[Note: This chapter is under heavy editing! I'm trying to get it all fixed as soon as I can, but there's a major-ish plot point I'm in the middle of revamping, because I'm trying to dispose of an unnecessary antagonist that for whatever reason I added in here, long ago. If you're reading this and it seems disjointed, I'd recommend skipping it and coming back to it later, because it's not absolutely integral to the plot in the state it is now.]

The ancient stone city was shrouded in a thick fog, almost as if the hold itself was mourning its recent losses. Dark, dismal grey hid the sun from view and dimmed the streets, and the world seemed to have lost most of it's color, becoming various shades of grey in the gloomy half-light. It was unusually dismal-looking, and it wasn't just the mist making it so. The streets were still stained with blood in some places, though the bodies that had once littered them had all been thrown into the river, the stench of death still had not cleared itself from the alleys.

Even though many of the original inhabitants of Markarth were dead, it was far from deserted. It was quite the contrary; rather than civilians going about their daily business, the hold was now full of Forsworn troops, all of them making preparations for further invasions as well as strengthening the defenses of their newly-claimed territory. Though a considerable number of rebels had been ordered to go back to their camps to defend their already-existing positions, many stayed behind, and this was evident. There were quite a few troops working on making barricades and laying traps around the city should anyone try to take their new city away from them, while others took inventory of the supplies they had gained and yet others were in the process of producing more supplies with the new resources they'd been given.

At this particular moment, the blacksmith's forge of the city was being run by two middle-aged men, clearly experienced in such a trade. They forged blades and repaired broken weapons and armor as they were clearly ordered to, but they seemed to be putting more of their time into messing around with traditional designs than actually mass-producing better weapons for the ranks. One of them was working on some strange sword design, seemingly a cross between a crude Forsworn blade and a traditional steel one. It was made of steel, but rather than a typical edge, it was spiked just like the Forsworn blades, save each of the spikes now had serrated edges and looked considerably more deadly and a whole lot less crude, and the hilt was wrapped professionally in dark braided leather. Seemingly finished with the sword, the man turned to his associate with a flourish. "So, it's finally finished. Your thoughts?"

The other man looked up from his work and let out a whistle, replying, "Not the worst thing I've ever seen. Which is more than I can say for some of your work."  

"Glad I can safely say this has Arik the nitpicker's seal of approval. Maybe you'll be able to come up with something of your own one of these days, eh?" the first man teased, his reply earning a snort from the other. Setting the blade down carefully on a workbench, he took the opportunity to lean against a timber support casually before continuing, "What do you make of Gwencalon's promotion to Briarheart? A bit odd, don't you think?"

"I don't know what to think about it. That fellow is trouble, and Ealdwine had to know something about his questionable acts. From what I know of him, he's heavily concerned in our welfare, and you'd think he'd promote someone who actually deserves it. Thetric, perhaps, or Ciele? Even you'd be a better choice than Gwencalon."

"Perhaps he chose him to keep an eye on him? The whole 'keep your friends close but your enemies closer' tactic? Nevertheless, the idea of that high of a promotion unnerves me anyways, so I'm glad it wasn't me," the man's voice dropped to a low tone as he continued, "After all, I can't be the only one who's noticed how... different the Briarhearts are from the rest of us. They're barely even human, at least, in their actions and mannerisms."

"That's discipline, mudcrab-brain - at least, one would think it is. I don't trust those filthy hagravens a bit, and their role in our rebellion is shady, at the very least... Must we work with them at all?"

"I share your sentiments about that, for certain. Also, have you heard the rumors about-"

"I trust you both are being productive and have actually gotten things done, rather than just sitting around and idly gossiping like two old women?" An amused remark caused both of the men to whirl around to face the person who'd spoken, and looked incredibly embarrassed when they saw who it was.

Ealdwine stood there with an amused expression on his face, arms crossed as he looked at the two blacksmiths and waited for a response. His underlings quickly uttered apologies and went back to their work without another word, and their absolute and immediate obedience was still something he was getting used to. Glancing around casually, his eyes landed on the newly 'invented' blade, and he asked, "Who came up with this?"

"I did, sir..." Yann volunteered, a nervous, hopeful look appearing on his face as he waited for his superior's feedback.

"Well, it's certainly... different, but not altogether impractical. Have you tested it yet, though? It might be a bit cumbersome to wield."

"No sir; We've not tested it. Would you like us to?"

"Make a few more and go find some idlers in the barracks; see if they can spar with them properly. If they can, you've got a decent design there, and I'll see to it you get some recognition for your efforts," the Forsworn chief half-ordered, walking away with his final comment. Though he enjoyed interacting with his subordinates and seeing what they were doing, he had more pressing matters to deal with at the moment, ones that couldn't be postponed any longer.

The enormous Breton made his way back toward the great hall that served both as his palace and his headquarters with a thoughtful and slightly sour expression on his face as his mind turned to think on more serious matters. He threw the doors open to the hall and barely acknowledged those whom he passed, heading towards one of the smaller and more private rooms in the hall. Passing through a quiet and relatively deserted-looking hallway in the building, he stopped in front of one of the doors, almost hesitating for a moment before he entered the room beyond it. This wasn't his first time being involved in such a meeting, but it wa his first time leading one.  

It was a nice sort of meeting place, nothing too showy, but it was more than large enough for Ealdwine to converse with his advisors. The room was well lit, and adequately furnished for the purposes for which it was being used, with a relatively plain but long table made of stone and dwarven metal and similar chairs set down around it, as well as well-made wall sconces placed strategically across the room, with some smaller tables and chairs scattered around the room. At this moment, most of the chairs around the largest table were filled, though their occupants immediately rose when their leader came into the room, most inclining their heads in a gesture of respect as he made his way to the head of the table. He was aware that, despite his current popularity, he was not above suspicion, and it was likely some associated his rise to power with the King in Rags' demise. Something would have to be done about that, eventually.

The moment Ealdwine sat down, all his advisors hastened to do the same. There was a slight pause before anyone spoke up, an awkward silence that was finally broken by one of the advisors, asking, "I'm sure you've given some thought as to where we should make our next advances, Ealdwine. Might I be so bold as to inquire what your plans are?"

There was barely a pause between the question and the answer, as Ealdwine answered, "We should take Falkreath next."

"Falkreath? No offense meant, sir, but that's precisely where our opposition will expect us to strike next! Not to mention there's almost nothing to gain from there; the Hold there is practically a joke! I propose we hit Whiterun. They're a relatively successful hold and not too far from here, and they've got an incredible amount of resources, and they would give us a sturdy base right in the heart of Skyrim."

"Whiterun does sound like a more logical choice, with all due respect to you, chief," another one of the Forsworn lord's advisors said somewhat timidly.

"And what army would we have to take Whiterun? Falkreath's relatively unprotected, even with the knowledge that we've taken their neighboring Hold, and Whiterun's not only well-fortified but well-guarded. As far as we've come as a force, we're nowhere near prepared to take on such a civilized and stable Hold as Whiterun, and if we strike before they have much more time to prepare their own defenses, we can easily take Falkreath. Besides, their current Jarl could care less about the potential threat we pose to him and his Jarldom; his shortsightedness will be his undoing. The Jarl of Whiterun, on the other hand? It's clear he actually cares about his people, unlike Jarl Siddgeir's general disregard for his, and it's not exactly like Falkreath doesn't have it's resources either. They've got a good amount of lumber, and their position isn't exactly terrible. If we can take Falkreath, and then set up temporary outposts around the ruins of Helgen, not to mention make a few alliances with the right people, then storming Whiterun should be easy," Ealdwine reasoned, his voice rising slightly as he continued to explain himself, "Any other complaints?"

Everyone at the table fell silent for a space, until another person posed a question, "I'm not challenging your reasoning for taking Falkreath first, sir, as a matter of fact I agree with your logic, but I would like to ask what allies we'd be able to find in this land. I don't think most of Skyrim's people or factions would be willing to aid us, and bandits are unpredictable and not to be trusted. So what alliances does that leave us to make?"

"The Silver Hand's not out of the question," Ealdwine responded after a moment of thought.

"The Silver Hand? Aren't they just bandits parading under a half-noble cause?"

"I've heard they're trying to reform themselves, though that might just be a rumor," another one of the advisors added.

"Them? Reform? The werewolf hunting thing's just a cover for their less-than-perfect morals."

"Not to every member in their group, it isn't. And if we can get in touch with the right people, we might have very valuable allies who can help us have a considerably easier time taking Whiterun, when we get to it. And in return we can help them with their lycan hunting, or something of that nature. I'm sure once Whiterun is ours we'll have time for side jobs," Ealdwine replied, seemingly satisfied.

"You forget about the potential allies at rest in this very city," A slightly melodious but clear voice added, and the speaker turned out to be Liasirilas, who stood there with a knowing look on her face.

"Allies at rest? ... Surely you don't mean the draugr-" one of Ealdwine's advisors laughed nervously, but the woman held up a hand, and the man found himself unable to continue.

"Of course not. The very idea of that is ridiculous. I was referring to the still-functioning machinery left behind by those who have long gone from this land, the Dwemer."

"How are those allies? They can't be persuaded or forced to do anything-" this advisor too fell silent under Liasirilas' disapproving and cold stare.

"I wasn't finished. Those that are alert and half-awake are of no use to us, but there are unassembled pieces of Dwemer machinery down there we could use."

"How, exactly?" Ealdwine asked, looking interested.

"I believe one of the inhabitants of the 'old' Markarth specialized in Dwemer ruins and engineering, and, to my knowledge, he's still in the Mines with the other prisoners. His name is Ciençois Vauen, and I think he holds a good deal of knowledge we could use. And I know how to get his... cooperation on this idea of mine."

"Indeed? If that's the case, why don't we have a chat with him...?" Ealdwine gestured to one of the guards stationed by the door and ordered, "Bring this Vauen man here. I wish to speak with him."

The soldiers immediately rushed off to fulfill his demand, and only a few minutes passed before they returned, this time with a prisoner in tow. The man had a defeated yet unbroken look to him, though he kept his head low, his dark brown eyes were smouldering with loathing, an inner flame that seemed unquenchable, and they also glinted with a calculating intelligence that, had the tables been turned, would've been frightening. He wasn't too impressive in size or stature, his sandy hair was disheveled and his skin was coated in a layer of dirt and dust, but it was clear he'd once been a well-respected man.

"Ciençois, is it?" Ealdwine stood and walked over to the prisoner, taking his sweet time to reach the man, "I've been told you have a great amount of experience in working with Dwemer machinery, and that you could possibly assemble and program those automatons to fight for us. Is this, in fact, possible?"

The man stared back at him, defiant and unafraid. "What makes you think I'd tell you anything? I'll go to the grave gladly before I work with the lawless fiends that destroyed my home," he spat, glaring defiantly at the Forsworn chief.

"That so? Is there nothing we can do to change your mind?"

"Short of letting me go, and restoring Markarth to it's former state? You can all rot in Oblivion."

"Indeed?" Ealdwine looked amused, his attention turning to a table at the back of the room. The warlord approached it, picking a mangled leather helm that had lain upon it. The thing had a distinctive design, differentiating itself from the usual fare due to the fact it had been reinforced with some dwemeri metal alloy as opposed to the usual iron or steel. The moment his eyes fell upon it, Ciençois' face went slack, the color draining out of it as he seemed unable to process what he was seeing.

"You didn't..."

"The someone currently 'rotting in Oblivion' isn't one of us."

"Azora... My daughter... She's..." Ciençois began to tremble, but from grief and rage rather than fear. He grit his teeth in an attempt to keep himself composed before continuing, "You bastards. What makes you think I'd ever work with you now, after you've done this?"

"Your wife still lives. My scouts know of her current location, and, should you continue to be uncooperative, it would be no trouble at all to have her dealt with in a similar fashion. So, are you feeling a bit more friendly now?"

The captive mumbled something under his breath before letting out a defeated and quiet, "What other choice do I have?"  

"Smart man. Now, you know a good deal about Dwemer machinery and it's workings, don't you?"

There was a barely perceptible nod from the prisoner. He went on, "Do you know enough to make them from blueprints and spare parts?"

Another nod.

"Good. We'll get you supplies in the near future, and you'll have a place to work on creating automatons - under heavy supervision, of course."

"As a matter of fact, I'll send some of my men on a trip to recover some parts tomorrow, and we'll talk invasion tactics tomorrow afternoon," Ealdwine announced, an unusual look on his face, "Today's council is over. And take him back to the Mine; leave him there until we have the supplies he needs to get to work."

The guards, the prisoner, and the Advisors all took their leave at this, but Liasirilas remained, as if she knew exactly why Ealdwine dismissed the Council so abruptly. Said Forsworn chief turned to face her, a displeased look on his face.

"Was that really necessary?"

"Everything I do is necessary for your success. Do you dare question my methods?" The woman shot back, her eyes flashing slightly.

"I do not mean to upset you, mentor. I just believe killing the man's daughter just to get a reaction is a bit extreme... How did you find her, anyway? ...Did you plan all of this, and not tell me?"

"I don't plan anything, Ealdwine. The threads of Fate speak to me at times, and they spoke to me today, at the assembly. The demise of the prisoner's daughter was written by Chance, as she decided to meddle in something she shouldn't have, and this helmet ended up being sent back here as a spoil of war by the group of soldiers that caught her. Today, as we spoke of allies, everything simply fell into place, and so I said what I was instructed to."

"Right..." Ealdwine responded doubtfully, sounding slightly suspicious, "For someone who has promised to help me bring about an age free of oppression for the Reachmen, your actions are rather... unusual."

"Can I help what I am? I offered you help, and I've brought you this far," Liasirilas hissed, "I've helped you snuff out the lives of your enemies and my sisters and I have weeded out the would-be traitors amongst your men. Without me, you'd still be no one, and the Reachmen would be viewed as a pathetic guerilla force that can't even get organized enough to be more than bandits. And besides, you know that I have your best interests in mind, don't you?" Liasirilas' voice became soft, almost fond-sounding, "Fate has planned great things for you. I only wish to stand at your side as you fulfill Fate's design. And I know you will. But not without my help."

"I... I suppose you're right... You've always been," Ealdwine responded, and the strange woman smiled slightly at this, knowing she'd won, like she knew she would.

There was a stretch of silence before Ealdwine spoke again, asking, "You've also mentioned my sister's important. Why is that? So she can do a few fancy magic tricks, any half-decent mage can do what she can, not to mention she's somehow managed to evade my efforts to meet with her, though I believe that's mostly thanks to her companions. Why is she important to our cause?"

"Fate has revealed to me that she is important, yet the specific reasons why remain hidden from my sight. But the fact that she has powerful allies is a start to uncovering the whole truth. She is not crucial to our goal, but having her on our side would be preferable, and would make things a whole lot easier."

"She has made it very clear that she wants no part of our ranks."

"The men you sent after her were hardly diplomatic. They were mere footsoldiers. Did you honestly expect them to be civil enough to talk things out rather than attack like highwaymen?"

"...I suppose it was a rather bad idea, in hindsight."

"Indeed. I'd recommend sending out another escort, one with a general higher intelligence level than that of a horker, perhaps? You have kept track of her location, haven't you, as she's traveling with the Dragonborn and whatever other random followers they've picked up along the way. That should make her more than easy to track just by word of mouth."

"Obviously. They're headed up the Seven-Thousand Steps, according to numerous sources. Of course, I'm not going to send up a group after them to High Hrothgar; we don't need to be making enemies with the Graybeards, and if things do go sour, we could have a very powerful enemy after us. I figure if we send over a small escort near the bottom or even the middle of the Steps, that will be the best position for them. What do you think?"

"That sounds like the best course of action, for the current situation. As long as you send the right people out there, there's little margin for error."

"Very well, then. I'll see to it that one of the warlords takes out a group of our more tactful men to the Steps, and make sure that a Briarheart goes with them," Ealdwine said with finality, turning to leave.

He stopped suddenly as a different thought struck him, and he added, "What should I tell my men to do if she doesn't decides to respond with violence?"

"Simple. Tell them to kill her if she responds aggressively. Sister or not, if she proves an enemy, she dies."

"I -very well. It will be as you say."

With that, the newly-made Forsworn chief made his way out of the great hall, moving more slowly and thoughtfully than usual.

Liasirilas took her leave as well, the corner of one of her lips curling in an unpleasant smile as she made her way back out into the daylight.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Bet you guys weren't expecting that, were you? And feel free to throw all the theories you'd like at me about Lia (gosh that abbreviation of her name makes her sound friendly what am I doing), though I won't confirm/deny any of them. All I can say is the Company has a lot of bad stuff to look forward too. :D

Also, this chapter is ridiculously long. I wanted to fit everything in this chapter and not drag it out through two, so it ended up being very long. I don't even know how many pages this is anymore. It'll probably be the longest chapter in Mage, possibly even longer than the ending I have planned.

And Ciençois. I am so proud of that self-made-up name you don't even know.

Oh, and a quick notice: This might be my last chapter for awhile (because finals), but I will try to post something for Companion because it's considerably 'lighter' at the moment and just generally easier to write for someone with very little free time on their hands. But I will promise that as soon as I get done with finals, Mage will be updated like crazy. I'll have way too much time on my hands during the summer, which I think is fantastic. 

~~~~

QUESTIONS:

 Question (Asked by S, I believe... WP's glitching out, so I'm more or less doing this question from memory. T-T to the entire Company): On a scale of 1-10, how annoying do you think your fellow companions are?

Answer (By the Company): 

 - Helvia: I don't think Helgír's annoying. He's a bit too serious at times, but not obnoxious. So I'd say he's an one or two in that regard... Nightbrook on the other hand... He has to keep up that mysterious act of his, which is annoying. So I'd say he's about a six. 

 - Helgír: I'd rate Helvia at about a three, and 'Nightbrook' at a seven or eight. I don't think I need to explain why.

 - Nightbrook: How annoying do I think the others are? *laughs* ... I'd say I'm probably the most "annoying" of the group, so obviously my ratings for the others are going to be relatively low. I'd rate both about a three, Helvia for her slight nosiness - though I can't blame her, and Helgír for his incredibly biased view on people with my occupation.

Question (Asked by ydok23 for Nightbrook): Are you part of the Thieves Guild?

Answer (By Nightbrook): 'Fraid not. Sorry to disappoint you. Their guildmaster and I really aren't on the best of terms...

Question (Asked by ydok23 for the Company): Do you believe in the Divines? If so, which one and why?

Answer (By the Company):

 - Helvia: I guess I believe in them... I'm actually not all that religious, though.

 - Helgír: Of course I do. Akatosh and Talos especially, because of obvious reasons. 

 - Nightbrook: Not really. Daedra, on the other hand? That's a different story.

~~~~

If anyone has any more questions for anyone in Mage, feel free to ask them! Heck, ask that one random Markarth guard Helvia talked to in Ch. 3 something. Seriously. Ask anyone.

Well, as always, please do leave a vote and/or comment if you enjoyed the chapter, and see you next time! Good adventuring, dear readers!

-AA