It was cold, and the wind that swept across the islands of Sheogorad cut to the core of trees and men alike. Branches and bones creaked and cracked beneath the frigid chill, wrapped in a blanket of ice and snow in the air that the mainland elves called Mephala’s web.

A little town sat squat in a cove that cut deep into the island, its wooden and stone building wrapped around the coast and built too close together, as if huddling for warmth. There were few docks and fewer ships that could cut through the ice to make port, a very small collection of houses, one inn, and a decrepit labor camp beyond the walls that saw as many prisoners from the south as the jailhouses did.

Most of them were thieves and rabble-rousers doing hard labor to make their time, but when the prisons got full and supplies were low, more dangerous men and women came with them in chains. Seldom few stayed once their service was done.

The End of the World tavern was aptly named to the elves, being the only place to get a drink this far north, but the hearty Nords that lined the benches said the name with a smile and a laugh, well aware that the tavern was merely a blink away from their shivering island that kissed the sky with frosted peaks, and boasted sturdy plants that hugged the ground to keep away from the bitter cold.

Two of them sat across from one another, talking in hushed tones, their frames bent over honey wine in mugs made of horn. The man was Rogar Hrathgor, red haired and stocky, who’d come on the latest boat with news from the west. The woman across from him was tall and blonde, with dusty grey eyes and thick limbs wrapped in leather. She was a regular; a hunter who reset her traps in the morning and slept beside a bottle at night.

“The pay is good, Brega. The numbers are written right there on the paper. 200 gold for any man or woman who signs up to fight for the Pact, and that’s just the beginning. They’ll fit you with your own armor and weapon if you need it, and you get a place to stay.”

“They must be hurting for help if they’re willing to do all that.” Brega sneered into her drink. “I’m doing just fine here; I don’t need any of that ‘yes sir no sir’ *** in my life.”

“Think of the glory, Brega. Think of the battles to be won, and the gold to be made. I’m sure the military isn’t that bad, eh? It isn’t, right?” Rogar leaned to his left, where a quiet Dunmer sat sipping his drink, and nudged him with his elbow.

The elf, with light grey, weather-worn skin and eyes as dark and cold as the harbor, shrugged and shook his head.

“You were a military man, I thought! The Vivec garrison, right? I could have sworn it was you, Nels.”

“Not exactly.” His voice was deep and harsh, worn by time and Hackle-Lo. “Ordinators are Tribunal men, more like guards than soldiers.”

The Nord smiled wide, thick red whiskers stretched across his jaw. “What does it matter! If you were still doing that you wouldn’t be up here, eh? The three of us could sign up tomorrow and be richer for it. Besides, Brega, this might be the only chance you get to see Sovngarde. You’ll live forever if you stay up here.”

Nels finished his drink and slid the mug to the center of the table, leaving the Nord to talk among themselves. 200 gold was a fair price, compared to what he made here. 15 gold a day to scrape barnacles and muscles from the docks was barely enough to survive, and work was not guaranteed. Anyone with hands could do his job, and he’d been undercut by newly released prisoners more than once.

He stood and excused himself, heading toward the door. The nearest recruiter would be on Vvardenfell, and if he was lucky there would be space for him on the next boat to leave in the morning. How far south would they send him? He hadn’t seen the mainland in years, and the thought of traveling through Vivec made him uneasy.

Would anyone there still recognize him? A flash of dark hair danced across his memories; deep red eyes and a coy smile. Soft hands and slender slims, twisted and bloodied, draped across the body of a man he’d recognized—

Nels rubbed his eyes. Vivec was years ago, and if anyone recognized him there, they’d keep their distance to avoid being seen with someone like him. Easy enough.

At the very least, it would be better to die in the south, with the warm wind in his salt grey hair than here in Dagon Fel, where the wind beat against the trees and the ice dragged their branches to the ground.

The gold was a start. The thought of warmer weather helped. Either way, it was time for him to go.