Maro Rufus awoke to find someone kicking him gently in the side. "Wake up, Rufus," he heard a familiar voice say.

The Imperial sat up and looked about himself, blinking sleep from his eyes. He was back in the main room of The Best Defense, with Varnado standing above him fully clothed and looking rather cross. "Get going," the Redguard snorted, "We're about to open shop."

Maro's mind slowly caught up to reality. The events of the previous night slowly crept back into his mind, and the young man realized it hadn't all been a dream. "What happened to Lady Flyte?" he asked with a trace of a frown, stretching out his arms.

"She left early this morning," said Varnado, returning to his desk, "Along with a pretty sizable escort. I suppose things have died down. She looked pretty morose, though. That wouldn't have happened to involve you, would it?" Varnado finished, glancing at Maro out of the corner of his eye suspiciously.

"No," Maro denied, picking up his things, "And aren't we closed today?" he asked, trying to change the subject as quickly as he could.

"What? Rufus, do you even pay attention to the date? It's the twenty-first. It's due day."

Maro suddenly frowned. "Due day?"

"Yes. I talked to you about it at least five times this past week alone," Varnado said as he started filling out a ledger, "You have your share, don't you?"

The Imperial hopped to his feet and scampered to his coffer. He hurled open the lid of the box and started to count his money, and making quick, rushed calculations using his fingers to help add his funds. Varnado watched his partner franticly try to come up with the cost needed, and eventually sighed. "You can't cover it, can you Rufus?"

"I can cover it!" Maro yelled back, "This is close to enough!"

"Close to enough?" Varnado repeated blandly.

"Erm, I mean, if I make at least a few sales before midday…" the Imperial said, trying to convince himself as much as he was Varnado, "Or maybe I still have that money behind the drawers…"

The Redguard sighed again and stood up. He walked over to Maro's desk, where Maro was still desperately looking for money, and sat a large sack of coin on the table. "Take it," he said.

Maro looked up, then glanced at the money, and shook his head. "No. I don't need your help, I can do it myself."

"Possibly," replied Varnado, "But then you wouldn't have enough for your sister, now would you?"

The Imperial attempted to reply, but Varnado cut him off. "Listen. I know you've been trying hard. I know you've been eating nothing but turnip stew for the past two weeks, and I can't remember the last time you bought some frivolous luxury. So just take the money," he said, crossing his arms, "I'd hate to see a pretty girl like Julia go wanting."

Maro slowly stood and looked Varnado in the eyes. "… I'll take it as a loan, not as a gift. I have that big order coming in soon, you know."

Varnado snorted, "I never intended to give it to you," he said looking away from Maro, "In fact, this happens to bring up the question of interest."

The Imperial gave a small smile. "Thank you, Varnado."

"Just be happy I'm fond of your sister," replied Varnado, returning to his own desk, "Because just remember, if you did go out of business, I'd have a lot more room to display my wares."

The room quieted as the two went back to work. Maro, after adding in Varnado's share, realized he could still afford to pay the Merchant's Guild, Imperial Taxes, and his sister's expenses this month. Sure, he'd have to phase out supper from his daily routine, but Maro resolved to eat a very large luncheon. As the morning drew on, though, his thoughts slowly shifted away from money and towards more personal issues. He could remember so clearly Lady Flyte's anguish, and how depressed she was on the inside, and even he knew that he had probably pushed her away permanently. Varnado noticed that the Imperial give a pained sigh and couldn't help but frown. 'After all,' he thought as he watched Maro stare listlessly in front of himself, 'There is nothing more miserable in the world than your first love.'

Kirania stood outside Lex's tent, looking at it curiously. It was about seven thirty in the morning, which was extremely late for Lex to still be sleeping, or even for him to remain in his quarters at all. She shrugged to herself. "He must've stayed up really late," she muttered to herself, "Or had gotten sick. I wonder if he's okay."

She walked towards the tent. "Permission to enter, sir!" she said.

No response. Kirania frowned. "Sir? Are you in there?"

Again, silence. The Bosmer shook her head. "Sir?" she said, poking her head into the room, "We need to—oh!"

Hieronymus Lex was indeed in his quarters. He was near at his desk, surrounded by stacks of documents. His eyes were furiously going over some piece of writing and gleamed with an angry intensity and power that Kirania felt harkened back to his days on the waterfront, being tricked by the Guild left and right. The young woman felt slightly intimidated, but the feeling passed as Lex noticed her. He looked up, and upon seeing her, his furious gaze softened. "Ah, guardswoman," he said, as though being woken from a dream, "Forgive me. What is it that you need?"

Kirania slowly walked forward. "General Sigrdríf sent me. We're about to go, and the laborers need to start packing away the tent."

Lex nodded as though he was only now realizing what he was speaking of. "Yes. Right, I'll get on to that. I've little to pack, luckily," he muttered, quickly trying to get the stacks of writings off his desk.

As Lex worked with putting his things away, Kirania instinctively walked towards the desk, trying to get a glimpse at what was preoccupying her commander. "I thought General Darius had already worked out the battle plans," she said, trying her best to see what was written.

"Yes," Lex replied, taking the last of the forms off his desk at a speed that Kirania found as extremely suspicious, "This was reading for an unrelated issue."

There was a short, awkward silence as Lex continued to put things in their proper places and Kirania merely stood in the middle of the room. The lack of conversation eventually came to Lex's attention, who decided that he should say something, at the least. "Where are you from?" he said at last, glancing over the contents of a trunk.

"Pardon?"

"I asked you where you were from, guardswoman," Lex said without much enthusiasm, "You've never told me."

Kirania gave a faint smirk. "You ask all your subordinates that?"

"Only the ones that don't leave my quarters after they've delivered their reports," the Imperial responded dryly.

The Bosmer frowned slightly, but took the comment in stride. "I'm from Valenwood. Came up to the Imperial City about a year and a half ago with a couple friends of mine."

"Why move?" Lex asked, still going about his business.

Kirania leaned against Lex's desk. "Because everyone knows that Cyrodiil is the land of opportunity. My town was small, and didn't have many openings for people with my sort of ambitions… I mean, I guess it would be like if you were born in some hick town like Bravil…"

"I was born in a hick town called Bravil," replied Lex in the same tone he had been using for the entire conversation.

"Erm, I didn't mean to offend, sir," Kirania replied, looking slightly embarrassed.

"Don't worry about it," Lex responded in a tired tone, "Your honestly has actually started to grow on me… I'm starting to wish there was more of it in this world…"

The imperator's gaze faltered, and Kirania noticed that he clenched his fist tightly. "Sir…?" she asked in a slightly concerned voice.

Lex shook his head. "It's nothing," he said, his voice now fully stoic, "Shall we fetch Guilliam and meet with the two generals?"

"Sure," Kirania said with a nod, "And along the way, you can tell me how you got to the Imperial City."

"I don't like to speak about myself," Lex said, leaving his room, "… Although I suppose if you're truly that interested, I can tell the story."

As Guilliam was nowhere to be found, the two spoke for a decent amount of time, and Kirania was even make Lex crack a smile with her favorite joke about the mudcrab and the Tribunal priest. When the Imperator met with the generals Darius and Sigrdríf he had expected the conversation with the Nord to be at least slightly uncomfortable, given the heated opinions of the previous night. However, she seemed to be back to her own ways—sometimes teasing, sometimes helpful, but always with a hidden gleam in her eye that Lex still couldn't decode. Darius looked even more haggard than before, and had a pained look in his eyes every time Sigrdríf happily mentioned "butchering the red-eyes".

The army made excellent time crossing the terrain of Morrowind, with Darius' knowledge of the terrain allowing them to move faster than either Lex or Sigrdríf had anticipated. Meeting only token resistance along the way, the combined army arrived at Cormaris Lake quickly, and a crafty decoy force allowed Sigrdríf to trick the United Morrowind Army into letting the legions move to the strategic foothills that were so vital to an Imperial victory.

Lex allowed no visitors into his room the day before the battle. The imperator spent time in quiet reflection over the past events, and of the true character of those who surrounded him. Meanwhile, Erasmus Servius cut a terrible, bloody swathe through the south of the country, eyeing Mounholde all the while…

Berel Sala sat in his chambers reading over some documents he had requested with a deeply uncertain look on his face. He had been looking into Tholer Saryoni's assassination for some time now, but it had slowly occurred to him that it didn't add up. Dates and times contradicted themselves in differing reports, and several key details had a troubling degree of variation regarding the cause of death. Nothing made sense, and every question he had set out to answer seemed to engender two more.

He sighed and stood from his table. "Saryoni…" he muttered, "What really happened to you…?"

He glanced at a corner of his room, half-expecting a bemused reply from his mysterious stranger. But he was indeed alone. As he stood in the dark, dimly lit area, he felt his ignorance turn to frustration, but before he could truly get riled up, a visitor broke into his room, panting in fatigue "Hortator!" cried the exhausted guard, "The imperials, they tricked us! They were attempting to get into the hills the entire time! They've arrived!"

"Finally," said Sala, "A pity they couldn't have been intercepted, but I couldn't risk the fact that they would've burned the fields. What do you know of them?"

"There's more of them than we first thought, but we still outnumber them."

"Who leads them?" Sala asked methodically, running tactics over in his mind.

"One of the generals is Darius."

"Darius…" Sala mused, "An honorable foe. And an honorable man. As much as I despise his empire, I must respect him. It will be a pity to have to kill him."

"One is General Sigrdríf," the guard continued.

"The Battle-Singer has decided to show her face?" Sala said, distaste evident in his words, "Well, I never thought it would be me to have the joy of slaying her. Anything else?"

"Well, Hortator… Apparently both of them are being controlled by a greater warlord, one called 'Imperator'."

Sala turned around, confused. "'Imperator'? What nonsense is this?"

"They are led by one, one named Hieronymus Lex. I am not familiar with the name, serjo."

The ordinator mouthed the name and narrowed his eyes. 'So he was right after all,' he brooded. "Regardless of what sort of men lead our enemies, the Tribunal themselves have ordained our actions. Prepare my armor, and have it blessed. I will discuss tactics with the Archcanon tonight, for we move to meet the enemy tomorrow."

The messenger bowed and left, and once again Sala was alone in his room. He clenched his fist—he hadn't expected that the fight would come so soon, especially with so many questions brooding in his mind. He slammed his hand on a small table in frustration, and could've sworn he heard someone laughing in the dark…

Suger-Lips Habasi wasn't exactly sure where she was in Lake Rumare. Around her was nothing but lonely stretches of empty water and rolling waves, with land impossible to make out at this time of night. Above her was the celestial sphere, with those ancient constellations of myth shining softly in the exceptionally clear sky. Indeed, those stars and the moons seemed to be her only faithful companions now, with the boats other occupant, Christophe, softly sleeping. Habasi felt herself clench a paw in rage as she thought of him, but calmed herself. She was on a mission, after all.

Perhaps Broad had been lying to her. There didn't seem to be any "ghost ship" out on the sea at this ungodly hour. As the hours passed, she became less and less mentally active, feeling her mind wander. Disjointed, ethereal images floated into her mind. There she was, breaking into a heavily guarded room like a shadow, slipping past all the guards with cocky, youthful vigor... There it was, the anticipation of the moment shaking her paws as she reached out for a box, her heart trembling in anticipation at what she was about to accomplish… And there she was, under the judgmental glare of the doyens, with the traitor himself standing behind them, a look on his face both apologetic and prideful…

But her thoughts were interrupted when her eyes caught a small pinpoint of green light in the distance. Her lethargy totally shed, Habasi sat upright, her eyes trying to make out whatever was so far away. She purred in excitement, and turned around to wake her unwanted guest up. To her dismay, however, Christophe already had one eye open, which looked just as awake as her own. "Find 'em, kitten?"

Habasi scowled. "She did. Look."

Christophe squinted, and after a moment a small smirk spread over his face. "There she is. I've got to hand it to you, you found it after all."

The Khajiit snarled and started working through a pack near her feet. "Habasi is the best. She was always the best."

The Redguard sighed in response. "You really don't want to go into that now, do you?"

"No," she said, taking out what looked to be a large tarp, "She doesn't."

Christophe raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"

"Cover," Habasi replied simply as she threw in over their small boat, "So they can be snuck up upon."

"Kitten, are you mad!?" Christophe said sitting upright, now looking much more wary than he had been before, "We can't board now; we don't know anything about them! We already have an advantage now, let's wait a week—"

"Habasi has a job to do," the Khajiit cut in as she slowly paddled the boat towards the light in the distance, "And unless Christophe wants to fight her, he'll be silent. He was the one who insisted to come along with this one, after all."

Christophe clicked his tongue in annoyance, but let Habasi have her way. This was indeed their big shot to see who was supplying the felshine to the City. As their bark grew closer and closer to the larger vessel, both thieves grew increasingly intrigued. Floating in the desolate, blackened waters was a vessel Habasi had never seen before. It was thoroughly unlike an Imperial galleon; instead it was more akin to the boats she was used to in Morrowind, more slender and delicately built, despite its impressive size. Odd lanterns hung along its sides gave off an ethereal green glow, as though it were a haunted ship hunting in the frigid dark. The oddest thing about it however, were the sails. Instead of having a single sheet rigged to the mast, there were no less than five small sheets, one atop another, with the only thing separating each of them being a wooden pole. Habasi glanced towards her partner. "It's like nothing that she's ever seen," she whispered, taking care not to poke her head too far out of her cover.

As they grew closer Habasi could make out other features of the ship. Whoever had built it had an odd fascination what something that was large and reptilian. What looked like some sacrilegious combination of the Imperial Dragon and a common snake was carved into the hull; even the railings had been replaced with facsimiles of this beast. The ship even smelled exotic, of fragrances totally alien, but her sharp nose did pick up one in particular. "Felshine," she muttered.

The thieves' ship knocked into the larger one. No one on deck seemed to notice. Habasi, lithe as the Night Lady herself, slipped from her hiding space without a word and grabbed onto some rigging to work her way up the side of the ship. Christophe followed suit, though somewhat more warily. Above decks they noticed more odd contraptions—slender metal tubes that faced away from the hull, and all the wood was carved in an ornate yet foreign style. No one seemed to be above decks, but there was definitely noise coming from below. Habasi glanced at Christophe and muttered in a voice far too low for anyone to hear but the properly trained. "The ship reeks of the felshine. Habasi will find it. You investigate here."

"You think to give me orders," Christophe replied, not very amused.

There was no reply, though, as the woman had already vanished. Christophe shook his head in frustration but started to sneak across the deck. As he inspected the deck, one thing in particular caught his eye. He saw near the stern a large, ornate door, which probably led to some sort of captain's quarters. Perhaps there was information there, he told himself. His feet were silent as he glided across the deck, growing closer to the door. He came nearer and nearer, until it was within armreach. His hand extended to grasp whatever kept the door shut, and then—

"Who are you?" bellowed a cruel voice from behind him, "Who dares set foot on my holy vessel?"

Christophe turned in a blink of an eye and noticed him. Standing on the middle of the deck, as though he had materialized from nowhere, was an enigma clad in black robes. He was large, both solidly built and menacing. The man's voice was like the churning of the ocean; as deep and as uncaring as the inky depths they stood above. The figure hardly moved. Christophe couldn't even tell if he was breathing. "I repeat," he called out, shattering the night's silence, "Who is so idiotic as though they think they can board the Pillar's ship?"

The doyen took a step backwards, ready to leap for cover if need be. The figure was not amused. Out of his sleeve tumbled an odd weapon; it seemed to be a small, yet masterfully crafted sickle, and yet at one end was a long chain. He grabbed both ends and slowly started swinging the weapon around in circles, its perfect edge glimmering in the moonlight "You think to run?" his voice rumbled, "You are a fool. I have a very strict policy when it comes to stowaways, one that you will learn as I reap the air from your lungs."

A bead of sweat trickled down the Redguard's face. The robed man started to close the distance between them, his blade flawlessly dancing in the dark. He needed to dart one way or another if he wanted to live. The direction was paramount—if he chose the wrong way, the blade would bury itself into his heart. Rarely had death been so close, seemingly as inevitable as the ocean's tide. Armand Christophe had gambled before, but never in his life had the odds been so high.