Our adventurers, unknowing of the title just given them, arrive at a prison in the south of Cyrodil. Upon first nightfall, they take each to their cells: a Khajiit, brazen-eyed and bold-figured, the epitome of his kind, stands – or rather – slumps against the bars of his cell, well acquainted with the iron bars now holding him; another Khajiit, attired in the simple vestments of a holy order derived from the nine divines eyes him with contempt, clutching in one paw the symbol of his faith whilst the other makes a feline fist; a Nord, hoary not from age, but from the elements – time and weather, magic and other, less wholesome things – mutters to what appears to be himself, but the discerning eye sees what others do not – the form of a wolf, ethereal and ephemeral, only part here, the remainder of a spirit incorporeal for the time being; and an Argonian, imprisoned for the most obvious of reasons – slavery – and fidgets only now against his bonds, not for freedom, but for the lack of anything else to do.
As these unlikely companions settle in to the confinements of their cells, a din arises from the room above. A guard charges in from the door – the only avenue of escape – and exclaims, as if stupefied, “We’re under attack by Cathay-Raht!” and falls, revealing the arrow protruding from his back. The Nord ceases his muttering and rushed over to the key-ring that clattered over to his cell. Straining, and with what for a moment seems an unnatural reach, he grasps the keys and frees himself.
Eyeing his escape route, and then his fellow prisoners, he glances only for a moment at the Khajiit before handing the keys to the Argonian through the bars of his cell.
“If we have any chance of surviving, it must be as a group,” he says before searching the guard for anything to defend himself. The Argonian frees himself and the others before three Cathay-Raht rush in through the door, clad in animal cloths and with bloodied claws. The Argonian rushes to the guard’s corpse and arms himself with a short sword before the Cathay-Raht descend upon him. The Nord incants a string of indiscernible words before a wolf appears from the depths of Oblivion, ready to rend the throats of the Cathay-Raht. The Khajiit both bare their claws, ready to defend their new-found freedom whatever the cost. In a flurry of fur and scales and steel, the Cathay-Raht are dispatched one by one: here the Argonian splits the heads from the shoulders of one; and here the Khajiit thief disembowels another; and yet here the Argonian, in tandem with the Nord and his otherworldly companion, draws his blade one direction while the wolf draws the blood of the Cathay-Raht from another.
Seeing the path ahead clear, the party glances at one another, relief at the resolution of this scene, distrust at the beginning of the next. Our thief Khajiit trails behind exchanging techniques of organ removal with the Argonian, while the Nord and the monastic Khajiit discuss their current predicament and the wisest course of action up ahead. Upon gaining the entrance of the dungeons, the party spies the brevity of the attack. The northern exit is all but clogged with the fighting and corpses of the prison guard and Cathay-Raht both, and all about them battles rage between newly released prisoners and guards, and prisoner and Cathay-Raht, and all manner of chaotic pairing. Taking refuge in the guard’s barracks, the adventurers arm themselves with various remaining armaments.
After sufficient planning of the path ahead, the party heads towards the southern exit, by this time patrolled by no more than four Cathay-Raht. The group handily defeats them, decked in their newly acquired raiment, and head towards the forest in the south. Before long they make sight of a town and find boarding in the tavern.