A/N: It's at times like this that I wish some of you anonymous reviewers had accounts here so I could give you proper review replies... that said, eleven reviews for the last chapter are still very much appreciated.
Anonymouse: That is correct. I got tired of writing Oblivion Gates, as well. There will be others in this fic - that's inevitable - but hopefully that won't be too much.
Random Reader: Yeah, Gorgoth's got some pretty serious mental scarring. Of course, that doesn't excuse the fact that he's willingly done horrendous, henious acts, and... peace? He doesn't want peace. Long-term, I doubt even Gorgoth knows exactly what he wants. It's all short- and medium-term at the moment.
nachosforever: Yarp, the Blades would be expected to be better than the average guardsman. However, if you're referring to them as 'monks' (what the bloody hell is a 'mook'?) then they're not actually monks; the Order of Talos are monks, and the Blades sometimes retire into the Order of Talos, but they themselves are the personal guard of the Emperor; they don't worship him.
As for these 'strong' characters... don't overestimate them. If Selene went into an Oblivion Gate alone, she would die. If Ilend and Aerin went into a Gate alone, they would die. So far, they've been involved purely in TEAM efforts. Yes, Selene has a lot of magical power, but in the BaS universe, it's not entirely unusual; there'd be Battlemages at the Arcane University and in the Legions both more powerful and more experienced than her. And as for the 'meatshield', Glenroy is one of the best swordsmen in the Blades; hardly a meatshield. Besides, if they tried that again, they'd die, both of them. The Daedra are learning. There WILL be character deaths in this fic. Major ones.
And, finally, I'm not trying to justify Gorgoth's actions, and he doesn't even think they need justifying. That encounter will help explain a vendetta he has against a certain someone, and it also explains why he's chosen to be so stoic and emotionally detached.
Scytherian Poetry: I agree. Looking back, there were too many filler chapters in this part of BaS... I'll try to avoid that in future. As for Selene, as I said, she's not extraordinarily powerful in the BaS universe; there are probably quite a few battlemages more powerful than her.
Duskification: In war, people die, on the good side and the bad. This is just an example. And as for the torture, Gorgoth has done exactly that for a lot less. He's done it sometimes simply because he was ordered to, not even knowing the reason. But, yes, his mother WAS close to him.
Now THAT is a long A/N. Well, a lot of good anonymous reviews required it. Keep up the reviewing, people, you know how much I like them.
Chapter Thirty: Preparations
The crowds who frequented the Imperial City Arena were always appreciative of the sun. In the summer, it could admittedly make the packed stands unbearably hot, but for the most part a sunny day meant that they wouldn't get wet. More importantly, the blood looked better when shining on the sands under a hot sun. On this particular day, the sun was shining brightly, only interrupted briefly by the sparse clouds. Not that any of the dedicated fans and gamblers would ever let something as trivial as the weather get in the way of watching and betting on a good match, especially when The Green Tornado was involved.
He was standing behind the bars in the Yellow Team cage, ready to be unleashed upon the sands that were feeling increasingly like home. The Argonian had long since handed his old raiment back to Agronak, and now wore his custom-made light scale armour. His weapons, however, always had remained the same; twin steel shortswords and various steel throwing knives hanging from belts on his back. The same weapons could be seen in any half-decent blacksmith's anywhere in Tamriel; they were ordinary, common. Their wielder was anything but.
For all the acclaim, and the hero-worship, and the adoration of the crowds, Saliith was growing slightly bored of life in the Arena. Proper challengers were swiftly drying up after he slaughtered them, one after another. Ysabel had come up with the idea of caging animals to fight the Grand Champion, and for a while, this had entertained both the Argonian and the crowds. Yet while the crowds still loved them, these fights were also becoming somewhat predictable. No troll, ogre or minotaur had sufficient intelligence to stand a chance against him once he had figured out how their minds worked. There was, quite simply, too little to challenge him.
It wasn't just the relative ease of the fights; Saliith was all too aware that at the Arena his intended purposes were simple: to make money, and to make other people money, hopefully gaining their admiration along the way. In truth, since he'd killed Hroadis and become Grand Champion, Saliith had been impatient for Gorgoth to summon him. He wanted to fight for something that would actually matter. Fighting the actual enemies of Tamriel gave him a sense of fulfilment that fighting in the Arena could never hope to give. He had already achieved immortality of a kind, but there was some work that was truly never done.
For now, Saliith was willing to use his free time either relentlessly training or making yet more money. At the moment, it was the latter, and Ysabel had informed him that it might actually be some challenge this time. Agronak had confirmed this: The Green Tornado would be facing not one but three minotuars. One had given him a hard time for a few minutes until he figured out its weaknesses; three would be another matter entirely. That familiar surge of excitement and adrenalin was already rushing through the Argonian's body.
In Saliith's entire tenure at the Arena, he'd never heard the announcer change his rhetoric much, and today was no different. The gates screeched down as the fat Imperial flopped back into his seat. Darting out onto the sands, the Argonian drew his twin blades, set his feet firmly, and fixed his gaze on the three minotaurs being forced out into the Arena. They didn't need much more prodding; as soon as they spotted him, all three bellowed in fury, lowered their heads, and charged, sand spurting up in their wake.
The Grand Champion kept his throwing knives in their places; from experience, he knew that they were near-useless against minotaurs unless it hit them in the eye or some other part of their body, but that was hard to achieve. His shortswords were barely any better; their short length meant that, even combined with Saliith's impressive physical strength, they would barely be able to penetrate the solid slabs of thick muscle that covered most of the minotaur's bodies. Of course, his agility meant that he could dance around them to stick his weapons in their vulnerable areas, but that would be a lot harder with two others attempting to rip him apart.
One minotaur let out an ear-splitting roar and pushed itself onwards, swinging a massive fist at Saliith. The Argonian sidestepped and slashed with his left shortsword, leaving a long cut on the minotaur's thigh. It completely ignored the wound – maybe it hadn't even felt it – as it staggered forward, overbalancing, frantically trying to stay on its feet as well as turning back towards Saliith at the same time. The Argonian had already darted forward and rolled between the other two minotuars, whose attempts to kick him merely led to them kicking each other. Each giving the other a savage glare, they turned, to find their antagonist out of sight.
He was back soon enough. After sheathing one of his blades, he took the other in both hands and forced it with all his strength up into the minotaur's back, grunting with the effort as the beast's flesh resisted the steel. The minotaur bellowed in pain and rage and charged forward, away from the Grand Champion. Saliith dug his heels into the ground and pulled back on his blade, managing to wrench it from the gaping wound. The other two came to the aid of their wounded companion, swinging at Saliith with gusto. He darted back, their lumbering movements pathetically slow in comparison to the lizard's swift action.
The wounded minotaur was back alongside his companions, ignoring the blood dripping down his back and onto the sands. Saliith jinked left then right, watching them jerk around, attempting to follow his movements. One grew impatient and lowered his head, charging at the Green Tornado with horns lowered. Saliith firmly planted his feet and drove his shortsword into the front of the beast's skull, the sheer momentum of its charge sending them both crashing to the ground. Saliith hopped up again momentarily, leaving his shortsword embedded between the dead minotaur's eyes; he wouldn't be getting it free again any time soon. The crowd made their appreciation clear, their roars drowning out the minotaurs completely.
Unfazed by the death of their fellow, the other two minotuars circled Saliith, snorting and pawing at the ground as they bided their time. Ignoring the urgings of the crowd, the Argonian was content to wait; the wound he'd given one of the minotaurs was still bleeding, and it was clearly weakening. It realised this and started lumbering towards Saliith with fists drawn back, ready to unleash hammer blows that would crack his skull. Saliith crouched, wary; with only one sword, his potential to cause damage was even more limited, but with both hands on the blade he could apply more power to any attack.
Lowering its horned head, the minotaur charged, followed closely by its companion. Saliith waited for the opportune moment then leapt, vaulting over the back of the onrushing beast and using his momentum to stab at the other minotaur. However, the angle was wrong and the steel blade merely sliced its snout open. Rolling to his feet upon impact with the ground, Saliith was quickly turning to gauge whether he had another opening. He hadn't. The minotaur with the cut snout was already rounding on him, bellowing in rage. In the stands, the watching fans and gamblers were on the edges of their seats.
Discarding all sense of self-preservation – if it had ever had any in the first place – the minotaur charged once again, a lunge with its head and upper body parallel to the ground. Saliith rolled to the side and flipped up as the beast tore past him, forcing the tip of his blade into its path. He controlled the resistance and stood his ground as the blade cut open the minotaur's flank from shoulder to hip. Ignoring its roar of pain, the Argonian turned to deflect the other minotaur's swing, his entire arm shaking from the force of the impact. Taking a step back to rebalance himself, Saliith darted forward again and rammed his blade in under the minotaurs armpit, feeling the shortsword slide on a rib before he forced it back out.
Now bleeding from two deep wounds, the minotaur staggered backwards for a few steps before straightening. Saliith was already turning to attack the other minotaur, his blood-soaked sword flicking the hot liquid across the Arena as he feinted left and right. The crowd made their appreciation known. Lunging for the Argonian's head, the minotaur gave Saliith the opening he needed. He spun around the befuddled beast and leapt onto its back, driving his blade deep in the back of its head. Managing to extract the blade before his fallen opponent hit the ground, Saliith rolled to his feet just in time to duck under another blow from its wounded companion.
Slowed and drained from the blood leaking from its two wounds, the minotaur was able to turn in time to repel the dogged Argonian, who once again sank his sword into its flesh, cutting through the muscle and deep into its back. Pulling it out, Saliith was slow in stepping back and felt the fury of the beast's riposte; a fist slammed into his ribcage, throwing him to the sands and knocking the wind out of him. A concerned gasp arose from the crowds, but The Green Tornado was lucky; at full strength, that blow would have broken his ribs, but in its weakened state the minotaur's strength had only sufficed to bruise them. He was up and dancing away within seconds.
The crippled minotaur staggered around, helpless to respond to Saliith's slashing and stabbing, until it finally succumbed to its injuries and fell to its knees. Quickly darting in and slitting its throat, the Argonian felt a relieved sigh pass through his teeth as the stands erupted in cheers and the announcer jumped to his feet. That fight had drained him far more than his last few had. He slowly walked over and retrieved his other sword from the skull of the minotaur with some difficulty. That done, he headed back down the Yellow Team tunnel, absently giving the seething crowd a few waves on the way.
Submerging himself in the Basin of Renewal, Saliith sighed as the caked minotaur blood slid off his blades, scales, and armour, ebbing away into nothingness as the Basin's enchantment got to work. His bruised ribs healed and he was left to relax as the enchanted water filtered through his gills. After a few seconds of indulgence, the Argonian sighed again and dragged himself out of the Basin. As he stood stooped with hands on knees, blinking the water out of his eyes, a familiar pair of boots swam into view. Saliith straightened and looked up into the face of the Blademaster, who was nodding slightly in appreciation.
"Three minotaurs at once," he muttered, jingling a large bag of gold in one pale green hand. "Not bad." Saliith plucked it from the air as the half-Orc tossed it to him before stuffing it into his pocket. "Unfortunately for the crowd, we've run out of creatures for you to kill, and there's not exactly anyone eager for you to arrange their guts over the sands," continued Agronak, a hint of a smirk creeping onto his face. "Looks like you might be out of work for a while."
Saliith shrugged. "I've got gold pouring out of my ears," he rasped. "And I think I'll have to step up my training regime. It's getting too easy right now."
Agronak snorted. "I remember saying that a while back. Eventually, my entire life was dedicated to training for a challenge that never came." He placed a hand on Saliith's shoulder. "Make sure you leave enough room for something else," advised the Blademaster. He turned on his heel and left to find Ysabel, probably to inform her once again of the limitations of capturing wild animals to use in the Arena. Saliith was left alone to watch the enchanted water slowly drip from his body onto the stained floor of the Bloodworks.
He walked through the maelstrom of swinging weapons and sparring gladiators, returning the handful of greetings he received with short nods. Some of the other fighters had become hangers-on of a kind, hoping to pick up a few tips, only to find that this new Grand Champion was even less obliging than the old one. Saliith did not care for the hopeful glances of those lesser gladiators, hoping to pick up some advice that would aid them down the path which would end with them being smeared over the Arena by their old teacher.
Climbing out of the Bloodworks into the late morning sunlight always made him blink several times as his eyes struggled to adapt quickly to the change. Several fans were leaving from the stands, and the inevitable cheers and tokens of appreciation were sent his way. Aware that most would not recognise him on the street were it not for his weapons and armour – most other races couldn't see much distinction between individual Argonians – his response was simply to give a vague nod in their direction before heading off to his normal training area.
A flicker of bright yellow on the edge of his vision caught his eye, and the Argonian spun to face that damned Bosmer as he squealed and leapt for his hero, hoping to hug his ankles and kiss his feet. Instead, he got a foot in the mouth and several broken teeth. Saliith backed off hastily before his fan could recover, disappearing into the bushes. He emerged out the other side and walked to the paved, columned area that was his normal place for training, despite the numerous fans who could gawk at him. Fortunately, most had the sense not to bother him while training.
Nodding in greeting to the two young Argonians leaning against the pillars, Saliith unbuckled his sword belt and turned to put it down with the blades leaning against a pillar, but it was whipped out of his hands by Neesha before he could make a move. She gave a him a small grin as she laid the weapons carefully down; there were times when Saliith was worried that her adoration might make him softer. "Go and round up the usual suspects," he told her. She nodded and scampered off to find the men Saliith used for training, tail whipping from side to side. Turning upon hearing a swishing sound, the Green Tornado barely caught a wooden practice sword just before it would have whacked him in the face. Huzei was wearing an impish grin. Saliith smirked and nodded to another nearby practice blade. His fan walked over and picked it up, his grin widening as he clenched his fist around it, revealing rows of jagged teeth.
Huzei was learning quickly. He was shorter than average – about five foot seven – and looked scrawny, making his claimed age of eighteen questionable at times, but he was a natural with a sword in his hand. The Argonian had contemplated joining the Arena more than once, but Saliith warned him against it; despite finding the siblings' adoration for him frustrating at times, he was starting to feel a kind of genuine affection for the pair, and he didn't want to be responsible for the headstrong Huzei charging out onto the sands unprepared and getting killed. They could use the money, though; they tried to hide it, but he knew that whatever money they got from betting on him was spent on their mother's medical treatments. He forced them to accept payment for their services, but they had little else to gamble, and they'd never mentioned a father. So he found himself supporting him the best he could, given that their pride wouldn't allow him to do much else. It felt more fulfilling than most of what he did in the Arena.
"OK, we've got a few minutes, I'd say," Saliith informed him. "Let's work on your defence. You leave yourself open a lot." Huzei nodded, his yellow eyes focusing on Saliith's wooden sword, holding his own ready to block or parry. "And don't try to pass this on to your sister; we don't want her accidentally poking your eye out," joked the Grand Champion. Huzei was a good learner, but an atrocious teacher. His sister was willing to learn and had picked up the knack of swordplay easily enough, but only after Saliith had started teaching her himself.
Huzei smirked and waited for Saliith's attack. As he moved in to test his student's defences, the Grand Champion realised that he was getting a sense of satisfaction from this that he rarely felt any more on the sands of the Arena. He was actually doing something constructive. And if merely training his young fan made him feel this way, then he sincerely hoped that Gorgoth wouldn't take too much longer to call upon him.
To the untrained eye, Cheydinhal had not changed much. However, someone as experienced as Gorgoth picked out the signs immediately. The double guard posted on the gates and in the watch towers, their increased alertness, the tense atmosphere pervading everywhere. This apprehension was reflected in the ominous dark clouds rolling overhead, summoned by fast winds. Cheydinhal was preparing for the inevitable moment when an Oblivion Gate opened outside its walls. It would be hard to prepare for such a thing, but Ulrich Leland was doing his best to whip his normally corrupt, lazy guardsmen into shape. In Gorgoth's opinion, it would take months for most of the Cheydinhal City Guard to be ready for combat.
He was not there to comment on the Guard's lack of discipline and ability, however. He was there to get work. Walking up the steps to the Guildhall entrance, his long legs taking them three at a time, he swung the double doors open and entered. The lower level was deserted apart from a somewhat lonely Imperial Associate, who pointed him upstairs when asked where Burz was. Ignoring the screeching protest of the stairs as he climbed them, Gorgoth reached the top level of the Guild, where he came across Burz belting on his armour.
"I take it you want a job?" grunted the surly Guardian. Without waiting for an answer, he continued on, buckling on his mace belt as he spoke. "Well, good. I'm drowning in contracts and I don't have any sodding boots to shove em on to. You can take this one." The Orc stomped over to a table and wrenched a small scroll loose from the pile of paperwork. "Four fugitives broke out of a prison near Bravil. Typical of that shoddy place, they're managing to terrorise it." Burz snorted in contempt. Gorgoth shared his sentiments. "Anyway, you're to go down there and root them out. Any questions?"
"Why isn't the Bravil branch handling this?" asked Gorgoth.
Burz barked a mirthless laugh. "You expect that collection of witless layabouts and drunkards to do anything useful this decade?" he growled. He slammed his meaty fist down on the table. "No, this job needs doing by someone competent. You'll have quite a while to do it in; they're not going anywhere fast. You up to it?"
Gorgoth snorted. "Need you ask?" he inquired, plucking the contract from Burz's hands. A small smirk played over the Guardian's bluff face before his normal surly expression returned.
"Well, Bravil's not exactly just across the road," he rumbled, slapping Gorgoth on the shoulder before looking back down at the paperwork covering his desk. "Get moving, Defender."
Gorgoth paused at the head of the stairs. "I wasn't aware of my promotion."
Burz shook his head, a wry grin attempting to make its way onto his face. "He was hung over, Gorgoth. You can't really blame him for not informing you at the time." He snorted and waved his fellow Orc away. "Go. Those convicts aren't going to hang themselves."
Gorgoth left the Guildhall, stuffing the contract under his armour and into one of his pockets. Glancing up at the clouds, he resigned himself to not knowing the exact hour; his dormant hunger – it was hours since his breakfast by the side of the road - told him that it was a while yet before noon, but his stomach had lost most of its reliability since Azani Blackheart had cut it open two and a half years ago. Considering for a second, Gorgoth grunted and started off in the direction of the Newlands Lodge.
Easing himself down into a sturdy chair, Gorgoth had barely ordered a meal from Dervera Romalen when a Redguard approached his table. As the place was barely half-full, Gorgoth was about to suggest his new companion left him alone when he noted the man's Akaviri katana. The Blade leaned in close to pass on his message: "Our guest has finished the second part of his book. Your presence is required immediately. Word has been sent to others." His job done, the Redguard shoved back his chair and stood, turning to leave.
Gorgoth nodded and turned his attention to the tankard brought to him by a Dunmer barmaid. It was empty. He looked up just in time to see her sink a dagger into the back of the Blade's skull. Blood spurted over her grey hands as the blade punched through his neck and up into his brain.
Leaping to his feet, Gorgoth slammed a fist into the Dunmer's torso, sending her sprawling across the room into another table. Catching the Redguard before he hit the floor, Gorgoth pulled the dagger from his head and sent powerful healing magic through his body. Nothing happened. The wound had been instantly fatal. Gently placing the corpse on its back, Gorgoth removed the katana from the Redguard's sword belt and drew it before advancing on the Dunmer, who had forced herself to her feet and had pulled out another dagger.
"Am I going to have to kill you insidious vermin in every city I come across?" growled Gorgoth, his voice harsh.
"We are everywhere," hissed the Dark Elf, clutching her broken rib with her free hand. "You cannot look everywhere at once..." her voice trailed off, the thin trickle of blood making her smile look even more malevolent.
A swishing in the air behind him alerted Gorgoth to danger, and he spun. The dagger intended to embed itself in the back of his skull instead only sliced the back of his neck open. He was still holding the scabbard of the katana in his off hand, so he swung it in a vicious arc towards the second Dunmer's head, the reinforced leather emitting a sharp crack as it connected with her temple. She collapsed into a heap, leaving the Orc free to spin and impale the other Dark Elf charging at him with dagger raised to strike. It dropped from her lifeless fingers seconds before Gorgoth pushed her off the borrowed katana.
Turning back to the unconscious Dunmer, aware of every remaining eye in the Lodge on him – several patrons had already fled – Gorgoth drew back the katana and forced it through her chest, watching emotionlessly as her blood sprayed over the blade and his armour. Withdrawing the weapon, he mechanically ripped a strip of cloth from the woman's dress and cleaned it before returning it to its scabbard. Having healed the cut on his neck, he was in the process of slowly closing the Blade's eyes when the City Guard, led by a long-haired Breton captain, burst into the Lodge with weapons drawn.
"All right, big bastard, what happened here?" barked Ulrich Leland, bearing down on Gorgoth with his claymore firmly gripped in both hands. "I swear I'll put you down for the rest of your wretched life if..." he trailed off as Gorgoth stood and glared down at him.
"This Redguard was a Blade," he rumbled. "He was delivering a message of vital importance to me. Those two-" he gestured to the bodies of the Dunmer "- were Mythic Dawn agents. Need I say more?"
Leland snorted as he took in the scene, his eyes lingering on the sheathed katana in Gorgoth's hands and the dai-katana on his back. "Even if that is true," he started, the sneer evident in his voice. "You'll still have to-" Gorgoth cut him off.
"I am a Blade. I carry the Emperor's authority. To impede me now would mean you answer to him when he takes his throne." The Orc leaned forward, his icy glare ensnaring the Breton Guard Captain. "I am leaving. Do not try to stop me. And bury him with honour, if you can manage that." The last sentence was accompanied with a jerking of his head towards the fallen, nameless Blade. Leland had no time to argue as Gorgoth roughly pushed past him, sliding the dead Redguard's katana through his belt as he left the Lodge. The fugitives in Bravil could wait for now. Dealing with Dagon could not.
Clouds covering the sky from horizon to horizon and the cold, biting wind did not help Primo Varius's temper. The Imperial Guardsman had spent most of his shift quietly fuming about the news he'd received a few hours ago back in the barracks. His normal respectful nod for citizens going through the gates from the Arena to the Market District had turned into surly glances as he and his colleague, Felicia Antonius, kept watch for criminals and disturbances. Just like most of the time, the duty was boring, only serving to fuel Primo's anger. Finally, Felicia – his friend for most of the year she'd been in the Legion - grew tired of his snapped monosyllabic responses to her general comments.
"For Stendarr's sake, Primo, what happened?" she asked, throwing an exasperated glance across the gap between their positions either side of the gate. The cheek guards of their helmets lent anonymity to both of them, but that look still managed to convey her frustration.
"I don't have a bloody clue," growled Primo, unconsciously clenching and unclenching his fist on on the hilt of his longsword. "I just got told that my transfer application was denied. No fucking reason, just a bloody bit of paper. No talk, no nothing." The Imperial pursed his lips to spit onto the paving stones, then thought better of it; on top of his present woes, he didn't want to be dragged before a court martial for bringing disrepute to the Legion.
"But you're a good soldier; you've got experience and a good record," Felicia told him. "There's no reason to turn you down, given that they're not exactly swimming in soldiers in the field. Who processed your application?"
Primo put his head back and closed his eyes. "I think it was... Servillus," he muttered after some thought. It wasn't easy to attach something as personal as a name to the administrative officers of a legion, most of whom seemed to have all personality drained from them by the paperwork.
Felicia gasped. "Ticemius Servillus?" she asked, brown eyes wide under her helmet.
"I think so," replied Primo, shrugging. "Why? His name plucks at a memory, but nothing more..."
"You slept with his sister," Felicia told him flatly.
Primo grunted as though one of the nearby gladiators had punched him in the stomach. "That... bastard," he grated. "It was only... I didn't mean..." He snarled and slammed his fist into the palm of his shield hand, before restoring some semblance of the Legion discipline. His mind didn't desert him despite his frustration, however. "How do you know I slept with her?" he asked his comrade, narrowing his eyes.
She sighed and rolled her eyes before stepping over to lay her hand on his arm, after making sure there was no traffic likely to come through any time soon. "Primo, she slept with half the damned barracks," she told him. "It's not much of a secret who she sleeps with. How else did you think Ticemius knew? She's not likely to tell her own brother."
The Imperial's face contorted into a grimace. "Then why is he singling me out?" he growled. Prejudice always had angered him; having grown up in Leyawiin, he'd seen what it produced: countless destitute Argonians and Khajiit.
Felicia sighed again and leaned back against the stone wall beside him. At times like this, he was reminded how tall she was; she could almost look him levelly in the eyes. "Because, Primo, you're the only one in our company wanting to transfer to the field," she told him as she slowly walked back to her position opposite him. He detected bitterness in her voice; no surprise there. She'd been disappointed about him leaving ever since he'd made his intentions clear. He couldn't blame her; there were no others in their section that were good for much conversation, which was one of the most reliable ways of treating boredom.
"Well, that's me scuppered, then," he muttered angrily. "I'll bet you're secretly happy."
Felicia grunted. She had told him she wouldn't stand in his way, but he knew her well enough to know that he was right. "I'll admit that, but you know I'd never wish boredom upon anyone." She snorted. "Besides, if your face is going to resemble a thundercloud for the rest of your stay in the garrison, I'd be happier with you gone."
"I'm not that bad," retorted Primo. "Well, all right, a bit..."
She smirked, flicking a stray strand of black hair away from her face. "Hey if you want to go and... patrol a specific area for disturbances, I'll cover for you." A significant wink reinforced her suggestion.
Primo's eyebrows shot up as he gave her a sideways glance. "Really?"
"Go on, you need something other than shit coming your way for once today."
Primo smiled for the first time in hours. "Thanks," he told her, directing a grateful grin her way as he descended the stone steps to the Arena grounds. "Remind me to buy you a beer after our shift is over." A laugh was his response as he headed directly for the area where the Grand Champion trained. Of course, he would be keeping an eye out for disturbances. In a very specific area. He always found it therapeutic to watch the Green Tornado train. He'd made a hundred drakes by betting on the Argonian while off-duty, and his fighting style was great to watch.
The clack of wooden practice swords meant that the training was in full swing, and as Primo approached a small smile spread over his face before he forced it back to the neutral expression drilled into all Guardsmen. Four Imperials, a Breton and a Dark Elf were attacking the Green Tornado simultaneously; one more than last time. Apparently, the Argonian offered bonuses in addition to their usual pay if they managed to land a blow that would have been fatal with real steel on him. So far, he'd never paid that bonus. Distribution of his wealth and the protection of his normal weapons was overseen by those two Argonians who seemed to have appointed themselves his official servants and hangers-on.
Despite being outnumbered six to one, the Grand Champion appeared to be on top of things, and Primo started slowly walking back and forth along a nearby path, ostensibly appearing to patrol the area. In fact, the action in the training area never left his peripheral vision. In the short time since his arrival, two of the Imperials had already sustained 'fatal' blows; they were lying as if dead, providing the obstruction they would on a normal battlefield. It was training that Primo could appreciate and watch for entertainment, unlike the incessant drilling and tight manoeuvres of the Legion.
The Imperial noticed other passers-by looking on unreservedly at the fighters. He couldn't blame them; it was some spectacle. The Dunmer went down after receiving a practice sword across his ribs, a blow delivered with such force that it might just have broken a few of them. The Green Tornado's speed and agility were undoubtedly his greatest weapons, but that was not to say he was weak; some opponents had died after underestimating his considerable physical strength. Some of the watchers gasped in appreciation as the Grand Champion backflipped to put some more distance between him and the two remaining Imperials and the Breton. Primo himself was keeping the guardsman's mask of neutrality firmly in place.
Ducking under the Breton's lunge, the Green Tornado threw himself to the floor, supporting himself with one arm, and twirled his entire body, knocking the legs of all three opponents from under them. Flipping to his feet, the Argonian stabbed one of the Imperials through the chest – leaving a nasty-looking scratch – and kicked the Breton in the face, slamming his head back down onto the paving slabs. Despite himself, Primo winced at the impact; a blow like that could fracture a man's skull. At this distance, he couldn't tell if the Breton had been knocked out or merely stunned, but he was out of the fight for certain.
Alone against the Grand Champion, the last remaining Imperial never stood a chance. The Argonian knocked aside his defence with contemptuous ease and kicked him in the head before slashing at his stomach. He fell to the ground, clutching at his stomach in an attempt to hold in the guts that would be spilling out of the wound if it had been a real fight. The victorious gladiator, breathing heavily, took a step back and looked around, before nodding in satisfaction. His fallen opponents began dragging themselves slowly to their feet, wincing over their bruises. The Breton stayed down.
As the Grand Champion's two Argonian fans handed out payment to the fighters, Primo started to walk over, fully intending to analyse the severity of the Breton's wound. There were no obvious healers nearby, and he wasn't about to let someone die on his watch from a broken skull. The Green Tornado glanced at him with something approaching apprehension as the Imperial knelt beside the Breton, but Primo wasn't about to clap him in irons. For one thing, the Breton had volunteered, and arresting the Grand Champion just outside the Arena would certainly spark a riot.
The Breton was breathing shallowly, the rise and fall of his bare torso hardly noticeable. Blood dribbled from his mouth from where the Argonian's kick had broken a few teeth, but Primo was more interested in the back of the skull. Gently lifting the man's head, he was about to start probing when heavy footsteps reverberated around the area. Seconds later, a massive Orc in battered plate armour knelt on the other side of the Breton, roughly taking his head from Primo's hand and sending healing magic from his fingertips to the Breton's body. A blue light enveloped him and his eyes flickered open, staring blankly up at the sky for a few seconds before refocusing. One of the Imperials came and helped him to his feet, leaving Primo to straighten and take his first look at the Orc.
"Gorgoth," he said in greeting, inclining his head slightly.
"Guardsman Varius," replied Gorgoth, responding in kind. Primo was slightly surprised that the Hero of Kvatch had remembered the name of a lowly guardsman, but he guessed that the Orc was good with names; after all, he had commanded men of his own. Having returned the greeting, Gorgoth was already turning away to talk to the Green Tornado. Primo was better than most at reading Argonian expressions, and he would say that the lizard looked... eager at the mere sight of Gorgoth.
"Good to see you again, Gorgoth," rasped the Argonian, clasping the Orc's hand. "I was wondering if you'd ever show up."
"The translation took longer than I thought it would," responded Gorgoth. "I would always appreciate a warrior of your calibre at my side, Saliith." Primo raised an eyebrow; it was the first time he'd heard the real name of the Grand Champion being spoken.
"What needs doing?" asked Saliith, looking around cautiously. Primo adopted an expression of professional indifference, not easy to maintain when he was standing merely two feet away from them. His two fans were still handing out his money, and the fighters were retrieving their equipment from where they'd left it. None appeared to be listening, but both of them lowered their voices anyway.
"I don't know exactly, but I get the sense that it will require something dangerous. As would be expected." Gorgoth grunted quietly. "Are you ready to move today? Riding hard, we can reach Cloud Ruler by tomorrow night."
"Today?" Saliith snorted. "I can be off within the hour. That good enough?" The Argonian seemed even more eager now. Interesting.
"Perfect," rumbled Gorgoth. He abruptly turned to Primo, hand on the hilt of his dai-katana. "Blades business," he told the Imperial. "Do not repeat what you have heard." Primo straightened and nodded, giving an inch-perfect salute. Gorgoth nodded in return and turned on his heel, accompanying Saliith over to where his fans were collecting the practice swords. Primo remained where he was for a moment, then started marching off back to his post. He'd never dealt with the Blades before, and he guessed that now wasn't exactly a good time to start crossing them, given the fact that Oblivion Gates were opening all through an Empire without an Emperor.
He nodded to Felicia as he retook his post. The clock in the barracks would show the truth, but he estimated that they had about an hour left on their shift. He noticed that Felicia was attempting – and failing – to hide a broad grin. "What's so funny?" he demanded.
"This dispatch came for you," she told him, holding out a sealed note. Seeing his look of consternation, she quickly shook her head. "Don't worry, I told them you were away investigating a disturbance. You're fine." He sighed in grateful; relief and took the parchment.
Turning it over in his hands, he stared at the seal of the Imperial Legion – a red diamond with the Imperial Dragon in the centre – before breaking it with his thumb and opening the parchment. As his eyes scanned the text, a broad smile slowly spread over his face. By the time he'd finished reading, he was beaming. Felicia chuckled as he rolled up the message. "I assume it was good news, then?"
In response, Primo thrust the parchment at her, turning to keep watch while she read it. He was finding it increasingly hard to keep that mandatory look of neutrality. "'Report immediately to Centurion Titus Sextus for duties in the field Legions'" she read, glancing across at him. "They're reactivating some of the old forts?" She appeared to be asking the question to herself; it was right there in black and white. "Some of them haven't seen use in centuries... well, good luck at Fort Sutch," Felicia told him, smiling brightly as she handed the letter back. "'immediately' means get to him as quickly as possible, I think."
"Yeah, that would make sense," replied Primo distractedly, glancing around. "You can handle the rest of the shift on your own?" he asked.
"Course I can," she said, smiling. "You run along to the centurion now. Have fun in the Legion. Good luck." She offered him her hand.
"Yeah, good luck here as well," responded Primo, taking her hand and shaking it firmly. "I'll be seeing you again soon, hopefully," he remarked. "I don't want to have to wait too long to buy you that beer. You might charge interest." As she laughed, he withdrew his hand and saluted before walking off through the doors to the Market District. He'd have to go back to the Prison to report.
As the guardsman slowed to nod to his comrades on the other side of the massive gate, two figures brushed past him. Primo recognised the Hero of Kvatch and the Green Tornado, who had attached a variety of items to his sword belt, including various potions and a couple of longer-bladed knives. Both of them looked ready for anything; such was the nature of Blades business. Primo opened his mouth to wish them good luck, but then thought better of it. They didn't need it. He was a generic guardsmen; they were heroes who could actually make a difference.
"It's good to be back," observed Ilend as he and Aerin stabled their horses in the Cloud Ruler Temple stable. He and Aerin had ridden hard after leaving merely half an hour after the messenger from the Blades had informed them of the completed translation. After enduring heavy rain for most of the journey, they had awoken to clear skies that morning and were riding into the Temple two hours later. The presence of Vorguz in the stables told them all they needed to know. According to the ostler, the stallion hadn't been there for long.
"Back here in the cold, wet, miserable world of the north?" asked Aerin sarcastically, arching an eyebrow as she removed Firebrand's saddle.
"It's good because it means that we'll be helping to bring Dagon down," responded Ilend, slamming his fist into his palm. "It's hard to hold someone to account for the destruction of your city then do nothing about it for weeks, Aerin. I've been impatient to get cracking for a while now."
The Wood Elf snorted. "I can tell," she muttered. "You have been going on about it for most of the time on the road." She rolled her eyes and removed her cloak, slinging it over her shoulder as she strode off in the direction of the Great Hall. Ilend smirked and followed her, removing his own cloak. His newly-acquired Skingrad Guard shield hung from his back in exactly the same way his old Kvatch Watch shield had. It felt good there.
As the doors swung shut behind them, the two almost walked into Gorgoth. "It is good to see that you made it," he rumbled, nodding to each of them in greeting. "We will be leaving early tomorrow. Stock up on potions should you need to."
"Any hint of where we're going, big guy?" Aerin asked him, her expression a mixture of pleasure and apprehension. Pleasure at seeing Gorgoth again – she did like him, somewhat – and apprehension due to the fact she still knew so little about him. He still scared her sometimes.
"Ask Jauffre for the full details," responded Gorgoth. "I'll say that it is certain that we will see action. A lot of it. Stock up on arrows." He clapped her on the shoulder, staggering her, before continuing on his way out of the hall. "I need to see Gnaeus. We'll talk later."
Aerin fingered the arrows in her two quivers. "Well, I've got the sixty that Hassildor gave me. Reckon they'll be enough?" she asked Ilend as they continued into the Great Hall, moving towards Jauffre as soon as they located him standing by the fireplace, looking at the rows of katanas displayed on the walls. He seemed to have aged since they last saw him; his shoulders were slightly slumped, and the his wrinkles seemed deeper. Shadows under his eyes and an exhausted expression made him look like he was swiftly approaching the end of his long life. The Breton turned as they approached.
"Ah, good, you're here," he sighed, easing himself slowly down into a chair. The Grandmaster could still fight effectively enough at the moment, but that didn't mean he felt like doing it any time soon. "I get the feeling that we're going to need everyone we can for this one, and I simply cannot spare any of the garrison due to... recent losses." A grimace distorted Jauffre's face for a moment.
"You've taken recent casualties in the war?" asked Ilend, glancing around before easing himself down onto a chair opposite the Breton. Aerin elected to stand close to the fireplace.
"Fortis Denian, Achille Meric, and Haesmar were all killed closing an Oblivion Gate," intoned Jauffre, waving his arm towards the katanas on display. "Achel was more recently killed by Mythic Dawn agents." He sighed and ran a hand over his face. "With luck, this war will soon be over. I certainly hope so."
"Well... what are we doing about it right now?" inquired Aerin, flexing her hands as the fire warmed them.
"It would appear that Dagon likes balance," started Jauffre, a wry grin plucking at the corner of his mouth momentarily. "We needed the blood of a daedra. Now we need the blood of a Divine."
"Judging by the fact Gorgoth said we'd see action, I doubt they're generous enough to gift us with their blood too often," remarked Aerin.
"You're right; there's only one option." Jauffre leaned forward, his intense gaze taking in both of them. "You need to go to Sancre Tor and retrieve the armour of Tiber Septim," he told them. Noting their blank looks, he continued. "The ruins of Sancre Tor were once a site of pilgrimage, but none have gone there for centuries since its corruption..." Jauffre's face darkened. "The blood of Talos is on his armour, deep within the catacombs. I know little more than that."
"Yeah... a lot to go on," muttered Aerin sarcastically, casting her eyes skyward as she turned to face the fire.
"I didn't write that damned ritual," growled Jauffre. "If you want to blame anyone for slogging across half of Cyrodiil to fight your way through an evil-infested old city, then blame Dagon."
"Oh, I'll be blaming Dagon easily enough," snarled Ilend, reaching down and toying with the hilt of his sword. "Just like I've blamed him for everything else he's done in this damned war. Fighting my way through Sancre Tor?" The Imperial stood. "Just point me in the right direction."
"I wish I had two hundred just like you, Ilend," grunted Jauffre, remaining in his seat. "You'll be leaving tomorrow. Take the time to do whatever you need." Ilend nodded and gave a half-salute before departing. Aerin swiftly caught up with him after tipping her invisible hat to Jauffre.
"So, what now?" she asked Ilend, noting the fact that they were heading in the direction of the East Barracks.
"It's a military fortress, Aerin," he responded as he pushed open the door to the barracks. "There's really not a lot else to do except eat, sleep, and train, though there is a well-stocked library if you're interested."
Aerin's response died on her tongue as she noticed Gorgoth and Gnaeus standing together, the Imperial's stance impatient as the Orc flicked through a bundle of parchment. "This is good information of importance, Gnaeus," he was saying, his heavy accent and low voice making it difficult to distinguish the words at range. "You'll need to take this to Jauffre. He needs to know about this army within the borders of Cyrodiil."
Gnaeus spluttered in outrage. "Why me, greenskin?" he growled, glaring up at the much larger warrior-shaman. "You were the one who sent me to-"
Gorgoth cut him off. "Because, Gnaeus, Jauffre is a lot more willing to trust you than he is me."
The rest of the conversation went unheard by Ilend and Aerin as they were distracted by a meaty, chainmail-clad hand coming down on each of their shoulders. Spinning, they were confronted with a heavily-armoured Orc who was looking them over with interest. Not tall for an Orc – he was barely an inch taller than Ilend – but he was at least as wide as both of them put together. "You must be Ilend Vonius and Aerin, the archer," he mused, rubbing his chin. His voice was as deep as he was broad.
"And who might you be?" questioned Aerin, folding her arms as she stared up into the Orc's face. His amber eyes held more warmth than Gorgoth's, but that wasn't saying much.
"Lurog gro-Brugh of Manruga," rumbled the Orc. "I am an old comrade of Gorgoth's. It pleased me to see him alive, though his circumstances took me by surprise."
"Yeah... ya wouldn't exactly expect an Orc like him ta be the last, best hope of Tamriel, would ya?" snorted Aerin, looking over in Gorgoth's direction and shaking her head.
"No, you wouldn't," agreed Ilend, scratching his chin. "He's not exactly your stereotypical hero. Not with that... demeanour of his." He made a wiggling motion with his hands as if to physically demonstrate Gorgoth's 'demeanour'.
As Lurog responded, Aerin drifted away from them, nodding to Gnaeus as he passed and receiving a grunt in return. Gorgoth had walked out of a door into the courtyard and was standing on the edge of the battlements, staring at something in his hand. Aerin approached him, shivering slightly in the cold, and was about to speak when her gaze fell upon what he was holding.
It was a large gold ring, thick and simple in construction. Wide enough to fit through both her thumbs, it was clearly made for an Orc, but that was not what drew Aerin's attention. The dark red stone in the centre of the golden band depicted what seemed to be an armoured fist clenching a mace, raised high above the out-of-sight wielder's head. As she stepped closer, Aerin frowned as she watched the reflections of the light in the stone seem to ripple somehow, despite Gorgoth's hand remaining solid as a rock. Before she could get a better look, Gorgoth's fist closed around the ring and he pushed it back into his wallet. He spoke without turning around: "Speak."
Aerin almost asked to see the ring again, but at the last moment thought better of it. "What... what kind of opposition can we expect in Sancre Tor," she asked, thinking quickly.
Gorgoth turned and regarded her levelly. "You just asked me a sensible question, Aerin," he rumbled. "Either there is something wrong, or you have learnt a lot in the time we have been apart."
Aerin's mouth dropped open, the flush spreading over her cheeks a mixture of anger, embarrassment, and the cold. "Maybe I have, big guy," she told him. "I did close an Oblivion Gate, ya know." She thrust her hands onto her hips and stared defiantly up at him, challenging him to refute her point.
"Yes, I heard," grunted Gorgoth, unmoved. "You did good work there, from what the messenger said. However, three of you barely made it out, of the nine that went in. That is a high casualty rate. Unsustainable."
Aerin snorted. "We saved Skingrad!" she exclaimed.
"At a high cost in good soldiers. Dagon's hordes are limitless. Our forces are not." he put a hand on her shoulder. "You still have a lot to learn, Aerin. Watch well in Sancre Tor." He paused. "We will be facing various kinds of undead. Stay your arrows against skeletons and ethereal enemies because you will only waste them." He removed his hand and walked further down along the battlements, leaving Aerin alone with the wind and her thoughts. She stayed still for a few moments, before shaking her head. The lights shifting under the surface of Gorgoth's ring appeared in front of her, and she angrily dismissed them, hoping to forget the trinket. It was unlikely that Gorgoth would let her see it again. Turning, she walked back into the barracks.
Hours later, it had refused to leave the Bosmer's mind. The events of the day – spending hours catching up with Saliith, who had managed to become Grand Champion, and another few hours practising with her swordwork with Ilend – should have been enough to drive it from her head, but the questions remained. Was it enchanted? What did it signify? What did it mean to Gorgoth? What was he doing with it? Frustrated, Aerin turned over on her bedroll and attempted to get to sleep, but it was no use. Sighing quietly, she kicked aside her blankets and rose to a sitting position, drawing her bare legs up to her torso and hugging them as she looked around.
The East Barracks was sparsely population as usual, with only about ten or so inhabitants. Ilend was a comforting presence – as usual – in the next bedroll behind her, whereas Gnaeus was as far as possible from everyone. The massive mound of green muscle and flesh that was Gorgoth lay a few bedrolls down, his huge chest rising and falling as he slept. His enchanted wallet lay by his side, along with his mace and dai-katana. His plate armour was strewn around the foot of the bedroll. Aerin's gaze fell to his wallet, before she hissed and forced her head to the side. Stupid, stupid, she berated herself. Stupid, to even think about stealing from him.
But her curiosity was a powerful motivator. Within a minute, she had uncurled herself and was padding silently towards the sleeping Orc, hunched over in a deep crouch. It's not stealing, she told herself. I just want to take another look is all. Using Gorgoth's snores to mask what little sound she made, the Wood Elf slowly took hold of his wallet and clasped it to her chest, moving away from him. The warrior-shaman didn't stir. Once again, Aerin cursed her curiosity; she felt like she was betraying his trust.
Sitting down on a bedroll a few rows away, Aerin swiftly reached into the wallet and groped around. It felt somewhat surreal, finding that massive space within such a small object, but eventually she grasped the ring and pulled it out. Looking around, the Bosmer satisfied herself that no-one else was awake – Saliith was a light sleeper - before diverting her attention to the ring in her hand. It looked exactly the same as it had in the morning, no matter how much she craned her neck or turned her hand. There was no light from the windows to reflect; the moon was obscured behind thick cloud. Grunting, Aerin ignored the clear signs of danger and thrust the ring onto the ring finger of her right hand, despite it looking comically big. Nothing happened. The Wood Elf frowned, staring at it for a few more seconds before removing it from her hand. Her frown deepened as her pointed ears informed her of movement.
"You could have just asked to see it again," whispered Gorgoth as he eased himself down beside her.
Aerin's first instinct was to run, but she fought down the sheer terror and panic threatening to overwhelm her and stayed where she was, sitting as still as a statue. Gorgoth was sitting so close that their hips were touching, but he didn't seem to be threatening her. He wasn't even looking in her direction. "Had you asked, I would have shown it to you," continued the Orc. His voice was pitched so low that Aerin had to strain her ears to make out anything other than a very quiet rumbling.
"I just... I was..." Her tongue tripped over the words. "I just wanted to know what it was," she explained feebly. "I didn't want to- I mean, I-" Gorgoth cut her off with a hand engulfing her entire upper arm.
"Quiet," he growled. "You'll wake the others, and we'll all need our sleep in the coming days." Turning to face her, he directed his gaze at the ring in her hand, taking it from her and holding it up to look at it. "It is not enchanted, if that is what you were wondering," he explained. "The mine in the Wrothgarians that produced the stone merely has that something... special about it. That is why it sometimes appears alive under the sun."
"I see," nodded Aerin, her fear abating slightly. He didn't seem to be about to kill her, but she reminded herself that she barely knew Gorgoth. And if he wanted to kill her, he could do so in seconds; the muscular body mere inches from hers made sure she remembered that. "But what exactly is it? Ya don't exactly seem like an elf who likes to dress up in jewellery."
The warrior-shaman closed his eyes and exhaled. "A complex question to answer in full, Aerin," he told her. "I will say it simply: It is a signet ring. A symbol of the lordship forced upon me. I rejected that. I gave my lands to the Fighter's Guild. I renounced all my titles. I refused to accept anything from-" The Orc abruptly broke off, staring down at the ring. "This is all I have left," he grated. "The only proof of that phase. I should have destroyed it long ago." He maintained his gaze for a moment longer, then closed his fist around the ring. A dark red glow momentarily escaped from between his fingers before fading. Keeping his fist closed, Gorgoth stood and walked out of the barracks to the courtyard. Judging by the lack of noise, he had Silenced his own footsteps.
Aerin considered returning to her bedroll, but Gorgoth was back quickly. Walking back to her her, he sat down again. His expression was even more unreadable than normal; Aerin had assumed that impossible. The ring, of course, was gone. It was likely strewn across the snowy mountainside in thousands of tiny pieces. "When I return to Orsinium, I will take what is mine by right, like I have done in the past," he whispered, speaking half to himself as he stared across the barracks. Aerin followed his gaze to look at his mace. Blood King seemed threatening even when lying still.
"Uh..." the sound of Aerin's voice brought Gorgoth's head around. "Gorgoth, I'm-" He held up a hand to forestall her.
"Do not apologise," he ordered. "Had I known how powerful your curiosity was, I would have insisted you tell me what was on your mind earlier." He shook his head. "Get some sleep, Aerin," he told her, rising to his feet. She hastily emulated him. "Sleep deeply. Do not be troubled by dreams. May you live to see the morning."
"You too, Gorgoth," she whispered, feeling grateful. Others would have skinned her alive; she'd certainly expected Gorgoth to. Maybe he wasn't as terrifying as she'd thought. The archer walked back to her bedroll and slid back between the blankets, grimacing as she noted that they'd gone cold. A few feet away, Ilend grunted and turned over, but did nothing other than emit a slight snore. With her curiosity sated – for now – sleep was quick to draw Aerin into its warm, dark embrace.
Two days later, Gorgoth signalled a halt. Gnaeus had estimated that they were only a few miles from Sancre Tor. With Masser and Secunda already shining brightly overhead, the warrior-shaman wanted them all fully rested for the challenge awaiting them. Gnaeus located a suitable clearing and within minutes the horses were securely tied to rocks or trees and a fire was beginning to crackle. Gorgoth and Selene divided up the planned watch between them, each using Detect Life and Night Eye spells to ensure safety better than any other possible sentry.
After a few minutes had passed, Ilend leaned across to Aerin and beckoned to her, jerking his head in the direction of the trees, indicating that he wanted to talk to her in whatever privacy they could find. She nodded and walked off after him, responding to Saliith's knowing wink with a cool stare. He sniggered and turned back to listen to Lurog's anecdote, which included a lot of blood and slaughter. Those kind of things seemed to be commonplace in and around Orsinium.
"A while ago, you told me it was your birthday next week," claimed Ilend, turning to face her once they were a suitable distance from the camp.
"Yeah... so I did..." replied Aerin, casting her mind back to that night when they'd repelled the wine thieves. She didn't remember much of that night after that, though judging from the smirks Fadus had sent her and the size of her headache the morning after, it hadn't exactly been calm. "In fact..." The Bosmer peered up at the stars, most of which were visible through the sparse canopy. "Yeah, it's today. Until tomorrow, that is, which is in a few minutes."
"Better not waste time, then," said Ilend, a grin spreading across his face as he reached into the small of his back, tugging at something in his sword belt. "I noticed you don't carry a dagger. Your shortswords are good, but there are times when you need the versatility of something shorter, so..." He held out his hands in front of him.
Aerin gasped, her eyes growing wide as they beheld the dagger in Ilend's grasp. The silver blade – as long as her two hands together – shimmered with pale blue magicka, sending the occasional sparkle of frost magic to dance in the air before dissipating. Providing a good grip, the ridged hilt was also silver, with a small, fine guard to protect her hand. A small sapphire was embedded in the pommel, and the dark leather scabbard was worked with silver. "It's... beautiful," breathed Aerin, hardly daring to believe her eyes.
Typically, Ilend snorted. "One would hope it's good at it's intended purpose, as well," he remarked, gripping the hilt in one hand. "I got the idea from a gladiator who passed through the Kvatch Arena on the way to the Imperial City a while back," he explained, looking at the dagger. "He had a dagger a bit like this one, though not as well-made. Called it Shimmerstrike."
"I met him," recalled Aerin. "Didn't look like much to me. I hear he died."
"Well, either way, the frost enchantment on this won't let you down. Stick it a bandit and he'll have a hunk of frozen flesh to worry about." Smiling, Ilend sheathed the dagger and tucked it into place on Aerin's belt.
"How... how much did it cost?" stammered Aerin, fingering the sapphire before running her finger down the hilt. Despite the enchantment, the cold was the natural temperature of silver, already slightly warmed by Ilend's hand.
Ilend smirked. "Well, I had a lot saved up, and Agnete gave a good price," he told her. "And as for the enchantment... well, let's just say I owe Gorgoth a favour. A big one."
As she glanced at her new dagger once again, a grateful smile spread over Aerin's face. She threw her arms around Ilend, squeezing him hard. His chainmail was hard and cold, but she could feel the warm body underneath. "Thank you," she mumbled, face pressed against his chest as his own arms snaked around her. "I've never really had the chance to say-" She was cut off by a loud harrumph behind them. Springing apart, they spun to see Gnaeus watching them, casually leaning on a tree.
"Gorgoth wants us," he told them simply before turning to leave. He paused, looking back over his shoulder. "And I'd advise you not to do that until we're through this. You'll be wanting to save your energy for this bloody place, and let me tell you..." he pointed a bony finger at Aerin "...she looks like a handful." With a final grunt, he turned and departed.
Ilend and Aerin exchanged glances for a few seconds before Ilend smirked and nodded in the direction Gnaeus had taken. "Well, if Gorgoth wants all of us, it's probably important," he observed. Aerin nodded weakly, falling in beside him as they walked back to the camp.
When they got back to the fireside, Gorgoth was hunched over what appeared to be a map he'd drawn in the dirt with his finger. Saliith twisted around and gave Aerin another wink, receiving a shaken fist in response. "Jauffre gave me an outline of what we might face," started Gorgoth, raising his head to peer at each of his comrades in turn. "It is probably going to be run-of-the-mill undead, which you all know how to deal with, but with such insidious evil down there we might come across something more powerful."
"So silver weapons are advised, then?" asked Saliith, shifting uncomfortably. Gorgoth nodded. "Anyone got a silver shortsword I could borrow?" inquired the Argonian, looking around uncertainly.
"I'll summon you a couple of bound shortswords when we enter Sancre Tor," reassured Gorgoth. "Now, I don't have much idea of the layout-" he looked down at the diagram he'd drawn and shook his head "-but I do know that it is massive. We will have to split up to find our objective."
"I gather that meeting up again might be a problem," interjected Ilend.
"I cannot communicate telepathically. But Selene and me have prepared a few detect life potions." Gorgoth removed a cluster of five potions from his belt. "Seeing as there won't be much life down there, the only signatures you see will be each other," he grunted. "Use them if you're lost. They have a long range." Standing, the Orc looked around. "Prepare for battle," he growled. "You'll certainly get a lot of it in Sancre Tor."
A/N: Right, Sancre Tor next chapter... *cracks knuckles* I'm not particularly looking forward to going over it in detail both ingame and on UESP, but needs must. I want to get it right. And remember that reviews always help me, so take a few minutes to leave one.