. But it's wonderful to hear the opinions of readers, so please feel free to leave a review or pm me. It's extra fuel and greatly appreciated.