BY AZURA!

It wasn’t his first time having to—associate with others for kills, and he doubted it’d be the last. Sometimes contractors were laden with paranoia, fearing ineptitude or worse. Other times, contractors found a sense of malicious joy curl the corners of their lips, plush their cheeks, at the notion of inclining two (or more) murderous souls to grapple for their gift. Sometimes, contractors just wanted to ensure fatal efficiency.

Whatever the reason, here Rowan was. Donned thick in veiling garb—a white, ornate gold-fringed mask, one that, even in the dim light, bore an opalescent glimmer to it. Swirls of pale blues, pinks, reminiscent of a muted, clouded rainbow, kissed the sides of this concealment. A maroon headdress wound his head, ensuring no matter of tress were to be visible, and a long, thick feather were to embellish the fabric, sticking out on an angle to the left. Then came the puffed, fur-lined cape, which draped over his front and back, and made it painfully obvious for his lack of arms, by virtue of how empty his flanks were.

The aftermath of a light storm filled the air with the aroma of fresh rain. The stone path, leading up to the city, were to be slippery and glimmery, reflecting murky of what laid above. Rowan kept himself off far to the side, permitting passage of the carriages that passed in a bumpy cacophony of married stone and wood with a watchful eye. There, he stood, adjacent to a tall tree flanked by a scraggily shrubbery that endeavoured to fight for its life, all day, everyday. The shrubbery was unique not only that it was foreign to these parts of the province, but also for it bore fruit to a seed that could—and has—been used for many a deadly poison.

Rowan waited.

He’d been given a vague, skeletal descriptor of his co-worker—a hulking mass of a cathray-raht khajiit, with a scar on one of his eyes. He wasn’t even blessed with knowing which eye, but Rowan had always been good at discerning with little more than tongue-bound wisps.

Looked like this was him, he surmised as cracks of fallen twigs and leaves filled his ears. Rowan adjusted his position, away from looking down at the weaving cobblestone path, unto this—

Well. Their contractor wasn’t wrong when she said he’d be big.

Rowan bobbed his head minutely.

lae'zel she wanted to talk to me at camp but i talked to astarion & gale first and then she got pissed and refused to talk to me

i let astarion take a bit too much of a nibble and then it faded into screen and onto my fuckign corpse and the bastard had the audacity to say "something terrible has happened here" and like. YEAH. YOU HAPPENED

Calcelmo proved to be quite prickly of a historian. Quick to lash his tongue like a serrated whip, quicker still to give you a look at though you were naught but the dirt that clung to his boots. Mort was half-tempted to upturn his chin and storm elsewhere, but his intrigue with the dwemer (specifically, their enchantments), earned him enough thickened skin to withstand whatever that elf cast his way.

Something about a giant spider—Nimhe—that blocked entry to his excavation site. Having killed, pinned up the flaking, rotting corpses of guards and workers alike. If the stench of death wasn’t enough to raise your hairs and have you turn tail, her and her army would see that done and dusted.

Looked like Mort had company, on his bug squashing trip. She’d tagged along the latter part of the conversation, and she seemed capable enough. Four hands were better than two, in any case. Calcelmo promised them both a key to his museum and the excavation site should they succeed—and if they didn’t, he’d keep it for the next sellsword who happened to wander by, the elf quipped quietly, a sardonic smile flirting with his thin lips. Mort didn’t voice his annoyance, but the sour look on his face made it all the apparent to his newfound companion as soon as they turned heel.

The sound of their boots ricocheted around them. The corridor was narrow, meaning he didn’t have to upkeep his sight spell as much. The further they descended, the more the fangs of cold sunk into their bones.