Relive the Past; Steal the Future

The city of Solitude always bustled with sound, people and animals going about their days. The market stalls were alive with activity and merchants called out to those who passed by, plying their trade and advertising their wares. Grim guards in fully concealing helms roamed the streets, offering a gruff greeting to anyone who sought them out. They were not unkind; they just had a job to do. That job did not include making friends with the populace. In addition to the merchants and guards were the people, the streets teemed with citizens of Skyrim’s most opulent city and the stone paves roads were practically overflowing with the press of bodies as people went about their lives.

A figure strode through the crowd, tall and venerable. An Orc, slightly past his prime and looking somewhat worse for wear was not a strange sight to the citizens of Skyrim. But this Orc was different, he commanded an air of respect. His face was one that could have been hewn from stone. From his lips, constantly parted over his enlarged tusks, to a chin, square, long and as strong as any steel to a set of eyes where only one orb still perceived the world. The multitude of lines running around his eyes were like a roadmap of this Orc’s life, cataloguing in detail the man could never forget, the many hardships he had endured. When this Orc strode through a crowd, people made way. This was not done out of fear, but respect. They knew a soldier when they saw one. Crobuck Grognash had been a soldier for well over half of his life and even now he was very capable of taking up arms and going to battle still. As Crobuck strode through the shorter human’s parted before him like water around a stone. He said his pleasantries and the people responded in kind, it was all by wrote, it didn’t mean anything and their responses were just as rehearsed. Still, Crobuck had long ago decided “What does it hurt to be nice.”

Crobuck had decided for some reason to wear his armor today. He was resplendent in full Imperial Officer Regalia, which still fit his form like a glove, even at sixty years of age. His set of armor was one that his commanding officer had, had crafted for his frame specifically. The armor was circled with bands of tempered steel that overlapped on a padded leather breastplate which performed a threefold purpose. The leather layer acted as an extra layer of armor as well as a defense against the pinching and shifting bands of his armor. The armor also provided a small amount of impact absorption from hits Crobuck took. His legs are covered by greaves made with the same concept in mind as the cuirass. The only difference is that in the greaves, there are layered plates of armor, not bands that cover his legs. Small pop rivets held these plates to the leather pants and afforded Crobuck a great deal of agility without sacrificing protection. Crobuck wore standard issue Legion gauntlets made of heavy steel and leather bands, as well as standard issue Legion boots made in the same way. The helmet Crobuck wore is the heavy steel of a Legion officer, he wore it during his Legion years as a symbol of his rank, that of Captain, which he was promoted to after his previous Captain's death. He continued to wear the helm to honor the memory of the man.

Crobuck did not know why he wore this armor, just that he did. He had felt compelled to. Crobuck strode down a busy street up to the center of the action in Solitude, the nexus of commerce and the center of sales. The Orc took in the heavy aroma of salted meats, fresh vegetables, and of course the ever present scent of humans, a smell he didn’t think he’d ever be able to get used to. A hand lay gently upon his shoulder and he quickly turned to see what was amiss, why this person had touched him.

“I’ll be damned, General Jonna? What are you doing here ma’am, I haven’t seen you since I retired. I thought you would have done the same, ma’am.”

The old woman who had touched him smiled her kindly Nord face lighting up as she did.

“Of course I retired Captain, as soon as I started seeing the men around me as boys; I knew I would no longer be able to effectively lead my troops. I took retirement and decided it was a boring fate. I work as a liaison for the Legion here in the City. It’s part of why I’ve come here now. I bring a mission for you.”

“General. I am retired. I am an old man, I’m not a young field officer anymore, I don’t lead troops to battle, I lead me to a tavern where I spend my coin in the company of strangers. Why would I possibly want to entertain your mission, ma’am?”

The old General smiled at Crobuck.

“You still wear our colors, our armor and you’re as stout and proud now as you were when you go it. You still wear our colors which lets me know that you’re still a member of the Legion. This mission is one I assured the Legion Command you could get done. It’s perfectly suited for one with your… talents as a soldier. And the pay? Well the pay is extraordinary. 10,000 Septims.”

Crobuck nodded appreciatively. You’re right ma’am, I did wake up and don our Legion’s armor today, I knew I would need it, but not the reason for it. What is the mission?”
She told him the really sketchy details of a mission, complete with maps and diagrams of a manor that contained something of great importance to the Legion, and the Empire as a whole. He had agreed right then and there.

Now, twelve days later, miserably cold and hiding in a snowbank, he regretted his words very much. He watched several guards walk around in random patrol patterns, covering each other’s blind spots and corners. They were tight knit and professional, a well-trained group of men. Crobuck had dug himself out a hole in the snow, knowing that by keeping his body pressed against the crystallized ice bowl he was in, he was trapping his body heat under him. He looked up at the manor, a house of superb size and magnificence. It was truly a sight to behold.

There were people in the house as well, several at least. He could see their shadows flicker against the drapes adorned the windows. What mattered to Crobuck was not the number of people in his way, but how he would get past them without causing undue alarm. He pondered this as he slowly pulled a piece of salted meat out of a thigh pouch in his armor, brought it to his lips and began to chew. He decided that he would sit here for a while, bide his time and wait for nightfall. Then, he would begin his skulking.

A week earlier...

It had been a quiet day so far. Nightfall was approaching and there had been no contracts. Daryn was apathetic to this, but that didn't stop him being bored. Whistling the old Dunmer "Cliff Racer Fly" song to himself, he sat on the edge of one of Solitude's myriad of buildings with one hand on his chin and the other on the ledge. At least he wasn't getting rusty.

Six days earlier...

A strange, hooded man was in Solitude today. From his height, Daryn assumed he was an Altmer and thought nothing of him until he began to stare at him. Daryn Nerethi, without emotion or even a blink, stared back. Delving further into the town, the man asked a few of the less-reputable residents questions and Daryn watched closely from the rooftop which he had scaled briefly before. Not a word was heard, but it was clear to Daryn that this man was shady.

'Why do I care...?' he pondered.

Four days earlier...

With his horse finally saddled, he climbed upon it and began to ride slowly down the road to a nearby makeshift camp he had stayed at a few weeks before. A possibility of some supplies still being there was rare, but Daryn had nothing better to do. The road was cold this evening and a blizzard began to sweep up and cut Daryn like an ice-cold razor. Harsh weathers didn't bother him anymore; he was trained to withstand their many pains.

As he approached the camp, what appeared to be an arrow made from ebony pierced the bark of an old tree. Daryn was always looking for spares, and it seemed who ever fired this arrow must have known...

Attached was a note, written in several different types of handwriting, varying from letter to letter. It read:



Daryn barely even blinked while reading it, and began to search around his camp site. One thought ran through his mind constantly as he searched.

'Who fired the arrow? There was no-one in sight and no-one across the nearby stream. It doesn't matter, I suppose.'

Within half an hour, Daryn found the instructions. They were cryptic, but described an elaborate heist that required no traces of him being there. A location was marked on a small map, labelled as "Manor". Daryn threw the instructions and the note into the fire, and placed the arrow in his quiver. After fiddling with the saddle bags on his horse for a moment, he took off down the road to Falkreath where he would plan his next move.

Two days earlier...

Daryn had acquired residence at the local inn in Falkreath, making sure his visit seemed routine and not out of the ordinary. Under the pseudonym of Valryth the Traveler, he mingled with the bar's myriad of drunkards and oddballs. In the dead of night, however, he had been sneaking out and spying on the manor not far from the town. He had memorised the patrols and thoroughly kept note of the kind of gear the guards had. All in steel or leather armour, equipped with various degrees of weaponry, and a handful of guards patrolling the outside (with several on the pier). Any possible entrances were noted mentally and Daryn had a basic idea of where he could get in and when. All he needed to do now was wait until the time was right.

Current day...

Daryn was ready. It was the mid-afternoon this time, as opposed to the dead of night, and the patrols were all going as planned. Few men were guarding the place, which seemed suspicious as the payment for completing this task was supposed to be extremely hefty; but, Daryn wasn't paid to ask questions. The kitchen window was open and exposed, but Daryn didn't want to risk getting stuck in one of the lower floors. Mentally, he mapped a small route in which he could scale the side of the manor and climb through one of the open windows. And so, he did.

Ducked down, masked by the mist, Daryn darted towards the side of the manor with the ivy growing on it. He breathed slowly and quietly as he scaled the side of manor, being careful not the alarm the guards outside. One of the windows seemed to have a busted latch and was slightly ajar. Daryn peered through the gap and saw a sleeping guard with a set of armour stacked beside him. The door to this room was closed and the guard had a bottle of mead beside him. Daryn slowly opened the window and stealthily climbed through the window, placing his feet down on the ground with utmost and meticulous movements. Now, it was time to plan his next move; impersonate the guard and risk getting exposed and potentially killed, or continue to roam around the manor with stealth and caution so as to avoid detection. Both choices had their pros and cons, so Daryn froze on the spot and began to decide...

Alistair idly cursed the cold under his breath; his cloak did little to shield him from the elements, and concealing himself in the snow was a bit of a frosty affair. He idly considered the hardy Nords and their willingness to shake off temperatures like this again. To be honest, he didn't even know why he stuck around in Skyrim all the time when half his jobs ended up with him lying in snow and facing a cold he was rarely prepared for. Maybe he'd go on a nice visit to Elsweyr or Hammerfell after this, spend some vacation time somewhere warmer.

With the prospect of a vacation motivating him, Alistair decided to make his move on the few guards stationed outside. He tensed his muscles to burst into action--paused suddenly when he realized there was a figure to his side rising from the snow. That was something that startled him as much as it disappointed him: he was slipping, losing that sixth sense he once had. There was a time when Alistair wouldn't've had to look to know there had been someone hidden in the snow next to him, a time when he just knew there were people nearby. As it was, he had a hard time restraining himself from leaning over and trying to drive his blade into the figure's throat, just out of habit.

Instead, he just slowly raised a hand, fingers spread apart, in response to the figure--the Orc's, he realized--similar greeting. Wonderful. Alistair had never really recognized the Orsimer for their tact; but they weren't dueling outside the manor yet, so perhaps he'd be able to claim an ally here. Oh, this was making his hand itch: it was an awful lot of buildup for something like having to burn down the mansion to smoke out the indeterminate number of sellswords lying in wait within. He'd already been there, and didn't really want to do it again.

Alistair's eyes narrowed slightly as the Orc approached and addressed him, hoping the guards wouldn't glance over this way and spot the hulking figure moving. He was careful to remain immobile, as much to try and bait the mercenaries into thinking there was only one figure out here if they looked as to fight his temptation to draw his weapon and eliminate the Orc, to tie up loose ends and carry on his way mostly undetected. He didn't know why the Orsimer was here, didn't want to risk that he was with the sellswords in the manor, and least of all didn't want to end up with various mortal wounds and his life tumbling down around him again.

The Orc's words, however, immediately made it clear that he had no interest in doing battle with Alistair. He smiled mirthlessly--not quite grimly, but certainly not out of amusement--behind the scarf that loosely shielded his face at that, thinking maybe he had an ally after all. Dispatching the ten-plus guards within the compound would certainly be easier with an ally to engage many at worst and dispatch most at best.

"As it happens, my talents are much more tailored for missions of subterfuge and assassination. I know not who hired you, but it seems they hadn't anticipated some difficulty given your talents. Perhaps we should play to those? I know not your name, good orc, nor your prowess in battle, but perhaps you could see if you can draw that group of sellswords there," he said, pointing towards the guards outside, "out here. I shall ambush them from behind, and if nothing else 'tis a fine start."

Crobuck's introduction, however, left the Breton at a bit of a loss. He stared at the Orc, wondering if he should inform his newfound comrade that he was in fact working for a member of a group directly opposed to the Empire, that being the Stormcloaks. That would be a bit of a mixed bag as far as results were concerned. Alistair would immediately establish that though they were working together it wasn't for the same employer and thus their goals may have been different; but he might also earn another enemy in the process.

Thankfully, the old Orc carried on before the assassin could think of a reply. He nodded his head in acknowledgment of Crobuck's words, left the Orc to his designs and darted towards the shoreline, seeking concealment as much from the mercenaries as from Crobuck so that he could have a moment to contemplate in the calm before the storm. He was so far the only one here hired by the Stormcloaks, but he was also here with an Imperial agent. The fact that the Imperials had also sent someone meant that whatever was here was vital to each of their organizations.

Alistair honestly wouldn't've been surprised if that meant there was a Thalmor representative in the area, too. This object clearly wasn't something the Stormcloaks alone had discovered, and he'd spent enough time around large governmental organizations to know that the Altmer and Imperials worked fairly close together. Crobuck's presence here, and his allegiance, complicated things.

But, he realized, he could worry about that later. He doubled back towards the mansion, safely out of sight now of Crobuck and the mercenaries, but he could hear the Orc call out something about a clumsy friend breaking his leg. Alistair caught sight of Crobuck running towards him, scampered some distance up into a tree before he spotted the mercenaries a good distance behind. He quickly summoned his magic, cast a spell of Shadow Form to further conceal his body from the soon-to-be enemies.

And then he noticed Crobuck was rather quickly outpacing the mercenaries, who'd slowed to a stop somewhere beneath him, and the Orc just kept running. "Damned Orc played us," Alistair heard one of the sellswords mutter as he quietly clambered down the tree. Did Crobuck just leave? Did he really expect Alistair to just clear out the manor? A sigh escaped his lips before he could contain it, but thankfully the mercenary's voice drowned it out. "Come on. Let's get back before we're missed."

The mercenaries started to walk away as the Breton reached a relatively low overhanging branch, maybe eight feet above ground. He whispered a quiet thanks to the Eight and to Sithis for the wind to blow enough snow around that his perturbations went unnoticed, and that nobody ever seemed to look up. Then he made his move, fully prepared to fight all four guards in his own manner.

Alistair's Elven dagger materialized in his right hand as he dropped to the ground behind the rearmost of the swordsmen. A quick step and a quick slash and the man fell with hardly enough time to gasp, his throat cut. Surgical and swift, just like he'd been taught, and it was a deep enough cut to sever both arteries and vocal cords.

Of course, the sound of the body hitting the snow was enough to attract the attention of the three other sellswords. Crobuck's appearance, though, was plenty enough to deter two of them from turning to engage Alistair, but the sight was enough to elicit another grim smile from the Breton. So he hadn't been abandoned after all.

His sword, a long and slender steel affair without ornamentation, flashed out of its scabbard and came up to bat aside a quick thrust. Alistair and his lone opponent, armed with sword and shield, went back and forth briefly in a battle that found neither immediately victorious, though the mercenary did strike first blood with a long and shallow cut along the back of Alistair's sword arm. Useless leather, he thought, the notion passing through his head briefly as he stepped back through the snow to ensure his grip was still firm.

He got the upper hand a second later, though, as the guard stepped in to press the advantage and overreached himself. Alistair ducked away from his outstretched sword, a left-to-right blow meant to take his head from his shoulders, and slipped to the man's sword side before he could bring the shield about or launch a backhanded swing to compensate. Safely inside the man's reach, Alistair drove his dagger through the mail covering the mercenary's gut, angled it up into the rib cage.

As soon as the dagger's enchantment took effect and immediately started to ease the pain of the wound he'd suffered, Alistair tore it free. A quick pommel strike with his smaller blade cut off the cry of pain that ensued with a sudden grunt, a quick knee to the groin and push left him falling backward. Alistair looked up for Crobuck only to note that the Orc had already finished with his opponents.

"You work quickly," the assassin offered as he finished the mercenary with a final backhanded sword swing across the struggling man's throat. The blood left a red line in the snow, quickly corrupted by more lifeblood flowing forth.

He reached down to clean his weapons with an edge of his cloak with that, leaving red streaks in the pure white. But he needed to get them dry, lest they stick in the sheaths, and he was going to rip off part of the garment to make a bandage anyway.

Sheathing his blades, Alistair did just that - discarded the ruined bracer, tore a length from the end of the cloak, and wrapped it firmly about his wrist. He could have used magic or his dagger's enchantment to heal the wound, but that was a method that took time - something Crobuck and Alistair needed to be mindful of, now that they'd made their first move.

"But we should probably get moving, should we not? It won't be long before these gentlemen are missed."

Alistair had to admit he felt a bit of a connection with the Orc, at the very least something they could bond over. There was a time when he had been more than a little keen on killing; it had once been what he lived for, among other things, and while that had been a fun life it hadn't lasted. Part of the reason Alistair had, eh, retired from his previous line of work was the fact that he'd grown numb to the violence. And while it was really all Alistair, too, possessed the skill to do, there was no sense intentionally drawing it out like he might have once.

Of course, the other reason he'd retired from the Brotherhood was the fact that last he'd seen them, he'd been evading former friends who were now trying to execute him for the death of one of their own. But that was a story for another day, maybe when he was on the brink of death or something and needed to confess his sins to someone who might care enough to forgive him a bloody past and a few accidents.

He gave Crobuck a bit of a nod that coincided with the Orc suggesting they keep moving. It started sympathetic and turned agreeable pretty quickly, and Alistair turned towards the manor again with more violence on his mind. The four guards they'd already dealt with would certainly be missed before too long, if--and Alistair was assuming the four had left some of their comrades behind to guard their post--their absence wasn't already being questioned.

It occurred to him, then, that maybe he'd been lied to about numbers. Stationing more than half a contingent of sellswords outside the building which contained whatever it was they'd been protecting didn't make much sense, not when the place was this sizable. That probably meant there were at least twenty guards in the place, maybe more if there were still more mercenaries outside.

Well, there wasn't much point standing around and thinking. "I'm going to scout ahead, see if there are any more sellswords outside to be taken care of," the Breton muttered to Crobuck as he started moving towards the manor. Small steps turned quickly into lower, longer strides, those of a practiced prowler, as Alistair approached the place. He was careful to stay in the previously disturbed paths the mercenaries had initially created; there was little sense in leaving lasting evidence like that.

It didn't take him long before he noticed another three or four--maybe five, but it was hard to tell--sellswords stationed outside, next to a fire. Most were huddled around it, but he clearly identified one man standing some five or six feet away and looking away from it--in Alistair's direction. He moved back behind his wall quickly, before the man could fully recognize that he was being watched. An officer, perhaps? Or maybe just the mercenary ordered to keep watch while the rest warmed up. He wasn't sure.

Alistair hurried back to Crobuck either way, retracing his steps in much the same manner - initially a low, prowling gait that evolved into a more upright stance as he distanced himself from the compound. "It seems to me that there are just a few more men outside. Four, perhaps five. Would you, perhaps, care to do the... honors, as it were, this time around?"

Alistair followed quietly behind Crobuck, focused significantly more on keeping out of the guards' sight than keeping his distance from his comrade. If the mercenaries saw the Orc, chances were extremely high they'd be fighting anyway, and it probably made a little more sense to cover Crobuck's backside in the event the Orc got careless enough to be surrounded.

Few feet away though he was, the Orc's sudden charge caught him by surprise. Alistair hurried quickly to advance in Crobuck's shadow, just a hint of distraction to avoid being engaged by the closest enemies - the ones Crobuck made it abundantly clear with his first few moves he was going to attack. Instead, Alistair darted around to the side to engage the further target on his right, this a more lightly armored man--well, if wearing a breastplate of steel and mailed leggins made you lightly armored--attempting to nock an arrow to a rather large bow. Alistair drew his sword quickly as he approached, just nicked the bow's string and notched the wood at the end closest to the assassin. That much was exactly as he'd intended: a long swing to distract the man and render his weapon incapable of firing.

But not, Alistair noted before he could dodge out of the way, incapable of being swung into his face and stunning him briefly. He took the edge of the bow across his right cheek, a blow that would certainly bruise and possibly swell, as the archer tossed away his bow and quickly drew a short blade. Taking a measured step back, he noted that Crobuck was already dealing with his enemies with brutal efficiency--and that the last of the mercenaries had one hand outstretched with a reddish glow about it, a mace in the other. A spellsword, he assumed, probably about to try and steal some of the life from either himself or Crobuck if that glow was any indication. The sword in his right hand swung at the bowman to keep him back as his dagger flashed out of its sheath, caught the man hilt-first right between the eyes. He'd meant to throw the dagger blade-first into the man's hand six inches lower, but a good stunning blow would do just fine especially considering the weapon wasn't really balanced for throwing.

He feinted to his right, away from the bowman's blade, swiftly pulled back, then actually committed to a swing that way. Alistair took three fingers and part of the man's sword hand as he overcorrected to avoid losing the arm. A pained cry escaped the man's lips as Alistair stepped in and ended his life with another swing. All it took was one mistake, he reflected as he hurled his longsword at the quickly-recovered mage too. This time the weapon flew in a lazy circle; the hilt clipped the man's casting arm as it flew past, clattering off the masonry a few feet behind him. Good enough, Alistair supposed, as a fireball--apparently this mage had decided to change tactics--flew upward into the air. He delayed pressing the advantage long enough to sweep up the shortsword, partially severed hand and all, and then decided to charge.

The mace struck him a hefty blow across the left shoulder, one he wasn't quite ready for and one that certainly would have destroyed the bone were it not for the several layers of warm clothing and leather armor. In return, he rabbit-punched the man in the throat with his right hand. It was a surprise move, one that staggered the spellsword just enough for Alistair to bring the point of the blade in his hand up and allow his forward momentum to do some of the work.

The blade reached the mercenary's heart with the help of a quick thrust, right hand down to provide more force given the numbness he could feel in his left. Alistair didn't bother to remove the blade, instead opting to let go as the man fell backwards and root around in the snow for a moment to find his dagger. Sheathing it, he strode over to do the same for his sword. He felt a moment of terror as it proved more difficult to find, nicked his hand on the blade a moment later and grabbed it from the snow near the wall. It was just one minor injury after another, this job; he'd probably have to use the dagger's enchantment just to stay on his feet before too long.

Alistair didn't bother to check his latest wounds, nor to clean and sheathe the longer blade, as he approached Crobuck once more - just ignored the pain and the bloody snow clinging to his blade. The adrenaline would take care of the first; more bloodshed, the second, at least for the moment. He noted one headless body, one with his head in the fire, and one with a snapped neck, as he approached. He had to admit, the Orc's methods were probably more efficient than his own--though Alistair certainly left less of a mess, it seemed. "What now, then," he more muttered to himself than asked, before raising his voice. "Our target--assuming we're here for the same item--is presumably inside somewhere, then." It had been wishful thinking, indeed, to hope that things would have been that easy, but it always paid to be ready for the worst. "Have you any knowledge of where it might be? Or, more importantly, how to get there without fighting through every bladesman in the building?"

Alistair was only a little surprised when a number of bowmen stormed out onto the balcony above them; they'd made plenty of a commotion, and with the windows it was entirely likely that someone had seen them slaughtering soldiers. Their number was good confirmation that he'd been lied to about some vital things like that since the Stormcloak had refused to tell him what it was he sought. Careful not to move otherwise, Alistair cupped his free hand, willed a sphere of energy to coalesce within. A fireball, waiting to erupt. It was a spell he'd not used in years, but one with enough destructive power--and a large enough radius--to wipe out at least a few of the bowmen. He might get off two, depending on how quickly they loosed arrows, maybe three if the number of arrows didn't kill him immediately.

What surprised him far more than the mercenaries' appearance, or their number, was that one of the men who stormed out to face them directly addressed the Orc by name. Legionaries, then? No matter. “Captain! Captain Grognash! I knew that was you. What in Azura’s name are you doing? You’ve killed our men. You bastard, they were guarding the manor from a small army, not you two! And now they’re dead. You butchered them; they never even had a chance.”

It was just one more series of murders to add to a lengthy list of crimes, Alistair supposed. He closed his eyes briefly, blew his breath out in disappointment. Guilt wasn't the right word to describe how he felt; not exactly, at least, not quite, and certainly nowhere near as obvious as Crobuck's deflation. Alistair was upset at the unnecessary bloodshed, and he took some level of comfort in that much, but his conscience had long been numb to killing.

But he was used to giving those murders reason--money, revenge, self-defense. The last four kills had been instigated for none of that, considering the men had meant no harm. It was just bloodshed for the sake of bloodshed, and those reasons were what separated Alistair from the lesser killers of the world. In his mind, at least, and he couldn't just reconcile a mistake like that. Nor could he blame Crobuck; his had been the first kill, and his idea the one that had initially drawn the legionaries out.

The only thing he could do was move on, but that was much easier said than done. Maybe he'd settle for some distraction in the meantime. “Look, you’ve got two choices sir. You can die with a quiver of arrows in you or you can stop murdering people and come with me. The only reason you have not been killed while I’ve spoken is because of our past allegiance. Make your choice fast. The others do not know you like I do, you may yet get your throat slit, and I won’t stop them that time.”

Well, following the legionnaire certainly seemed a better choice than the much riskier option of trying to burn his way out of this mess. Alistair willed the fireball in one hand back out of existence, slowly and deliberately sheathed the sword in the other. The movement was complicated somewhat by the pain in his shoulder, a general numbness that restricted his range of motion - but he managed to at least drop the blade into its sheath. It would almost certainly be a terrible bruise, and Alistair wouldn't've been too surprised if his cheekbone was in the same condition. The blood and water trapped within the sheath weren't quite as much an issue as the arrows pointed in his direction, so the assassin didn't make too much of a visible fuss on that account.

"Lead on," he intoned quietly with another sigh, falling into step behind his Orcish companion.

Crobuck stood in the middle of the room with his hands clasped behind his back and his feet shoulder width apart, even now his military bearing had not left him. He knew a good old fashioned screw-up-ass-chewing when he heard one and He and Alistair had messed up in a grand way. The large man dominating the room, adorned with heavy ebony armor, was delivering the scathing rant against the two of them. Crobuck heard nothing he had not already heard but listened anyway. The ebony clad man ended with a question wrapped in a series of seemingly nonsensical ravings.

“Oh, but this is a new low. I wonder if they'd have let you two live. I bet not though. A hundred septims say they'd have slit your throat the second you finished your job. Enough of that though. How much did they tell you. How'd you find us. Out with it. All of it. And maybe I'll help with your inevitable death sentences, or maybe not, since you killed nine of my men. Nine! Can't hurt your chances though. Well!?!”

Crobuck relayed what he had been told. It wasn’t much, really an outline of a plan that if anyone other than Jonna had given him, he would have laughed at. Now that he thought about it, the Imperial commanders had probably known this.

“I was approached by my old commander ,General Jonna. She tasked me with the mission of aquiring an object of great importance to the Empire. I have here in my belt maps and diagrams of this manor. It appears to be the builder’s blueprints, albeit, a copy. I was quick to accept due to our history. I did not pause to consider what kind of mission I was in for. When I came upon the house and saw your men armed and waiting, I and my compatriot thought that they must be waiting for us. I do not make excuses, we butchered them without even the slightest thought as to their actual mission. As a soldier, my missions have always been to kill the enemy. This was how i thought this mission was to be. I see now that I was sorely mistaken, not that it brings your men back.”

Crobuck looked over at Alistair and then back at the Ebony clad warrior before him.

“You have not had us killed yet, though you seem to have no love for the Empire. You also have one of my old men under your command as well. Regitus is a solid man, a good Nord. Anyway, we yet live. Why, why would you want to help us?”

Crobuck’s question was pointed. He knew that he was not in any position to inquire anything of this man but he had to know. His life was more important to him than this shady mission. Already he could see the path he had taken, filled with deceit and simple manipulation of his simple soldier’s mind. He was not unintelligent by any stretch of the imagination, but his intellect was applied practically and there was no room in him for subterfuge and manipulation. He realized that it was this very trait that made him such a valuable tool to his employers.

Crobcuk became quiet again and looked at the Ebony clad warrior before him and stared straight into the man’s eye slits. His fearsome Orcish jaw muscles tightened as his only outward sign of discomfort or unease. The Veteran waited for who would speak next.