Borkul refused to answer Joslyn's first question when she came round: how had he escaped the wrath of the Dragonborn? He muttered something about luck and left the tent. He stinks of cowardice.
She propped herself up on her left elbow and examined her surrounds. The inside of the tent was bare, only a single bedroll, an open chest with a few alchemical supplies, and an alchemy table. Sitting cross-legged on the floor was a wiry dark-haired woman mixing something in a bowl. A longbow and half-empty quiver lay next to her. Pale light came through the tent opening.
"How many of us are there?" asked Joslyn.
"Six, now that you're here," said the woman. She handed over the bowl. "Drink this."
Joslyn did, and felt the warmth spread through her. The pain in her side was already lessened. She poked at it and found a thick bandage, soaked in something that smelt like Namira's Rot. Effective, but unpleasant; this woman knew her alchemy.
"What's your name?"
"Muriena," said the woman. There was a thin scar on the left side of her chin and her dull grey eyes darted away from Joslyn's. "I've heard of you," she said. "In the mine for so long . . . it must've been awful for you."
The Mine might as well be its own plane of Oblivion. But Joslyn would never voice such a thought. She admired Muriena's rough shoulders and the way her toes twitched when she spoke.
"You get used to it," she said, trying to shrug in her reclined position. "But this is where I belong."
"Wait a moment," said Muriena with a smile. She rose and exited the tent. A minute later she returned with an armful of what Joslyn recognised as Forsworn armour. Muriena deposited it into a neat pile. "Thought you'd want to be back in these soon as possible."
"You thought right," said Joslyn with a satisfied grin. Unabashedly she pulled off the guard's armour and replaced it with the leather, fur, and bone that made up the Forsworn's uniform. Muriena did not look away. Joslyn was dirty and thin from her years of work and underfeeding in the Mine, but there was still clearly an intrinsic ferocity that the guards had been unable to beat out of her.
"Why are there so few here?" asked Joslyn. "What's Borkul been doing?"
Muriena looked over her shoulder out the tent opening before answering. "Not much," she said. "We raid travellers occasionally, but don't go far out. Slim pickings. Haven't seen any other Forsworn in months. And there are Legion soldiers to deal with. Other bandits are moving in, too."
All because the Dragonborn's massacres left a vacancy in the Reach. But plans were already beginning to form in Joslyn's mind. There had to be other pockets of Forsworn scattered through the Reach. Survivors of the various attacks they had suffered, others remote enough to have been passed by. Together, they could be a force to be reckoned with again. Together, they could get their revenge.
"Who are the others?" she asked. "Skilled?"
Muriena counted them off on her fingers. "Borkul you've met. Me, obviously. This bow ain't just for decoration. Uthal and Hanna. Brother and sister. Good enough with a blade, both of 'em, but they're more concerned with fucking than fighting."
"Each other?" asked Joslyn. She spat.
"Well I sure as hell ain't letting them touch me," said Muriena, grinning. It abruptly vanished. "And then there's Djanson."
Joslyn knew that name from when she used to roam free with the hordes. "He's still alive?" she asked, trying to restrain her incredulity.
"Aye," said Muriena. "More's the shame. Worships Borkul."
"Used to worship Madanach," said Joslyn. She remembered Djanson. Wide-eyed and fervent, the most committed Forsworn she'd ever heard of. So committed that it blinded him, taking the words of Madanach as though they had been handed down by a god.
"And now Borkul's his only connection to Madanach," said Muriena. She crossed her arms and looked Joslyn up and down. "Though you might shake up his world just a little."
Joslyn stretched her arms above her head. Djanson was a loose cannon, but she needed ferocity like that, as long as she could direct it. The more immediate problem was Borkul. His short-sightedness was never going to get them back to the old glory days. More importantly, it would never bring Joslyn closer to her vengeance.
"There any fresh meat?" she asked.
Muriena nodded. "Skeever, I think. Hunting ain't been good lately."
Joslyn forced her laugh to sound as natural as possible. A whole new world to deal with after so long in an old one. But as before, showing fear was always the costliest of mistakes.
"Better'n the slop we got in the mine," she said.
Muriena led Joslyn outside into the morning air. A fire burned unattended. Further up the hill, the sound of woodchopping could be heard. Grunting and moaning came from another tent. Muriena passed over a chunk of almost-burnt skeever meat and Joslyn tore into it like there was nothing wrong with it. She needed the strength but could not show just how weak she was feeling. The fight against the guards had left her hazy-headed, running on adrenaline and fury. She suspected passing out last night was the first time she'd slept properly in months, if not years.
Soon enough, Djanson appeared, carrying an armful of wood.
"Remember me, Djanson?" asked Joslyn. She spat a piece of gristle into the fire and stood with her legs firmly planted. The man's eyes were thickly bloodshot and his short stocky frame trembled as he put down his wood.
"I remember nothing," he said. "There is no room in my skull but for the word of Madanach."
"Madanach's dead," said Joslyn. She heard Muriena make an intake of breath and wished for the safety of an axe in hand.
"But his words speak through the Beast," said Djanson. "His dreams will never die."
"Well, at least we can agree on half of something," said Joslyn. "Go and get this Beast of yours, huh? We got some changes to make round here."
"Do not disrespect the Beast," said Djanson. "Through him speak the—"
"Words of Madanach, I know," said Joslyn. "Plenty of people knew Madanach." She tore off the last edible section of skeever meet and waited for the inevitable reply. Djanson's eyes narrowed.
"Did you know Madanach?" he asked.
"Damn right I did," said Joslyn. In truth, she had known Madanach only vaguely before she'd been thrown in Cidhna Mine. From then on, she had little to do with the Forsworn's leader after an introductory interview. More often than not, his orders had come through Borkul. But there's no way Djanson could know any of that. And it's only a matter of time before Borkul's cowardly stench starts showing on his face.
Djanson looked at her with a new expression, perhaps close to confusion. Then he vanished deeper into the camp.
"That world-shaking enough for you?" asked Joslyn.
Muriena smirked. "You rattled him a little," she said, "but anyone can manage that if they've a mind to. It's gonna take more than sayin' you knew Madanach to break his link to Borkul."
Joslyn grunted in what she hoped was an uncaring fashion. Borkul will meet his end one way or another. When Djanson returned, Borkul was following, a frown dominating his face.
"What do you want, Joslyn?" he asked. "Things don't change around here unless I order 'em to. Then they get to it, 'less they want to feel what it's like to be missing a windpipe."
Joslyn had foolishly brawled with Borkul in Cidhna Mine. Once. He was stronger, but she was faster. I can take him. I can introduce his brains to the sunlight. I can let the dirt of the Reach grow strong with his rotting corpse. But not yet, she was still too weak. For now, she would have to work around him.
"Might as well get Uthal and Hanna out," she said. "What I got to say affects all of us."
Borkul looked for a long moment as if he was going to refuse, or perhaps lunge at her with a clenched fist, but eventually he gestured at Djanson. The little short-haired man whined, but Borkul made the gesture again, more forcibly. Djanson trod to the tent the grunting and moaning was coming from and lifted the tent-flap.
There was murmured conversation, then a male and female figure emerged from the tent, each in a state of undress. Their hair was thickly matted with mud and they were both missing several teeth. They wore expressions of deep annoyance.
"This better be good, Borkul," said Hanna. Borkul just pointed at Joslyn, who coughed and spat.
"Look at you," said Joslyn. "This ain't no way for Forsworn to live. We should be striking fear into the hearts of everyone in the Reach, 'stead of cowering in the corners. We should be living like queens, 'stead of foraging for scraps. We should be dozens, hundreds, 'stead of a handful."
"And where do you think you'll find a hundred Forsworn?" asked Borkul. "For all you know, we could be the last."
"And you'll never know otherwise unless you look!" Joslyn exclaimed. Borkul just grunted, so she continued. "Here: you stay, I'll go. I find anyone, I'll send them back here. Soon enough there'll be an army, you'll see."
"And if there isn't?" asked Borkul.
Then I'll go after the Dragonborn myself. "Then we'll do things your way."
There would be an army, she knew. The cause was glorious and just. Sympathetic and disillusioned, she would find them. Scattered among their old hideouts, just waiting for someone to lead them.
"I'm coming with you," said Muriena. There was no haste in the woman's tone, but Joslyn found herself grinning.
"I'll be back," she said. "And there'll be a horde before me."