“Don't be so surprised, child.” Rose, a pony who Glade and Reman knew as the Daedric Prince Azura, sat next to her on the manor's porch. She was white with a void-black mane, bearing a cutie mark of two moons and a star on each flank. “I've grown rather fond of the play you call life.”

“I assume you're responsible for all this?” Glade asked, waving a hoof in an encompassing gesture. She wasn't quite terrified by the god, but fear was a natural response. In truth, she actually respected Azura, at least enough to admit she liked the dreamscape this time. “I must say this is much better than endless fields of roses.”

“Trust me, child, this is all your creation.” Rose smiled dazzlingly, something that would have given her status as an immortal away if she was not already known as such. Her lycan companion, however, wasn't sure her words were genuine. “But you're imagining County Kvatch all wrong; this resembles County Anvil more than anything.”

“Why in the wide world of Equestria would I dream of this?” Glade asked, not quite putting all the pieces together in her mind. Reman was here, and they were somewhere on Nirn, living in a manor, with a mystery pony he trained with during the day. What was there to get? She could hear the two laughing in the distance as they practiced their swordsmanship, punctuated by bits of advice from the Imperial. The two kept mock fighting, taking full advantage of the green, grassy plains that stretched as far as the eye could see.

“Did you not want a family and quiet retirement?” The Daedra asked, still smiling her sweet smile. The werewolf wanted to say something, but Azura had a point; she just never imagined it would be like this. “It doesn't have to be; you're just imagining it as such. That stallion Reman is sparring with could just as easily be a mare. This manor could be in Equestria, even Canterlot, should you so wish.”

Glade was quiet then, absorbing the information. The dream felt like one of hers, far different from the ones Rose fabricated, but she was still curious about some things. She was never clothed before then, and had always either been naked or armored while dreaming, yet she was bedecked in vestments of unknown origin. The mansion was also of questionable origin, not of Equestrian styles, or even those she had seen in Skyrim, but there were pony and humans milling about within, perhaps servants who were part of the package.

“Late Imperial style, modeled after what is now called the Priory of the Eight,” The Daedra explained, having observed mortal men and mer for the better part of eternity. She felt almost like a mother as she watched uncountable lives play before her as time crawled ever forward. Azura always had a reason for doing something, and this was no different; she only needed a way to bring it up.“Built at the Emperor's personal expense; quite a sum considering you could choose to live in Equetria and still have this impressive home.”

“I thought the Tullius family was already loaded, though?”

“Oh, they are, I assure you, but Titus Mede felt – or rather, would feel – the need to pick up this tab himself.” Azura smiled in a maternal way as she spoke, arousing Glade's suspicions. A mansion, more of a clan compound really, of that size would cost a respectable fortune, enough to bankrupt most normal families and then some. “But, it's becoming of a ruler to keep his warriors in comfortable conditions.”

“This hardly seems like something he would do for every Legionnaire; too expensive.” Now Glade was getting it, perhaps even understanding where this was going. Reman Tullius was best described as a man of considerable martial and magical prowess, a child prodigy in Conjuration, and the former heir to House Tullius, but those were only the things he wanted people to know, the things he was proud of. “Imperials don't think highly of werewolves and vampires, so why would he do this?”

“Because Reman is an asset he can't afford to lose, so he kept the two of you comfy and docile until he was needed.” The black and white mare shifted from her earth pony form into an alicorn, the one shape she very rarely used, and maybe even disliked. This was how Glade knew this was serious, a reliable font of information from a god. Reliable may have been a poor choice of wording, but it was the best she could come up with. “Reman is but one man, one werewolf. How many could he kill in battle with his might and magic? Ten? Twenty? Thirty? That's fine in a skirmish, but Titus Mede is preparing for war.”

“Then why not focus on better preparing the rank and file troops instead of grabbing a hoofful of elites?” The pegasus asked, cocking her head slightly. She was familiar with the Imperial philosophy that soldiers win battles, but heroes win wars. She admitted her pack-mate was tough, but Reman himself was the first to admit there were better men to be found.

“Reman has an ability most other men do not, a little gift from Hircine that the Emperor wishes to exploit.” Sensing confusion radiating from the lycan, the Daedra's smile took on a melancholy tone. Azura herself could understand the backstabbing that mortals were so adept at, given her kin did the same in an industrial scale, but she also understood that every mortal was, to an extent, unique, just as much as individual, intelligent Daedra were. Mortals were an eternal mystery, doomed to failure and defeat, but capable of joys unknown to all but Sheogorath and Sanguine, as befitting of their roles. “Child, Reman can spread his curse.”

“He would never!” Glade was understandably outraged by the prospect, and she had her reasons. Titus Mede was going to work off Reman's desire to give his budding family a comfortable life, something the Emperor could provide, and would be ever so happy to do so if he would be so kind as to sign the dotted line.

“Ask Reman when you awaken if you so wish for your answer.”

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

The rules were no longer being followed, not with the escorts dead. The humans wore their weapons openly on this last leg before reaching the portal. Their armor was hidden behind their clothes, forcing them to wear only the lightest they had. Weapons, however, were displayed openly, daringly inviting the foolhardy.

“Not much farther, maybe ten or so hours.” Reman's calculation was relative. For him, ten hours was a short time, especially when traversed by carriage. Ten hours on foot was, simply put, a terribly painful expenditure of time with few positive results besides ground covered.

“Ten hours?” Rainbow Dash asked, incredulous at the prospect. She didn't quite know how many miles were between the group and the portal, but he was certain should could fly much faster than any ground vehicle.

“Just be glad the skies are clear for the moment, not a cloud or dragon to be seen,” The driver said, chuckling at his own joke. The sun was beating down on them because of those same clear skies, making it hotter than the mountains of the Reach had any right to be. The air was still, and there was not an animal in sight, not even the odd bird or two that were to be expected. “Wish we had something to keep things interesting, though.”

“Let us try to make it to Falkreath without incident, shall we?” Luna implored, more to the world than the Nord driver. Conflict was the very last thing the party needed at the moment; the possibility of serious injury was too high at the moment. Even as Reman had somehow recovered the use of one arm, and Twilight seemed to be able to hold herself together, all it would take was a single skirmish to destroy what little progress was made. The two in question were engrossing themselves in that strange book, which the princess could only guess involved Nirn's magic in some way.

They continued for perhaps an hour under the glaring sun before anything unusual happened, and they at first attributed it to a hallucination brought about by boredom. There was a black dot on the horizon that constantly moved up and down, always against the carriage's rocking. It took a few minutes for the blot to gain shape, reveling a pair of waving arms as it tried to signal the wagon. Why this human or elf wasted the energy on such a hot day, especially at that distance, Luna didn't know. This figure gave her chills, not entirely unlike those she felt during the Winter Solstice Festival, though this dread was much more sinister than what heralded Reman's arrival in Equestria.

“Who in blazes would be out here alone?” The driver asked, looking at the same dot. The simple answer was someone who wanted to lure unsuspecting travelers to their doom, like a cleverly disguised highwayman. There was nothing clever about this man's appearance or his dopy smile at seeing the approaching carriage. Reman and Renoir, sensing some trouble, leaned over the side.

“Why in Oblivion would a jester be so far from a city?” Renoir did not call attention to the man's discolored clothing; he was sure Reman noticed the blood as well. Black and dark crimson, splotched with deep brown here and there, were hardly the uniform of a harlequin troupe. “Think he's up to no good?”

“No doubt.” Reman recognized the colors as belonging to the Dark Brotherhood, but he'd never seen this man before. Arnbjorn was his only contact, an acquaintance and fellow werewolf who occasionally had work for him. This could either go really well, or just absolutely terribly.

“Should we pick him up?” The driver asked, unsure of what to do. Sure, the guy looked creepy, but he was also stranded, and it always helped for one to pay things forward. There was obviously a dagger strapped to his hip, but then again, the driver had a carriage full of mercenaries and colorful, talking ponies.

“Why, certainly; Kodak said we should try to gain the support of the common man.” Luna popped her head over the Nord's shoulder, taking her first in-depth look at the stranger. She felt nothing but dread surrounding this man, like an oppressive aura of death, but she was confident her human allies could handle him. She looked over to Lynette, who was busy hiding her own knife in preparation. The two shared a nod as the wagon came to a halt.

“Cicero thanks you very much, kind Nord!” Reman looked at the Brotherhood assassin strangely. He was obviously mad as a hatter, but seemed to know better than to attempt to attack an entire carriage. The man, Cicero, paused as he climbed in, looking at the veritable rainbow of equines that occupied both benches to capacity. “What an odd group of passengers you have!”

“Yes, we've heard we're a bit odd,” Rarity said, waving a hoof at the little man. His name suggested he was an Imperial, though he was easily a head shorter and a fifteen years older than Reman, more along the lines of Antonius's age. She couldn't help but also notice Cicero seemed to refer to himself in the third person. She really hoped he wouldn't do that the entire way to the Pine Forest.

“Cicero just cannot believe something so colorful exists outside of tree frogs.” The quirky man cocked his head to the side as he really took in every detail about the ponies, pausing only to plop down next to Renoir. Pinkie snorted something under her breath, but kept her friendly demeanor as his eyes passed over her, though she held the Wabbajack closer to her chest.

“I imagine some families are a bit stranger,” Reman said, prodding the idea of Cicero being in the Brotherhood, a subtle hint that he knew something was up. His kinsman seemed oblivious to it, but looks were often deceiving. Cicero, however, merely nodded and started humming a little tune. A cough from the front shifted the man's attention back to the wagoner.

“Where're we headed to, anyway?”

“Drop us off at the start of the Pine Forest; we need to meet up with some friends.”

“Oh, so you and Cicero follow the same path, yes?” The small Imperial asked, leaning over Renoir to get closer to his kinsman. There was a sincere, totally not creepy smile plastered on his face, as though true joy filtered through his body for the first time in years. “This is the start of a wonderful friendship.”

“As you can see, we have enough friends,” Renoir said, eyes gleaming behind his mask. The stench of a serial murderer hung off the fool like fog in a moorland, and he was about sick of it. He was also dangerously thirsty at the moment, but hadn't had the chance to request a bite since leaving Solitude.

“But Renoir,” Twilight began, gaining confidence from the previous night's exchange. “Friendship is magic.”