Crash Landing

Cromm stepped through the Window with some apprehension. This was not like a
teleportation spell, which would not work on a Werre, save for Balefire's
mighty spell...but that was driven by a desperate anger only matched by the
man's will. He also had the Blood with him, now an inert ring. Its essence
had passed on with that of the Heart, forever ending the threat of the First.

This Window was not a teleportation spell of any kind. Its foundation lay
elsewhere, and so the Werre stepped through not knowing what would happen. He
heard the rest of the square come after him, their boots crunching in the
sand, then fall silent as they passed through the Window.

For a moment, he saw the back of J'layah -- the last one of the non-Werre --
a few paces ahead, then she disappeared. With a grunt, Cromm brought himself
up short, but not before finding something with his foot and crashing forward
into a pile of...hay? A moment later, the rest of the Werre and Loriella
stumbled into him. With a moment of anger born of embarrassment, he violently
rose to his feet, knocking back Joran, who had fallen on him.

Looking about, he saw that they were in a largish structure. Dim light
filtered in from around the planks of a shuttered window. Hay lay piled up
on all sides, the smell of which made his nose itch. A rake lay at his feet.
Joran lay in a heap, and K'tarin was helping Loriella from another pile. The
dried grass clung to her hair, making her look for a moment like some mad
scarecrow, disheveled with straw hair. She seemed to know exactly how she
looked, for she immediately turned away and quickly brushed off the offending
straw. A horse neighed below. They were in the loft of a stable.

"Where did that dark elf drop us?" he grumbled. "And where are the others?"

After a cursory look about, K'tarin moved to the shutters and cracked them.
Outside it was early morning a few hours past dawn. A large building stood
across a broad court. In the shadow of the building, a group of worn but
happy people were shoving open the door. Bright light streamed out to catch
the sign by the door.

"We are where we should be. The Angry Porcupine stands not far off, and our
comrades have entered in." A thin smile crossed his lips. "It seems in their
haste to return, they've completely forgotten us. That Window worked well
enough."

Cromm removed the last of the hay from his person. He did not like this
place. The very air set his nose itching. He sniffed. Horses he did not mind,
but stables! With a preemptory grunt, he found the ladder down, and motioned
for the others to follow. The air below was more tolerable, if only for the
horse smells overpowering the hay above. Soon they were outside. The air was
almost damp compared to the dryness of the desert...and cold.

They stood there blinking. Joran made the mistake of breathing too deeply. It
was all he could do to stifle a coughing fit. He had never been from the
driest regions of Hammerfell. Here, it was akin to inhaling water. And there
was so much green! Only the sky remained the same; clear and blue, though
perhaps not quite so deep. He had the strange sensation of being closer to
the sky.

'Is this Skyrim?' he thought. 'No, there is snow and ice there. This is much
farther south then.'

He knew Menevia was far north of Hammerfell, but had no real idea where. It
was pleasant here, if he didn't breathe too deeply. Was this why so many
Werrites did not return to the Consilium? He was to take his first journey
from the Consilium in a month's time. He would return, of course. But this
air was seductive.

"You look fine," Cromm was saying.

Loriella was fussing over her hair, a tangled mess of renegade straw, dried
mud, sand, and hair.

"Cromm, you have as much sense of 'fine' as a spider daedra soused in a lake
of Morid's Special Sauce! I'm more of a mess than you are."

She looked almost fit to cry. No one had any idea how important this was to
her. Here they were on the doorstep of perhaps the most famous tavern in
civilized Tameriel, and she looked like a slum rat in the company of filthy
vagabonds.

She charged off behind the stable, bringing Cromm in tow. With a sharp glance
she stayed K'tarin and the boy. Out of sight was a small well. She had Cromm
draw up a bucket of clear cool water, and ordered him to dowse her. He kept
drawing water until she had most of the mud and sand from her hair and
clothing. Then she took off her shirt and began ringing it out.

"If anyone comes around the corner, kill them."

It was an order Cromm found himself obeying, and none too soon. Joran was
just coming around the stable. He barreled into a massive chest. Thick arms
attached to this chest picked up the boy, spun him around, and carried him
back around the corner. This was all he saw.

"Where is K'tarin?"

Joran looked up in mild anger. No one had seen, but all the same, it was a
bit humiliating to be lugged about like a sack of wheat. He was a warrior, a
Werrite. He would be a Werre in a few years, and that commanded respect. It
was only because Cromm was a Werre himself that Joran kept his tongue. Also,
the boy had learned new respect for his to'khar. He was not the indecisive
man he had once thought. Cromm had slain the most Denigroths, and defended
the warmage himself. He had also led them through the Mother Storm. Joran was
the son of a hre'khar, many ranks above Cromm, but he discovered himself not
as great as the man now blocking his path. Being a great man's son did not in
turn make him great.

"He entered the tavern. He said his place was with that rude scribe. I could
not tell him his place was with you because of his rank."

Cromm's features did not flicker, but he felt satisfaction. Finally this boy
was learning discipline. It was true K'tarin still belonged to Cromm. The
to'khar had not released him from the square, but there was something between
the scribe -- that annoying little man -- and the Werre. Possibly something
similar to what existed between himself and Alduin. Cromm almost became
annoyed. Alduin was rude, but he did not need to hear it from the mouth of a
boy.

"You were right to be silent, Joran, but do not call Alduin rude except to
his face. If you can do that, then you may call him rude when he is not
listening."

It was an old proverb told so many times, its meaning had long been lost on
most ears. It wasn't lost on Joran. Loriella came 'round the stable, clothes
dark but not dripping as they were. Her hair hung about her shoulders no more
damp than the rest of her. There were fiery highlights where the sun touched
the drier strands. With a smile, she led them off to the most famous tavern
in Menevia.

                                   * * *

K'tarin opened the door quietly and shut it behind. The common room was full
of cheer with guests coming down from restful sleep, and the barkeep drawing
fresh draughts for morning throats dry from sleep and the previous night's
laughter. Balefire, Elfiran, J'layah and the rest were crowded about a table
to the side. Three faces he did not recognize, but the familiarity between
them caused him to veer away to the bar to ask about food and provisions. He
ached all over from the ordeals they had all endured, but now he was more
concerned for the square's resources than his own hurts. He would be
reprimanded for abandoning the others outside, so the least he could do was
have something to show for it. He glanced at the table and saw Alduin held
rapt as some new tale was being told by the strangers.

His ears strained to hear them above the general hubbub. There was some sort
of vote being taken now. They were deciding what to do next. K'tarin ordered
an Aldabaran Dark from the barkeep and made for the group. Now Alduin's voice
rose: "And I will be accompanying the ladies to help save J'layah's sister."

K'tarin reached over the little man and dangled the mug of ale before the
scribe's face. His eyes fairly crossed as they trained on the mug, and up
went his hands to grab it. The Werre quickly pulled up the treat just in
time. Alduin turned about and saw the amused Werre. K'tarin was actually
smiling. Alduin hadn't known him for very long, but the effect still
surprised him. The others were already moving on to other subjects, and
didn't notice the scribe move off with the swarthy man.

K'tarin led him to another table somewhat removed. As reward, he set down the
mug for Alduin. The old man immediately snatched it and began to slowly nurse
it. It seemed K'tarin knew his weakness. The Werre grew earnest.

"It is good you will be going on with J'layah. I would not have been happy to
choose between watching you in Oblivion and avenging honor against Shomshar
and S'talin. Especially S'talin."

Alduin merely smiled. "I came here to scribe a story and found a maiden in
distress. I've followed my prostigious nose this far. I'm not going to be
put off track when the end seems so near."

The tavern door opened again, admitting Loriella with her husband and Joran
in her wake. Her face lit when she saw the place, and soon she was looking
about every beam of wood and chair, ending up at the great hearth. She eyed
the gem Balefire had placed there but somehow resisted the urge to touch it.
Touching inevitably led to holding, which in turn often led to taking. Cromm
strode straight for K'tarin. K'tarin stood at his approach, ready for his
dressing down.

"Have you looked to provisions?"

K'tarin paused only a moment. This was unexpected. "Yes. The innkeeper has
said he will look into it. Food and drink are here in supply. Bandages and
another pack can be found shortly."

Loriella popped up behind Cromm's shoulder. "And baths! Did you ask about
baths? Humph! You men are all alike! I'll do it then."

She stormed off to the barkeep. Alduin was fiercely concentrating on his
drink. His grin couldn't be held off for long, and he buried his face in the
mug to save himself. Cromm held out his hand to K'tarin.

"Now we part. You served well in my square, K'tarin. May your honor be
revenged. We are saddened that we may not travel with you. We must check in
to the outpost shortly." He turned to watch his wife chatting up the barkeep
who looked to be listening more to Kriella's conversation than to the khajiit
before him. "But we can spare a day or two here. She may never leave the
bathtub once in it."

After a brief handclasping, Cromm moved off to Loriella and Joran, who had
been quietly standing by, wandered over to Alduin's old seat to listen to the
conversation about Oblivion and daedra.

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Alduin dor Lammoth