A/N: Again, nine reviews last chapter... not bad, but it could be better. In any case, right now I'm wondering how to actually sort out this bloody thing so it makes any kind of chronological sense... it might be a few chapters before the entire group is back together again, but I'll do my best in the meantime to move it forward.

Scytherian Poetry: Yeah, Gorgoth does seem to have gone off on his own for a bit. He just doesn't accept people as comrades very easily, making it somewhat logical for him to operate alone. He'll be back with the rest soon enough, though, hopefully. As for Ilend, he IS, essentially, just a soldier out for revenge. That in itself isn't the most involving of characters unless it's very well-written, so we'll have to appreciate Aerin a bit more, it seems...

Underpaid Critic: Yes, there ARE a lot of Gates. Means that there's a lot of oppurtunites for them to appear... read on ;) And I do like to make a habit of expanding little-seen NPCS.

As for the commas, I've always used them ever since I started writing, and it's so deep-rooted that I don't even know why. I guess it's because when I started writing, it was mainly descriptive essays for English, and my teacher encouraged the use of commas, so... I'll try to avoid confusion in future, but it'd be hard for me to kick.

As for my next fic... I might have mentioned a few times in my Author's Notes that it's a Dark Brotherhood fic, one with hopefully enough uniqueness to distinguish itself from the rest. I'll say no more here...

Random Reader: Well, I've never heard of that mod, but it does sound good and realistic. Rest assured that other parts of Tamriel are suffering from the Oblivion Crisis, some more than others. As for stealth, yes, they did use some stealth (hiding from a few patrols), which is wise, but take note that they're soldiers in terrain they're not used to. Hiding and stealth won't come naturally to them.

As for Gogron, he MIGHT make an appearance, though I hadn't considered one before... in fact, it could work. It'd be interesting to see him standing next to someone bigger than him for once, that's for sure.

Koboldlord: Yeah, the AI ingame isn't the best, but I always knew that an Oblivion Gate wouldn't be so bad if I had a company of good men at my back. It's a lot better with a squad. That's why there's a lot of main characters...

Arty Thrip: Happy birthday. Yarp, I made it in time... :)

That's it from me. For now. Don't forget to leave a review.


Chapter Twenty-eight: Looming Threats

Bravil. The city had apparently recovered from its near-destruction at the hands of Dagon's minions, and its inhabitants had reverted back to their normal lives, which apparently included a lot of thievery, dishonesty, crime, and drugs. Danger lurked in every alley, and gangs of scrawny-looking dregs from every race hang around on squalid street corners, ignoring the dangerous creaking of shacks that were so run-down that they looked ready to fall over at the lightest breath of wind. Grime and mud was everywhere, even the few paved streets coated with it, pounded down by myriads of feet. Even the 'quality' district of town, where the main shops, services and Guildhalls were, had an atmosphere that reeked of the lowest types of life. The denizens of Bravil went about their business with their heads down, unless they were actively looking for trouble. None of the latter group, however, saw fit to challenge the hulking, armoured Orc as he approached the Lonely Suitor Lodge.

One kick and the rickety, damp wooden door splintered and collapsed. Gorgoth ignored at as he stepped through the doorway, sweeping the lodge's patrons with a piercing gaze. His fellow Guildsmen had only been too happy to reveal the details of Maglir's supposed inactivity. After going to the Mage's Guild and completing the contract for an understandably incensed Aryarie – a simple assignment to collect imp galls – Gorgoth had made a beeline for Maglir's reported location with fire in his eyes.

The Bosmer recognised Gorgoth and immediately tried to shift further down the bar into the shadowed end of the common room, but Gorgoth's eyes darted to the movement and pinned Maglir in place as the Orc slowly approached. The light plate armour embossed with the Blackwood Company crest served as final proof of the Wood Elf's defection. Gorgoth closed the distance and stopped a mere foot from Maglir, glaring down at the hapless traitor.

"Maglir..." The word rolled off Gorgoth's tongue, laced with hatred and contempt. "If you had completed the contract, then gone to Oreyn to resign, then joined the Blackwood Company, I would not have had a problem with you." Most of the inn's patrons had by now either fled out into the street or moved as far away as possible from the Orc. "But not only have you effectively turned traitor-" Gorgoth spat the word "- but you brought shame and dishonour to the Guild by defaulting. I-" Movement caught Gorgoth's eye, and he shifted his gaze slightly to include the three Blackwood Company members that had just emerged from the shadows wearing threatening expressions.

"An Argonian, a Khajiit, an Orc and a Bosmer, all wearing the same uniform..." observed Gorgoth, folding his arms. "I have no argument with you three, but by sundown, this traitor will have got what he deserves: to be dumped in a ditch, his body left for the wolves." Maglir whimpered, then made a visible effort to stiffen his back, moving to stand in front of his new comrades.

"To take him, you have to take all four of us," rasped the Argonian, his hand resting purposefully on the hilt of his longsword.

Gorgoth, slowly clenching his fists, noted a creaking floorboard behind him. He spun, his open palm slamming into the chest of the Altmer, dressed in the garb of a commoner, who was trying to slide a dagger into his ribs. Ignoring the indignant shouting of the Orcish innkeeper – apparently, the Altmer was his cook – Gorgoth stomped over and grabbed the front of her shirt, lifting her feet off the ground so they saw eye to eye. With two of her ribs almost definitely broken, the fragile Altmer still retained enough courage to spit in his face. "You cannot stop the Lord Da-" Gorgoth threw her to the floor with enough force to shatter even more of her ribs, then drew his booted foot back and kicked her in the temple, several patrons of the inn looking queasy at the squelching sound that echoed off the walls.

"Your cook was a Mythic Dawn agent," Gorgoth told the innkeeper, looking around for the Blackwood Company members. They had vanished. Cursing in his native language, the Orc rushed out of the Lodge, leaving the innkeeper with his mouth gaping.

Only his reflexes, honed over the decades by incessant, brutal training regimes, saved Gorgoth from having his skull caved in by the warhammer as the Blackwood Company Orc swung it with all his strength. Gorgoth straightened and kicked the Orc's legs from under him, following him down and slamming his elbow into his opponent's throat. As his comrade had his windpipe caved in, the Khajiit hissed in anger and leapt at Gorgoth, only to find himself lying dazed on the ground several feet away, struggling for breath, as the Orc met his leap with a two-fisted hammer blow to his chest. Blood King was singing, crying out to Gorgoth to take blood, to use his old weapon again, but he ignored it. There would be little honour in this slaughter. Gorgoth would only slake his weapon's thirst in a battle worthy of his respect.

Stepping into battle calmly, the Argonian ignored the predicament of his comrade and moved forward, thrusting at Gorgoth with speed. Sidestepping, the Orc felt the blade scrape along his armour as he lunged forward, his fist connecting with the end of the Argonian's snout, sending him staggering back, attempting to stay on his feet. Gorgoth stepped forward again and delivered a roundhouse kick to the lizard's abdomen, depositing him several feet away, blood and bile spraying from his mouth as his stomach rebelled. The Orc looked around for Maglir, and spotted him running for his life, screaming for the guards.

Ignoring a guardsman's shouted instruction for both of them to stop, Gorgoth sent fortification magic flowing through his limbs and took off at a pace far faster than would normally be possible for an Orc weighed down by thick plate armour. Sprinting past a startled guard, one of several called to the scene by the commotion, Gorgoth caught up with Maglir within seconds, the Bosmer clearly struggling under the weight of his new armour, and grabbed his neck with one hand, increasing his pace until he reached the city wall. The Orc sent strong Alteration magic coursing through his legs and the air in front of him and jumped straight over the city wall, leaving the pursuing guards gaping in wonder as the Orc made good his escape, captive in tow.

Ten minutes later, having mounted Vorguz and galloped until they were a safe distance from the city, Gorgoth dismounted and dragged Maglir, now naked and bound, into a forest clearing just out of earshot of the road. Throwing the terrified Bosmer to the ground, Gorgoth took the time to tie Vorguz securely to a tree before turning back to him, fixing him with a withering glare. "Do you know why you're about to die in agony?" he asked, voice cold and emotionless.

Maglir immediately started to ramble about his wife and children until Gorgoth backhanded him, knocking out a few teeth. "Answer the question," he snarled.

With tears pouring down his face, Maglir nodded. "You think I betrayed the Guild and brought dishonour upon it." His voice was a shrill, high-pitched whine, and a foul stench started to rise from him as his bowels voided themselves.

"I thought?" Gorgoth shook his head. "Maglir, I know. You are a worthless waste of life. This is my duty, nothing more." His fists began to glow, one dull red, the other bright blue. "I always have found it amazing how much pain can be inflicted for so long, and so safely, with magicka," muttered the Orc, talking half to himself. "Some prefer physical, some prefer magical. I use both where the situation suits them..." He returned his gaze to Maglir, who upon looking into those eyes, could do nothing but whimper in fear. "Pray to whatever gods you know, Wood Elf, but I doubt they will help you now."

Maglir began to scream.


The West Barracks of the Skingrad Guard was lively. It had been two days since the Oblivion Gate had been closed but the euphoria had not yet fully worn off. Daron had been pestered incessantly to talk about Oblivion after being debriefed by Dion and Danus Artellian. The normally reserved Redguard had no doubt found himself talking more in one night – fuelled by constant rounds of beer paid for by his comrades – than he had done for the last year. Ilend himself had been physically dragged from the Guildhall one night and taken down to the nearest pub, where he'd had so many beers pushed into his hand that he'd eventually passed out and had to be carried back to the Guildhall on the shoulders of eight guardsmen, much to the amusement of the entire Guild, which had survived virtually unscathed, Parwen and one of the Associates being the only casualties. Ah-Malz had apparently been devastating on the walls, his claymore being well-suited for the purpose.

Dion's voice brought Ilend back to the present. They were sitting in a secluded corner of the West Barracks, the Guard Captain's crested helmet resting on the table before him. "So, you'd have maybe six months, a year maximum, before I bump you straight up to Guard Sergeant. You belong in uniform, Ilend. Think about it."

Ilend rubbed his chin, his gauntlet scratching his stubble. He'd had the armour cleaned and repaired until it was in both a presentable and working condition, but it would be a while to get the smell of blood out of it. Skingrad's armourers and healers had been overworked; over forty guards had died, with many more sporting wounds of various severity. "Your offer is tempting, Dion," Ilend told the Imperial, speaking truthfully. There were times when he missed the pride that had come with being part of the Guard. "But it'd be too restricting. It might not look like it, but..." his voice trailed off.

Dion turned and fixed the Guildsman with a piercing stare. This close, Ilend could see the thin lines pricking at the corner of the tanned Imperial's eyes and mouth. Sellus Dion had been captain of the Skingrad Town Guard for over ten years, and his rivalry with the captain of the Skingrad Castle Guard, Danus Artellian, had lasted for eight of them. Dion, the better officer, with even better family connections, had got the more important position and Artellian had never forgiven him. "You're lusting for revenge. It burns if it goes thirsty for too long," observed the captain after a few seconds.

Ilend sighed and nodded. "When the time comes, I have to be at the heart of this war, it has to be my blade doing some of the most damage to Dagon," he explained. "I simply don't have the freedom to do that in the Skingrad Guard." He paused. "Besides, Ah-Malz promoted me to Protector. I have a future in the Guild. One that gives me more freedom." The Argonian had told him that he might not have been on official Guild business when he'd closed the Gate, but he was damned if any such act of courage was going to go unacknowledged by the Guild.

The captain nodded sagely. "I get where you're coming from, Ilend," he sighed. "Just remember that this offer remains open." He stood, donning his helmet, and Ilend swiftly rose to his feet. "I'm off to patrol the walls. I'll trust the dozy buggers to remain alert after that debacle, but you can never be too sure..." the Imperial nodded to Ilend then walked out of the barracks. Ilend left soon after him, as a few guards were looking in his direction with interest. He didn't want to make it two hung over mornings in a row.

Walking along the dark streets of Skingrad – the sun had long since set – Ilend kept one hand on the hilt of his sword. According to reports, the daedra had been killed, each and every single one of them, mostly cut down in the killing ground just through the gates where they had been assaulted on three sides by ranks of spearmen, with the second rank able to fight along with the first due to the reach of their deceptively simple weapons. However, until an entire week had elapsed, Ilend wasn't about to let his guard down; some few might have slipped into the city and hid, unnoticed by the residents, most of whom had been cowering in the chapel. Fortunately, he had been able to remain largely anonymous in the aftermath, and the citizens of Skingrad didn't know exactly who had closed the gate. Neither he, Aerin, nor Daron wanted hero-worship.

A shadow moved in a dark alley, and Ilend had his sword half-drawn before he recognised Aerin. He grunted and rammed the daedric longsword back into its scabbard. Throughout the rigours of combat, it hadn't even been badly chipped; the daedra certainly made good swords with good steel.

"Bit jumpy, ain't ya?" asked Aerin as she fell in beside him.

Ilend snorted. "You seem to forget that I lost my home to those bloody daedra. I think I'm entitled to see them in every shadow."

"Good point." The archer's hand unconsciously rose to her back to run her hand over the feathers of recently-purchased arrows. Ilend smirked and rolled his eyes.

"So, has Ah-Malz succeeded into press-ganging you into the Guild yet?" asked Ilend. The Argonian Warder had been becoming increasingly vehement about securing the archer's services, especially as there was a gap to fill given that Parwen's body was lying in Oblivion. Some of the older inhabitants of the Skingrad branch had been downcast about losing their resident marksmer, but neither Ilend nor Aerin had been able to get to know her that well in their brief acquaintance. Thus, they had given their mourning comrades time and space, but most of their attention had been on recovering from their assault on Oblivion.

Aerin shook her head, ponytail swinging. "Nah. He threatened ta kick me off Guild property and send me ta sleep in the street if I didn't join, but then I pointed out that you could put whatever ya want in your bed, and that includes me."

Ilend barked a laugh and raised an eyebrow. "Would you even fit?" he muttered, only half joking. The Guild's beds were decidedly narrow. When an Orc had passed through a few years back, he'd complained of barely being able to turn over without falling out.

Aerin laughed and elbowed him in the ribs as they approached the entrance to the Guildhall. "Even if I didn't, I'm sure I could slip in with Fadus. He wouldn't mind, I'm sure."

"Wouldn't mind what?" asked Fadus, emerging from the Guild just as Ilend's hand rose to open the doors.

"Nothing you need to worry about," Ilend told him as they slipped past him into the hallway, leaving the bulky Imperial scratching his bandaged head in confusion. He'd refused to allow the Mage's Guild to heal the slash that had left a three-inch cut just in front of his left ear, claiming that it 'looked good'.

"So, has our knight in not-so-shiny armour decided to stay with the Guild?" asked Ah-Malz, his feet up on the table. Fons Llendo was sitting across from him, sharpening his newly-acquired daedric scimitar, taken as a trophy from a Dremora that the Dunmer had killed. Maybe Ilend had started a trend.

"I'm staying, Ah-Malz, if only because your food is better," laughed the Protector, flopping down on a much-mistreated seat and leaning back as he swung his feet up to rest on the table. "I don't suppose there's any contracts floating about?"

"Actually, I just sent Fadus off on one," rasped Ah-Malz, holding a throwing knife up to the light of a lamp and examining it critically. "One of the mages at the Guild wants protection while she forages around the remains of that Gate for alchemical supplies. Not the most exciting of jobs, but it's a contract."

Ilend was about to respond when there was a heavy thumping at the door. All eyes turned to Aerin, who was seated closest to the entrance. She sighed, rolled her eyes, and got up, walking over to the double doors and wrenching them open.

A middle-aged, official-looking Orc stepped through the doorway, in the uniform of a direct employee at the castle of Count Hassildor. Clearly not destined for combat, the Orc was probably the softest example of the race Aerin had ever seen, slight of build and barely more than a foot taller than her. The prominent canines even looked out of place on his face. "I have a message to deliver to Ilend Vonius and Aerin," he rumbled, his voice still as deep as most Orcs, looking around the hall as though he'd never been there before.

"I'm Aerin," replied the named Bosmer, glancing to her left as Ilend, having heard his name, strolled out into the hall. "And that's Ilend."

The Orc nodded. "Count Hassildor requires your presence at the Castle immediately. He does not like to be kept waiting." Turning on his heel, he walked smartly out of the doorway, leaving the doors open.

Ilend scratched his chin. "I guessed this might happen," he grunted. "How do I look?" he asked Aerin.

Aerin turned and gave him a searching glance, looking him up and down, folding her arms. "Unwashed, unshaven, smelly, and in dire need of a haircut," she told him. Ilend cocked an eyebrow and took a lock of his black hair in his hand. It was still short enough by his standards, barely brushing the tops of his shoulders. "I'm joking, ya big lummox," snorted Aerin. "Ya look like a soldier, which I'm sure is what ya want."

Ilend nodded. "Damn right," he growled. "What the Count sees is what he gets. Come on, you heard the Orc, he doesn't like to be kept waiting." Not waiting for a response, the Imperial left the Guildhall without looking back.

Walking briskly through the city and across the long bridge separating the castle from the rest of Skingrad took the better part of half an hour. Both had guessed exactly what they had been called to the Count for – that much was obvious – but, after much discussion, they were still clueless as to what he actually wanted by the time they reached the gates. Apparently, even an audience in person with the reclusive ruler of Skingrad was a great honour.

The guards let them in as soon as they identified themselves, and after crossing the courtyard, they found themselves in what was probably the 'waiting room' in which anyone who wanted to see the Count waited for acceptance or rejection. Normally rejection. Hal-Liurz, the Count's Argonian steward, immediately went off to fetch him, leaving Ilend and Aerin to wait somewhat uncomfortably under the eyes of various Castle Guardsmen, having nothing to do except cast their gaze over the simple stonework or the walls, the only decoration being banners bearing the crest and colours of Skingrad. Predictably, Daron was also there; the Redguard was leaning against a wall, helmet tucked under his arm, looking at nothing in particular.

After a few minutes, Hal-Liurz descended halfway down the stone stairs and beckoned for the three to follow her. A short walk through a twisting corridor deposited them in a luxurious room, which had thick carpets, various murals decorating the walls, and ornately designed lamps providing light in the absence of windows. The only chair was a finely-carved, stiff-backed affair made of darkened wood. Standing in front of it was the only other inhabitant of the room after Hal-Liurz closed the door and took up position beside it.

Ilend and Daron immediately snapped into salutes, fists thumping against their chainmail. Aerin hastily copied them, despite the gesture looking slightly ridiculous, given her thoroughly non-military attire. Count Janus Hassildor waved for them to be at ease before stepping forward, looking each one in the face in turn. Both Ilend and Aerin were struck by his appearance; his immaculate, expensive clothing could have been that of any other noble, but the Count himself looked different. By most accounts, he was well over a hundred years old, but that was to be expected of a powerful mage; many of the most powerful had been living for millennia. However, the man standing before them was heavily wrinkled, his neatly combed-back hair more grey than brown, and his face was gaunt and sunken in appearance. His eyes, a dark grey, were deep-set and alive with an otherworldly light.

"My captains tell me that you are the only survivors of the group that went in to close the Oblivion Gate," observed the Count, his voice rich and low, in contrast to his withered appearance. "Without you three, this city would probably be ashes by now."

The three held their silence as the Count paused, his gaze taking in all of them, stripping them down and looking into their very souls. "Bravery was prevalent that day," continued Hassildor. "It could be argued that you, Daron, were only doing your duty, but going into Oblivion, spitting in the face of a Daedric Lord, goes beyond the call of duty." Another pause. "Vonius, Aerin, you did not even have to stay in the city. You could have fled, you and the comrade of yours who did not make it."

Ilend grunted. "This is my home now, sir," he intoned. "And I still have a sense of duty from my days as a Kvatch Guardsmen. Running for me was unthinkable."

Hassildor nodded slightly, turning to Aerin. "And you?" he asked. "You are not even in the Fighter's Guild, not following the orders of a superior. You are a civilian, unattached to Skingrad. Why stay and fight?"

Aerin swallowed, thinking before answering, clearly uneasy in the unfamiliar setting. "I was at Kvatch, sir," she told the Count. "I saw what the daedra did there. I... I don't think any man or mer with any decency could abandon anyone to that fate if they could do something about it."

Hassildor walked a few steps away from them, digesting the information. "Yet you all stayed and fought," he said, turning to face them again. "In this continuing crisis, it is good to know that the Empire can count on soldiers such as you." The Count paused for a moment, then continued. "I will not elevate one hero above all others. The entire Skingrad Guard, every man or mer who fought, are heroes, and I will not single any man out, but..." He fixed them with a piercing gaze. "You three deserve something, at least. Ask for something, within reason, and I will do my best to grant it."

Daron's response was instant. "I ask for nothing, sir, just my continuing service in Skingrad's Guard," he told his Count, staring straight ahead.

Hassildor chuckled. "A soldier's response," he muttered. "That is an easy request to grant. We need good, strong men in the Guard in this dark time. Stand ready for whatever happens, Guardsman Daron." The Redguard gave a short nod. "And what about you two?" asked Hassildor, turning towards Ilend and Aerin.

Ilend was still frowning, trying to work out what to ask for, and Aerin's face was blank with shock, so the silence stretched out awkwardly for a few seconds before Ilend's eyes refocused and he spoke: "I would be honoured if you gave me a shield of your city guard," he asked, speaking slowly. Hassildor's eyebrows twitched, and Ilend hurriedly explained. "My old shield-" he tapped the scorched, heavily pitted shield hanging from his back "- has seen better days. Given that I can now call this city my home, I would be grateful if you could give me a standard steel shield painted with the Skingrad colours, as used by the Guard. I swear not to bring dishonour upon it."

The Count waited a long moment before nodding. "I'll have one taken from the armoury," he replied. "It will be delivered to the Guildhall by tomorrow night." He turned to Aerin. "And you?"

Aerin thought for another long moment, her tongue idly running over her teeth, before speaking. "Arrows," she croaked, pausing to swallow before continuing. "The ones I'm using at the moment are low-quality, they bend easily. I know you've got solid arrows in your armoury... armour-piercers aren't the priority, I want durability." She cleared her throat. "Sir." she added hastily.

"And how many would you need?" asked Hassildor.

"Sixty would do. More than enough ta fill two quivers. Sir."

The Count nodded. "I'll see to it that some are earmarked," he told her. He took two steps back, his gaze including them all. "These are dark times," he whispered, forcing them to strain to catch his words. "I hope Cyrodiil has more like you. This is our hour of need." Hassildor sighed, abruptly seeming even older. "You are dismissed," he told them, standing back impassively with his hands folded behind his back as Hal-Liurz shepherded them out.

Aerin was the first to speak as they slowly descended the stairs to the entrance hall. "Damn, I should have asked for a house or something!" she exclaimed, punching her fist into her palm.

"Why didn't you?" asked Ilend stonily.

"Ah... didn't think of that. And... it might have been a tad much, ya know?"

Daron snorted. "Merely meeting the count is an honour; enough for me," he claimed, donning his helmet, the cheek guards lending him an air of anonymity.

"Ya would say that. Typical guardsman." Aerin shook her head, ignoring Ilend's frown as they left the stairs. "Still, at least I got some arrows out of it."

"You got more than that, Aerin," growled Ilend. "By not singling out any one of us as the gate-closers, he preserved us from the sort of hero-worship that Gorgoth is probably getting. I'm sure you wouldn't want everyone in Skingrad fawning over you."

Aerin missed a step, brow wrinkling as she digested his words. "Right..." she said slowly. "That's... good."

Ilend snorted. "Bloody right it is," he muttered, speeding up momentarily to catch up to Daron as they headed towards the exit. "I take it you've been mobbed with beers?" he asked the Redguard.

Daron spared him a sideways glance. "The lads knew not to get me drunk when I was on duty tomorrow," he replied, removing his helmet to scratch at an itch on his completely shaven head. This close, Ilend could tell that he'd seen combat long before closing the Gate; no doubt his promotion to Guard Sergeant was imminent even without his exploits, years of service evident by the ridges worn into his skull by his helmet over the years.

"How long have you been in the Guard?"

"Seven years."

Ilend nodded, inwardly congratulating himself over his correct guess. Daron's voice intruded. "Were you at Kvatch?"

"Yes. I was a Watch Sergeant at the time. I lived every single minute of that battle." Ilend sighed. "Couldn't let it happen here."

Daron grunted. "Why did you leave the Guard? Your city needed you."

Sighing again, Ilend stopped and turned to regard the Redguard with one hand resting on the doors to the castle courtyard. "My city did not need a man consumed with his desire for revenge, Daron. They have other guards. They have help from your city and others. One man makes no difference."

Daron's face was unreadable as he studied Ilend for a moment, before silently walking out through the doors into the night. Aerin walked up and stared out after him. "He could have got a promotion, ya know," she muttered.

"Damn it, Aerin, stop being so fucking shallow!" exploded Ilend, ripping open the other door and stomping out across the courtyard. The guards at the entrance to the castle wisely kept their faces smooth as the Imperial crossed the bridge back to the city, Aerin somewhat hesitantly falling in beside him.

They were almost back to the city when Aerin finally broke the strained silence. "All right, Ilend, what did I do wrong?" she asked stopping and turning him with a hand on his elbow.

"You really don't know?" snapped Ilend, glaring down at her. He growled in exasperation as she shook her head. "Aerin, for a Skingrad City Guard like Daron, merely meeting a count as reclusive as Hassildor might well be the high point of his career. He'll get promoted soon for sure, but he'll always remember that. And as for us..." the Imperial sighed and walked over to the edge of the bridge, leaning his hands on the stone walls. "Not only did the Count do the right thing, he did us a favour. Do you want people to worship the ground you walk on?"

Aerin, hands clasped behind her back, was studying her boots intently. "No," she mumbled, her voice small.

"Exactly. You're, what, not even twenty yet? You've probably got near enough two centuries ahead of you if you don't die in battle. Would you want to carry the burden that goes with being a hero, the Hero of Skingrad, for the rest of those years?"

Aerin looked up, meeting his flat gaze. "No," she whispered.

Ilend nodded, then looked up at the stars shining overhead in the complete absence of any cloud. "Yes... being a hero really isn't all fun and games," he continued. "Few can really take up that heavy mantle with any confidence. A true hero has obligations, responsibilities... people naturally expect more of him, for him to do great things, to do the impossible, to be there when no-one else is, to be their saviour..." The Imperial shook his head in disgust. "I tried playing the hero once, Aerin, when I was a fresh-faced young recruit. Luckily, one of the older hands talked some sense into me before I'd got in too deep. I took that advice to heart. Three years later I was a Watch Sergeant."

"I'd never thought about heroes that way before," replied Aerin slowly, leaning on the wall beside him, looking down into the valley below them, brow wrinkled in deep thought. "What about Gorgoth? He doesn't seem to give a damn about obligations."

"Gorgoth? Gorgoth is something else entirely. I don't pretend to be able to understand him." Ilend sighed and shook his head. "Maybe I was too hard on you. You were a drifter in your youth, with no real way of instilling something like civic pride." Ilend shot her a sidelong glance. "I grew up here, Aerin. This is my city. I was proud to serve Kvatch, but I'll be just as proud to bear the crest of Skingrad on my shield. That, for me, is far better than being a hero. Reward?" The Imperial shook his head. "The Count rewarded us by not singling us out, Aerin. Do you understand that?"

She nodded. "I do now, but... if he knew what he was preserving us from, why did the Count offer us rewards?"

"He's been in the politics business a long time, Aerin. You never say what you really mean in politics. And, at the most basic level..." He smiled. "Think of it as a reward for a good job done well." Ilend turned and clapped a hand to her shoulder, smirking as she instinctively flinched. "And it was done well," he claimed. "Without you, I doubt we'd have survived. Trueshot and its wielder were invaluable."

Aerin grimaced. "Don't be a politician, Ilend," she grunted. "Say what you mean: Trueshot was invaluable. It wouldn't make a difference who wielded it, as long as they could at least shoot straight..."

Ilend scoffed and grabbed her by both shoulders, giving her a gentle shake. "Don't you ever go doubting yourself, Aerin," he told her, a spark igniting in his eyes. "Yes, Trueshot might have been important, but you've clearly been listening at least half the time when I get you sparring. No, you might not be perfect; yes, Trueshot could be wielded by another, but the fact is, it wasn't. You were there in Oblivion, you survived, you fought like an elf possessed at times. Damn it, Aerin, it might have been a team effort, but even so, I might not be here if it wasn't for you. Skingrad might not be here."

Aerin stared up at him for a few seconds, then a grin crept across her features. "Hey... ya weren't too shabby yourself, ya know? Then again, neither was the rest of the Guard."

"Exactly." Ilend smiled. "Dagon came, looking to take this city, to turn it into a smouldering ruin. He found us ready and willing to spit in his eye. We fought and we won. That, to a soldier, is victory." He hesitated, then pulled her into a strong hug, his grip tight. "You might deny it, but I know you're a soldier now," he told her, idly stroking her hair. "This is what victory feels like. Savour it while you still can."


A snowstorm was swirling around Cloud Ruler Temple. Heavy white flakes pounded the battlements, where the Blades unlucky enough to be stationed on guard duty were shivering in the watch towers or crowding as close to the braziers as duty allowed, the biting wind cutting through their plate armour better than the finest steel ever could. The dark clouds overhead were rolling south, shedding their load as they went. Most of the Blades had seen several such winters at the Temple, but the groaning and cursing at the weather never changed.

"How soon will this bloody storm blow over, d'you reckon?" Baurus asked Captain Steffan as the two Blades stood shivering around a brazier along with four of their comrades. Jauffre had finally decreed that Martin didn't have to have two dedicated bodyguards, and a rotating system had been set up, with Glenroy and Baurus removed from the luxurious room they'd commandeered. Both had seen it coming for a while.

"Not any time soon, by the looks of it," growled Steffan, stamping his feet to keep the blood circulating. The grizzled Imperial had been commander of the Temple for twenty years, and he hadn't been wrong about the local weather for the last seven. "Nothing wrong with a light sprinkling, anyhow," he muttered.

Baurus grimaced. "Easy for you to say, Imperial," he grunted.

Steffan snorted. "Course, I should have remembered. You beach boys don't function in the cold." The Captain rubbed his chin in an unsuccessful attempt to hide his growing smirk. Winter was also an excuse for long-established ribbing to open up between the Imperials, Bretons and Redguards over the latter's general aversion to extreme cold. The few Nords normally took the opportunity to sit back with infuriating smug smiles.

Baurus was about to reply when a shout from the fortress's east wall demanded their attention. "Captain! I think I can see an Oblivion Gate!"

The response was immediate; most of the Blades who had been crowded around the braziers immediately sprinted over to where Jena was pointing to the east: A dark red glow was spreading over the horizon like a stain, the Gate on the ground hidden by the forest and the snowstorm. Several Blades cursed. Steffan pursed his lips. "That can't be more than ten miles away," he snarled, slamming his gauntleted fist down onto the wall. "Someone get the Grandmaster!" he roared.

By the time Jauffre had arrived, Steffan had sent most of the Blades back to their duties. Jauffre took one look at the dark glow and grunted as though he'd been punched in the stomach. "They could have an army beating at the walls within hours," he muttered after thinking rapidly. "We're going to have to close that." The aged Breton sighed and turned to Baurus. "Tell Renault to meet me in the Great Hall. We need to be quick and decisive. Hurry." His quiet, forceful words had more effect than a barked command ever would, and Baurus immediately sprinted off to find her, ignoring his katana banging against his legs. Jauffre motioned for Steffan to follow him as he hurried off in the direction of the Great Hall.

"What do you have in mind?" asked Steffan as Jauffre made his way over to the fireplace and stared into the flickering flames.

"Glenroy reported that he and Selene closed the Gate outside Bravil with difficulty. We have to assume the Daedra have learnt from their mistakes. We will have to send more this time."

"A squad?" Steffan slowly removed his helmet and ran a hand through his greying hair. "We might just be sending them into a meat grinder. This place can be defended by a skeleton garrison against armies, Jauffre, you know that. Send half the Blades we have available."

Jauffre sighed. "We barely have a skeleton garrison as it is," he muttered. "We've been in decline, Captain. Uriel's reign always seemed stable and safe. We were allowed to relax. Now look at us; barely a hundred of us when we are needed most."

Steffan was careful to keep his face smooth; he knew all to well that in the fifty years that under Jauffre's leadership, barely any beast races or elves had been admitted to the Blades, despite several showing excellent qualities. The only exception was in the spying branch, where the ability to blend in meant certain races were essential. However, it never had been Steffan's job to question his leader's motives. "We have brave hearts and good sword arms," he said slowly. "And we have-" he cut himself off abruptly, as the mere mention of Gorgoth's name in his presence was enough to irk Jauffre these days.

Judging by Jauffre's scowl, the Breton knew exactly who Steffan had been about to refer to. "Well, the fact is, he isn't here," he growled. Renault chose that moment to hurry in, accompanied by Martin, who was shadowed by both Baurus and Roliand.

"How far is it?" asked Martin, immediately striding over, his voice slightly harsher than usual. Oblivion Gates put him on edge more than most things did; understandable, given his ordeal in Kvatch.

"About ten miles, give or take a few," responded Steffan.

"It needs to be closed, and closed immediately," cut in Jauffre. "Renault, get a squad of eight together and be ready to leave within minutes. Take Glenroy and Selene; they've closed Gates before, and you'll need Selene's magic. For the rest, I trust your judgement." The Breton captain saluted smartly and turned on her heel, motioning for Baurus to follow her as she donned her helmet.

Martin sighed. "This one is aimed at us, isn't it?" he asked.

"Undoubtedly," confirmed Jauffre. "They haven't assaulted Bruma yet – though they will – so it would make sense for them to try and circumvent it first."

"How long do we have if her squad fails?"

Jauffre turned and fixed Martin with a gaze full of steel and conviction. "They won't fail," he claimed, voice hard.


South of the Panther River, a some way east of the Yellow road, deep within the Blackwood, two Argonians were leaning against a tree, heads drooping with the boredom normally associated with sentry duty. Their spears leaned against their shoulders, ready for use, and their light scale armour sometimes glimmered whenever the weak sun managed to penetrate both the clouds above and the thick canopy of the wet forest. The foliage around the Argonians was dense, and alive with the sounds of nature; birds calling, insects tapping out their usual rhythms, water from last night's rainfall dropping from the leaves of the thick-trunked trees.

Sensing his comrade's eyes slowly sliding shut, one of the sentries irritably elbowed him in the ribs. "Stay awake," he rasped. "You know what the boss is like when he catches you sleeping on duty."

"He won't catch me," snorted the other, green eyes focusing and refocusing as he attempted to clear the fog of near-sleep from his head. "Since when has he ever come this far out? Besides, you'd cover for me."

"Don't be so sure," growled his comrade, returning to gaze through the dense growth. "No-one might have been here for the last twenty years, but you can't afford to-" He was cut off by the throwing axe embedding itself deeply in his chest, chopping through his ribcage and slicing his heart in two. The Argonian slumped down the tree, leaving a trail of blood behind him, red-tinted frothy saliva dribbling from his open mouth.

Leaping forward, swinging his spear from his shoulder, the other Argonian had no time to register the sound of footfalls behind him before an ebony broadsword buried itself in his lower back, punching through his spine and thrusting out through his stomach. Twisting the blade to loosen it, Gnaeus Magnus pulled it free with practised ease, stepping back to avoid the spray of blood, letting the dying Argonian slump to the damp forest floor.

"A blind half-wit would have kept better watch than those two idiots," he snorted, disgust evident in his lined face as Lurog emerged from behind a tree and walked over to reclaim his throwing axe. "Then again, they were better than the last three pairs," continued the Imperial, voice dripping with scorn as he cleaned his blade on a large leaf pulled free from the tree above him.

"Lapses of this magnitude would be rewarded by twenty lashes in the Orcish army," rumbled Lurog, wiping his axe head clean before returning it to a loop on his belt, which it shared with three others, several potions and his long, heavy mace.

"Discipline? In an army of greenskins?" Gnaeus's harsh laughter clearly indicated what he thought of that concept. Lurog sighed and rolled his eyes skyward. If Gorgoth hadn't asked this favour of him, he'd have strangled the old Imperial several days ago. "Don't make me laugh. Now, make yourself useful for once and hide the bodies." Lurog grunted his assent and bent over to pick up one of the Argonian corpses, effortlessly slinging it over his shoulder, ignoring the flecks of blood staining his thick chainmail.

"Keep your voice down, old man," he growled, dumping the dead sentry in a bush and returning for the other one. "We must be getting close to their main camp. You said so yourself."

"Another three miles yet, by my reckoning," replied Gnaeus, sheathing his sword. "Hurry up with that. I want to take notes while we've still got daylight."

Lurog dumped the second body in the same bush and wrenched the branches around until the thick leaves of the bush hid most of the body parts. The dark green of the Argonian's scales helped by blending in with the natural environment. Throwing their spears in beside them, the Orc turned to find Gnaeus waiting impatiently, immediately turning and walking off into the forest without a backwards glance. Lurog shook his head in wordless exasperation and followed.

They picked their way through the forest in silence, following game trails, avoiding any sings of patrols. Gnaeus was constantly grumbling under his breath about the noise of Lurog's heavy armour and the deep bootprints he was making, whereas the Orc merely kept a hand on his mace and constantly scanned the immediate area, ready for any sudden attack. He need not have worried; there had been few sentries posted far from where Gnaeus had said the camp would be, and they had already dealt with most of them. The way was clear.

In the dense forest, the three miles took over an hour and a half, but eventually Gnaeus and Lurog cautiously approached the edge of the tree line, looking out over a massive clearing, several acres wide. Below them was a large military camp, with haphazard rows of tents of varying sizes spread out in a hollow. Training grounds were visible, slick with mud due to the constant pounding of boots, with a select few warriors bellowing orders and walking around assessing the results of sparring. Smoke and the pounding of hammer on anvil marked the location of armourers, and everywhere there were soldiers; motley collections of all races, with no indication of a uniform anywhere. Weapons and armour varied widely, with many having mere scraps of leather, while others were sporting heavy chainmail. An air of fanaticism was prevalent, detectable even from the overlooking hill. If watchmen were employed, they failed to spot the Orc and Imperial peering out at them from the shadows cast by the trees.

Gnaeus snorted, albeit quietly, much to Lurog's relief. "That lot, an army? More like a collection of several hundred barely-trained farmboys and bandits," he muttered, contempt evident in his tone. He wrenched parchment and a quill from his belt pouch and began scribbling furiously, leaning on his knee.

Lurog grunted. "Look over there," he growled, pointing to a better organised section of camp. "That lot know what they're doing. Orcs. Well-trained, by the look of em." That section of the camp was indeed better organised, with tents in actual rows rather than being strewn about all over the place. The Orcs striding about also seemed better-equipped than the rest of the army, with several in plate armour, and most hefting battleaxes or two-handed maces. Beyond the camp, the white columns of the Ayleid ruin of Atatar were just visible above the trees.

"Quiet, I'm writing," snarled Gnaeus. "Let's see... I'd say there's at least seven hundred ration thieves down there, give or take a few."

"I reckon on about eighty Orcs at least," rumbled Lurog, craning his thick neck for a better look. "That's- Malacath's blood, that's Burzukh right there." The Orc's well-trained eyes had picked out his old friend immediately, the scarred, one-eyed Orc having an animated conversation with one of his men.

"Sod him. Where's the command tent? I want to lay eyes on this young upstart you seem to worship."

Lurog directed a glare towards his companion. "It's called respect, old man, something you seem to lack. And he won't have a command tent; he'll be staying in those Ayleid ruins." Gnaeus muttered something unintelligible and kept writing.

A rare flash of sunlight glimmering on burnished armour caught Lurog's eye. Unconsciously, a grim expression spread over his face as he watched the Redguard walk over to Burzukh and engage him in conversation. Lurog remembered him, images from his memory flashing before his eyes. He was tall with a powerful build, with black hair cropped short and deep-set brown eyes that seemed to relentlessly search for weaknesses. The full suit of plate armour he was wearing was ancient, forged by Ayleids long ago, and was strong and durable while still being light. The immense claymore strapped to the Redguard's back seemed to pulse with a dull red glow, even with the hungry blade sheathed. Lurog narrowed his eyes. He had never felt the bite of Sinweaver, but a close friend had.

"Azani Blackheart," he whispered, his gaze full of both respect and malice. Gnaeus looked up.

"Where?" he snapped. Lurog pointed. "Ah... good that he's here. I gathered that he's absent quite a lot of the time." The old Imperial bent his head again, starting on a fresh sheet of parchment.

Boots crunching on fallen leaves snapped Lurog's head around. "We've got to move, old man," he told Gnaeus, caressing the hilt of his mace while shooting the Imperial a warning glance.

"Sure, sure..." mumbled Gnaeus distractedly as he stuffed his parchment and quill back into his belt pouch. The footsteps were coming closer as they faded back into the undergrowth as quietly as they could. Gnaeus grimaced at the heavy footfalls and clinking armour of his comrade, his own light leather boots and cloth tunic making no sound as he crept backwards with practised ease. Fortunately, the approaching footsteps were slow, and by the time the two patrolling sentries – one Khajiit, one Redguard – found the flattened grass and bent bushes the two scouts had left, they were long gone.

"Did you get what you need?" asked Lurog as they slowly made their way back through the forest to the Yellow Road. He was still keeping an eye out at all times; only fools and green recruits let their guard down in potentially hostile territory.

"I'll remember what I haven't written down," replied Gnaeus. "I can write it up when we get back to that inn."

"A single company could put that lot to the sword," snorted Lurog in contempt, unconsciously clenching a fist around his mace head. "Did you see the way they've set up camp? A blind goblin could do better than that. They're nothing but a rabble." The Orc sneered into the growth to either sides of them as he continued his tirade. "Training grounds are all very well, but you can't train if you've got no ability to start with. Blackheart has to have to Orcs training them, or mercenaries, and you can't expect them to whip unskilled farmboys into soldiers in mere weeks."

"I know!" snapped Gnaeus, turning to glare at Lurog. "Don't think you know anything about soldiering I don't, greenskin!"

"Where did you serve, then?" questioned the Orc.

Gnaeus bit back an angry reply. "See, Orc, the people who I shared an island with knew better than to ask me that after I left the first two with broken ribs," he told him in a conversational tone. "I don't care what you've done, cavalry officer, but it doesn't compare to what these old hands have seen and done. Never."

Lurog held his gaze for a second, then shook his head. "I will respect your right to privacy," he growled. "Others-" The Orc was cut off by two Argonians, a Khajiit and a Dunmer silently emerging from the forest around them, weapons at the ready, all with steel in their gaze.

"We heard you arguing from two miles away," rasped one of the Argonians, his scale armour painted dull green to blend in with his surroundings. Clearly an experienced mercenary – the same of which could be said for his comrades – he was hefting his two shortswords with practised ease. "Your tongues have led to your deaths. Do they have any final words to form before we end your existence?"

"You would really murder two harmless travellers?" asked Gnaeus, a rather convincing look of horror spreading over his face as he slowly backed away, empty hands held up in front of him. All four mercenaries laughed.

"Nice try, old man," snarled the Dunmer, drawing a large claymore, his bonemould armour creaking slightly at the movement. "Turns out that someone's been killing our sentries... and you still have their blood on your tunic." His scarlet eyes were fixed on the crimson stain on Gnaeus's thigh.

"Oh... so I have..." Gnaeus let his hands drop to his broadsword, and he drew the gleaming ebony blade in one smooth motion. "Well, come on, you bastards, let's be having you!" he barked, settling into a defensive posture and beckoning. Lurog moved to stand by his side, mace held loosely in his right hand, the head brushing the grass. His large shield was raised, covering him from neck to mid-thigh.

The other Argonian wasted no time in stepping forward and hurling his javelin at Gnaeus while his three companions rushed forward. Ducking momentarily behind Lurog's shield, Gnaeus watched dispassionately as the javelin missed him by mere inches before stepping forward and parrying the Dunmer's overhead chop, letting his defence sag slightly under the sheer power of the blow, taking a step back. A slash aimed at his midsection was also absorbed by the ebony blade, Gnaeus taking another step to the side, away from Lurog, who was holding off both the sword-wielding Argonian and the Khajiit, while the other Argonian crept slowly towards Gnaeus with scimitar at the ready. Sensing a weakness in the defence of the Imperial, the Dark Elf spat a curse at him and swung at him with full fury in a cleave intended to smash aside Gnaeus's defence. Instead of blocking, the spry Imperial instead ducked, rolling forward, under the mercenary as he staggered, overbalanced by the unexpected lack of resistance. Smoothly rising to his feet, Gnaeus turned and rammed his sword into his opponent's back, relentlessly pushing it further in until he felt the blade leap in his hand as it made contact with the dying mer's heart.

As Gnaeus withdrew his blade and moved to attack the hovering Argonian, Lurog took several steps back to gain more space. The Khajiit leaped after him, war axe flashing as a rare ray of sunlight broke through the leafy canopy above them. Lurog reversed his movement and charged forward, smashing the heavy steel shield into his head, hearing a crunch as the cat's nose was crushed. Kicking his wounded opponent's legs from under him, Lurog turned rapidly to counter the threat of the swift Argonian, who had darted around to exploit the Orc's temporary open defence. Thrusting with both shortswords, the lizard was not expecting Lurog to sidestep and pin one of his arms between his mace arm and his body, while his other attack skittered harmlessly off the Orc's thick chainmail. Bending slightly, Lurog raised his shield and slammed the sharp edge down onto his enemy's right foot, crushing the bone and slicing through the webs. Releasing the Argonian's arm, he planted a boot firmly into his scaled chest, sending him crashing to the ground, his foot a bloody ruin.

The Khajiit was back on his feet, growling curses in his native language, words sounding distorted as blood spurted from his dented face. His eyes full of hatred, he leapt once again at the bulky Orc, only to have his axe ripped from his hand by Lurog's well-placed parry, leaving him helpless as the Orc stepped forward, raised his mace, and brought it down upon the cat's head, crushing his skull. Ripping his mace free – it had lodged in the start of the Khajiit's spine – Lurog turned and finished the downed Argonian with a savage kick to the throat.

"Lithe young bugger, weren't you?" growled Gnaeus to the hapless Argonian skirmisher as he brutally twisted his broadsword, embedded in the lizard's stomach. The mercenary's scream was swiftly turned into a ragged gurgle by blood and bile clogging his throat. Disgusted, Gnaeus wrenched his blade free and looked around to find a suitable leaf to clean it with, shaking off the dying Argonian's hand clutching at his ankle. "They'll almost definitely have heard that miles away, if there are others searching," he observed, glaring down at the dead mercenaries.

"We were fortunate that it was only a small patrol," rumbled Lurog, using a handful of leaves torn from a nearby tree to remove the stubborn grey matter from the head of his mace. "We should move as quickly as we can over this terrain. You know the way back to the inn; you lead."

"Should have known you'd say that," retorted Gnaeus. "Never make it easy for the old man, I get it..." shaking his head, he sheathed his broadsword and started off to the west, falling into a steady jog, Lurog following close behind, armour rattling loudly. By the time another patrol found the bodies of their comrades, the two infiltrators had long gone, safe under the cover of the approaching night.


A/N: You'll note that Count Hassildor has grey eyes in this fic. That's because red eyes on anyone but a Dunmer is virtually a tattoo on his forehead saying: 'I am a vampire'. His eyes are grey due to Illusion magic. Makes sense.

And that's another chapter finished, with 250,000 words broken. I dunno how long this fic is going to end up... over 300,000 for sure. To be honest, I have absolutely no idea what happens in the next chapter to start with, so it might take a while, especially now that college is back. Still, I push ever onward... and, remember, reviews always help me. So leave one.