Rulindil lay alone bleeding in the sewage and the mildew and the darkness and the stink.
Four thieves lay dead beside him, their entrails sliced open and oozing into the concrete floor. It made no difference in the smell, not in this already putrid sewer.
Rulindil had been lucky. He had seen his life before his eyes. He had seen the last thief with his sword raised, had seen the momentum of the weapon, had known there was no way to dodge it. But the thief, in his moment of pride and glory had slipped and fell from the slime under his feet.
Rulindil did not let him rise. He had dragged his weakened body onto the lowlife, struggled and rolled with him, tarnished his robes in the filth and the gore, and had plunged his dagger deep into the vagrant's side.
Then he twisted and tore, and the organs and the blood and the bile came pouring out.
Then Rulindil watched as the man' skin grew pale, and his eyes became unfocused and distant. Then his limbs began to spasm and jerk, his leg twitching violently; kicking against the stonework. Then he died; his corpse twisted and contorted, his face froze in agony.
Rulindil pulled himself up against the dank wall. He was still hyperventilating from the struggle, his lungs breathing in the vile air. He coughed three times and then vomited.
This was an operating that had gone bad. He was alive but two of his soldiers were dead. They had been ambushed in the long dark tunnels of the ratway, and his guards had been cut down where the stood. They had been left unceremoniously to rot where they fell; in the confusion and the panic and the terror, he had no choice.
Rulindil would return in force for the bodies later. He would make sure his comrades were given the proper rites, and were interned with their ancestors in Alinor. All Altmer deserved this at least. No Altmer deserved to be left in a place like this; not in this sewer.
But first Rulindil would have to escape.
He lifted his hand, and focused in it a small ball of magic. He clutched between his fingers the most brilliant white light which grew and expanded and lit up the darkness like the sun lighting up the world. Then he released his grasp and the magic left his hand a swirled in wide arcs about his body. He could feel it closing his wounds and restoring his limbs to vigor. His body was healed, but his magic will was depleted.
He felt his way through the dark tunnels, and soon emerge at the entrance into Riften. He stepped out into the open air. The noon sun shinned down from the slums above, lighting his face, and warming his skin. His weakened body stumbled a few steps and then fell over into the water. He floated there smiling in the harbour beneath the city. The cool water held him buoyant and quietly laughing as a sudden wave of relief swept over him, chasing the horror and the tension from his stiffened limbs.
He had escaped his ordeal but he was not safe yet. He still wore the dark black robes of a Thalmor Justiciar, and this city was loyal the Ulfric. If he was found in his vulnerable condition, then surely the stormcloack dogs would rip him to shreds.
Rulindil lifted his hand and pulled himself out of the water and into the loose construction surrounding the harbour. Slowly and silently he crawled through the boards and the planks and beams, like a skeever in his den, fleeing the wolf.
Then when he was almost directly beneath the open marketplace, he lay back and let himself rest. Through loose beams he could hear and see the activity above. For the long hours it took to recover his strength, it was these distractions from the market which kept his mourning mind from the pain in his chest, and the happy memories of comrades lost forever.