Urzoga bundled Joslyn out of Markarth herself. The hour was late, Masser and Secunda lighting their path through the city of stone. Nobody was about. Joslyn was sure her release had been planned that way. A smart move. There's no knowing what I'd do let loose in this city, she thought.

When they reached the dwarven doors that marked the exit, Urzoga eased them open and stepped back to allow Joslyn through. The ex-prisoner looked back at the guard.

"What about my things?" she asked. Her clothes, her toothed axe, her alchemy ingredients. All taken when she'd been thrown in Cidhna Mine.

Urzoga snorted. "Don't push it," she said. "Get goin'. Any guard here sees your filthy face again they'll smash it open." She leaned closer. "I'd be happy to do the job myself right now, but the High Queen's puttin' pressure on the Jarl, makin' us treat our prisoners like they're people. Count yourself lucky." She shoved Joslyn through the gap in the doors.

Outside the city, Joslyn squinted around. She knew not how long it had been since she'd had a glimpse of the outside world. The town guards on duty said nothing to her, but she could tell they were looking her up and down. She sneered in their direction, pulled the ragged prison-issue robes she wore tighter around her, and set off into the Reach.

She followed the path down the hill, between Left-Hand Mine and Salvius Farm, coming down to the bridge, the path splitting in two directions. One: across the bridge and east. Two: along the river and north. But Joslyn's decision-making process was cut short, as three Markarth guards stood clustered at the junction.

At her approach, they stopped their conversation and spread into a line, drawing their swords. A trap.

"Such a shame," said the first, shaking his head dramatically.

"To survive the horrors Cidhna Mine," continued the second.

"Only to be killed in an escape attempt," finished the third.

Joslyn looked from one of them to the next, analysing her options. An unarmed Forsworn in rags against three armed and armoured guards. Not the best odds in the world, but when have the Forsworn ever given a damn for the odds?

"What are you three?" she asked them. "A fucking performing trio?"

The guards looked at each other, perhaps realising the overdramatic nature of their spiel.

"Can a girl get a last request?" Joslyn asked. At least one of the guards chuckled in a lewd fashion. "What's the date?"

"Two hundred and four, fourth era," said the first guard. Joslyn inhaled between her teeth. Three years! Three years since the Dragonborn had left her for dead and escaped with the others. Three years since the Forsworn had suffered their greatest defeat. Three years of blood to catch up on.

"Nineteenth of Sun's Dusk," added the second guard.

"What?" said the third guard. "Twentieth."

"It can't be the twentieth," said the second guard, "we haven't had the Warriors Festival yet."

"It's well after midnight," said the first guard. "It's the twentieth."

When they turned back to Joslyn, she was already gone. Pack of fools, the lot of them. She used their moment of argument to sprint to her right and crash into the water. She stretched herself into the shape of an arrow and shot herself across the river, emerging on the other side to see the three guards racing across the bridge towards her, cursing at the tops of their voices.

She rejoined the road and broke into a loping run, her short light-brown hair bobbing up and down. She could feel her ragged boots showing signs of their poor manufacture. The seams, always held together by luck more than anything else, were heartbeats away from splitting. What I wouldn't do for a pair of those guards' fur boots. She smiled as she ran. Maybe there was something she could do about that.

She kept running and the guards kept cursing as they followed. Ahead on her right was a small dirt path diverging off from the road. She knew where it led. Nobody knows the Reach like the Forsworn do. Followed to its natural end the path would lead across a bridge and to the orcish fortress of Dushnikh Yal. But Joslyn had other plans.

She nimbly turned the corner down onto the path, the curses and heavy breathing from the guards behind her growing louder. Her one advantage was movement; with their armour, the guards would be slowed down considerably. Almost as soon as she turned the corner, she moved right again, ducking behind a jutting wall of rock. Oldest trick in the book.

She found exactly what she needed: a thick branch almost as tall as she was. She didn't have to wait very long to use it. The first guard came panting past in a matter of seconds, the second almost scraping on the first's heels. No peripheral vision in those helmets, Joslyn knew. Luckily for her, the third came after a short gap. She reared up behind him and smashed the branch into his right arm. He went down, crying out and dropping his sword. Joslyn scrambled for it, knowing she had mere seconds before the other guards turned and came back.

The hilt felt good in her hands. Too long since she'd held a proper weapon. Even if it was low-grade steel and spotted with rust. Time to end this. She buried the blade in the guard's chest. She looked up and saw the other two racing back down the path towards her. As they approached, they slowed, stepping away from each other so as to come at her from a wider angle.

Cowardly guards, always with their cautious approach. She sprang forward at the guard on the left, feinting at his shield then slicing from the left and hacking into his right arm. He yelled and dropped his sword. She leapt away, knowing the second guard would be coming at her. She wasn't fast enough. His sword bit into her unprotected side and she roared. She swung wide and wildly, burying her sword into the second guard's neck. She let go of the hilt and wrenched the sword from her side. She advanced on the only remaining guard, his shield raised, cradling his wounded arm.

"What a pathetic plan," she told him, growling through the pain in her side. "You should've left me to rot in the mine."

She advanced on him and smashed the sword, stained with her own blood, into his shield, creating a huge dent. She repeated the action, forcing him back. "Now none of you are safe," she said. She delivered a blow so powerful it knocked him to the ground. On falling he lowered his shield just a little. It was enough. Joslyn's sword found his throat. Finally.

She dropped the sword as soon as the guard breathed his last. She peeled aside the sticky robes to get a good look. Hurts like a stampeding mammoth, but nothing that can't be patched up. She moved as fast as she was able, which wasn't very.

Joslyn pulled off her own ragged boots and tested the fur boots of the guards. The first pair was too big for her, but the second, she decided, would be good enough. The fur gauntlets were quicker; the first pair fitter her. She then had a decision to make. To face the harsh climate of the Reach with just her ragged robes, or to don the armour of those who had imprisoned her and attempted to kill her.

The night wind whistled down the path and Joslyn made her decision. She tore off her robe and used it as a makeshift bandage for her wound. Then, she stripped one of the guards and fumbled into his armour, gritting her teeth all the while. She left the helmet and set off for the nearest old Forsworn hideout: Hag Rock Redoubt.

In its day it had been the largest and most impenetrable of all the camps the Forsworn used to claim as their own. As she stumbled on, Joslyn tried not to think of what the guards had said about there being no Forsworn left. They'll be there. We can rebuild.


There was a single light up in the Redoubt as she approached. Once, the place had blazed with campfires and Forsworn had swarmed among the tents. Joslyn kept a grip on the guard's sword and advanced, refusing to consider dealing with regular bandits.

Bones picked clean by scavenged animals littered the lower areas of the camp. Tents had collapsed under weight of rain and snow. She picked her way through the remnants in the moonlight, heading for the light. When she was close enough to make out the shadows of several figures, she stumbled on an old bone. She could not hold back a yelp of pain as she fell.

There was the sound of many running feet, of weapons being raised and orders being given. Joslyn blinked through the pain and tried to make out the figures around her. Their armour made her grin. A huge shirtless orc stood before her, his arms crossed below a necklace of bones. Only one Forsworn fit that description; the Dragonborn had not been as thorough in her genocide as she'd thought.

"Get her inside," said Borkul the Beast.