Reunion: Manus ver Nethersorrow/ Marcus Denton

Perched on the southern tip of the Summerset Isle of Auridon, Vulkhel Guard was a bustling port city after Marcus' own heart. People rushed to and fro on errands, hawked wares and moved great crates of goods into and out of the cavernous holds of merchant ships. And through it all threaded the sensory assault of the ocean upon a man's senses; the cry of gulls and the scent of the ocean. The gritty feel of sand in one's boots and the flavor of a battered and fried fish paired with a chilled Nordic beer.

It was just such a meal that Marcus was enjoying. Having found a shady spot of grass out of the scalding sun, he cradled the cheap paper basket of fish in one hand and leaned back against the twisting trunk of a gnarled tree. For the moment, his shield sat propped up beside him, the sword at his hip left buckled on.

A mer opened a tavern door but a few paces away from where Marcus supped. They looked annoyed and inconvenienced, chased from the tavern by raised voices and drunken shouts.

Then came the shattering glass, and a pair of bodies hit the sand on the other side, intent upon caving faces with fists. The raw meaty sound of blood vessels bursting echoed in those few moments. An Altmer was on the bad end of this pile, on the losing side beneath a very pissed and very familiar looking Nord. This Nord was pulling his punches, but not before beating the Altmer into a bloody mess.

Marcus eyes widened as the window glass exploded outward, a piece of fried fish in his mouth. Quickly, he set aside the meal and reached for his shield, swallowing as he got to his feet. The who didn't matter just then, only the what. And the what was a drunken brawl spilling into the street where it didn't belong. Tightening his grip on the shield straps, he took two quick strides toward the pair and with his shield as a ram, barreled straight into the middle of it to position himself between the Nord and the bloody Altmer.

"Cool it!" he bellowed, his voice projecting authority like he was used to being listened to. The Nord towered head and shoulders above him, but that didn't stop him from giving the big man a shove with his shield. The elf, possibly regretting his position in life, was scrabbling away backward with his ass in the sand, cradling a bloodied nose.

The big Nord was so focused on making sure the Altmer would never look the same in a mirror again that he was blindsided by the Imperial. He grunted as the buckler collided with his ribs and pushed, partially lifting him free of his stance. Even in a blind rage, there was no denying that the Nord had combat training that the Altmer had not.

He sought to grab the edge of the shield and turned his wrath toward the one holding it. The grab held the intention of just straight up strong-arming the shield out of the man’s hand. A fist – that powerfully effective right one of his – balled and was about to turn upon the Imperial. Both actions faltered and immediately halted. Even half-drunk the recognition was a potent one. “General?”

Leather straps strained and Marcus pushed into the grab, keeping within the man's reach and upsetting what leverage he might have for taking that shield. The Nord was a strong man, extremely so, but Marcus had decades of training on him.

"Manus?" the fight went out of his opponent and Marcus had to regain his footing. Shocked into silence, he could do little more than clap a gauntleted hand on the man's arm and pull him close in a brotherly embrace.

Forgotten entirely was the poor Altmer, who took this as his chance to make a clean get away. Hateful glares shot back, vengeful baleful things. He held his bleeding nose and made his getaway, slipping into the alleys he knew better than either of them.

Manus stared at the shorter Imperial in a stunned moment of disbelief. Those ice-blue eyes of his unmistakable. Shirtless, sweaty, sunburnt and stinking of Colovian brandy, the big Nord probably would have stood there a moment longer if not pulled into such an embrace. The motion drew him out of that shock, and he found himself clapping the older man on his back. “Thought you dead, Where the hell you been old man?”

Marcus pulled back, holding the taller man at arm's length to get a good look at him. Lips pursed, frowning into his beard, anyone who didn't know him might mistake the look as one of disapproval. He squeezed Manus' shoulders, blinking back an uncharacteristic show of emotion. "I thought the same of you."

In a smooth motion, he let go of his brother-in-arms and swung his shield up over his shoulder, onto a hook designed to hold the heavy armor on his back. "Everywhere," he answered, "except back to Cyrodiil. The priests found a place in Grahtwood to stay for the time being, and I've been hunting down the thrice-accursed daedra ever since the city fell. Traveled out to Khenarthi's Roost for a time. What about you? What the hell happened to you?" He glanced back at the broken window behind Manus, well aware of the terribly irate barkeep that was about to come out of that door.

Manus met Marcus’ gaze with a short frown that usually followed his more serious thoughts. Sobering ones making it through the haze of liquor in his blood. He met the General’s gaze with his steely blue, many hard thoughts behind them. “Oblivion and back, on the same mission.”

Marcus nodded, accepting the answer and not pressing for details just yet. "Behind you," he said as the barkeeper stormed out of the establishment.

A tall, slender high elf with pale brown hair glanced between the two humans with an expression of mixed anger and disdain, "Which one of you barbarians is going to pay for my window?" he demanded, wiping his hands on a bar towel.

Manus took a quick step to pivot, same as if Marcus warned him someone was coming at him with a blade. Thankfully, it was nothing more deadly than a bar towel, and was not currently being used as a weapon.

The big Nord looked at the shattered window, at the barkeep’s baleful stare, then back at the window again. He frowned heavily, and those strong shoulders deflated a little beneath the dapples of blood drawn by shattering glass. Likely, he still had some embedded in there, but it would take far more than that to slow him down.

He grimaced, and glanced at the General with a hard sigh, “Got nothing left. Just my claymore in there.”

Marcus let out a long breath through his nose. "I am," he said, squaring his shoulders as he stepped forward. He had an air of command, despite being forced to look up at the altmer.

"Who are you?" the elf asked, tucking the bar towel into his waistband and crossing his arms over a narrow chest. He regarded Marcus dubiously.

"General Marcus Denton," the Imperial answered, "Knight of the Circle. I apologize for the damage my officer caused. And I'll make sure he replaces the window, personally." He punctuated the statement with a shallow bow and a look sideways at Manus. "You'll have it in two week's time. That won't be a problem?" Somehow, the question seemed directed at both parties.

"The problem is that it was broken in the first place," the barkeep grumbled, but nodded reluctantly.

The tall Nord wore nothing more than a thread-at-the-knee pair of high-waters. Not a single note of jewelry or otherwise. And a pair of leather bracers which hid his tattoos. What he said was likely true. He frowned to himself when Denton stepped forward to offer a solution.

He looked over at the short Imperial with that same frown, which was his typical expression when the night did not go his direction. “Yeah, maybe my good looks will buy a pickaxe and I can mine… just, yes sir. 2 weeks. Let me get my things.”

With the bar owner satisfied, Marcus sealed the deal with a handshake. The altmer retreated back into his bar, presumably with the intent of finding a broom. "Let's get out of here and get you cleaned up," Marcus said, "Before he changes his mind. I'll wait for you to grab your sword."

The little room Marcus rented was situated above one of the local shops. Not much more than a loft with a bed, the contents were sparse and militaristic in nature. A simple armor stand, a stool, a dresser for his clothes and personal items were the provided amenities. On their way up the stairs, he stopped to grab a pitcher of water from the kitchen.

Manus agreed simply by moving into action and going to get his weapon from just inside the building where he had to check it. He wasted no time.

It also took him less time to catch up with the General’s shorter strides on their way toward his flat. “Not a bad place, you know, considering.” He strapped his weapon’s harness over his bare torso, old stained leather. The grip of the great-sword had even seen better days, but it had also lived in the man’s hands by the look of it.

Marcus was well familiar with that sort of life. Hooking a foot around the stool, he slid it across the floor with a scrape toward Manus. "Take a seat, I'll get you cleaned up. Your back looks like ground-up guar meat."

Manus caught the stool with the edge of his foot as if the pair had choreographed the entire thing. With a grunt the big Nord took a seat on the stool, stepping over it to do so. He leaned forward, elbows upon spread knees and let his hands drape. He glanced over his shoulder to see some of the rolling blood down sunburnt skin. “Seen worse. You know, like week old ground up guar meat. Damnit…"

Marcus snorted. "You're past your expiration date." He set the pitcher down on the dresser top and opened a drawer, pulling out a small first-aid kit. Tiny tongs, bandages, rags and an assortment of herbal remedies heaped into the canvas bag. It was the small steel tongs he was looking for, and a bowl. After gently washing the blood and grit from Manus' upper back and shoulders, he began to pick bits of glass and gravel from the flesh. Each piece rang out in the tin bowl beside him, punctuating the passage of time.

"Could explain your smell then old man."

Beneath the shards of glass and embedded gravel bits, Manus’ skin held scars. Old scars laced across his back, old at least in the fact they had long ago healed over, though they were nothing the man had before the war. His back had been stripped many times by the lash, sometimes far past the skin, and by various implements. He said nothing during this treatment. He stared forward, hard at a knot in the floor rather than try and fill the long silence broken only by his grunts for a particularly painful extraction.

Toward the end there would be no doubt that it hurt, from the rolling blood to the way his muscles twitched when touched.

Marcus noticed; how could he not? He worked carefully, growing more tight-lipped as he reached the end of the damage. The water in the pitcher had long ago turned crimson with Manus' blood. A powdered substance staunched the bleeding and Marcus began applying small uses of restoration magic to the worst lacerations.

"I have bad news," he said in an ominous deadpan. "You're going to live."

He glanced over his shoulder at Marcus and his deadpan delivery. “Hit a man with the bad news first… at least give me some good news?” He kept the discomfort from his voice, but the effort made it a little deeper, a little rougher. “Like you have some more brandy lying about in here or some such thing.”

Marcus smirked. "A little torchbug treacle. You know I don't drink heavy stuff. I'll see what they have downstairs." Out the door of the little one-room loft and down the stairs, he would be gone a few minutes, leaving Manus to poke about the room if he was so inclined.

In addition to the bloodied water on the dresser, there was a small collection of thin books with soft blue binding. A true collection it was, describing the stylistic variations and nuances of the many races of Tamriel. Each book focused on an individual race or culture, though a few individual books within the set were missing.

Marcus came back with a bundle of unbleached fabric and a small bottle of Cyrodilic brandy. He handed both to Manus. "It's a shirt, as big as they carry in the shop downstairs. Pray it fits you."

Manus held one of Marcus’ books open in one hand when he returned, standing near the dresser. He was holding it out, arm extended some distance and peering at the words through squinted eyes to make sense of the words. His far-sightedness had gotten worse.

“I’m sure Arkay has better things to do than mind my shirt size. Thanks.”

Marcus sat down on the edge of the bed, the only other place to sit in the little space that wasn't the floor. He waited until Manus had pulled the cotton shirt down over his head and downed a mouthful of brandy before speaking. "Care to talk about it?" he asked.

Manus clapped the bindings of the book shut between the fingers of the hand that held it. He chucked it down in favor of first, the shirt, second the bottle. The big Nord downed more than one mouthful before he surfaced with a heavy breath, his drinking limited only by the air capacity of his lungs.

“Probably just as much as you do. But if you ask, I won’t lie to you.”

Marcus' elbows rested on his thighs and he hunched over, hands hanging loosely between his knees. "How did you get out of the city?"

“On the back of Asmonx straight into a fool number of ‘em, bellowing a war cry and flashing well-forged steel. Wasn’t about to lay about waiting for them to tear apart our walls and our women. That.. was the last I remembered. Pikes rising up before the charge, arrows flying, talons and teeth and screams, and how many of the damned bastards I cut down before they clawed me from the back of my dying charger.” He set the bottle down harder than intended. “Thought I was dead, and it was welcome. Then... I woke up.”

"I saw the charge fall," Marcus said quietly. "I thought I saw you fall, and that dumb horse of yours. Only seven of us made it fighting our way out, but...did anyone else survive?" He tried to refrain from being too hopeful.

Manus leaned his forearm against the dresser. His fist worked in accordance with his thoughts, as did the muscles of his jawline. “For a time. Took us prisoner. Killed one myself. He begged me to not long in.”

Marcus closed his eyes, clenching his left hand. The news hit him hard. "You know it isn't our place," he began, and let out a ragged breath. "But...I can't say I blame you for the mercy, or that I would have done differently.

"I'm sorry, for what you had to endure."

Manus’ temper flared behind those blue eyes, and for a moment it centered on Marcus when he thought to even begin lecturing him. In that hard breath there was so much anger, pain, bitterness pent up just beneath the surface. Knotted muscle, fist and jaw ready to make a hard argument at a moment’s notice.

But when Marcus thought to apologize, Manus let his gaze drop to the floor again along with a terribly hard breath. He hated that spot on the floor, but it was safer to hate the spot on the floor than it was to hate the man in the room with him. “There were days I hated you for not being there too, living through that with us. Days where hating you was the only reason I made it through. And hated me more for it.”

Marcus frowned. He couldn't look Manus in the eye. "I can accept that," he said, "because you lived. It's selfish, but I would rather you hate me and live, son. Had I known, for even a moment..."

Manus did not balk at being called that. No, if anything it served to help stem that powerful well of emotion that the fighter tried to force down below the tension in his throat. He kept staring at that one spot before he turned his gaze back toward the bottle. Reminded of its existence, he again straightened and took a long drink straight from its mouth.

When he surfaced he seemed a little smaller for such a tremendous fellow, a little more defeated. He also could not look at Marcus. “I know,” he said weakly at first. Then cleared his throat and spoke more clearly. “I know.”

"We fought on the steps until it was certain the city would fall. When we could hold no longer, I ordered a retreat. A few volunteered to remain and hold them off. Berkshire, Tau'jo and Auroseus. I can't imagine they survived." The old general looked pained to admit it. "We left the temple as a full squad of twelve knights, surrounding the priests. By the time we reached the walls, there were only four of us, and a handful of clerics. it was a bloodbath."

Manus drew himself up a little listened with a hard frown. He leaned back against the dresser, folding his arms while still holding the bottle against his thick upper arm. It took him a long moment before he asked the toughest burning question on his mind. “Ancole?” Those blue eyes rose to look at the man who had raised him. Manus was afraid to ask that question.

Marcus' jaw tightened and his previously clenched hand loosened once more. He took a long breath, a ragged one, and his brown eyes blinked rapidly. "I don't know," was all he could say, and the words were somehow all the more disheartening for not knowing. Covering his left hand with his right, he rolled the band on his ring finger between index and thumb.

"I don't know," he said again, quieter so that his voice would not falter. "I wish I knew anything...anything at all."

The frown that set upon Manus’ face said he thought the worst. But Marcus’ words left some small inkling of hope. “There are bound to be other groups of survivors, refugees.”

"She's a unique woman," he said. "I can only hope she escaped the city, made her way into one of the other alliances' territory and found sanctuary. I can't contemplate the alternative. I won't."

“I would help you search for her, even through the ruins of Cyrodiil itself. And when it does to that, General,” Manus paused long enough to make sure he had his attention. “You can still call upon my sword arm.”

Marcus looked up, and seeing the resolve on Manus face was touching. "I would be honored, and grateful."

With a deep breath to clear his head, he rubbed at his face. Thick, calloused fingers smoothed down the short whiskers of his beard. "You're welcome to stay here for as long as you need. But don't expect to come crawling into my bed in the middle of the night if you have a bad dream," he said, a touch of that dry humor returning.

The big Nord managed the same face he used to as a boy when he drew a hard sigh and frowned. "Fine. You'd piss yourself if I told you my nightmares anyway, old man." Then there was a small quirk of smile. "Not like I am bound to get much sleep anyway. I've got to find a way to repair a window without tools. Don't suppose you've got a shed out back I can 'borrow' from?"

Marcus smirked. "Something like that, but it's not much. I have to be able to travel with it all, so it's not the same as having a full shop to work with. If you're up for hunting down supplies this afternoon, we can do that. Otherwise, it'll be early tomorrow." Standing up, Marcus lifted his shield one-handed and hooked it onto the standing armor rack as a quick solution for getting it out of the way. Then he knelt by the bed and from under it dragged a flat wooden box. A few clasps held it shut, and clicked open with a press of Marcus' thumbs upon their pressure plates.

Inside, with each tool in a space just right for it, was a set of implements that included a heavy hammer, leather punches, a chisel, tongs and heat-resistant gloves. There was also a roll of old rags, a bottle of leather oil and some polishing paste. An extremely basic collection with little in the realm of specialty tools, but it was a start. "Here's what I have. It keeps my armor serviceable, which is what I need it for."

Manus took the bottle with him when he drifted over to look down into the tool box. A long drink pressed to his lips before he surfaced with a thoughtful frown. "Could take a spare job or two fixing stuff with it, till I can afford the materials to work with." He grunted. "Damn fool thing to not even have the coin to toss together a sword to sell."

Marcus closed the box once the tools inside seemed to meet with Manus' approval. "I'll be buying the materials, and you can pay me back later, however you see fit. Whether I knew you were in there or not, you're one of mine and I am responsible for the damage." The old man grunted under his breath and slid the tools away again. "Won't be getting it done in two weeks anyway, if you have to take odd jobs to pay for the storm glass." Thicker than the translucent panes found gracing the windows of inland buildings and often colored, the glass used in the seaside city was able to withstand the occasional roaring ocean storm without cracking or shattering. Because of it's durability and the demand for it, storm glass was more costly.

Manus folded his arms. “There you go getting all noble on me again.” He frowned, which was actually his expression for ‘touched’. “Thanks. You know I don’t handle owing people well. Make it up to you.”

He didn't bother arguing against Manus' accusations of nobility; they both knew it was true. Marcus braced his hands on his upper thighs and stood up. There was a momentary stiffness in the motion that belied his years; he wasn't as nimble as he used to be and decades of combat had left their mark. "I know you will." Brushing off his hands, he stretched and the stiffness faded.

“Shoulder again?” Manus asked him; a question he never would have brought up had there been anyone else around. He’d been trained too well to not see such a thing. He also knew the man far too well.

Marcus leveled a flat look at Manus, one that appeared irritated at having to be asked. But in truth, the irritation was at himself. "Yes," he answered curtly and sat down again, his expression softening. He pulled at the buckles of his cuirass in order to remove the armor and put it away. "I'm getting too damn old."

“You know,” he said to that annoyed look, “not every man can take a sword through his shoulder and still lift a shield. Don’t cast yourself into the moth balls yet, I bet you could still out dance most of the youngins out there. I can’t say I am not starting to know the feeling though.”

The armor went onto the rack piece by piece, sometimes clattering against itself with a dull metallic clang. "Outmaneuver, out-fight, and out-last. Arkay hasn't called me to Aetherius yet, though I don't know why." A thought make him chuckle. "You and I, boy, we're too damned stubborn is what we are.

"What were you doing, getting drunk at noon?"

Now it was Manus’ turn to frown for being called out on something. He grunted. “What else does a man do when he’s piss out of luck without a friend in the world and sick of being sea-sick for far too long? Celebrate land, women and booze. That’s what I was doing getting drunk at noon. That and teaching that pissant a thing or two about disrespecting a Nord.”

Marcus shook his head. "What did he say?"

“Damn milk drinker called me short. Me!” Manus grunted and folded his arms.

Marcus blinked once, only once, and chuckled. The chuckle grew into a roaring belly-laugh that forced him to support himself with an arm on the bedpost. "Short..." he muttered between gasps, which started the laughing all over again.

Manus’ frown grew a little more severe for being laughed at, but it couldn’t help but crack a little as he listened to Marcus descend into a full-out belly-laugh. “Heh. Yeah yeah… keep on. I know. Damnit.”

There were tears in Marcus' eyes when he finally caught his breath. "Divines," he sighed, "I needed that. Might use it myself, in the future. Short, ha.

"Your temper cost me my lunch, and this old soldier is still hungry. Let's grab a bite from one of the fish fry stands on the beach and then look into what you need for the window."

Manus grunted and folded his arms, giving the General one of his customary narrow-eyed looks. “You best not take to liking that too much, half-pint.” He just as quickly unfolded his arms at the thought of food and gave a quick nod. “Food would be… great. I don’t think I kept much down over the crossing. Basted boats. I know, love of your life and all that.”