Last Time:

Hjarnagredda escaped Cidnah Mine, escaped Markarth, but left it in chaos behind her. Abandoning her people and her home, she flees with Margret to Hjaalmarch, hoping for sanctuary even as the shadow of the Dark Brotherhood looms over her. She also has a girlfriend now, apparently, and she has no idea what to do about that.

Dulurza finally chose a side, and did so in the most unambiguous way possible; defending Elisif the Fair even against her own sister, Borgakh. Turned traitor to her own tribe, and with her original purpose finally unveiled, Dulurza's position is more precarious than it has ever been. Her Jarl is also possessed now, apparently, and she has no idea what to do about that.

Alexander claimed the Staff of Magnus, and with it, returned to Winterhold and vanquished Ancano. The Eye was pacified, returned to the safekeeping of the Psijic order, and Mirabelle has accepted him despite knowing of his stunted magicka. He's also the Archmage now, apparently, and he has no idea what to do about that.

L'laarzen uncovered the truth behind the Thieves Guild; the Nightingales, the Skeleton Key, and the man who betrayed the former to steal the latter. She returns to Riften alongside Enthir and Karliah, in an attempt to bring down Mercer Frey for his attempt on her life. She's also in prison now, apparently, but she knows exactly what to do about that.

And, uh. I think the Dragonborn's off fetching a horn? Or something? I dunno, good for them I guess.

Act III: The World Takes Notice

Explaining Yourself

̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶ ̶{o

Crunch.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Alexander Meteuse lost himself in the repetitive motion. His hands gripped a mortar and pestle, which he used to grind a pile of blue dartwings into powder. Every so often, when the colour dimmed a little too much, he sprinkled a pinch of pre-powdered taproot into the mortar, which caused a brief crackling sound and a re-brightening of the hue. This happened all without any real conscious thought, given he was in his 'follow the reactions' mode rather than his 'experimental' mode.

(Experimental mode required a lot of conscious thought, as well as a full set of protective gear, and was responsible for 40% of the Synod's annual alchemy budget each year he was there).

During it, his mind would either flit from unrelated topic to unrelated topic like the poor butterflies he was destroying...or remain almost completely blank. Today it was the latter.

"Alexander?"

He blinked, and came out of his reverie to see Mirabelle Ervine walking towards him. "Oh. Hi, miss."

"I don't think calling me 'miss' is particularly appropriate now, is it?" She replied, wryly. "Mirabelle is fine. What are you doing with the alchemy table?"

"Hm? Oh, this." He gestured to it, and the rows of red bottles next to it. "I'm making healing potions. A lot of people hurt in Winterhold, and I was just sitting around. Wanted to help."

"It's a nice thought. I'm sure they'll appreciate it." Mirabelle glanced down to the table, then back up with a raised eyebrow. "You do alchemy?"

"They teach it at the Synod and you don't need magicka to do it. Course I do alchemy." Xander chuckled. "Not as flashy or fun as enchanting, but I needed to pass at least three courses to progress each year so I couldn't really turn it down. Turns out it comes fairly naturally, once I figure out what explodes. Think I found basically everything that could before I started achieving things that wouldn't..." He tapped the pestle on the edge of the mortar, dislodging a small cloud, then poured the bowl into a separate container and turned away to face her. "Right then, sorry, I was rambling. Did you...need something?"

"I did." Mirabelle nodded. "Are you feeling rested?"

"Fed, rested, mostly recovered." He nodded back. It had taken about thirty hours of sleep over two days, but he'd managed it.

"Then perhaps, we might want to...discuss the situation we're in." Mirabelle suggested, delicately. "Nobody would begrudge you a few days to recover after your ordeal, but the sooner we get started..."

"The less work piles up. Yeah, I get it." Xander blew a breath out between his lips, making an undignified farting sound. "Been trying not to stick my head in the sand, so..."

"Stick what?"

"Uh, Khajiit expression. Long story. Yes, let's talk." He moved away from the alchemy table and beckoned, walking across the beautiful room he was stood in. He passed around the large central garden, lit by magelight, and went to the small table in the other corner, pulling it away from the wall with a small grunt.

He sat down in Savos Aren's old chair.

The Archmage's chair.

...His chair.

"...HOW IN THE NAME OF MAGNUS' LEFT TESTICLE DID THIS HAPPEN!" He screamed up at the ceiling.

"I DON'T KNOW!" Mirabelle screamed with him, throwing her hands in the air and walking around in circles with the force of a weekend's suppressed hysteria.

"What were they thinking?"

"Presumably that you were some sort of magical genius sent to save us in our hour of need!"

"But I'm not!"

"I know!"

"I'm a moron!"

"Okay let's not go that far." Mirabelle chastised.

"Oh, you haven't seen me in action yet, just you wait." Xander's head thumped into the table. "How did this happen?" He repeated, voice muffled by the wood. "They were supposed to pick you! Why didn't they?"

"Because you'd just given a speech!" Mirabelle answered, sagging down in the chair facing him. "It was a really good speech!"

"Endorsing you!"

"Yes I thought so too, but in hindsight I can see how they misinterpreted that."

"And now they-oh, Divines." Xander groaned loudly. "I'm in charge of a college. I'm twenty one, and I'm in charge of a college. I've never even graduated college!"

"You haven't?"

"NO!" He looked back up. "And I have no idea how to run this place! I don't even know what to do! What did Savos do? Besides be incredibly awe-inspiring and have motivational discussions with key students?"

"Oh, those were the fun parts. Besides that? Sooooo much drudgery." Mirabelle paused. "Although actually I did most of the drudgery, now that I think about it. I could practically run the place by myself."

Xander's eyes lit up. "That's it! That's what we'll do!"

"What, have me do everything?" Mirabelle frowned and thought. "You want me to be Archmage...but not be Archmage?"

"Yes!" Xander brought his hands together on top of the table, thinking intensely. "Okay, so, I've got to be the figurehead. I'm a noble, I've been trained for this. I can give speeches, I can write letters, I can liaise with politicians, I can even teach if I have books to memorise beforehand that tell me what I'm explaining. And then you can do the things that I'm neither qualified nor experienced nor prepared enough to do!"

"So I get all the hard parts." Mirabelle raised an eyebrow. "I appreciate that you're not trying to make me deal with outsiders, but you're basically just asking me to do my old job but with more work. What do I get out of it?"

"You can have my salary and I'll take yours." Xander said, immediately.

"Deal." She reached out a hand, and he shook it.

And so, the great partnership began.

"Okay, first order of-" Xander paused, then frowned. "Do I even have a salary?"

"Sort of." Mirabelle explained. "The College of Winterhold is a private academy. We make money from the tuition fees of the students, and since that's not exactly a lot, the teachers will often take on freelance work when they need more coin for their research projects. Sergius does most of that with his enchanting work."

"The students pay tuition?" Xander asked, confused. "Was I meant to pay tuition?"

"You were." Mirabelle replied, sighing. "But you took over the school before the first installment was due. That's next week. You also missed the lecture where we discussed your financial obligations because you were in a Dwarven ruin."

"Huh. Weird." Xander shook his head. "Anyway, first order of business. Uh, what is the first order of business?"

"That's a great question." Mirabelle leaned back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling, eyes bereft of all hope. "Let's see...first stop, letters. We need to send a lot of letters."

"To who?"

"To everyone." She glanced back at him. "That was unhelpful, wasn't it? Alright, I'll elaborate."

Her head came back down again so she could meet his eyes. "Well, a new Archmage taking over usually demands that we send a letter to the High King of Skyrim, informing them of what happened, what's changed, offer pointless pleasantries."

"Oh, I love those." Xander nodded. "But I'm sensing a problem."

"Yes. Torygg is in fact dead." Mirabelle agreed. "I would advise that we send a summary message to both Solitude and Windhelm. Inform the leaders of both factions that we are remaining impartial in the war, and will acknowledge whatever High King or Queen ends up being chosen when it's all over. We've stayed largely out of politics for centuries now, so as long as we're willing to keep doing so there shouldn't be any problems." She gave him a wary glance. "Unless you plan on declaring your allegiance to one side or another-"

"Oblivion no." Xander shook his head rapidly. "I have been paying absolutely zero thought to the war since it started, I'm not changing that now."

"Really?" Mirabelle tilted her head in curiosity. "Aren't you a citizen of the Empire?"

"Well yes but-" he sighed. "Look, after years of trying to talk politics with Octavia (and being completely obliterated) I've learned my lesson. If I'm going to dare to have a political opinion, it would have to be right. When I do decide to care about the war (and I'm sure I eventually will), I won't just be able to pick on a whim. I'll have to gather books, analyse official records, talk to eyewitnesses, read the fine print of the White-Gold concordat, profile all the major leaders and their motivations," -he paused for breath- "estimate the fighting power of both sides, factor in outside forces like the Thalmor and the economic and political state of Tamriel as a whole-"

Mirabelle stared at him, clearly overwhelmed, as he kept rattling off the first things that came to his head. "Or you could just...do what you think is right?" She offered.

"Kagrenac thought he was doing the right thing when he made the Dwemer vanish." Xander answered, frankly. "This war affects the entire continent. I'm not going to make a decision that big without a lot of fact-checking first, and I'm not going to risk biasing myself before doing so."

"I...see." Mirabelle shook her head, smiling. "I'd say it's somewhat conceited to expect your opinion to make such a big difference, but you did save the world a few days ago. Alright, the next letter you need to send is addressing the Aldmeri Dominion."

"The Thalmor?" Xander wrinkled his nose up. "Why do I need to talk to them?"

"Because you murdered one of their ambassadors."

"Oh, yeah." He scratched the top of his head, guiltily. "Two, actually. One ambushed me in Labyrinthian."

"Even better." Mirabelle grit her teeth.

"No, don't worry, it's fine." Xander waved an arm. "I just need to let them know that Annabelle-"

"Ancano?"

"Sure, went rogue and all of Winterhold (and soon Skyrim) knows it was his fault. But that I am sure that their prestigious organisation never countenanced such a thing. If they behave here the same way they behave in Cyrodiil, they'll throw him under the wagon to save face." Xander looked askew, "Or they'll use it as an excuse to declare us enemies of the Aldmeri and attack us to plunder our magical secrets. But if we make it clear the Eye is gone they shouldn't bother, especially since Ancano told them everything else about us anyway."

Mirabelle looked at him for a long few seconds, before uttering "...Huh."

"What?" He asked.

"You actually know what you're talking about." She explained. "No offence, but I was expecting you to have no idea how to do any of this."

"Thanks. I think." He smiled. "The Synod had stuff like this going on daily. I'm used to it. Actually, I have this fun trick I can pull with regards to the letters, now I have access to all the College's enchanting supplies..."

"Why am I suddenly afraid." Mirabelle winced.

"Ignore it, it'll go away." Xander leaned back and stretched. "Okay, anybody else?"

"There are a few other Jarls we contacted during the catastrophe that we'll need to inform." Mirabelle replied. "But most importantly...We're going to need to explain things to Korir."

"Ah." Xander nodded. "Of course. Korir.

...Who is he?"

Mirabelle stared at him, mouth agape. "The Jarl of Winterhold! You don't know the Jarl of the place you live?"

"Well I didn't exactly go wandering into his longhouse! I heard the peasants don't like mages here! Okay, shouldn't call them 'peasants', that's rude."

"Yes, please, don't." Mirabelle sighed. "But yes, Korir is a little...well he's absolutely furious. Rightfully so. And given he lives less than fifteen minutes walk away..."

"I have no excuse to send a letter rather than talking to him personally." Xander groaned. "How likely is he to try and kill me?"

"I genuinely can't say." Mirabelle admitted. "I'll come with you. If he attacks with a pair of powerful wizards there he won't succeed, and he should know that. But I'd go prepared for...decibels. And lots of them."

"Right." Xander sighed. "Lets book an appointment. But I think I have an idea for how to calm him down..."

̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ Ϫ

Cold.

Dark.

Wet.

Roaring in her ears.

Pressure on her arms, her legs, her head-

Water in her nose-

Fingers drawing on stone-

She couldn't see-

She couldn't breathe-

Hjarnagredda jolted awake, thrashing out of her bedroll and gasping in a lungful of air.

She sat there, skin drenched in sweat, and just tried to breathe. The dim embers of the fire before her illuminated her face in a dark red light. Above her shone Secunda, Masser, and the stars. It was a beautiful night.

Gods, not again...

"Hjar?" The bleary voice came from behind her, and she winced.

Rising from her own bedroll, Margret rubbed her eyes and blinked owlishly across at her. "You alright?"

"Y-yeah." Hjar's throat was hoarse, she reached down to the waterskin she'd left nearby, taking a long gulp. "Sorry. Did I wake you?"

Of course you woke her, moron, she's awake. Is that really all you can say?

"I'm fine. It's you that I'm worried about." Margret sat up properly, reaching across and putting a hand on Hjar's forehead. "You were muttering in your sleep. Are you ill? You're burning up."

"No, I'm fine." Hjar gave the hand a reassuring squeeze, then pulled it away from her head. "Werewolves are practically immune to disease, but we run red hot, so it often looks like we have a temperature." She intertwined her fingers with Margret's much colder digits, and smiled. "But we also don't sleep well. The urge to hunt's in our blood, keeps us restless."

"Well, at least I'm learning new things." Margret smiled as well, before lying back in her bedroll. "What did you dream about?"

"Hm? Oh. Nightmare." Hjar grimaced, turning back to the embers and hunching up. "You don't want to know."

"...I do if it's hurting you." Margret replied, hesitantly.

Oh, that's not fair...

"It was the death waterslide." Hjar admitted, quietly. "I know I made it out as a joke when I told you, but...werewolves don't like being trapped. Neither do Reachmen. Neither do I. The city was bad enough, the mine was worse, but being stuck in that tiny tunnel with no way to breathe, no way to control anything, it-" she sucked in a breath, perhaps just to remind herself she could.

"Oh, Hjar..." Margret sat up again, leaned over and wrapped her arms around her companion's shoulders. "You know every time you tell me anything new, you make my stay in Thonar's house look like a stroll in the gardens."

"Heh. I'd take a thousand horror tunnels over a week of Thonar's company." Hjar twisted her head around and kissed Margret briefly on the lips. "Damsel." She declared, smirking.

"Whatever you say." Margret kissed her right back. "Girlfriend."

Hjar held her gaze for one second before blushing and looking away. "Oh, gods, I'm sorry, I've never done this before."

"I can tell." Margret chuckled, draping herself on Hjar's back. "I've dated before back in the Imperial city, but...You saved my life, and we're camping alone in the wilderness, on an escape from a rioting city. This is something else."

"Tell me about it." Hjar's eyes drifted over to the satchel resting between their beds. "Speaking of your Imperial allegiances. Are we sure I'm not going to be arrested the moment I walk into Hjaalmarch?"

"No. I won't let them." Margret replied, clutching Hjar's shoulders protectively. "And you won't be a Forsworn in an Empire controlled city. You'll be my ally and compatriot, who saved my life and helped me get my prize." She looked at the bag too. "With that, nobody can say I've not done my job. You should be fine."

"Is it even useful anymore?" Hjar asked. "I mean, look at Markarth right now. You made us stick in a rioting city for almost a full hour, just for a useless scrap of paper."

"And food, and clean clothes, and a bunch of expensive silver jewellery." Margret pointed out. "Yes, I know it's just a success by technicality, but look at what happened in there. My boss will understand. She's great, trust me, you'll love her. Whip-smart, charismatic, understanding..."

"Glowing praise." Hjar raised an eyebrow. "Do I have competition?"

"Hah! Nah, I'm not into brunettes." Margret placed another kiss on Hjar's neck, before snuggling back down into her bedroll. "Try and get some rest, okay? We'll make Dragon Bridge early tomorrow, and I need my Forsworn looking bright-eyed and bushy tailed."

"Heh. Alright, I'll try." Hjar laid back atop her bedroll, sacrificing maximum comfort so she wouldn't end up struggling to breathe again. The conversation had calmed her down a lot, but Margret's last words kept ringing in her head.

"Forsworn..." she muttered.

"Hm?" Margret asked, already dosing off again.

"You called me Forsworn. Is that what you think I am?"

"Oh, I just...I don't know." Margret shifted in place. "Do you think you are?"

"I don't know." Hjar admitted. "I'm...trying to be a good person. Do the right thing from moment to moment. But I've been doing that for weeks now and...I still don't know who I am."

"Maybe you just need to stop being all philosophical about it." Margret shrugged. "Most people don't need to have a perfectly crafted 'who am I' answer, you know? You're my girlfriend. Now shut up and go to sleep."

"Heheh. Alright. See you in the morning."

"G'night." Margret was out like a torch in water. Hjar put her hands beneath her head, and looked up at the sky. Is she right? Is that enough?

The moon had no answer for her, and she sighed, closing her eyes. Sleep did not come easily. But at least her dreams were free of prisons.

8˂

Riften prison was an entirely acceptable place to stay. After spending so much of the last few weeks camping out in the snow, napping between hard rides on horses, and curling up in the back-alleys of cities, it was positively luxurious. The rags L'laarzen was given chafed, yes, and the bed was lumpy. But the room was warm, the neighbours weren't too noisy, and besides; she didn't expect to stay there long.

She was right.

It was less than an hour (by her reckoning) after she first entered the cell when Mercer Frey strode in through the prison doors, eyes immediately locking onto her.

She stood up and patted herself down, smiling at him. "Mercer! So good to see you, Khajiit-"

"What's your game?" He cut across her, voice dead. His boots clacked on the wooden floor, and he came to a halt just outside her cell.

"Hm? Game?" She tilted her head.

"Don't screw with me." He snarled. "What are you doing in my city?"

"L'laarzen could ask you the same question." She replied, innocently. "She did not expect you to linger here after the disaster up at Snow Veil."

"Oh, I won't be lingering." He crossed his arms. "I was halfway packed when Brynjolf knocked on my door. But I'm afraid to say that you won't be going anywhere. Except, perhaps, to the bottom of the river."

"Khajiit washed before arriving, but thank you for thinking of her." She leaned to one side, looking towards the door to the prison guard's barracks. It was closed. "Speaking of Brynjolf, is he here? I had meant to-"

"Not a chance." Mercer sneered. "I'm not letting you and your silver tongue anywhere near my operatives again."

"A pity." She sighed. "His hair was starting to look a little long..."

"Enough of this." He spat, walking forwards to grip the cage bars with his hands. "Where is Karliah?"

"Hm? Oh, who knows." L'laarzen shrugged. "Last time Khajiit spoke to her, she said she had decided to forgive and forget, move back to Morrowind. So proud of her!"

"You're lying." He replied, flatly. "Comes easy to you, doesn't it? Let me guess, she's actually waiting in this room? It would certainly make it easier for me if she was."

"Once again, L'laarzen would not know. Perhaps if you-"

There was a loud clang, and then a rending noise.

L'laarzen looked across at Mercer's gloves fist, which had buried itself in the door to her cell. He had punched straight through a metal bar, snapping it at one end and bending it inwards.

"...Are you alright?" She asked, calmly. "That looks like it must have hurt."

"Enough." He repeated. "Enough lies. Enough facades. Whatever you try to push on my guild, I won't fall for it. Where. Is. Karliah?"

L'laarzen looked at him in innocent confusion for a solid five more seconds. Then she dropped the face.

The light fled her eyes, the warm creases around them vanishing in a moment. Her mouth fell into a blank, flat line. Arms ceased their well-practiced mannerisms, and dropped to her sides.

"I killed her." She told him, monotone.

"You what?" He blinked. Even expecting the transformation, he was clearly taken aback by it.

"She was a threat. Untrustworthy." L'laarzen continued. "Khajiit took what she needed to know from Karliah and then slit her throat while she slept. So that's one of your problems solved, not that you will survive long enough to enjoy it."

"Well well well." He took a step back from the bars, chuckling. "Here she really is. It was a damn good disguise, I'll give you that. But if you had known me, you would have known I wouldn't fall for it."

"Of course not. You are heartless." She looked down across his body. "The Key. Is it with you now?"

"I'm not sure that matters to you." He replied, body language giving nothing away. "So, you know about the Nightingales. I don't suppose you're here on some quest to bring me to justice?"

One of her eyebrows quirked upwards. "Don't be silly. You make L'laarzen's present situation more inconvenient. Therefore you must be dealt with. I don't take it personally when people try to kill me, Mercer. It happens too often."

"Hah! What a mercenary answer." Mercer chuckled to himself. "Oh, this is refreshing. "For years I've been stuck with nobody to talk to but my guild mates. And they're all so...simple. Weak. You and me, though, we're something different. Harder."

"Bold of you to assume you're anything like L'laarzen." She replied, frankly.

"Oh, quite right. I'm stronger." He spread his arms. "Everyone has limits, cat. Most people are so caught up in their own doubts and morales, they only ever glimpse a fraction of what they can really do. What they can really take. But not me. The Key has let me unlock my full potential."

"And yet the time you've spent as leader of the guild has been the worst it's ever faced." L'laarzen shot back, unimpressed. "Perhaps you should not have allowed your greed to become your sole motivator. Have you considered that perhaps the reason for this run of bad luck is that you actively betrayed a dark god? Or did you assume Nocturnal would have no problems with your thievery?"

Mercer grinned. "I don't give a damn about the guild. I have been doing absolutely fine. And in the next few weeks, I'm going to be one of the richest men in Skyrim."

"Is that the extent of your ambition?" L'laarzen sighed, contempt bleeding through her neutral expression. "Secunda, you are a disappointment...the Skeleton Key is wasted on you, Mercer Frey."

"Is that so?" He scowled, walking closer. "And what have you done? Cut hair?" A grin split his face, as he leaned in and whispered "perhaps that arrogance is why you were ran out of Morrowind."

Her eyes widened minutely, and he laughed.

"Oh, yes. I've been doing my research while you've been away. Your path from Windhelm down to Riften was easy enough to follow, but going further back? You covered your tracks well. I've picked up a few scraps, though. Years-old rumours. Records of some odd events. Things vanishing. People vanishing." He rested his arms on the bars, blotting out the light from the room behind him as he leered at her. "And throughout it all, you know what I kept hearing? Stories of a dark furred monster that appeared from the shadows then vanished into the night. You made a mistake in killing Grelod, cat. It made the rest far easier to put together. What was your motivation for that again?"

L'laarzen didn't respond, simply staying still and maintaining eye contact with him.

After almost a full minute, he pushed himself back off the door, sighing. "Well, I suppose it doesn't matter. You'll not be walking out of here in any case. But I have to wonder, why did you walk in? The guards say you gave yourself up."

"I didn't want to prolong this little spat unnecessarily." She replied, calmly. "I knew you would want to meet me. I also knew you would want to be alone while doing so."

"You were right. So?" He spread his arms. "I'm out here, and you're in a cell."

"Indeed. I was hoping you might help with that."

There was a pause.

"You want me...to let you out?" Mercer asked, clearly confused.

L'laarzen smiled.

This was not a nice smile. It was the smile a shark might make, if it had backed a poor traveller into an island cave. An animal that knew their prey's only choices were to try and wade past it...or let the tide come in.

"L'laarzen fled you in Snow Veil because she was injured, and she did not know what you could do. Those have changed now. And we both know there is nothing this city can do to hold Khajiit."

She walked towards the door, tail flicking lazily behind her, and mimicked his lean from earlier. "So?" She asked, grinning a Cheshire grin. "I could escape later, or you can fight me now. How would you prefer to die, Mercer Frey?"

̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶ ̶ ̶͜͡|

Haafingar hold was dark and dreary, clouds covering the late afternoon sky and rain splatting heavily in the mud.

Dulurza trudged along the roads west of Solitude, and tried not to think about the near-hundred pairs of eyes staring into her back.

Beside her trudged Legate Rikke, who was apparently a fairly big deal in the Imperial army here in Skyrim. Behind her trudged a detachment from the Imperial army. Together, they trudged towards Mor Khazgor.

"This right path here." Dulurza said, gruffly, pointing up a far less beaten pass. "This is the entrance. We're almost there now."

"Are you sure?" Rikke asked.

"Do you expect asking if I'm sure every mile to accomplish anything?" Dulurza snapped back.

Rikke gave her an unimpressed look, which wrung out a sigh. "This is the main route to the tribe. There's a smaller one that heads west and would loop down to Dragon Bridge, if you'd rather use that?"

"Shouldn't be necessary." Rikke shook her head. "Once we're there, we can encircle the walls. And we don't need to capture or kill every citizen, just render them incapable of threatening the city."

"Aren't we supposed to be negotiating here?" Dulurza asked, frowning.

"Does it look like we brought a diplomat?" Rikke chuckled. "Too much to worry about with Ulfric and his boys to start making concessions to tribes. You try to get them to surrender, I lay the law down, and then the higher ups deal with what really matters. That being, what to do that gets these soldiers back into the real war as soon as possible."

Dulurza's frown deepened, and she looked away.

From what she'd heard, the force at her back was simultaneously very small compared to the army as a whole, and a very large force to be siphoning away on this mission. She didn't really understand it. Strategy and force-splitting was something she understood, but the amount of maps and records and numbers going on in Castle Dour had left her head spinning. If her tribe went to war, the whole tribe went to war, and they fought until the war was done. That simple.

And they had gone to war. Mor Khazgor had tried to attack Solitude, and now...

Dulurza looked back at Rikke, to find the woman staring at her. "You don't trust me, do you?" She grunted.

"Jarl Elisif didn't give us the full story." Rikke replied, after a moment. "But she has an Orc for a thane. An Orc who came from the tribe that allegedly tried to take her life. No offence, but I'm not leaving my back exposed to you until this is over."

"No offense taken." Dulurza shrugged. "I don't know you."

"Fair enough. But from the looks of your Jarl when she reported this..." Rikke continued, sounding awkward for the first time Dulurza had heard, "She might be thinking something similar."

And that hurt.

Dulurza grit her teeth, looking forwards. "Then let's get it over with. We're here."

Mor Khazgor's walls loomed ahead of them. The tribe was built into the side of the mountain range, and the spiked wooden barricade blocked off everything that the stone cliffs didn't. Only the lookout towers and the Chief's longhut were visible above the palisades.

Empty lookout towers.

Cassia Meteuse could blow a hole in those walls in seconds. So could that Stormcloak leader with his Nord shouts, and a few dozen other mages across Skyrim. And this 'small' force the Empire has assembled outnumbers our warriors two to one. Malacath, what were we thinking?

"Alright, do your thing." Dulurza muttered to Rikke, then walked purposefully forwards as the Legate started barking orders to her men.

"BORGAKH!" Dulurza hollered, approaching the gates. "LARAK! I'VE COME TO BARGAIN!"

There was no response. She waited a few seconds, then tried again: "FATHER! SISTER! I'M HERE WITH AN ARMY, SO YOU'D DAMN WELL BETTER COME OUT!"

Once again, there was nothing. Now that she was listening, she couldn't hear the usual sounds of life from within the tribe either. No voices, no footsteps, no clanging from the forge, not even the crackling of a fire.

"Watch yourselves!" She shouted back to Rikke. "This could be a trap!"

The soldiers had spread out to surround the walls, and now were looking anxiously both towards them and back out into the forest. The treeline wasn't dense enough to disguise attackers; the tribe had made sure of that. If there was to be an ambush, it would come from within the walls.

Dulurza sighed, and cracked her neck. "Alright then. The hard way..."

She drew her axe, and stepped up to the gates. Her eye was drawn to the gap between them, through which she couldn't see the great wooden bar that could be slotted across them. They haven't even locked it? Oh, wonderful. What are the odds I get an axe buried in my face the moment I come through?

Warily, she put one hand to the gate, and shoved.

It opened.

The wood groaned as it often did when wet, and swung in to reveal the interior of the tribe's grounds. The area was just as Dulurza had remembered, but for one thing.

No people.

She turned back, gestured to Rikke, and the Legate brought a group of her men forwards as Dulurza pushed the other door open, walking slowly into the camp.

The central fire had been deliberately doused, as had the forge. The wise-women's alchemy shack was empty, it's supplies gone. One by one, Dulurza and the soldiers opened every door, checked beneath every table, and found nobody.

All that was left was the longhut.

"Don't suppose this is something that happens often here?" Rikke asked, lightly.

Dulurza just glared at her, before walking forwards and unceremoniously kicking the door in.

Silence and sawdust was all that met her. Well, that and an Orcish handaxe, buried in the wooden table sat directly in front of the door.

...Oh, no.

Dulurza looked back at Rikke. The woman was a Nord, and from her face, she understood the meaning of this message fairly well.

"Hmph. Sorry to drag your men out here for nothing." Dulurza reached forwards and yanked out the axe, holstering it in her belt. "But I think we should get back to the city now."

"Aye." Rikke nodded. "I think we should."

Mor Khazgor was completely empty.

And it's people were at war with Solitude.

̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ Ϫ

The dragon bridge of Dragon Bridge was a very impressive bridge. It was almost enough to stop Hjar being absolutely terrified as she entered the town.

"Relax." Margret muttered to her, squeezing then releasing her hand. "You're not a criminal here. To be honest, I don't think you're a criminal anywhere."

"We talking technically or morally? I'm not so sure I'm safe for either." Hjar hissed back.

"Just walk!"

They were dressed like a relatively wealthy pair of civilians from Markarth, so true to Margret's word, few to none of the guards paid attention to them. The building they approached was big for the town it was in, a two storey log construction covered in red flags that looked slightly different to the Imperial ones she'd seen. The two soldiers flanking the doors were also wearing a strange variant of Imperial armour; black and red rather than the usual brown leather.

Hjar flashed Margret a confused look, and she sighed, stopping and turning around just before the building's stairs. "Alright. I have something I need to tell you before we go any further. I probably should have mentioned it earlier, I just...wasn't sure how to bring it up."

"You're betraying me?" Hjar offered.

"What? No!" Margret looked appalled.

"Then spit it out." Hjar snorted. "You're already an agent of the Empire. How much worse can it get?"

"Hah! Quite a bit worse..." Margret let out a nervous laugh. She gestured behind her. "You're smart, you've probably already figured it out.

I'm not just an Imperial agent, Hjar. I'm a Penitus Oculatus agent."

"...Okay?" Hjar responded.

"P-Penitus Oculatus." Margret repeated. "The spectres. We're the-"

"Babe, I was raised in the Reach by savages and then spent years living alone in the wilds." Hjar replied, flatly. "I have literally no idea who that is."

"Oh. Well, that sort of ruins the whole dramatic revelation thing..." the sound of snickering came from behind Margret, and she whirled to point a finger at one of the soldiers on guard. "Shut it, Gaius! You're supposed to be professional!"

"But it is funny." The man kept chuckling. "It's good to see you again, Margret. We were worried when you stopped reporting in."

"Yeah, yeah, good to see you too..." Margret signed and turned back. "We're basically the Emperor's personal guard." She elaborated. "We began after all the Blades got murdered all at once that one time."

"Oh I've heard of them. The Elves got them in the war, right?" Hjar knew the basics, at least.

"Yeah, we're sort of the new version of them. We protect the Emperor's person, enforce his will, find information for him and do morally unscrupulous stuff without getting caught." Margret turned back around and made a 'follow me' gesture. "My superiors sent me to Markarth to, well, you already know. And I haven't sent them any info in almost a fortnight, so I need to explain or I'm in trouble."

"Fair enough." So my girlfriend isn't just a spy, she's one of the most important spies on the continent.

Nepos really had no idea what he was doing trying to kill her, huh?

Hjar smiled to herself and followed. Margret walked up the steps, bumped fists with 'Gaius' as she passed, and then opened the door.

"-cond of all, we both know you just want to see your sister. Or are you actually trying to convince me that's not why you're asking to go?"

The man speaking as they entered was kitted out in the same armour as the man outside. In fact, he looked very similar, but significantly older, with a lined face and hair just starting to go grey. Gaius' father?

"Oh no, that's absolutely why I'm going." Said the woman he was speaking to, "I'm just saying there's enough practical purpose in me going to justify it."

The woman was...Oh, this will be Margret's boss. She is gorgeous. The woman had long dark hair, elegant and refined features. She was tall but not inordinately so, curvaceous but not distractingly so. Her red and black attire was still clearly the same 'brand' as the other Penitus Oculatus, but it looked less like armour and more like a cross between mage robes and court finery. Her voice, expression and body language did not scream 'noble', but they did calmly and politely assert it to anyone who looked.

"That so?" The man crossed his arms. "But I know you would be 'useful' if I sent you to Rorikstead with no mission at all. What I'm asking, Captain, is if this is the most effective use of your time."

"It is." She replied.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I went to great efforts to sort out all the more productive things I could do once I heard. This is all that's left."

"Divines, you're infuriating..." the man sighed. "May I remind you that instruments don't-"

"Instruments don't have will. Yes, that is a very popular adage among the Intendents." The woman rolled her eyes. "The problem, Commander Maro, is that the Emperor needs his instruments to have will or they're not useful instruments. A lute can't destabilise a small Aldmeri colony so it can be quietly reacquired by the Empire, while I've already done so twice."

"A lute certainly wouldn't give me so much back talk." 'Maro' tutted. He glanced across at Margret and Hjar, then said "Deal with your errant operative, Captain. Then you can visit Solitude."

"Thank you, Commander." The woman saluted in a style Hjar didn't recognise, before turning to the two of them. A bright smile bloomed on her face the moment she did. "Margret! Thank Akatosh you're still alive, it's good to see you again."

"Good to see you too, Captain." Margret smiled back. "Sorry about the silence, it's been a rough two weeks." She glanced sideways to Hjar. "As a matter of fact, if not for my friend here, I'd be dead five times over."

"Is that so?" The woman turned, and extended her hand. "Well in that case, I'm in your debt. What's your name?"

"Hjarnagredda. Call me Hjar." Hjar replied, reaching out and shaking the hand. That's a strong grip. She may look like a noble, but she's fought before.

The woman looked at her, and softly muttered "Oh..."

Then she looked her up and down, looked across at Margret, then back at Hjar. And exclaimed "Oh..." again, louder.

Hjar narrowed her eyes. "Wait. Are you...Observing me?"

The woman smiled. "Yes, but I'm not usually so obvious. You have a lot of things to remark upon, Hjar. It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Octavia Meteuse."

Oh?

"Meteuse, huh?" It was Hjar's turn to smile. "You wouldn't happen to have a brother called Alexander, would you?"

And we are Back In Business! What's popping everybody how y'all been?

The new arc starts off with a great deal of fireworks. Xander is realising exactly how much dung he's landed in, and Dulurza is just, doing awful, really. And we get a deeper look at L'laarzen's Edgelord Mode (LEM), which I've been hinting at since very early on. Don't worry, she won't just be monotone with a sprinkling of sass for the rest of the story, this is a special case.

Most importantly, METEUSE SIBLING NUMBER THREE! Introducing Octavia, who's going to get more fleshed out as the chapters go on. What do we all think? I'm also curious how many people expected the Penitus Oculatus reveal. It felt to me like a fairly natural progression, given how much more agency and significance she's getting in this story, and especially given what's going on with her partner~

(it has been too long since I've written some honest to goodness fluff and I'm very happy with the opportunity).

So yeah, the ride continues. I hope old readers will stick around and new ones will arrive. See y'all next week!

Next Time: Someone has a 'friendly' talk, someone has a 'friendly' talk, and someone has a 'friendly' talk.