Beneath a clear and starry night sky that just hours before had been a hellish red sat a man alone with his thoughts. He stared blankly into the fire for answers neither it nor his prayers could give. Shoulder-length chestnut hair swayed in the wind, the edge of the breeze bearing the foreshadowing chill of the coming autumn, but he did not shiver or seek shelter, and despite the dark circles beneath his eyes he could not seem to find rest like the other refugees. Occasionally he'd get up and pace to and fro to keep from getting too stiff, or stoke the fire, but it seemed nothing could quiet his racing thoughts long enough to sleep.

Carolara came out of one of the tents, looking around in wide-eyed confusion, and immediately a gust of wind forced her to wrap her arms around herself, trembling with cold. Her gaze drifted to the only other person that wasn't sleeping. The full moon made the fire barely necessary for light, but she was drawn right away to its heat and company, her expression reflecting all the questions in her head.

"Did I close it?" was the first thing out of her mouth, carefully sitting down on a stool across the fire from him. She gave his robes an odd glance, but said nothing of it.

He nodded in the affirmative, picking up a charred stick and speaking in a soft voice. "You did, but it put some strain on you. They say you never even gave your name, but I thank you."

She smiled briefly; he was right. The chaos had been too much to even think of introducing herself. "It's Carolara; and I'm just glad I succeeded." The Breton intertwined her fingers, leaning forward a bit and lowering her volume. "Were there any more survivors?"

"After you closed the Gate, Matius and the Guard cleared the way to the Chapel and got us out; 'us' being the civilians that were trapped inside. They had us come down here to the encampment, but hours later we heard they got into the Castle and cleaned that out as well. But," a sigh, "Daedra got to the Count and the rest of them before the Guard arrived. So we were the only ones."

Carolara shook her head in disappointment, trying her best to be grateful that she did at least some good. It didn't feel like enough. Minutes of awkward silence passed in which the man began to stoke the fire with the burned stick. She eyed his robes again and finally decided to ask the question burning in her mind. "So... you're a priest?"

"Yes. I'm a priest." That very word was spoken with such disdain, and he narrowed his eyes, averting his gaze to the fire. "Do you need a priest? I don't think I'll be much help to you. I'm having trouble understanding the Gods right now."

"I can certainly agree with that," the Breton meekly brought her knees up against her chest, curling into a ball atop her stool. "But then again, they never made much sense to me anyway."

"I prayed to Akatosh all through that terrible night, but no help came. Only more Daedra," the priest lamented, running his hand through his wavy hair and taking a deep breath. "You saw that gate, saw what was behind it. What good is a priest?"

Carolara pursed her lips, watching him. Anything she could say in comfort would just come across as disconnected and superficial so she knew better than to try, getting to the point instead. "Gods or not, if you are who I think you are, we can put a stop to this."

He raised his head, suspicious at best, and downright insulted if this was a joke of some kind. "If you came to me for help, you're more of a fool than you look. Who is it that you think I am?"

"Martin, right?"

A pause, "I never gave you my name."

"One of Uriel Septim's Blades told me," Carolara explained, slowly placing her feet back down on the ground and resting her hands in her lap. She watched him closely for a reaction as she said in a near-whisper, glancing around before doing so, "You're the Emperor's son."

Martin stared, causing the Breton to avert her eyes, looking down at her hands and the ground. His disbelief seeped into his tone. "No, you must have the wrong man. My father was a farmer. Even if I was, what good is that supposed to do?"

She fidgeted, still not daring to look up. "Ah, see, I'm not too clear on that one myself. I'm not exactly a Blades agent. I'm more of a messenger in all this, it's part of the ritual of coronation or something that keeps things like that at bay," she gestured toward Kvatch, "or so I was told."

A deep, shaken breath, and Carolara lifted her head, making herself maintain eye contact so as to not appear a liar, fully aware of how strange she sounded. Martin was still skeptical, arms crossed, but his expression was softening. "Please," she went on, "Just... let me take you to the Blades Grandmaster. He can explain it all to you much better than I can. I swear I've got no reason to lie about all this. Even the Daedra know who you are, that's why they..." She stopped herself, biting her lip when the Imperial's gaze tore away from hers to stare into the fire in guilty shock. That last bit had come out all wrong. Carolara winced. "Sorry. I didn't mean it like that, I didn't mean to imply..." A shake of the head, ceasing her ramble. "Sorry."

The silence this time felt far longer than it probably had been, each passing second more uncomfortable until finally, Martin spoke up.

"It's strange... I think you might actually be telling the truth."

"Perhaps stranger still that I am," she quipped dryly. "So you'll come with me?"

The priest looked up the hill toward his charred city. It wasn't as if he had anything left here, and those that had survived had already been provided with what meager healing he could give them. And if there was a chance he could stop this from happening somewhere else he would gladly contribute, even if he did not yet know how. The refugees would be safer without him there, too, and they both knew it.

After a moment or two of thought, Martin turned to Carolara and nodded. "Shall we leave right away? I still don't think I'll be getting any sleep."