Relive the Past; Steal the Future

“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?”

"I was paid upwards of ten thousand Septims to... collect an object for an associate out in Riften--wasn't told what it was, just that I'd know it when I saw it. Of course, I was also told there were no more than a dozen mercenaries I'd have to either infiltrate past or eliminate, but it seems I was also misled," he said, gesturing around briefly at the mercenaries in the room.

"Come to think of it, my employer doesn't seem to have given me any meaningful or accurate information besides this manor's location."

The Captain sat back in his chair kicking his feet up on the desk, and simply laughed for a solid minute. There was clearly something a little off about the man, but he pulled his ebony helmet off and set it on the desk. He was of Imperial blood, with perhaps a bit of nord in him, and he was almost as old as Crobuck. His face was marred with several scars, and one of his eyes was missing, but most prominent was the blatant ring around his neck from a hangman's noose. “Aye they, wouldn't tell ya. None of 'em are willing to the bloody bastards! Ha! Think they can keep it a secret forever.”

“M'names Velerius Snow. Fought for the Imperials in the war, and once it was over I turned mercenary. Made a good profit on it to until a few months ago. Damned Imperials don't have any respect for their own anymore. Lickin' the Aldmeri's boots. I shoulda damn fought for Ulfric. Seems I ain't got much of a choice now.”

He motioned for the plated guard, and pulled a note off the desk, one that he had not tried to burn. The guard took it and handed it to Crobuck, an expectant look in his eyes as he continued his monologue while the two read the note. “Bastards hired me, and what thanks to I get. A noose! Ha!” Velerius pointed to the ring around his neck, scowling. “Whoever hired ya, they'd do you in. You didn't think you were the first? We've had eight, so far. Managed to convince three of them to turn tide. Marcus over there,” he said, pointing at the guard who'd returned to his post after handing Crobuck the letter. “The dominion hired him. When he told 'em that he couldn't do it on his own, they locked him in those damn cells they got up north. Crawled through five hundred feet of shit and piss to get out. Ain't none of them gonna tell you what it is. Ain't no one want it getting' out. Truth is, you're all as dead as the men you just killed. We're all bloody dead. You wanna run on back to 'em. Tell 'em ya got caught. Go ahead. They'll take a headsman's axe to ya. Or poison in your drink. Can't even show our faces in town anymore, damn slitthroats around every corner. You best make your peace with the men and find a bunk. You just found the Coffin Company.” Velerius burst out laughing, thinking the name for his mercenary band was the funniest thing in the world.

The note was very similar to the instructions that both Alistair and Crobuck had received. The location was different, and the numbers were estimated to only be four, with a lower pay. Otherwise, the similarities were eerie and troubling.

“Sorry. He's been a bit. . . addled ever since they hung him, or so I'm told,” the plated mercenary named Marcus said.

“Oh shut up Marcus,” Velerius said, stifling a hiccup. “So, what say ya. The pay is shit, the food is shit, the drink is shit, and the job is shit. But, it's better then being dead.” He raised the glass sitting on his desk and took a drink of the wine, clearly not drunk, but definitely mad. “Of course, I'm crazy, right? What could the Imperials and the Dominion and the Stormcloaks and who knows who else all want kept a secret. Tell ya what. We'll take a little trip on down to the basement. Show ya what you came here for. Then I'll let you make your choice.” Velerius laughed again, standing up, and Marcus actually joined in this time, obviously in on some kind of personal joke. The mercenary composed himself as Velerius headed for the door, and the captain motioned for his guards to follow while he put his helmet back on. With the doors open, two more guards entered the room, a third carrying Crobuck and Alistair's weapons. It was clear they had went through these motions before, and they were led down to the first floor and through the kitchen.

Regitus was waiting for them in the kitchen, and he nodded to Velerius as the man lifted the hatch to the basement. Crobucks old soldier frowned, stepping up to his once commander and putting a shoulder on his hand. “If you ever trusted me. . . He's mad, but he's a brilliant commander. . . and. . . I dare say we're doing the right thing here. Sir.”

Regitus helped Alistair and Crobuck down the ladder into the basement, flanked by the rest of the guards, and four other bowmen. All in all, there were twelve guards now in the musky basement, lit by the single torch in the far corner that cast long shadows over everything in the room. Velerius had kept his two guardsmen at his flank, with four guards playing cards in the table. The four bowmen set up with arrows knocked facing the wall with the torch on it. Regitus stood behind Crobuck and Alistair, hand on his sword.

“Jaroth, the door if you would. Ready arrows.”

Alistair didn't pay the captain much attention as he began ranting again, at least for a moment. His eyes were elsewhere - focused more on the two intruders' surroundings as he glanced around, wondering just why the mercenaries were here. He noted smoke drifting lazily from a metal bowl behind Snow - perhaps they were here to destroy documents of some kind? That didn't make quite as much sense as it could have, though; why wouldn't the Stormcloak just have told him he was here to collect some papers? No, there must have been something else.

His gaze drifted back to Snow's face, then, and initially simply continued past the man's scarred visage to the other side of the room--and flicked back not a second later. Alistair tried not to stare, as that was impolite, but he couldn't help it. The scars were nothing new, the missing eye was nothing new, but the scarred ring around his neck? That could only be from a noose. Which meant either that Snow had been unsuccessfully hung recently, or he'd somehow survived. Alistair blinked; neither made any sense. He hadn't seen much sign of the mercenaries only just moving in, and it was generally impossible to survive a hanging.

He started paying attention to Snow's words again just in time to catch him say something about his and Crobuck's being just as dead as the men they'd killed. Something about the Stormcloaks, the Imperials, the Thalmor, whoever, poisoning him or having him killed or--what was he talking about? Coffin Company? None of this made any sense, but Alistair had a sickening feeling it was all going to become clear quite soon. Let alone the fact that he had a feeling he wouldn't like it. What in Oblivion had he gotten himself into? Joining these guys, after he'd killed about four of them and directly contributed to the deaths of five more? And all because the Stormcloaks would try to do away with him after he returned from this little trip alive?

Whatever was going on here, it was a little too late to do anything but find out. He moved downstairs along with Crobuck, Snow, and the guards, taking a position towards the edge of the congregation once they'd assembled in the basement. Whatever was behind that door, Alistair had a feeling he didn't want to be too close. "I suppose after a dead man, this can't be too crazy," he muttered, just loudly enough to be heard. Despite what might have passed for confident words, though, his hands yearned for the reassuring touch of hilts. If it was really necessary to train four arrows on the door before you opened it, being unarmed made him feel just the slightest bit uneasy about whatever lay in wait.

Snow waited for Jaroth to move to open the hidden door, and when the man delayed, he eyed the man warily. Slowly, he began to draw his sword from it's sheath, and had it about halfway out when the man yelled in a voice not that of Jaroth's.

“Wait!”

Snow was taken aback by the unknown voice, but he started to notice the oddities of the man as he removed the helmet and discarded the sword. He was an inch shorter then Jaroth, and much less bulky. The armor did not fit the Dunmer as well as it had Jaroth, and Snow cursed himself for not noticing in their distress. Marcus had already moved and kicked the sword away from the Dunmer, while the man explained his situation.

"I am not this... 'Jaroth'. I am an assassin, a mercenary, sent to retrieve this item like the orc and the human. Ten thousand Septims isn't worth my life. The evidence you presented to the other two has convinced me enough... I'll pose no danger to you or your men, Captain"

“Bloody . . . Alright. You killed Jaroth then, did ya?” As the Dunmer shook his head no, Snow sighed in relief. The man was a bit of a drunk, but he was one of the most talented fighters in the Coffin Company, and losing him would be a heavy blow. “In that case, ya can stand with the others. We'll play introductions later. Marcus, the door would ya?”

Snow's other guard crossed his arms and shook his head, laughing. “Oh no, I'm not letting you talk me into that again. You can do it yourself.”

Snow glared at his guard from under his helmet with his single eye, then laughed for a moment too. “Fine. Go get Jaroth up. We're going to need to move soon,” Snow ordered, his gaze turning to the three intruders. “Seems everyone in damned Tamriel knows where we are now.”

The ebony captain approached the single torch on the wall, and gave it's base a pull, leaning the torch out, and revealing the hidden door as moving stone creaked out of the way. As the hidden door moved out of the way, one of the mercenaries fell forward from the inside, his hands bound behind his back, and blood dripping from his shoulder. Snow frowned at his man's incompetence, but grabbed him by his shirt and dragged him away from the entrance. The clothes he was wearing looked to be those of a once dark brotherhood member, those his left pauldron and boots were missing.

Inside the false door was a well furnished room, complete with bed, candles, a bookshelf, wardrobe. Everything a person needed for living. The two chains on the wall, spreading into long links, ended into two unclasped cuffs that had been unlocked. The room itself however, seemed to be empty, and Snow cursed under his breath. “The ladder!” The bowmen swiveled, and for a moment it seemed as if everyone in the room had gone mad.

Then suddenly, a young girl appeared, the mercenary's missing pauldron and bracers over her shoulder and arms, his boots on her feet. His sword hung at her hip, and his bow and quiver were swung over her back. She had one hand on the ladder, and her chest puffed up, staring ice at the plethora of mercenaries in the room. Her invisibility spell had faded, and now she was plain for all to see. The captain barely had time to yell 'Brace!' before a shockwave tore across the room.

In what could only be described as the voice of a dragon, the young nord screamed her defiance as force seemed to leave her lungs, toppling mercenaries in the room, and sending bow's and their arrows flying. The nearest mercenary that had been after her was sent backwards across the card table, spilling drinks and toppling it on it's side. She'd immediately begun climbing up the stairs as soon as the yell had left her throat, but as the dust in the room settled and people regained their footing, they could see her banging against the hatch of the basement. Her escape plan had been thwarted before she'd even made it out of the first room, and the young nord continued banging helplessly on the locked hatch while Snow laughed.

“Come now, ya didn't think we'd fall for that again did ya? Ha! Stubborn girl,” Snow began ignoring her while she banged away on the hatch, seemingly unworried about her any further. Regitus and two of the other mercenaries had moved to try and pull her down from the ladder, but weren't very succesful with her foot kicking towards them everytime they tried to reach her. Snow approached his captives, if that was the right word to call them, pulling his helmet back off and grinning like a madman, face scrunched up in an ugly form with the scars and his eye missing.

“That, is what you were sent here for. Her. Bastard bitch has been nothing but a pain in my side since I got her, but we'll be damned before we let anyone else get a hold of her. Word of her gets out, it's war all over again, hear me. She's the bloody daughter of Ulfric fucking Stormcloak, and a handful more trouble then she's worth.”

Alistair turned to regard Snow's subordinate as the sellsword hesitated and revealed his identity. Another assassin sent here? On whose orders? He pondered that briefly, but it didn't take him too long to realize that if the Imperials and Stormcloaks had sent agents, then it was entirely possible that the Thalmor would have as well. Wonderful. I do so love it when the Dominion get involved. To be fair, past encounters--often brief, one way or the other--with the elves had left him rather beaten, battered, and more often than not burned. But perhaps he could put aside his issues there, as if this mercenary's words were of any indication he likely wouldn't be going back to his employers.

He had to admit, though, 'Jaroth' had some good timing. Better his presence be revealed immediately prior to Snow's opening that door than afterward thanks to a knife in someone's back.

The Breton watched as Snow moved to open the door. His hand itched, and it wasn't the imagined pain he dealt with because of the burn scars. His hand itched for a weapon, and the feeling only intensified as Snow started to open the door. But he didn't want to tip off the Coffin Company mercenaries, particularly their leader, about the fact that he knew how to conjure blades. So he settled for a different spell, generating a blue-white orb of energy in his left hand with another flex of his fingers and a brief moment of concentration.

He forgot all about the spell a moment later when Snow opened the door. Alistair immediately recognized the fallen mercenary's equipment as not all that different from what he had hidden near Morthal: an assassin's leathers, standard fare for a Dark Brotherhood member. He almost visibly relaxed when he realized he didn't recognize the man's face; alive or dead, Alistair wasn't quite sure what a shock like that would do to him. It wasn't for a few more seconds that he realized the man's weapons and a few pieces of armor were missing, and by that time a girl had materialized in the cell.

The girl screamed before the Breton could react or prepare himself, and he found himself launched across the room by some unseen force much as the others. He hit the wall with a grunt, dropped to his hands and knees as the wave of force passed. So was that the Thu'um? Well, Alistair could certainly see why Ulfric had been so reviled for using it as he famously had. He got back to his feet quickly, noting the girl trying to struggle up the ladder, and walked towards Snow and Crobuck.

Snow's words gave Alistair a bit of a start, enough to elicit a double take as he glanced towards the girl upon mention of her parenthood. "Well, that certainly explains why the Stormcloaks were so interested in sending me here," he commented idly as he gazed upon Ulfric's daughter with something approaching wonderment in his eyes. She reminded him a little of Rosentia, more because of the desperate ferocity he saw in her movements than any particular resemblance. Of course, the fact that she was wearing some pieces of Dark Brotherhood armor didn't help all that much.

He shot a glance sidelong at Crobuck, noticed the Orc doing the same to him. Alistair offered his comrade a bit of a shrug, at something of a loss for words and actions. He probably would have felt a little more comfortable at least in aligning with the young madam Stormcloak than an apparently deranged Snow, but it was rather unlikely that he'd be able to take on this many mercenaries on his own.

Crobuck looked around as the others collected themselves off the floor and regained their composure. Regitus stood near the girl still, more of a young woman really, looking ready to intercede if she tried anything again. Crobuck looked at the corpse on the floor of the room behind him and wondered how the man had gotten there. The Veteran decided it was probably best that he didn’t know.

Crobuck noticed Alistair’s shrug, so the assassin did notice his look. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but he knew that going back to his superiors was not an option at this time, not when there was a potential rouge defector or group of defectors in Legion command positions. He decided that Jonna was not the one responsible, she was no longer in the loop of information, hadn’t been for quite some time. She was a glorified courier. This situation was above his head. He was a soldier. He dealt in reality and clear action. In fact, he had become a soldier to avoid situations such as this. He really needed an explanation as to just what he was involved with.

The young woman, Ulfric’s daughter, she was the most curious and worrying thing about the whole ordeal. Why was she here, with Snow and these men? Who had sent her here and why was she treated like a criminal? The obvious answer was that she was hostile to those around her, but Crobuck still was unsure of her reasons for being this way. Even with this startling revelation, there were simply too many unknowns for his tastes. He felt as if he were running blind, following the path laid out for him with any information being offered in piecemeal chunks.

Crobuck decided that by attacking anyone in this room, he would never get the answers he needed, mostly because he would die in the process. The old soldier determined that biding his time, as he had done since the inception of this mission, would lead him to the answers he so desperately craved.

“Enough history Snow. Who's been sent to kill me this week.”

Sivridr Stormcloak. Crobuck shook his head at the name, the enormity of who was before him wasn’t lost to the Orc.

The name Stormcloak was evoked by many as a curse, and others as a praise and rallying cry. 10 years had passed since civil war wracked Skyrim and its effects were still felt all over. This land was Crobuck’s home, like many of the Nords who had also fought in the war. He understood both sides and sympathized with them, but he had made his choice and did not regret it. As such, his dislike of the Stormcloaks and the family that held that name did not cause very much distress in his heart. He, unlike many former soldiers, did not harbor a deep hatred of the rebels. This woman was not her father; he could not place the blame of her father upon her shoulders.

He looked at her again, his single remaining eye filled with evidence of sights of wonder and horror in equal measure. These were they eyes of a man who had lived life as few others could claim to have done. And now what he saw was a woman of a strong, defiant, and capable nature. She possessed the air of nobility that her father had possessed, it suited her. She did not belong here with this band of men, and yet here she was. She was used to getting her way, it would seem, and with a talent like The Voice who was to blame her. It was no matter, he had been sent to kill her, even though he had not known it was her that he was here to kill.

That was merely a technicality, and he knew it. He knew that once he had seen her, he would have paused for a moment before striking, but he also knew that she would have used her voice to toss his body into a great many hard objects in that time. If he could extradite his battered body from the floor, he would have had to attack her. The fact that he had not attacked first wouldn’t have mattered, his mere presence would have forced her hand. This was a much more elegant and less painful resolution, so far anyway.

“I represent- represented, rather, Imperial interests in this matter. I was sent on very vague and oddly nonspecific orders to eliminate a threat to the Empire that I would “Know when I saw.” As you can see, I am not the only one sent here on such… dubious terms. I am Crobuck Gro-gnash, though most humans pronounce the last name as “grog-nash”, curious really. I am a former Commander of the Imperial Legion, retired, and then reinstated at a former rank of Captain, for this mission. A mission I now see was a sham.”

Crobuck fell silent once more, wishing that they would soon leave this basement. Introductions were nice, but if there was a sizeable force that now knew where Sivridr was, every second they wasted on niceties while staying stationary was time that was no doubt being put to better use by the opposing factions that meant to kill them.

Crobuck stood, alone with his thoughts, waiting for the other new arrivals to introduce themselves. He looked Sivridr up and down. She couldn’t have been more than 18, a young woman; much like his late wife had been when they married. The Veteran reflected grimly, and with more than a little anguish, that she had not had the chance to grow much older before she died.

Crobuck thought about this, he was getting older. No less ferocious in battle for his age, but he knew that he still had 20, maybe even 30 years on some of the men here. He had noticed that he paused more to reflect on life, his choices, and what really mattered to him now that he had reached this age. These thoughts invariably led to war. War was almost all he had ever known. It’s what had made him so rich, so seasoned, and so desensitized to death. In certain circumstances, this lack of sensitivity was breached by the thoughts of his wife, and now, this young woman as well. The thought that he would have created a series of events that would have ended with one of them lying dead was a terrible thought to him. He was in some ways glad that he had not needed to continue with his mission.

Crobuck smiled at Regitus, producing a most wry smile; he noticed that Sivridr looked his way while he did it. With his eyes on his former brother-in-arms he mouthed “The sins of the father…” Regitus finished the phrase in a similar fashion and nodded grimly. Siv may or may not have been able to read lips, it did not matter. The intent was not to hide what they were saying. The intent behind the lip reading was to communicate within line of sight without having to yell over the voices of a crowded room. Regitus, like Crobuck, seemed to have retained many skills that had been taught to him, though not all were supplied by the Legion trainers.

To himself, the Veteran finally addressed the elephant in the room. There was now a wrinkle in his life. The Empire would see him as a fugitive. He needed to clear his name. But this was bigger than him; he looked around the room and saw that many others were in his same position. All fugitives in their own right for doing what they knew needed to be done. Coffin Company was a whole group of odd men out. Crobuck smiled gamely, “odd man out” was another name for a person who could survive on his own. He knew that people like this were the only ones who could hope to restore their names and save the Stormcloak. He decided at this time, he needed to throw in his arm with theirs and do whatever he could to help. He was part of this now, like Snow, Regitus, and Sivridr.

He approached Snow, the man seemed otherworldly, like a ghost of some powerful being trapped in a human body that could not quite contain the his true nature. The man’s helm turned to him; Crobuck took this as a sign of ascent and spoke his piece.

“Snow, this woman, Sivridr, she is not responsible for what her father created. And yet all the respective governments want her dead for simply existing, due to what she MAY do. Her whole life has been spent in her father’s shadow, before the war as his child and afterward as his ghost. She is being treated by our governments as if she is Ulfric himself. It is not right. She is NOT him. She has not been allowed to live her life as her own woman. I don’t know what you plan to do with her and I do not fully understand what I have become involved with. But if you promise me that when we are done we will clear the names of every man here and give her a chance at truly living, at knowing the freedom of choice, then I will fight for you until my dying breath. My wife was killed around the same age as Sivridr; she never had a chance to become anything more than she was. But this woman, we are her chance if we take it. I know this is bigger than her, bigger than all of us. We may very well die. But dying with hope of a better future for others is worth more to me than any gold at my age. You and me, we are old soldiers. We’ve carried our sins for a long time. We’ve made our choices. We are not yet ready to lie down and die. But I am ready to do some good in this world before I go. Promise me we are going to do what we have to, to right the many wrongs represented by the people here and you have my loyalty and my axe.”

“A mission I now see was a sham.”

The ebony captain harrumphed as Crobuck fell silent. “Wouldn't call it a sham. They intended you to carry it out. You'd just get a knife in the back as your payment.”

“And yet you all fought to kill my father, for an emperor that would condone such behavior. I continue to fail to see how your choice was more valiant then those of the brothers you fought,” Siv chimed in, leaning against the wall now and looking as comfortable as could be despite the men around her that had all been hired to kill her. It seemed there was an understanding between herself and the mercenaries that gave her more freedom then most prisoners, if she could truly be called that.

“Shut yer mouth girl. This is no time for yer politics,” Snow retorted, calling out her age and bringing a frown to the girls face. They stopped their banter as Crobuck spoke again, with a respectful look coming from Siv's and an amused one from the mercenary Snow. The Captain let him finished, and Siv seemed to know her place well enough to keep her mouth shut while Snow and his new recruits spoke.

“Aye Crobuck, we'll do what we can. But that's all we can do. Me, I just want to spit in the worlds face one last time before I die for good.” There was a hint there that said the man was perhaps not quite as honorable as those he led. He had turned Siv over before after all, and only afterwords had he moved to protect her from those who would do her harm. Despite his defiant words, his one eye seemed to tell a different story and his face grew sad for a moment.

The moment of somber silence was broken, though all the mercenaries seemed to reflect on the discussion for a moment, and how none of them might make it to the end. The hatch to the kitchen clanged open, as a man in full leather and drenched in sweat slid down the ladder with one hand, breathing heavily and urgency written upon his face.

“They found us. Nearly fifty of them all heading this way, singing (drive out stormcloaks song). I think it's the same company from last time.”

“Damn it all to Oblivion. Everyone move, get to the dock.” He turned to the 'new recruits,' frowning. “Band a mercenaries what hunt down any stormcloak rebels still causing problems in the open. They've been hounding us since Solitude. Regitus, go get Marcus and Jaroth, then grab the potions. Need to be ready in case it is them. Siv, you best give Ventus back his belongings now.”

She raised an eyebrow, and looked at Snow as if the thought was ridiculous. “After what happened last time? I think I'll keep it until we're to safety, and I'll have his sword back as well. He has another in his room.”

The mercenary that had been embarrassed by the young girl was sitting against the wall now,holding his head, and simply laughed at her demands. Annoyed, Snow spun on Ventus and directed an unhappy glare in his direction “Well since you think her leaving you alive is so damned funny, then she CAN keep it for now.” Snow's statement closed Ventus' mouth in quick order, and the mercenaries began making their way up the ladder and towards the dock, while one handed Siv the sword reluctantly.

“You best remember which side wants to keep you alive girl.”

“As though you need to remind me old man,” Siv responded, smiling devilishly and sheathing the sword at her waist.