The Refounding

Mhalla felt a primal delight in fate finally churning her way. She did not know why one of Halivid's hags would be so foolish to come into the city to disenchant a helmet, but it was the first lead they had in a long time. She kept her calm this time, and said, “Not now, at this hour the priestesses will be locked away in the Inner Chamber, and even during the hours of the morn no men can enter. We must wait until the morning when the Temple will be open to us.”

“Besides,” D'ordon said, “Hjor must be informed about this.”

The group had already passed the marketplace entirely, and now were approaching the Stoneheart General Store, silent and still in the night. It was to the right that the sight of the Silver Blood Inn was visible, torchlight marking it's place within the City of Stone.

Mhalla's gaze was torn from it when Igmund asked something that stopped her in her tracks entirely.

“But if the hag did leave, where would she go to get it disenchanted?”

…............................................................................................................

The Half-Moon Mill was shrouded in fog as night descended. Messer blessed it that with murky-red moonlight, which flickered over the two figures that slinked out of the forest, coming to the cabin by the mill on either side. Roshel knocked twice, once, thrice and a annoyed Hert threw it open.

“What are you doing here? Leave!”

“We have business with the Anthotis.”

In a flurry of motion, the woman grabbed them both by the shoulders and dragged them inside. Once the door closed, she turned on them, eyes flashing red and fangs barred in her mouth. “Are you mad?” She hissed. “You can not speak that name here! This land has ears!”

But instead of replying, Martia merely reached into the sack on her side.

She pulled out a steel plate helmet, with wings extended out to the sides in jagged points. Instead of the curved gaps for the visor, in this piece they were merely slits. Though there was some dust on it that coated the woman's fingers, it was in startling good condition, but the faint blue glow that pulsed from where the eyes should be, made it's state all the more clear.

Painted on the middle of the forehead was a red diamond, bordered with gold.

“What is it?” Hert caved.

“A helmet which fortifies magicka, the first enchanted piece of it's kind that we have found. We wish for your mages to disenchant it.”

Seeming to remember her earlier resolution, Hert said, “The Clan will have no more dealings with you.”

Roshel stepped in for her, “You will be properly compensated, we assure you.”

But Hert merely shook her head, “It's not a matter of payment. The Sanctuary knows of us, when they did not before. With them and the Dawnguard to the east we are being pressed – we must dig deeper, uproot our lives. This is due to Halivid and her mistakes. We will not be part of it again.”

Martia growled. “Don't you dare insult – ”

But Roshel held out a hand, stopping her, “Name your price.”

“The Hand of Decay.”

Messer above deepened it's glow.

“Come again?” Martia chimed, magicka pooling in her veins.

“The Hand of Decay must be taught to the Lord. That is the price I have been given.”

Martia's patience snapped, “That is such a – ”

Roshel cool tones interrupted her again, “We will speak to Matron Halivid on this matter.”

“Roshel!”

Hert closed her eyes and than reopened them to their human hues, “I will await your word.”

Then she pushed the two out.

“Goodnight.” She smiled. Though they all knew that the night was not ending for her.

And the door closed and the lock clicked.

She noticed the man's disappointment. Almost sensed it even. This one would drive the Keeper insane. Mhalla nearly lost track of the times in her youth that she troubled not only Tarvyln but all of the Vigilants with her headstrong nature. While she had calmed somewhat with age, that impulsiveness struck at odd moments, but never so much unless it involved Halivid and her brood.

And it was mention of that coven which brought her attention back to the conversation at hand. “Another enchanter, obviously.” Mhalla said. She hummed while her mind wracked through the motions. “Probably not a normal one this time, since trying to sneak into and get the job done in Markarth did not fare well.”

D'ordon sighed. “If only Fesda were here. She would know about that criminal underbelly.”

Igmund hissed. “I don't even like talking to her, much less working with her.” She never did stop thinking like Bandalu.

“Hjor might know,” Mhalla said, gesturing to the Silver-Blood Inn now in sight. In the darkness, with no torchlight at all to guide the way, it was quite the feat to even spot the gray stone monolith. But upon nearing the inn, the hanging moss that clung to the stone, the swirling patterns that the dwemer inscribed, and the inn's sign, a crossed pickaxe and hammer with droplets of blood, all became visible.

Mhalla pushed the door open.

And the sounds inside ceased.

There was nearly a half a dozen taverners, and they all turned their heads towards the door when the four entered. Soon after they looked the other way. Underneath her scarf, Mhalla smirked. The sight of four heavily armored warriors together in a group was a tad intimidating, but seeing that three of them were yet more Vigilants made the weariness lessen somewhat.

Speaking of which, the fourth Vigilant, Hjor, was awaiting for them on one of the barstools by the half square counter in the middle of the room. Behind it the innkeeper, a bald, graying old man, cleared off a spot on the counter.

“Ah!” Hjor said. “I was expecting you three to come soon. I got us rooms but I'm afraid we've had no luck in regards to rumors.”

“I wouldn't be so sure.” D'ordon said.

Mhalla let D'ordon and Igmund take seats on either side of Hjor, filling him in on the situation. Instead, she took a seat by the side of the bar. She sagged on the stool, feeling all vestige of strength flee her. “What a day.” She said, reaching into the cloth wrapping beneath her hood to wipe away some sweat.

The bartender as if sensing someone's need for a cold drink, approached her, “I'm Kleppr,” He said, “And this here is the Silver-Blood Inn. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Yeah. A ale. Something good enough to knock me out in a few hours.”

The man laughed at that and then leaned to grab the ale beneath the shelf.

“That'll be five septims.”

She handed it over to him and he palmed it.

It was with a careful motion, a sign of long practice, that she hook a finger on the right side of her scarf, pulling the cloth down so she could take a swig of the ale. She let go, the cloth flopping back in place as she let out a sigh, “By the Nine, that hit the spot.”

She glanced back, to where the hedge knight was still standing after his newfound companions had split up from him. “Come, drink with me!” She exclaimed, holding up the ale and gesturing to the empty stool beside her.

Mhalla finished a second sip, slammed the ale down and nearly burped. She didn't want to be quite that relaxed with the newcomer. Speaking of which, she eyed the man sitting to her right. Despite the worn look of a traveler, he still claimed to be a knight, though masterless. She couldn't help but ask, “So, Sir Aventer, from what order do you hail? Or did you hail?”

To the best of her knowledge, there weren't all that many orders of knights around anymore. The best to fit the role in this era would be the Vigil itself, or independent groups like the Dawnguard. It's possible also that he was knighted by a minor country, like one of the island chains off the coast.

It was then that she noticed a lout, a drunk with face flushed with wine, clad in a hide armor with lines of war paint on his cheeks, sitting in the back near the fire. While the rest of the tavern had relaxed when they saw that the armored strangers were Vigilants, his gaze remained fixed. Perhaps some of the reason why the air had been so tense in the first place was because the tavern goers knew that the man was readying for a fist fight.

After the hedge knight had finished answering her question about his order, she spoke, keeping her eyes fixed on her ale, “The man in the back corner seems to be gathering his courage to wage a bet on one of us. I don't think he'll do anything yet, but just be wary in case he takes one too many drinks.”

Mhalla felt grateful that the man changed the subject. It had been a mixture of exhaustion from the earlier fight and alcohol that had done the asking, but if Julius had wanted to be more honest about his past than he might have wished the same from her, and she was not ready or willing to tell anyone of the coven or of that night.

Though his mention of the Dawnguard did raise her interest. She had noticed the crossbow on first sighting, and had known that it was a rare weapon to be had, but it had not occurred to her that he had gotten it from the Dawnguard itself. Their original mission would have taken the Vigilants to Stendarr's Beacon, near the Dawnguard Fort, to gather the Vigilants stationed there and anyone else willing to go refound the lost Hall of the Vigilant. Though the importance of this current business could not be understated, technically they had to get the construction done before she could head back home.

But at the present, she was worried about her newfound companion. She had merely wanted to warn the man of the drunkard that was eying them, but there seemed to be a eagerness to him as he asked who should fight the man should he come to wager a bet. She did not particularly care for fist fights – any bar fight she got into would end with one magically fortified right hook, which would only raise the fist fighter's ire on her “cheating.” The whole thing seemed like a unnecessary strain. “I suppose that whoever he challenges would get the unlucky honor,” She heard a chair skid back and she groaned, “And here that honor comes.”

Cosnach had one hell of a bad day today.

It was ten years ago to the date that the caravan troubles with Arleif and Sons Trading Comppany began and he no longer had a job to do as their porter. He could understand that, he dealt with it, and the problem ended when the Forsworn ended – the roads were cleared and the company picked back up, becoming a trading center for the city again.

So … that should mean he would get his job back, right?

Well – fuck that apparently.

They told him, “Cosnach, it's been a while. Take some time to get used to things again.” and “Cosnach, we'll contact you when we need you.” and “Cosnach, Imedhain can handle things here.” Well, fuck that[/b]. He wanted to get drunk – dead drunk. And now, some big shots walk in, dressed in fancy, embroider armor like the shit septims and he was just supposed to sit here and take it? He wanted to see a face get mashed in with blood and chipped teeth, a Nord face, a face he could pretend to be Imedhain's.

There were two to pick from, and Julius was the closest.

So he chucked a sack of septims down, the same sack that Imedhain provided so he would have food this month and snarled, “I want to beat someone's face in. And yours will do. Fight me if you have the balls.” With that he slipped out his mace and tossed it to the ground, the sound of iron clanging against stone was loud enough to jolt several tavern goers nearby.

Kleppr however didn't even budge, continuing to wipe down a flask, “I'm getting tired of this, Cosnach. You know the rules here. No weapons, no injuries. I don't want to call the guards in again. No matter how rough it's been for you lately, they won't care.”

“Shut up.” The Nord hissed, giving some space for Julius and raising his hands up in a block.

On the other side of the counter, Hjor, D'ordon and Igmund, having finished their catching up now looked on the scene with concern, but with a single shake of her head Mhalla got them to ease their worry. Still, the three stood up from their stools, circling around, to make sure not too many of the tavern goers crowded around and to intervene if things got too dangerous. Since it was a apparent by then that the tavern was ramped up for a good fight, those who had been still and silent now circled around with mugs of ale, cider and mead sloshing in their hands. The door of the Silver-Blood Inn swung in and out as more patrons filtered in from the darkness outside at the whispers of blood.

“I don't think you have much of a choice anymore,” Mhalla said.

Since a decade ago, when his job fell through his fingers, Cosnach has done three things and three things alone. He spent his nights sleeping in the hay of the Warrens by the poor and dissolute, he drinks himself into a daze at the Silver-Blood Inn and he fights till his body is sore and aching. Thugs at night who think a drunk, poor man is a good target for a scattering of septims or braggarts in the tavern hoping to make some coin it does not matter. He drinks, he fights. Hell, he was not sure if he could even fight sober anymore.

So when the Imperial charged the Nord the big man merely leaped to the side, his lightly armored frame moving with ease even in his intoxicated state. Ease, but not grace, for in his haste he tipped over a stool, knocking over a plate which shattered on the ground. Through the haze of his mind, Cosnach heard Kleppr muttering curses but he was already moving on the distracted knight.

If he did just clock the man in the jaw like Julius expected, than perhaps this would have been a shorter fight. But no, Cosnach didn't want a short fight. Didn't want a neat win. He wanted to wrestle, claw, gouge, kick, and bite, he wanted to unleash all the rage that had bubbled and built up inside of him that just exploded today.

So, after he dodged Julius blow he jumped in for a tackle.

He was going to take this fucker to the ground!

Things were going well.

Not only had Cosnach tackled the man successfully to the ground, he even managed to get a strike in to his ribs. But given that the man was armored and otherwise distracted, he might not have felt it. But there was time for that. When the Imperial made to stand up, the Nord shoved him against the wall.

In his rage, he barely felt the punches to the side of his face. One, twice, thrice. Instead he was punching, clawing, screaming – a flurry of motion that swatted away any other punch that might come his way. He thought he hit. Thought he hit hard. But he could not tell.

What he could tell though was the knee to his groin.

“Shit!” He yelled, his voice rising up a notch.

With that Julius would have the space to stand up and get some distance as Cosnach craddled himself, holding his hand between his legs and rocking. The motion did nothing to ease the pain. But through the haze he could see a figure, a blue clad figure, one of the ones who came inside the tavern with that damned Imperial knight.

Mhalla looked down at the fallen man. She wondered how coherent he was at the moment, but hoped that this would get through to him anyway. “The fight is over.” She said, “Sir Julius Aventer will keep the coin you wagered. Call it a night. Rest.” Then, she looked up to where Kleppr stood behind the bar, utterly unconcerned with what was happening under his watch. “Get him a room, a bucket with cold water and a rag. He'll want to clean up.”

But the innkeep just shook his head, “The man doesn't have enough for even half of that.”

“Then I'll provide.” With that she turned her attention to Julius and was about to ask how he fared when the man stood up again, unsteady. You can't be serious. But the Nord was. He settled back into a fighting stance again, no where near as solid as it was before when he had just be drunk.

“Give it up.” Mhalla said, “It's over.”

“It's not over!” The man said, and he focused his eyes on Julius. “Come!”

When there was a beat of silence, he said, “Come.” It was a weak thing.

He doesn't want to walk away from this. Mhalla knew.
This is it. His honorable way to die. He wants to commit suicide.
Through Aventer

“What?”

For those in the room who have lived through the Dragon Crisis, the look on Cosnach's face would be a familiar one – a old friend even. It was the look of a man who first heard word of the return of dragons, and heard the truth in it. Cosnach's stance weakened, and when Julius didn't follow up the slip completely collapsed.

Realizing that there would be no more fighting, the crowd dispersed until only Cosnach and Julius stood together.

“You want me to join you?” Cosnach asked, as if to taste the words on his tongue. So long he had been overlooked, disregarded, that he had lost himself in drink and blood. This opportunity felt like it was a gift from the Nine, and, honestly, the Nord didn't know what to do with it. He should accept, but felt the moment he did the Imperial would turn on him, taking his coins – his provisions for the next month – and leave him high and dry.

But then the hedge knight stepped forward and extended his hand.

And all doubts in Cosnach ceased.

He grabbed the knight's hand with a shaking grip, and he had to school his expression.

“Thank you.” He said, “ You have no idea how much this means to me. I am honored.”

…............................................................................................................

She saw the life return to his eyes.

For men like Cosnach, work is their bread and butter. They take to it like a dragon does to the sky, and for over a decade his wings have been clipped. But once Sir Aventer's words broke through his barrier of doubt and distrust, the man caved in. In all, Mhalla felt impressed. She didn't know whether Sir Julius Aventer realized the man's unstable state of mind, but lesser men would have just taken the septims and gone, even knowing it. It's simply a way of life to many mercenaries, and so to be struggling as a wanderer as well but still live by a code, order or no order, won him her respect. A respect of a different breed than the pleasantries she gives to honest folk – a respect that only her comrades-in-arms had ever earned.

...And then it was gone.

Mhalla felt the chill rise from the pit of her stomach, freezing the smile that had formed as she watched the scene. “There is no reason for -men- to be enemies,” He had said, “the true threat to all of us are those who caused us devastation all those years ago, are they not?" No need for men – mankind to be enemies, those who caused us devastation – the Great War, the Aldermi Dominion.

Is he condemning all mers? Regardless if they are the Thalmor?

She curled her hands, her right gauntlet almost denting the metal with how hard she squeezed.

“Well, I'm glad that's all settled.”

Hjor's voice came as a relief, as the large Nord and the other two Vigilants approached, leaving the bar behind. He strolled over, gazing down at the two men, before settling his gaze on Julius, “I've been informed of the situation. It seems we will be working together for a little while.” Then he extended out his hand as well. “I am Hjor Balorson, BladeKeeper of the Sanctuary of Stendarr and head of this expedition.”

Cosnach took this time to step in, “What exactly is this expedition?”

“Our original intention was to refound the Hall of the Vigilant in the Pale,” Mhalla said with the voice of authority she used with civilians in Elinhir, Markarth or wherever she went. The voice she used with Julius the moment they first met by the forge. “However, a new objective has occurred. A witch has slipped into the city unaccounted for to try to disenchant a helmet, which, apparently, belongs to Sir Aventer,” She said, gesturing to the man. “She has left the city and now we hunt for her.”

A odd light came into Cosnach's eyes. “Where … exactly, did she vanish?”

“By the forge near the Riverside, the one near the Hag's Cure.”

He smiled, “It seems I get to help quicker than I thought – I think I know where she went.”

All the Vigilants stepped forward, wound by clockwork. But it was Mhalla who said it, “Explain.”

“Well, I've lived in the Warrens for the last decade or so, and it's right there on the Riverside. The smelters have some rumors about Cidhna Mine. They say that the old dwemer ruins criss-crosses all underneath the mine and the town too, not many people go there, but it's supposedly filled with old dwemer traps and hidden passageways. The entrance to it is right next to the forge even – if the rumor's true than she could have gotten in and out of the city that way.”

D'ordon unsheathed his blade, the silver scimitar glinting with it's Sun Fire runes held up to the light. “What are we waiting for!” He exclaimed, “Let's get them now!” A smirk slipped onto Mhalla's face as the blood came rushing to her head. Good ol' D'ordon. And to think, she was going to get some sleep tonight without making any headway. The thought of Halivid, the though of Halivid's face crushed to a fine red mist, made that smirk spread to a full grin.

“Calm down and sheathe that blade, boy.” Kleppr prepared to pack away his bar for the night. But even as he was crouching down behind the counter their conversation did not escape him. “The Markarth ruins are death, even to fine Vigilants like yourself. The dwemer still rule down there, or, at least, their creations do. No one who has entered there ever come back out alive, well, at least, save one. If you're still high strung about it, wait till the morn. The guards will be alerted by then and come with you.”

He was right of course, Tacitus did go to warn the guards of what had happened. But if they did wait until the morning the distance between them and the hag would only widen. Mhalla leaned back against the bar, fingers tapping against her sheath. She would wait to see what the others' decided.

If worse came to worse, the dead of night would make for a good veil for her movements.