((Again, I apologize for the mini-novel ahead. You can skip to the end to see how it goes.))
Through the deathly ambience of Falkreath, children alike prowled the streets as they tirelessly foraged what they could from those sleeping, or dead. One boy, however, did stop long enough to spot two more newcomers approaching the open gate, a man leaning on a woman. He shuffled behind a vacant barrel as the pair were halted by the guards and engaged in conversation, with the foreign girl leading. He couldn’t hear most of what they were saying, but he did get a closer look at the strangers; An older man, marred with fresh cuts and lumpy bruises, leaned on a younger Dunmer girl at his side, smeared in blood that wasn’t hers as she struggled to keep her companion upright. After the strenuous exchange, one of the guards shoved a thumb towards Dead Man’s Drink, and the couple hobbled through the gates together. The boy said nothing as they passed on their way to the tavern, evaded a pair of imperial soldiers, and quickly slipped inside.
Two hours earlier..
“Don’t @$#%ing touch me stupid #$@&%*. Back off ..” Karsan shoved the bearded nord but it did little to move the man away. It seemed the Nine built them all the same: dense, in every aspect. Morva glanced warily at the stalwart nords as they circled her and Karsan, rummaging through their packs and taking what they pleased. That reminiscent tingle danced its way up her spine and she feared she’d have to do it again, but she wasn’t ready.
The nords went on about “imperial dogs” they’d fought and lost to, with emphasis on avenging their own. They knew the group was in Falkreath, and they wanted information. Of course, Karsan was aware of the ”dogs” as he’d caught their trail in Bruma only to lose it just after the Pale Pass. Now, kneeled in the cold with few options, his journey to High Rock was looking more and more like a death-sentence.
Blood splotched on the tavern’s welcome mat as Karsan and Morva entered, doing their best to ignore the hard glances from strangers. Since Imperials were in town, the two split up shortly after they arrived to avoid suspicion given their relationships with the Empire. Morva went off towards the rooms to set up their stuff, curiously glimpsing the robed mages and their friends, while Karsan quietly claimed a seat at the bar and groggily called for the proprietor, a balding man wiping out pewter mugs. He'd seen the mercenaries in his peripherals, but they'd have to wait. He was dying to eat and get off his feet.
“..Welcome to Dead Man’s Drink. What are you having?” The barkeep greeted Karsan flatly with a glance at the blood-trail, and unceremoniously added on.
“If you plan on painting my floor, that’ll be extra. And If you plan on dying, please do it outside.“
“Don't need to. There’s enough death to go around, old #@$%..” Karsan glared at the slightly older man and went on after a pained sigh.
“A room and hot food, cheapest you have, but don’t cook it cheap. A tankard of mead, too— no, wine. And two wash-bins of water: one hot, one cool. Does this armpit has spice pouches, or lavender?“
“No. We don’t have any wash-bins, or ‘spice pouches’. All we have are buckets and tankards; you can get two buckets at the same cost as three tankards, but I’m only charging for the water. And we make food as we get it—“ He stopped as Karsan abruptly stood and dropped a pouch of septims on the counter, mumbling irritated curses to himself as he went to find Morva in one of the rooms. She closed the door behind him, but peeked in case the soldiers came back. When they didn’t, she released a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.
“We’re wasting our time with these loyal mutts. Put them down..”
Karsan rubbed his bruised jaw as a tattooed Nord stood on his chest and angled her sword for the death blow. One of them knocked Morva over the head and raised his axe, but froze. A union of horror and realization creased his features, and others started to recognize the writhing mark too. A stamp of registered mages, better known as Imperial witches.
He stooped lower and yanked the girl up by her hair to present her to a chubby nord, presumably the leader. No one said anything, but Karsan knew they’d take Morva for themselves, so he started to stir ever so slowly.There were too many of them to fight clean. He couldn't, but.. he had to.
“By Talos.. we’ve got a damn mage on our hands! Ha! You’ll have to tell the lads what you did to piss off the Empire, after you put those lips on-- AAGGHH!” The tattooed woman screamed as Karsan shoved a dagger in her thigh with a growl, then rose to bury it in her ribs, and finally her throat. He took her blade as she slipped to the snow, retching up her own blood.
Morva took her chance and struck her captor’s temple before a swift boot brought him to his knees. As he doubled over, she speared him through the back with his own greatsword and barred it against the others, teeth gritted. The two shared a glance, before the other nords realized what happened and roused a brutal response.
Karsan peered down into the buckets of murky water with apprehension and disgust, as he rinsed himself off and dunked the rag again. From his visit months prior, he knew very well what condition Skyrim was in, but he also hoped the Empire would tame tame those conditions. If the bandits in the woods, or the corpses strewn about the town, or the cutthroats outside were a sign of anything, it was how desperate the 'great beast' had grown.
But still.. the ‘welcoming party’ led him to wonder why feral bandits had access to refined metals like steel and silver, all in good condition. They’d never get their hands on it under the Empire’s nose, and they didn’t seem bright enough to steal it outright, let alone forge it themselves. Perhaps the “dogs” had answers.
He winced suddenly as Morva gingerly wiped a cut at his waist and reached over to slap her hand away, but she instinctively danced to the other side of him. He grumbled something about feeding her to the bandits, and went back to washing her sides. She glared up at him as she scrubbed dried blood on his jaw, but caught his eyes instead. They were soft and searching, just for a fleeting moment, but she saw a man from four years ago. Someone she loved. Karsan immediately shied from her gaze by wiping nasty gash on her shoulder, disregarding her protests with a simple grunt.
“Get that stitched up, hm? If rot sets in, you may as well lay up with the others outside.”
Karsan jumped back to avoid being cut in half but he was slow, and the axe of a white-haired nord carved a line of red on his chest. He sucked his teeth and tried to keep moving, but they were swarming him, and closing in fast. His sword whipped across the stomach of a tall nord, and immediately turned to impale another, kicking the dying man off his sword. Maybe the muddy valley wouldn’t be his grave after all. But as an arrow lanced through his shoulder and robbed the air from his lungs, he realized his optimism was misplaced. He faltered to a knee and cradled the wound, vision blurring with red tint, when a fist to the back of his skull took him down for good.
Morva fended for herself as a large nord lunged for her, axe bearing down for her neck but she side-stepped and sheared off the top of his head. Another stomped to her and brought his sword down in an over-head grip, and Morva heaved the great-sword up to deflect. The weight and timing weren’t on her side, however, as the man’s sword clashed with hers and bit into the flesh of her shoulder.
Morva backed away from the window as she heard the heavy footsteps of soldiers on patrol, doing their rounds or looking for trouble. They had to be careful now, perhaps moreso than in Cyrodiil. Even though the Empire grew like a cancer, they wouldn’t let their guard down. Morva knew that for sure. She made sure her bandanna was secure and turned to Karsan, struggling with his tunic. She couldn’t help but smile as the middle-aged man fussed with the tiny straps and buttons, cursing violently at no one in particular.
When Morva appeared at his side, His twisted features flinched, and he begrudgingly moved his arms to let her work. Her nimble hands made short work of the loops and straps, and she stood back to admire her work, or to gloat in silence. Karsan didn’t care which. He’d had a long day, and rest was an expensive harlot he could no longer afford. Now that he was stitched up, he needed to be out there, watching for changes, sizing them up before he revealed himself. He was getting too old to play risks, sure, but older still to sit on his hands and die waiting.
But as he shifted his weight to stand, a gentle touch on his jaw distracted him. He peered up, into Morva’s waiting eyes. They shared the deafening silence for a minute, and spoke volumes through it. The corner of Karsan’s lip twitched, almost a smile, and Morva tilted her head. Where had that gone, after all this time? Without a word, she leaned in with her hair draping around her face, locking lips with the man. But he briskly pulled away and brushed past her, smearing his lips on his forearm.
“No, goddamnit! No.. That’s over, get it? You can toy with anybody’s mind, but mine..” He sighed deeply and went for the door.
“I don’t toy. I show you..” She muttered something in her native tongue, trying to find the words. As she always did.
“We might be more, better. Things are different now, cold and.. I miss--”
“Stop. Just.. ****ing stop. We're 'this' #$@&%*ing close, so stop cloud-watching!" He opened the door and partly stepped out, talking without looking back.
"Plate’s not that big, and we need to reserve some coin so.. I’ll save you half.” The door creaked on it hinges and slammed, Morva wincing as Karsan left.
Morva winced and managed to thrust the sword off her own and slashed outwards, splitting the man’s chest. Arterial spray showered her face and armor, distraction enough for someone to tackle her down and pin her. A pair of hands straddled her throat and choked her of precious life, as the chubby nord’s face came into view.
“S-Stupid little bitch! I’ll have you chained up for weeks..” Her hands pinched and grasped his face, pulling his beard and trying to gouge his eyes. But it was no use. “We’ll make you beg for death, imperial #$@&%*!” Morva’s vision darkened as she lost the ability to breathe. But a gnawing pressure had welted in her chest and drained to her fingertips, numbing the skin as chaos begged for release. On the brim of death and detonation, the girl slowly surrendered her will to resist as the world threatened to fade for good. Finally, the former acolyte could hold back no longer, and unleashed the frenzied magika with a prolonged, cutting scream.
For a few moments, nothing happened, but quite suddenly, the crowd of bandits turned in on itself and they ravaged each other. Most attacked each other out right, cutting down comrades only to be cut down themselves, dwindling their own numbers. Some fled into the woods to escape their rabid companions, but perished all the same, tired and betrayed.
Deliriously winded, Morva made her way to a concussed Karsan and pulled him from under one of the many dead men around him. Three arrows poked from the bandit's back, clear signs that his companions had turned on him. They’d planned to beat the blacksmith to death, and nearly succeeded. Together, the pair clumsily gathered their things and left the carnage behind, limping for Falkreath.
Karsan and Morva had practically cleaned the plate when the pale-skinned, dark-eyed stranger came in and approached the other mercenaries pointedly. They didn’t hear most of what the man had to say, only that he mentioned someone named Thalien, and something about purchasing rooms. It was likely he was naming their leader, and that a situation would force them to stay longer but it was impossible to be sure. What was clear was that the mercenaries weren’t going anywhere soon, and this was likely Karsan's only chance to introduce himself to someone in charge. Naturally, that is. Hide-n-seek was another childish game he’d outgrown.
As the mercenaries responded, Karsan shambled over to the announcer and stood back a few feet, favoring his uninjured leg. His right hand rested on the head of his hatchet, ready but wary to draw it should anything happen. Due in no small part to the varying killers around him, one fight had sated him for a day.
“I take it you and your… company, will be staying a while longer?” He didn’t linger for a response, and quickly introduced himself.
“Karsan. And my companion,” He gestured to Morva, who nursed their tankard of wine.
“If you’re really going to High Rock, I think I’ll be joining you, so there’s no use in playing stalker. Safety in numbers, blades to spare, the like.” He’d considered sharing his encounter with the brain-dead bandits and their stupid quest for revenge. But in an Imperial Skyrim, he figured they'd run out of places to hide sooner or later.