“Alright, hand over all your valuables, and we'll let you go.” The Orc had a smug look on his face. The rich humans would no doubt comply, and then he could give the signal for his boys to capture them. They'd ransom the weaklings, then kill them once the money came through. “I'm only telling you once.”

“I've got a better deal, greenskin: you get out of our way, and we'll only kill half your men.” Renoir had grown up around Orsimer, and had no love lost for the brutish elves. The Breton felt no superiority to them, as many of his kinsmen did, but he knew they weren't always the brightest of fellows.

“You heard him, boys.” At their leaders command, the bandits readied their longbows. Many of them were using iron arrows, but their target were unarmored. One of the marks, a man with dark hair, dove beneath a blanket. The first arrow was directed at him. A purple barrier flashed around the entire carriage, and shimmered as the missile glanced off its ethereal surface. A small hole appeared in the shield, barely the size of a fist. At the same time as a masked man stood, the one who dove under the blanket landed next to the wagon, still protected by the defensive sorcery.

A ball of flame, concentrated into an orange-hot inferno. Soaring on unseen winds, the magic collided with the first bandit to fire. The simple furs the Bosmer wore made excellent kindling for the magical miniature sun. The remaining seven archers released, creating little more than a light show as the iron-tipped missiles danced off the seemingly-invulnerable sphere. Now it was the woman's turn to leave the carriage, and she joined the other human in rifling through the luggage compartment. She helped the first put on a simple shirt of mail, before grabbing her own weapon.

As mysteriously as it appeared, the lavender dome vanished without the slightest of traces. The three humans leaped from their positions, barely away from the former shield's border. The two males were oddly mobile, even with things at a brief halt. The woman, a Breton by the look of things, had an eerie calm about her.

“Still not taking my friend's offer?” the unmasked man asked, wearing a wolfish grin. By his tone and voice, his nature as an Imperial was easy to spot. One hand held a steel sword, but the other remained oddly empty. “Tell me, Orc, what is the name of the elf I'm going to kill today?”

“I wouldn't know; he isn't here.” The greenskin returned the grin, magnified tenfold by his protruding tusks. He unhitched his mace and twirled between his gloved fingers. He snorted once, his breath fogging in the mountain air. “Don't suppose you'll listen to reason?

“Well, you see, we're on a tight schedule, and really don't have time to deal with anyone at the moment.” There was a cheeky tone in the Imperial's voice, almost like he was confident enough to take on the entire warband. A few sparks arced between his fingertips as the other humans covered his flanks. “You've got one chance to surrender and leave this place alive.”

“Really, as much fun as it would be to turn you all into cinders, we need to be on our way.” The masked man spoke that time, still not holding a weapon. Strangely, he had no exposed skin, almost like he was scared of being burned by his own mage's flames. The crossbow-carrying woman remained silent as the grave.

“Boy, I guess we just have to disagree.”

@#@#@#@#@#@#

“Man down!” Geoffrey held his comrade's neck, trying to stem the tide of blood. One of the assassins had somehow sneaked behind their lines, and executed Lieutenant Scipio before a response could be made. The man she attacked next was the force's newest agent and stood little chance against her. The witch lay dead, but at the cost of two good men. But, even if the first fell, there were more underground. “I need some help up here!”

A dark figure stepped from the underbrush, wearing a mask that concealed his face. An Orcish sword was loosely held in his hand, a deranged look in his eyes. Geoffrey knew the Dark Brotherhood was, in its most basic form, a cult devoted to death, and this assassin seemed just as insane as one would think. With a cackle that only hinted at unknown warping of mind and soul, the black-clad murderer rushed the Penitus Oculatus agent. The masked man brought his sword down on the warrior, who parried with his Imperial-forged blade. Geoffrey used his enemy's stagger to end things as soon as possible, and slashed across his relatively-unprotected gut.

The cultist fell to the ground, panicking as he tried to hold his intestines. The Imperial was on him in a flash, making the decision to abandon his wounded comrade to kill and enemy of the Empire. Steel slammed through leather and muscle, glancing off bone as is shredded through vital organs. Satisfied, Geoffrey pulled the assassin's cowl from his face, and felt his blood run cold. It had not been a member of the Dark Brotherhood who attacked him, but one of his fellow agents. Something like that should have been impossible, but quite literally stared the man in the face.

The Imperial fell back and scooted as far from the corpse as he could, disgusted with himself and the Brotherhood. This was not how battles should have been fought, and even as he heard the shouts and screams of those around him, dying in the forest, he couldn't help but quake with terror. If these murderers were able to hypnotize a loyal servant of the Emperor, how could anyone be safe? The world seemed to have no certainties for the man; it wobbled and waved in his sight and blurred his reality. In a panic, the Penitus Oculatus agent scurried to his feet, and ran into the brush, away from the bloodshed in the Pine Forest.

He took three steps before he caught on something. Orcish metal speared trough his abdomen, no different from the blade his fallen comrade had used against him. Something pushed Geoffrey, turning and twisted the man until he face skyward. A familiar cowl came into view; the same assassin that had disguised himself as an agent stood in the clearing, placing a cork back into a clay flask. The cloth hood came off, revealing the Bosmer who had caused so much pain, and remained remorseless.

The last thing Geoffrey saw was the elf turning back to the fray, eager to spill more blood.

@#@#@#@#@#@#

Reman kept one eye on the Orc chieftain, who remained out of the action. Only five bandits remained of the original eight, not counting their leader in Dwemer metal. The Imperial grunted as an iron arrow punched through his chainmail shirt, firmly jamming into his scapula. The lycan stabbed his Skyforge blade through a Nord's gut while Renoir engulfed a charging brigand in an inferno of blue-hot flames. Lynette fired her crossbow; the missile flew true.

A Bosmer stumbled once, eyes half-focused on the bolt now protruding from his sternum. A shaky hand reached for the feathered projectile, but fell limp as its owner crumpled to the ground. Two bandits remained; an Imperial creeping around the back of the carriage, and a Dunmer who stalked from behind the treeline. Even then, the Orsimer was confident in victory, already spending the gold in his mind. In a mad rush of adrenaline, the Cyrodiil climbed onto the wagon.

“Twilight, coming up from the rear!” Lynette shouted, hoping to surprise the highwayman and give the unicorn enough time to put her training to use. The Imperial criminal pulled the tarp aside, eager to gain some cover from the crossbow and magic the two Bretons were slinging. She was met with a small, purple equine, brandishing a horn. The female human's eye widened, and she only had time to register the glow of magicka before she saw the sky.

Reman flinched as he heard the whirl of Destruction magic, punctuated by a woman's terrified scream. The werewolf snapped his head to the wagon, and saw Twilight sitting with her forehooves clamped over her mouth. A pain of sympathy ran through his soul as he understood her agony; one first kill was never easy, and the unicorn was far too innocent to take a life.

“Reman, the greenskin's charging!” Renoir would have given more than his words, but his hands were currently throttling the life from a Dunmer. The vampire could only watch as the Orsimer slammed into the smaller man's back, breaking through the lycan's poised balance like a boulder through a farmhouse of wood scraps. The spellsword's blade clattered to the ground in time with the Orc's priming. The Dwarven mace came crashing, giving Reman barely time to raise his arms to block the blow.

The sound of something solid smacking meat, and the sickening crack of bone reached the Imperial's ear before he felt any pain. A few red slivers poked from his skin, shard of a shattered bone or two. Even a spell as weak as Oakflesh would prove to be a life saver in that moment, but the only magic he knew then was Sparks, leaving him high and dry. A bronze flicker alerted the human to another impending attack. All Reman could do was wait for the inevitable, a hit that would cripple him for weeks or months.

The thunk of a bolt slipping through platemail echoed through the mountains, and Lynette's projectile stuck from between the abdominal and pelvic plates. Inspiration in the form of Orcish pain came to the spellsword at once, and his broken limbs shot out. Both his hands wrapped around the shaft, and he quickly released as much raw magicka into the steel-and-wood missile. Corrosive and venomous, the unrefined energy immediately started taking random effects on the changed elf's flesh. Muscle spasms, frostbite, and burns ruined and paralyzed the Orc's lower body.

The Dwemer mace fell to Nirn's soil as its owner began shouting in pain. Feet slapped against the muddy ground as Renoir grabbed a dead bandit's greatsword, keeping at a run even as he reached for the blade. The vampire closed the distance in what felt like an instant, swinging the steel weapon with deadly precision. The alloy, supplemented by unholy strength, cleaved through the tough flesh of the Orc's neck, jerking to a near stop as it barely pass through bone. There was a heavy thup as the greenskin's head hit the ground.

The slain elf's body crumpled to the ground, falling away from the broken Imperial. Reman rolled to the side, keeping his shattered limbs off the ground. Through blurred eyes, he watched Renoir and Lynette walk over to him, not running like they would if he were in serious danger. The female Breton was the first to speak.

“Reman, you are the biggest idiot I have ever met.” The archer could only question why the man hadn't rolled instead of block.

@#@#@#@#@#@#

The last of the assassins lay dead in a sea of its ilk. Lieutenant Castellan breathed a sigh of relief, sitting on a nearby rock. A third of his men were unable to continue the fight, whether slain or injured, but that left him with thirty able-bodied troops. In all of that mess, some good news came to light. The Sanctuary’s cavern was porous, and had numerous openings to the surface. Castellan already had his men dumping oil into the vents. The Imperial almost laughed about the ridiculous oversight; even a Dunmer would be reduced to ash by the intense flames the oil produced.

Light burned from within one of the holes, a fire traveling up the stream of fuel. The clay pot exploded in the pourers' hands, setting them ablaze with the same intensity as the surely-burning cave interior. Another gout of fire shot up, then another. Castellan could only fear the worst as he heard the door slam open.

@#@#@#@#@#@#

Arnbjorn's worst nightmare was coming true. The Nord felt flames lapping at his hide, a grim reminder that he was not invincible even in his bestial form. The Sanctuary could burn for all he cared; it was Astrid and the others he worried about. A burning support timber fell before the werewolf, forcing him to run through a cramped side passage. This was not supposed to happen, not on his watch. The Penitus Oculatus had found them, but he didn't know how. All the Nord needed to know was they poured oil all over the place, and one of the streams hit a torch.

A pained cry made him redouble his efforts, knowing instantly the voice was Astrid's. Crashing through an old, half-burnt bookcase, Arnbjorn skidded to a halt. His wife lay pinned beneath beam, motionless and too close to the flames, already covered in burns. The assassin tried to cry out, to beg Sithis or the Divines to spare her life, but the lycan's throat could only manage a roar of anguish. As easily as one might lift a stick, the werewolf tossed the log aside and nudged hi wife's cheek. Astrid remained still.

No. No! This was not supposed to happen! Astrid was supposed to outlive him, and not the other way around. In grief, the lycan gingerly cradled his wife in his arms, trying to protect her from further harm. A healer, he needed a healer. Surely, a Restoation mage could fix this; they could fix anything! The warrior charged through the Black Door, making the way for his Brothers and Sisters. Sunlight, freedom from the choking, black smoke, it was so beautiful. Astrid, barely marred by the flames, looked like an angel against the horrible background of broken bodies and Imperial corpses.

The scent of Oculatus agents caught Arnbjorn's nose.