Private {18+} Ascension

[The Seraph]

Sylandres had no idea what the orc said, though he could tell that his voice was deep and loud. Sylandres quickly began writing. After a few seconds he gave the slate and a piece of chalk to the orc as the tavern wench came over with his food and water. The slate said Names Sylandres. I'm for the most part deaf, so if you would please write your responses on the slate. I came to this under empire because I heard the Imperial legion wants mercenaries and I desire either gold or death not at the hands of a roadside beast. What is your name, and why are you here? Sylandres began to nibble on his half burnt mutton, awaiting the orc's response.

 

[The_Lost_Foxtrot]

Mathias could see that the man with the skull helm knew the two mercenaries beside him. He slipped away from the table without them noticing , put on his fox themed mask and hood, and walked up to the two women in robes, curious about their reason for being in the less safer parts of Bruma

As he walked up to them he saw that the younger one was eating her meal like she was starving. And there was something in her eyes that told him she was at least some what traumatized, probably an encounter with the thugs creeping around here. The other woman was older, with a robe of different blues, and seashells braded into her hair, what interested the assassin was that she didn't show fear, cautious or vigilant yes, but not scared.

When he reached them he just stood there for a second thinking what he should do. In the end he decided to just outright ask them, he leaned against onof the beams beside the table. "soo, what are two women such as yourselves doing in a place like this? This isn't exactly the safest part of Bruma" he asked them, staring at them with a curious but indifferent look in his glowing eyes, his voice the same

 

[Snoball]

Through the cold, melancholic evening in Bruma, a warm voice and the upbeat sounds of a finely tuned lute emerge from the city's wealthier district. The inn these sounds emerge from is the Oswald Lodge, formerly known as the Jerall View Inn, it was purchased and renovated by Avendano Oswald, one of Bruma's wealthiest aristocrats and a diplomatic ally to the city's Archon. It is the higher-end and superior of Bruma's two inns, the other less favorable option being the Maiden's Arms situated in the city's outskirts. Only the city's most elite have the fortune to be able to stay a night or two. Even few have the chance to be able to perform here. Although Avendano himself was not here for the night as he had other pressing matters to attend to, a determined Salza did his best to entertain the wealthy patrons that were there to hear him play.

♫ ~The light in in your eyes,
True to your courageous flame
Births a strength in me to try
And one day be the same~ ♫
​

Salza completes the final verse, but midway through the closing lute instrumental to his composition, one of his strings break. The tear makes an audible, split-second screech the the whole room can hear , but Salza salvages the performances despite the missing note. In an awkward fashion, the wealthy patrons stand up sporadically to applaud the elf, but in a slow, off-beat clap that seems to imply pity instead of adulation. "Damn it." Salza takes a small bow, and straps the busted lute to his back. Wiping off the sweat from his brow, Salza walks past the elaborate marble decor and fancy furnishings to head to the bar as the patrons carry on with their conversations and meals.

"Rough night, eh?" The bartender passes the disheartened Bosmer a bag of septims and an ale on the house for his performance. Instead of cracking it open, the elf just tightens his grip on the bottle.

"I don't get it. Something's just felt slightly off. There's a definite spark that isn't here, you know?" The bartender looks past Salza's shoulder to see a couple of armed mercenaries staring him down from across the bar. Their gritty appearance and them being armed to the teeth causes them stick out like a sore thumb.

"Don't look now pal, looks like those guys back there might just be fans of yours." Barely looking back over his shoulder, the elf walks away slowly as the two burly men follow at his pace. When he knows for certain they are here for him, Sal breaks out into a sprint, quickly ascending the marble staircase to lose his pursuers. The two men give chase, now getting the attention of a few of the wealthy bystanders. Salza runs down the fancy, well-lit hallway to get to his belongings and escape. Just as he gets the door open, a towering Imperial woman awaits within, causing Salza to freeze in place.

"Surprise." Before he can run back, the two mercenaries had caught up behind him. As the elf reaches into his boots to retrieve his daggers, a single forearm blow to the head from the Imperial knocks the mer out cold.

Salza recovers a couple minutes later, kneeling with both wrists tied to the end of the bed post. Looking up, the imposing Imperial amazon of a woman doesn't look like she can appear more gigantic than she appears now.

"And there he is, the fabled Red Herring in all his glory!" Salza looks to both sides of him to see the two muscled men standing on each of his sides. He struggles a bit with the leather bonds but to no avail. He looks up to his captor with a slight look of defeat across his face.

"H-Hey now. What's all this then? Don't know who this Herring is, but if you're looking for the one they call the Songbird, well, it's your lucky day. You found him." This was said with a hint of obvious sarcasm. Salza knows these thugs are aware of his criminal past, but he's still unsure of their intention. With a nod of approval from the woman, one of the mercenaries to the elf's side knees him in his ribs. This knocks the wind from the elf, shutting him up almost immediately.

"Liar! You can fantasize about playing bard all you want elf, but we know the truth. Some clever thief you are huh? Waltzing right into Lord Oswald's trap." So that explains the invitation to perform. Still there was no sight of the man himself.

"So how do I know you're not bluffing and just want me dead, what have I ever done to Oswald?" The Imperial woman audibly scoffs at this question as she rolls her eyes. "Does it really matter? You pissed off his investors, and as such, you've pissed him off. You're truly insignificant to him, elf. Hell, he argued that you're better off dead. A sentiment I can rally behind." The woman then pulls out her dagger. As she approaches and begins to line up the blade with Salza's neck, the elf delivers a swift headbutt to her left eye, momentarily incapacitating her. With a small kick, he knocks over one of the heavily armored henchmen. The other henchman swings his axe aiming for Salza's shoulder. The elf reacts by swinging himself over the bed, causing the axe to break the bed post, thus freeing the mer. Still tied to the broken brass post, Salza aims it at the man's helmet to stun him. As all three begin to compose themselves, Salza grabs his busted lute and cracks open the window.

He jumps down to evade them, rolling down the roof of the building. He utilizes the bed post still tied to him to cling onto the edge, almost falling in the process. He shimmies to a dump of garbage below to break his fall. The Imperial woman recovers and sees him making his escape. She orders her henchmen to give chase in the same way Salza was escaping. Being much more armored than he, they tumble down much harder, and take a much more of a rough landing. By this point, Salza tried running into the alleyways to evade. This gets the attention of the town's enforcers, as a couple of them pursue him as well to see what is the cause of the commotion. Running into one of the alleys, Salza hides behind a sack of potatoes to reach for his dagger and free himself of the bed post at last. He then takes the potato sack and throws it over himself and removes his sash from his waist to have it cover the lower half of his face.

Emerging from the alley, he sees a couple confused guards still wandering about, but more importantly, Oswald's lackeys still hot on his trail. Salza tried blending in with all the people walking about in this part of the city. He keeps moving until he's reached the outskirts of Bruma. The so-called "under empire" truly lived in the shadow of Bruma's prosperous district. It was a tale of two cities, as the bright-lit streets and bustling nightgoers were replaced with dilapidated, aging walls and crime at every corner. Keeping up a brisk pace to avoid getting stopped, Salza takes shelter in the city's other inn, the Maiden's Arms. It would be an understatement to say this inn was in worse shape compared to the lodge. Creaky floors and a broken window, an obvious air of danger hovered over the area. Sal had heard rumblings of needed mercenaries, but he never imagined this much of a turn-out. Two similarly armored brutes, a khajiit, and their skull-helmet friend? Check. Two very pasty looking gentlemen chatting it up? Check. A nervous looking woman eating alongside a Redguard and a man in a fox mask? Check. An Orc and fellow Bosmer writing each other messages despite being a couple feet away from one another? Check. He didn't know if they were all here for the same reason, all Salza cared about however was taking momentary shelter. Instead of heading for a table, he stays on the side of the door, waiting to make sure one of those goons have not followed him here.

 

[Harkatti]

Elwyn slipped between buildings with wraithlike stealth. She was not an assassin, not in a traditional sense, but years of evading imperial patrols had taught her the value of keeping out of sight. The wealthy sections of Bruma weren't just home to nobles and sycophants.

A cacophony of chanting announced the approach of the confessors, those black robed, tattooed individuals who enforced the imperial faith. A column of them marched down the street Elwyn had walked mere moments ago. However, they were focused on some other destination, perhaps one of their temples.

The altmer averted her eyes as much as she could afford to. The swirling, unnatural tattoos that covered their bodies made her eyes ache, as if she'd been straining to read in bad light. Arcane in nature, surely, but Elwyn had no means of discerning what kind. She'd always been more skilled with the sword than the spell. Something she'd gotten no end of grief for back on Alinor.

With a shake of her head, she slunk further from the chanting procession. She knew what they'd do if they captured her. She'd seen the bodies of 'heretics' and 'traitors' displayed prominently throughout the city. Elwyn had no love for the imperials, but no one deserved the treatment those unfortunates went through.

The call for mercenaries was new-unexpected, but it was something that would allow Elwyn to travel without being accosted as a resistance agent. If her contacts were right, the mercenaries were to meet up at the Maidens' Arms. A miserable little establishment in the heart of the under empire.

The elven spellsword had been there several times, and had been reluctant to enter every time. But if she wished a chance to join this expedition, she had little choice. She wound between buildings, never taking a straight path, and doubling back more than a few times. It wouldn't do to be pursued.

When she finally reached the under empire, it was nearing dusk. Of course, the inhabitants of this place were just as active at night as they were during the day. The elf kept her wits about her the deeper she walked. And so, it was to her great surprise that she saw a robed man, seemingly unarmed. A rare sight, especially in a place like this.

He did not seem especially hostile, but Elwyn kept a hand on her blade nevertheless. She stepped closer, "It's either a brave man or a fool who walks these streets without a weapon. Which are you?"

 

[Drahkma]

Kyros watched the run down inn slowly fill with all sorts of...interesting people. Most were the type he'd expect to see in such a tavern; mercenaries, assassins, it seemed the under empire had vomited up its' best killers in a bid to get a piece of the emperors' wealth.

The vampiric knights' lips twisted with scorn. He had need for the empires' money. All he wanted was a chance to find a worthy opponent to wet Razors' blade and slake his thirst. Perhaps a glorious end in the heat of battle.

His introspection was interrupted by a pale man, in a high necked coat, the hint of armour underneath, taking the chair across from him. Kyros parted his lips to tell the man to leap off the nearest cliff, when something bid him to hold his tongue. There was something...familiar about this man. A flicker of inhumanity in his eyes, the unnatural pale skin. The imperial confirmed his suspicions. "Greetings. It is rare to see a brother of the night these days. Am I correct in assuming that you are here to join this mercenary expedition?"

The breton vampires' eyes narrowed. "I am not your brother. And my purpose here is the same as every other miserable soul that holds a blade in this establishment."

 

[Thesius]

Joren glanced up, relaying his own terse greeting with something that, for him, probably passed for a smile. Vintor had seen more cheerful expressions on bodies more than a day dead. Thalien, the more talkative of the two, by their standards, anyways, asked after him, recalling the last time the three had been together. A disastrous battle, a massacre, really, near the city of Anvil. The former paladin grimaced at the memory.

"You aren't the only one who heard the summons. Obviously." He nodded towards the growing amount of mercenaries in the place. "Men like us...not much else waits for us beside a dagger in the back. I cannot speak for you, but I'd rather face my end head on, rather than be knifed in the back in this place."

 

[Morbidbread]

The doors swung open before Elrasur could reach them. A half dozen guards, almost certainly in the employ of his target sprinted into the room, swords in hand. Their leader ordered his men to kill both him and his khajiit opponent. 'Shows how much she cares for those she employs.' He thought, readying his own blades. However, the khajiit was faster, a blade whipping past his ear to strike one of the soldiers. He collapsed, and she sprang past, cutting down a second just as quickly as the first.

"Four left." The woman snarled, a feral grin that gave him pause. Was she enjoying this? "About even odds." That, at least, was the truth. The remaining guards outnumbered them, but they were undisciplined, unsure of themselves. He sprang forwards, each sword independent of the other. The guards managed a few parries and ripostes, but Elrasur was simply better than them. Without warning he crossed his arms, slashing low with one, high with the other. Both men fell, arteries spilling vital blood over the marble floor. With a quick backhand, he finished the one man, giving him a quick, clean death.

"Cimantus awaits." He said by way of explanation, heading to the stairs beyond the short corridor ahead. He took the stairs two at a time, heedless of the noise he made. The woman had thrown away the lives of her guards like rubbish, and had been prepared to sacrifice the assassin she'd hired to stop him.

There was a guard at the top of the stairs, one of her ladyships last, it seemed. With a roar, the hulking imperial swung a massive warhammer at the approaching assassin. But Elrasur was quick to drop to his knees, using his momentun to slide past the human. Chunks of stone rained down as the hammer intended to cave in the dark elfs' skull instead knocked a hole in the doorway.

Before the imperial could recover, Elrasur sprang to his feet, blades spinning. One dived low, finding a chink in the humans' armor and stabbing into his kidney. The second blade was higher, the first few inches of the blade piercing into his armpit, and immobilizing that arm. For a moment, the assassin held the man there, before withdrawing his blades and crossing them in a X at the back of the mans' neck. The human fell on his face like a chopped tree.

Having defeated the last of her defenses, Elrasur turned to his target. She stood on the other side of an ornate desk, at the far side of the room. She herself was dressed in fine clothes that the assassin suspected most noble women would have killed for. Her chest heaved with panicked breaths as Elrasur closed in on her.

"Please- I can give you gold, women, anything you wish!" She pleaded, backing away. The wall arrested her retreat, and Elrasur stood before her. "What I wish," he said in a even, cold voice, "is justice for those unfortunates you forced to work without pay or shelter for your own benefit." His right hand blade stabbed forwards passing through her third and fourth ribs, to her heart. She gasped sharply, eyes widening. "Justice is served." Elrasur the white said as she sank the floor, crimson blossoming on the breast of her cream colored dress.

He turned to the khajiit woman, the assassin hired to protect his target. "Your employer is dead, and as I stated before, I mean you no harm. You decide what happens next."

 

[Rafen]

Caleb was still trying to find his way to the damned tavern, and was starting to feel more and more lost in the twists and turns of the broken alleys and crumbling buildings of the under empire. "Just what I need." He murmured to himself, "get myself lost in this gods forsaken hell hole and eaten by some oblivion spawned abomination."

He was starting to wish he'd marked his path with something as evening began to fall. His warriors instincts, still accurate even after nearly a decade, told him that being caught out after dark would see him a corpse before dawn. "It's either a brave man or a fool who walks these streets without a weapon. Which are you?" Caleb spun, resisting the urge to reach for his weapon. He hadn't heard anyone approaching until they'd spoken.

He took a moment to get a good look at the speaker. An altmer woman, with dark blonde hair, bound in a ponytail. It was difficult to tell with the failing light, but it looked like she had green or pale brown eyes. She wore elven armor but it was darker than most he'd seen. The sun glanced off of it, revealing a dull crimson. His brief examination finished, he pulled his robes slightly tighter, concealing the leather and chainmail of his own armor. "More the latter than the former, I'm afraid." He admitted with a chuckle. "What brings an elf down here? An altmer especially?"

 

[Signus]

Orien traveled as fast as he dared towards the outskirts of Bruma. If he could reach the under empire, he could...do what, exactly? He was no traitor, whatever the confessors said. On the other hand, he could not go back to his legion. They'd arrest him, send him back to the black robed bastards. Odds were they'd already gotten Hadrius.

He paused at an intersection letting a crowd of laughing, joking civilians pass him by. When he glanced up it was to see an imperial enforcer staring back at him. Orien quickly looked away, wishing that his robe had come with a hood or helm, anything to hide the lack of a mark on his forehead. The enforcer took a step towards him. Then another, a frown creasing the mans' face.

Orien started to walk away, started to look for an alley or sidestreet he could duck down. No such luck. "You there! Legionnaire!" With a wince, he turned to face the man.

"Is there a problem?"

The enforcer shook his head. "You're with the fifth? I didn't even know they'd come home yet. My brother's a legionnaire as well. Haspius Dacun. Send my regards, will you?"

It was all he could do to not breath a sigh of relief. "Of course. Have a pleasant evening." With that, he was on his way. That had been a close call, and Orien had no desire to repeat it. He lowered his head as much as he dared, and increased his pace, rushing for the relative safety of the under empire.

A crooked sign, that might have once said; 'Dogs, stay out!' hung beside a narrow alley between a pair of tall buildings, reading: 'Do, ay ou'. He stepped inside eyes adjusting slowly to the poor light. He heard a mans voice, but was unable to make out the words. A chuckle followed the words, but much closer, the battlemage heard the sound of boots moving over grimy stone. "Can't read, imperial?"

He turned at the deep voice, stared at the massive orc that blocked the way out of the alley. "I meant no offense. But I'm not exactly welcome in the city itself."

"So you thought you'd come here? Maybe I ought to crack your skull. What do you think about that?" The orc hefted a flail, the short chain clanking menacingly.

 

[Rell]

Instead of answering him the elf went back to scribbling on his slate. Uzars' brows lowered and his eyes narrowed dangerously. His hands flexed with the urge to yank the slate out of the elfs' hand and snap the thing in half. To his surprise, the bosmer handed it over having written something on it. He squinted at the words written on its' surface.

Names Sylandres. I'm for the most part deaf, so if you would please write your responses on the slate. I came to this under empire because I heard the Imperial legion wants mercenaries and I desire either gold or death not at the hands of a roadside beast. What is your name, and why are you here?

The damned earless elf wanted him to write? He flexed his hands again, but they still shook with suppressed rage. Taking a breath, he began to scribble on the slate, the writing utensil too small for his over large hands. When he'd finished, he passed the slate back to the elf. It said : My name is Uzar. I come for gold and blood. What do you want from me elf? The letters were shaky, some larger than the others, but it was legible. Barely.

 

[The Seraph]

Sylandres was pleasantly surprised that Uzar was literate. Most orcs aren't. He quickly erased the slate and wrote back You looked like the mercenary type, and I'm just assuming you can hear. Since we are both after the same thing I would appreciate help, considering my condition. Sylandres started to eat his soul before he noticed peas in it. Even if he didn't worship Y'ffre he still followed the Green Pact. He pushed the soup and slate to Uzar, and finished his mutton.

 

[Screeching Spasmodically]

Lilliana had nearly finished her stew, with Adalia keeping a watchful eye out. The redguard mage didn't need to guess why the tavern was so full on this particular evening. Mercenaries were wanted, or so it was said. Adalia had been on her way to see if the empire really was desperate enough to hire the dredges of the underworld to fight for them. Apparently, they were.

One of the mercenaries a man in a fox mask, approached their table. "soo, what are two women such as yourselves doing in a place like this? This isn't exactly the safest part of Bruma" He asked, casually. His unusual eyes focused on the pair of them. "We heard the call for mercenaries. I assume the same is true for you, sir." She tilted her head slightly, "I am Adalia and this..." she hesitated, realizing that it may be foolish to reveal Lillianas' actual name to people who might be working for the empire. "Is Serena. My ward."

 

[TheShadedOne]

Athara finished the last two guardsmen, retrieved her knife from the first she'd killed, and sprinted after the dunmer assassin. She no longer had any interest in stopping him- she didn't care about her employers lack of morals and whatever crimes she'd committed, but trying to have Athara killed? That was personal. She made the top of the stairs to see an imperial that looked more troll than human collapse, his head barely attached to the rest of him. Her employer, former employer, really, shrank back from the approaching dark elf. Her pleas were falling on deaf ears, and she knew it. The imperial shot a desperate look towards Athara.

She deliberately sheathed her blades, smirking the whole while. She was confident she could have kept Cimantus alive if she hadn't double-crossed her. She stepped away from the dead bodyguard, and leaned against the wall to watch her death. It was surprisingly merciful, a quick thrust to the heart, along with a little speech about justice. Once lady Cimantus was corpse, the elf turned to her "Your employer is dead, and as I stated before, I mean you no harm. You decide what happens next."

" What happens next, is that I retrieve the rest of my pay." She stepped around the corpse, and went to the desk, rummaging through the papers, quills, and other miscelanneous junk in it. On the third drawer, she let out a satisfied grunt, and straightened holding a hefty coin purse. "She might have been an amoral bitch, but she was smart. Only paid me half up front." She said by way of explanation. She turned to face the dunmer again, "Heard about a big score down in the under empire. Empire's apparently desperate for mercenaries. You interested?"

 

[Harkatti]

"More the latter than the former, I'm afraid." The robed man admitted with a self depreciating chuckle. Despite his words, Elwyn sensed there was more to the man than met the eye. His robes seemed more for concealment rather than to denote his status as a healer. The slight motion of his hands, pulling his robes tighter around him, seemed to confirm her suspicion. "What brings an elf down here? An altmer especially?" He shifted the focus from himself over to Elwyn with surprise ease. The former justiciar shrugged, "I haven't much say in the matter. The imperials hardly look upon my people charitably. This call for hired blades is new, and I'm sure that I am not the only one it presents opportunities for. Though we should make our way to the tavern before long. The danger the under empire poses during the day is nothing compared to what happens at night."

~~~​

"I am not your brother. And my purpose here is the same as every other miserable soul that holds a blade in this establishment." The heavily armored breton stated bluntly. Cyrius' smiled thinly, not showing his teeth, "Now, now, brother. No need to be so hostile." His gaze slid away from the vampire in front of him, to a wood elf with a scarf of some sort over his face, and wearing what looked to a sack over his clothes. Cyrius' interest was piqued. "I'll leave you in peace." The imperial vampire stood and took his leave with a short bow. He crossed the tavern to stand beside the elf. "Forgive the intrusion, but it seems you are expecting someone. Or perhaps hiding?" Now that he was much closer to the elf, he was picking up the faint scent of...potatoes? "A lovely outfit, if I do say so myself." He remarked.

 

[Madrar]

"Men like us...not much else waits for us beside a dagger in the back. I cannot speak for you, but I'd rather face my end head on, rather than be knifed in the back in this place."

"Hmph. You should have been a philosopher. But you have a point, I suppose." Thalien said, watching one of the newcomers, a pale imperial man, approach an elf with his face hidden and wearing what looked to be sack or very poor quality tunic standing by the door, a wary look in his eyes. "Still, I would have liked to know a little more about this job. The empire has never contracted mercenaries. Or at least, not in these numbers." He glanced at their khajiit contact, Var'hess. The old cat chuckled, "do not look to this one for answers. The empire approached him. They thought it wise that the scum call upon the scum."

"Not to mention that an imperial official would be cut to pieces before he could take two steps into the under empire." Thalien pointed out. He his his growing concern with a crooked smile. The empire had used mercenaries in the past, of course. Stubborn nobles who needed to be silenced, or brought over to the Archons' side, pressured by 'bandit raids'. Thalien had been part of imperial operations in the past. He hadn't enjoyed it, but, as Joren had pointed out, the pay was good. Still, something about the situation felt...wrong.

 

[Morbidbread]

Elrasur relaxed ever so slightly, moving his hands away from the hilts of his weapons. The khajiit didn't seem even a little put out that he'd just murdered her employer. Then, her employer had tried to have her killed, along with himself. She went to the desk and rummaged through it, eventually coming up with a large sack of coin. He nodded at her explanation, understanding the reasoning behind the former lady Cimantus' decision. Assassins weren't especially known for sticking it out to the bitter end. However, when a large sum of gold was on the line...it was probably a good thing the woman had decided to betray her hired killer. She was a skilled fighter, more than capable of matching him blow for blow.

"Heard about a big score down in the under empire. Empire's apparently desperate for mercenaries. You interested?" He paused, surprised by the sudden offer. Normally, he would refuse- he seldom took jobs for coin, and even then, it was usually just enough to maintain his gear. But something about the offer intrigued him, perhaps that it was the empire who was offering the job. There seemed little to lose in accepting, and now that his task in Bruma was done, there was little reason to stay. "Very well. If there's a job posting in the under empire, the most likely place to go will be the Maiden's Arms." He glanced over his shoulder, out the tall window that over looked the city. The sun was starting to set, painting the snow and houses with an orange glow. "We should leave before nightfall. Or before someone finds the bodies here."

He made his way to the stairs, and retraced his steps, trusting the khajiit assassin to follow. He doubted she'd bring up the contract if she had no intention of pursuing it herself. The entrance to the under empire, one of them, anyways, was not hard to find. Elrasur came up short at the sight before him. This was something new, something unexpected. An imperial in legionnaires armor and a short crimson robe stood before a large orc, doubtless part of the many gangs that roamed the under empire. "-ought to crack your skull. What do you think about that?" The orc was growling.

Elrasur frowned, not at the orcs' words, those were common anywhere in the lawless region, but at the imperial. He recognized the robe as that of a legion battlemage and yet there was no mark of allegiance upon his forehead. 'A day full of surprises.' He mused, stepping forth. "A pitiful catch." He said from behind the orc, "perhaps let this one go." The orc, standing a full two heads above Elrasur, scowled down at him. " What? This imperial scum will report back to the rest of his kind if I let him walk outta here."

"Somehow, I don't think so." Elrasur deliberately placed his hands on his hips, dangerously close to the hilts of his blades. A motion that was not missed by the orc. He glanced past the dunmer to his khajiit companion, before shaking his head and lowering his weapon. He barged past the battle mage, muttering something under his breath. Elrasur stepped closer, "it is an odd sight, to see a servant of the empire here. Especially one who wears the robes of a mage and lacks the mark on his forehead. Seems a tale worth telling, but not here. My...companion and I are headed to an inn nearby. Join us."

 

[Rell]

Uzar read the last few lines of the elfs' most recent scribblings, lips moving as he did so. A toothy grin appeared on his face. A rumble started in his chest, which grew into a full blown laugh. This...weakling expected his help? To serve as a bodyguard against whatever the fool imperials wanted them to fight against? He starts to get up, a sneer pasted over his face. He isn't here to help people, the malicious voice in the back of his head reminds him. He is here to kill. To kill until he cannot any longer. The tremor in his hands returns, stopping his laughter dead in his throat, turning it into a growl. His hands gripped the edge of the table, the dark green flesh paling several shades as he fights for control.

Then the elf does something unexpected. Perhaps a gesture of friendship or some form of payment. Maybe something else entirely. He shoves his bowl of soup towards him along with the slate. Unbidden, a memory from his past, long since lost in the tormented maze his mind has become : Largashbur. The bellows of giants and orcish roarcries pierce the air along with screams and the clash of weapons. Uzar holds his hammer high, "Defend the gates! We cannot let them pass!" With a fierce roar, the champion of Largashbur smashes his hammer into the knee of an approaching giant, feeling savage satisfaction as the beast falls. Before it can attack or escape, Uzar leaps forwards, bringing his hammer down again, this time on the giants face. With a loud crunch his hammer crushes the skull. He's so caught up in the thrill of combat, that he doesn't see the second giant. Or its club.

It is a glancing blow- a direct hit probably would have killed him, even with his master crafted orcish armor. Uzar went flying, landing on his back breathless and vulnerable. The giant, eyes filled with rage, approaches to finish him off. A fierce warcry, not his this time, and an comrade leaps forth, digging her spear into the giants gut. Mortally wounded, the giant bellows and lashes out, crushing the warrior. Arrows from the wall send it into whatever after life their kind has. Uzar struggles to his feet, and realizes the battle is over. It is time to gather their wounded and bury the dead. Exhausted, he walks into the stronghold. He almost doesn't see her at first. She barely reaches his waist, brown eyes round with awe. Her arms, stick thin compared to Uzars own, offer up a steaming bowl of soup her name surfaces in his mind...Rulaz...the next time he sees her, she will be a ruined bundle of flesh and bones, slain by her protector. Her hero.

Uzar shakes his head, and the memory is lost. He realizes the elf is staring at him waiting for his response. He sits down once more, and scribbles three words on the slate: I will help. With a grunt, he draws the soup closer and digs in, remembering he has not eaten in several hours.

 

[Signus]

Orien rested a hand on his gladius, ready to defend himself. Before either he or the orc could make another move, a voice from behind the orc spoke: "A pitiful catch." The flail wielder turned to face the newcomer who said, "perhaps let this one go." The orc seemed less than inclined to agree. He argued that Orien would bring more of his comrades to the under empire if set free. The dunmer placed his hands near the twin shortswords on his belt. He was joined by a khajiit woman, roughly the same size. The orc was suddenly outnumbered, though the battlemage wasn't sure that either of the newcomers could be counted as 'friends'.

The flail-toting orc wandered off, shaking his head, leaving Orien facing too lightly armed and armored, though obviosuly dangerous individuals. His hand didn't leave the hilt of his weapon, but he did offer a cautious nod of thanks. With his uniform, it was just as likely that they'd have walked on. Or perhaps they'd lost friends or family to the empire, and wanted to exact their own form of 'justice'. If they want my head, they're going to have to fight for it.' He resolved grimly, flexing the fingers of his free hand, feeling the magic there, ready to be called forth. The dark elf stepped closer, but didn't draw his blades, "it is an odd sight, to see a servant of the empire here. Especially one who wears the robes of a mage and lacks the mark on his forehead. Seems a tale worth telling, but not here. My...companion and I are headed to an inn nearby. Join us."

So they'd noticed. More importantly, they seemed willing to help him, more than they already had, that was. 'Could be a trap...' but that was unlikely. He was already tired and wounded. Even if it was a trap, there was little he could do to defend himself. "Very well. I will accompany you." He agreed. Together, the three wound deeper into the under empire, until they came across a dilapidated tavern. The Maidens' Arms. Inside, the light was dim and the air filled with the stench of ale, sweat and smoke. Many of what Orien could only assume were sellswords and other assorted scum sat at tables or at the bar. The three got a table for themselves, "I owe you my thanks. To the both of you. What are your names, if I may ask?" He didn't trust anyone here, didn't particularly like them, either, but they had saved him. Courtesy was the least he could offer in return.

 

[Thesius]

Vintor chuckled at Thaliens response, taking the seat the masked man had so recently vacated, and waving a serving girl over. The girl made a beeline for their table, deftly avoiding the gropes of several patrons, before arriving. "Something I can get you?"
"An ale." The woman curtsies, flashes a smile at Thalien, and scurries back to the bar, once more avoiding the lunges of the drunks. Vintor turned his attention back to his one-time comrades. "The empire might not contract mercenaries to the public knowledge, but you and I, we know the truth. We do the jobs that keep the empire running....when we're not fighting against it." He chuckled, but noticed the two dark armoured men did not follow suit. Joren, that was no surprise. That grim bastard barely knew how to smile, and he doubted he could laugh. Thalien, though...something is worrying the younger man, but Vintor couldn't guess what. They were interrupted by the return of the girl, who deposited a flagon of ale in front of him. He dropped several septims in her waiting hand, and grunted his thanks. Once he was sure she'd gone, he leaned towards the breton warrior. "Thalien, what do you know? You seem troubled."

 

[Rafen]

The altmer woman revealed that like him, she'd heard of the imperial call for mercenaries. She also wisely suggested that the pair of them get inside before true nightfall actually fell. "Agreed. I don't think the tavern is too far." With the altmer womans' help, they found their way to the inn at the corner of one of the under empires streets. Heading inside, he glanced around, wrinkling his nose at the stench inside. The place was packed, mercenaries and assassins packed the place. Clearly, every blade for hire had heard of the empires' need for mercenaries. What did catch his attention, was a pair of women, one, a redgaurd, older than the other, was in conversation with a fox masked man. He took his leave from the altmer woman, and sat with the two females. Both wore robes, though the redguards' were far more colorful. "You don't seem like mercenary types. What are you doing in a place like this?"