Author's Notes:

It's been, what, a month-ish since my last update?
The good news is I'm bursting at the seams with ideas now.

Twilight’s purple flare lit up the sky, illuminating the forest and highlighting every brigand outside the fort’s walls. The little unicorn creeped along, half-hidden by the dense brush, as she watched the humans make war; she knew it was expected of her to join in once the main camp had been engaged, but until then, she was to provide emergency support and light. Reman and Renoir skulked in the sides of the clearing, using the distraction the skaab provided to sneak unnoticed. It did not take long for the reprisal to come, a few archers firing at the loping abomination in a vain attempt to kill it. One of the braver fighters hopped over a low barrier and charged, eyes wide and teeth bared as he ran. He held an axe in his hands, the same sort Twilight had seen warriors heft with ease; she realized whoever he was, he was young.

The skaab had no such worries as it swung, fingers bent into talons; she heard a pained yelp as the wind was knocked from the boy’s chest, a heart-wrenching sound that changed as the monster’s nails dug into his skin. She nearly leaped from her position to save him as the zombie threw him to the ground, but she did nothing; she watched as the young one flinched with every hit, shuddering under the force of impact until there was no reflex. Even as others screamed and burned, or died under force of arms, she could not take her eyes off the still body as the skaab skulked away. It was worse than Twilight’s own kill; her mind raced as she puzzled over why there was a boy in this place, why he had been thrown in with this lot of bandits.

Renoir pulled a man over the lip of a rampart before pulling himself over the rim as Reman and the skaab cleared the ground. The vampire whistled, the all-clear signal for Twilight to move in; there were few people in the camp, perhaps six on the surface if one counted the archers on the walls. It was as safe as it could be, for the time being; the bandits had been caught by surprise and fled underground, so until they regrouped and planned to remove the magi, they were as good as routed. The purple unicorn felt it had gone over a bit too smoothly, too cleanly, for a such a rushed job. She stood by the campfire and shivered as Reman sat down on a bedroll next to her. It was cold enough for her breath to fog in the air, but as wrapped as she and the humans were, it had little effect.

Renoir joined them soon after, unmasked with his pale skin shining in the firelight. He was devoid of his usual armor, and like Reman had adopted simple, dark garb suited to their clandestine actions. The vampire let out a deep sigh as he sat down; Twilight noticed his breath left no trail, as cold as he naturally was. It was far too quiet for her liking. She opened her mouth to speak, anything to break the silence, only for Renoir to hold up a finger. He made a chopping motion over his voicebox before pointing towards a ruined section of wall; he pointed to his eyes, then the wall, before repeating the gesture while focusing on his ears instead of eyes. Somepony was listening in on them? Watching?

Twilight focused on the section the vampire pointed to, squinting as she tried to ignore shadows that gave her companion no trouble. There was a pattern in the masonry, a square section of bricks that made a defined opening, a darker spot in the darkness. In a flash of understanding she realized it was a vent to allow air into the fort; it was a primitive method, using the air duct to listen to the surface, but it was undoubtedly effective if the adventurers knew and respected it. A cold pang ran through her gut as she realized they may have been on both sides of this setup, but she remained silent, even as the skaab took a sudden interest in the vent, hobbling over to it like a crippled minotaur. A subduing gesture from Reman was all that kept it from rummaging through the dank little hole; he lacked his spells, but his control suffered little from lack of practice.

Renoir was the only one able to sit still for very long, looking at his friends as they rummaged around the campsite. Already they found a few basic things that gave them an indication of how many outlaws operated from this fortress: medical supplies, bedrolls, dried rations, and parcels of loot divided up for eighteen people. A journal seemed to hint at them having a hedge wizard - probably the owner of said healing supplies - who appeared to have the leader’s ear, much to the writer’s chagrin. The vampire nearly jumped as Reman tossed a bag his way; by weight and sound, it was full of small, metal instruments. The two shared a smile as Renoir unrolled it, revealing the delicate, shiny-sharp tools snuggled within; they were not the best ever made, far from it, but they would be fine for anything save extremely delicate work. He could not help but notice that Reman had secured another such bag for himself and Twilight; whoever ended up dead during the raid that procured these no longer needed them, and by law they belonged to whomever took them from the bandits.

There was precious little left that was of any value to them on the surface, aside from gold left in the loot parcels, but everything else must have been kept down below, behind the heavy, secure doors. Twilight had the power to break down those doors, but it was hardly worth it when so outnumbered; as antsy as they were, they settled in for the long haul. Reman plopped down next to the fire sent the skaab to the door to await further command; it occupied its simple mind by pawing at the ground before falling into torpor.

Twilight experienced her first Cyrodiilic sunrise on the cold, hard ground of County Chorrol. It was not her most luxurious morning; she was tired, cold, hungry, and had spent most of the night wide awake and worried about bandits rushing from underground to attack in the haze. She looked over to see Reman awake and staring at the small path that led to the main road; he looked a bit curious, but not frightened. Quickly, she looked, and failed to see what had his attention until she heard the hoofbeats in the distance and realized there were humans approaching. She was giddy with excitement at the prospect of handing over the situation to the proper authorities, a mood she kept until she saw the proper authorities skulking in the brush along the path, bows drawn and ready. They wore light armor, mail of chains or rings, covered in a dark blue, quilted tabard with a tree patterned into the fabric. Women and men with stern faces were circled around them, moving almost silently as they took position; the hoofbeats had grown closer, and Twilight had sense enough to realize they were important.

The beats died down just as the sources came into view; two carriages came around the bend: a stark, spartan workhorse of a wagon, and Princess Celestia’s choice of group transportation. The soldiers burst from the undergrowth in perfect time as the horses stopped, completely surrounding the camp in the time it took Twilight to flinch. The armored warriors ignored her and her friends as they set up outside the fort’s heavy, wooden doors; Reman and Renoir stood and moved to meet them, walking slowly so as not to threaten anyone. “The zombie is full of poison, so put on masks if you have them because it explodes if someone damages it enough,” the imperial said, gesturing to the arrow sticking through the skaab’s left cheek.

The spartan carriage’s door swung open just as he finished speaking; a man dressed in fine clothes stepped out, sword on his hip, and inspected the soldiers before him. “Your friends found us just outside of Chorrol, and here we are,” he said in an accent Twilight could not place, but she noticed Reman perk up a bit. “Quite fortunate, given the trouble these bandits have been giving us.”

“Happy to be of service”, Renoir replied, tying a cloth around his mouth; it was all he could really do to look human, and those around him followed suit. He had not been around this many professional soldiers in quite a while, and it was a refreshing change for him to see truly disciplined ranks, even if it was a bit of an insult for them to be led by a noble rather than an experienced warrior. At least, he assumed the finely dressed man was not a warrior, judging by the way he carried himself. “I trust there were no issues with our friends?”

“Hardly,” the man laughed, “I had some worries at first, but they are hardly the strangest sight in Cyrodiil.” He stepped away from the carriage as a second figure stepped out. Clad in gleaming armor, he was taller than the noble, taller than Renoir and Reman, and armed for serious battle. “I am Gregor Aegian, and this is my wife, Susanne Tullius.”

“Forgive my manners, please.” The vampire bowed and gestured to himself. “I am Renoir Belmont,” he explained before waving an arm towards the purple pony by the fire, “and this is Twilight Sparkle.”

“A pleasure,” she squeaked out as Susanne walked towards them. The unicorn looked over to Reman, only to find him still facing the door, frozen in place. He pulled the skaab off its knees and awakened it before turning, face down a bit and mask on, but he did not look overly scared. She was unsure if she was meant to introduce him, if there was some custom she did not know of, so she smiled shyly and waited. With a wave of his hand, the imperial sent his abomination to wait by the fire, eyes wrinkling as he smiled beneath his makeshift respirator.

“You know, Gregor, it’s been a very long time since we last met,” he said, strutting towards the pair from the spartan carriage. “I do hope you’ll forgive me for not introducing myself sooner, but you must understand the principle of the matter.” He came to a stop just before the nobleman and the knight. “And sorry for the mask, but that zombie’s chest cavity is full of poison, like I said to the guards, so precautions had to be taken.”

“I can’t say I recall meeting a man with yellow eyes,” Gregor replied, sizing up the half-feral man before him. “No offense, but the color is rare enough that I believe I would remember you.” He was a little tall for an imperial, but his accent hinted at Colovia, so that was to be expected; aside from the eyes, there was nothing remarkable about the mystery man. “A jeweler for my House? Perhaps a merchant one of my cousins works with?”

“Gregor, I am offended,” the knight said in a voice that did not at all match the armor she wore. “My brother returns from the dead, and you do not recognize him?” She grunted and pulled off her helmet, entirely uncomfortable having her head covered when her family was so close again. “Guardsmen, this is your day, do not wait for us,” Susanne shouted to the soldiers in blue. “Come, Reman, uncover your face and let us go, Mother will be happy to see you again.”

“I’d love to see her again, everyone, but we’ve an appointment with the Emperor,” the werewolf said, pulling the cloth from his face and motioning for Twilight and Renoir to come along.

“The Katariah is not due back in Anvil for another week,” Gregor interjected, trying to be helpful. When Susanne had revealed the scruffy warrior’s identity, memories came rushing back; he and Reman - and Uriel - never agreed on much, given their differences in upbringing, but they knew efficiency when they saw it. For imperials, especially the gentry, business and warfare were not dissimilar. “A quick stop to the Tullius holdings would be good for everyone, I’d say.”

Ahead of them, the door to Celestia’s transport opened, and a little white head popped out, looking a bit curious. “Is everything alright?” Glade asked, before eyeing the now obviously feminine Susanne; she actually noticed a family resemblance rather quickly, and it wasn’t long until she realized the Tullius brood favored their mother in the looks department. “What are they feeding you?” she joked, before laying her ears flat, worrying she may have offended somepony.

Susanne chuckled at her, much to the pegasus’s relief. The woman was head and shoulders taller than anybody around, breaking the usual dimorphism found in humans, and especially impressive when the average imperial woman was a head shorter than the average man. Behind the humans, there was a clammer as the doors were forced open and the Chorrol guards burst into the ruins. “Reman,” Susanne began, turning to face her brother. “Please get rid of the zombie before we depart; the stench of dead meat is hard to clean out.”

“Yes, please,” Princess Celestia grunted in an entirely undignified manner; she was the very image of Equestrian class and elegance, but she had an ever-shortening tolerance for Cyrodiilic shenanigans.

“Why did you not send ahead that you were on a diplomatic mission?” Susanne asked, as if remembering that was a valid point; she knew any correspondence from her brother would be dismissed as petty insults from an enemy who did not mind speaking ill of the dead. She took a brief moment to wonder if the rest of her family knew of Reman’s survival, but knew that must have been the case. The question remained: why only now come out of hiding, wherever he had gone? She could smell the stink of daedric influence on him, as well as the horse with the blue mane; with the vampire called Renoir, she saw that her little brother had thrown his lot in with undesirables.

“Been too busy having fun,” the younger man laughed humorlessly. “But, in all seriousness, things have been hectic since we began.”

“I can certainly imagine,” Gregor added, leaning against his carriage. “If you’re coming from Skyrim, then you were probably affected by the war. I hear things will escalate soon, but I don’t know enough to really say much.”

“Enough talk of bad things; today is happy!” Susanne said, hugging the two men close. “There will be much celebration at home, so we must make haste.” The warrior woman looked to Glade before smiling wide enough to make onlookers’ cheeks hurt. “Mother will be glad to see you’re alive, and even happier to meet your friends.”