The map was unfolding on all the surface of the table, spreading before the inquiring eye a detailed narrative of the on-going war. The Pact was winning. In two months now The Pact was holding that throne in Cyrodiil for the benefit of an entire alliance, nay the whole of Tamriel. Or perhaps just a handful of greedy officials knowing how to squeeze the best out of this war.

No matter. Dara was among those few capable of understanding the benefits of a war, both financially as well as scholarly. So many corpses, as many capabilities for studying and understanding of nature itself. As many strange and new alchemical compounds capable of producing stronger and newer poisons, and then ... the war itself. So many willing laboratory subjects offering themselves for the testing. The shadow of a smile crossed her lips at this fleeting thought, while her finger pointed on a red location on the map.

- Bruma. If you want your main troops to hold Dragon you will want a small force despatched to Bruma. The scouts reports disclosed an imminent attack that way!

The other general bowed and whispered a few orders to the two dunmers waiting right behind him. Quick footsteps broke the following silence as the two motioned towards the door, while another voice followed Dara's:

- What about Drakelowe? Cropsford has been claimed by the enemy in the early hours of the morning. I say a greater danger awaits that keep, we should focus south.

Soon after that statement several voices mingled in, the map was turned this way and that, as each and everyone of those present had an opinion, and a solution for that matter. They weren't appointed Generals for no reason! And the Pact, as proven by the latest state of things, had the best generals of them all!

Dara remained silent. Her eyes were trailing from the map towards the envelope on the table, a little note or perhaps a whole letter sealed with the Academy's stamp, and brought in moments before that war- meeting. The weekly meeting between the (ever changing) generals of The Pact. That never ending pit of thoughts and ideas loudly expressed in tones steadily going towards a decrescendo brought by the tiredness each battle puts on an active participant regardless of its outcome. Last time she was in such a meeting she witnessed a nord throwing a whole bottle of mead towards the head of an argonian. They held Arrius that week, and successfully so. The nord however kept complaining about his loss for several days after. It was a good mead.

- Bleakers!, shouted someone, almost like an ominous threat on top of all the other voices.
- Aleswell!
- Harlun!

All names and places mingling with each other as the evening was growing into night and the heat of the debates was growing. Soon drinks were offered and refreshments, brought from some obscure chamber by invisible hands, none took notice of. That's what lower ranks were for. None knew them, none cared enough about them. War was about as selfish a business as any other one beyond. The rich held the power, and the poor were doomed to perish in anonymity. The only exception was that in war even a poor soul could make it high, while the highest could sooner than expected drown in mud. An ever changing balance of things. It was still life, just at a faster pace. What beyond the borders of Cyrodiil took years, if not generations on end to be accomplished, within could be a matter of months or days, or hours even.


Dara looked around her at the heated faces, then back at the map, trying to focus on the matter at hand, but it was futile. The letter seemed to grow bigger by the minute, and all of her thoughts were soon diverted back home. Strange how after all of these years she called The Academy "home". Another smile crossed her lips, and after pointing on a random spot on the map, just by means of showing she is doing "her duty" as one of the newly appointed generals in the ever changing state of things, she slipped the envelope in her pocket and with some cheap excuse none cared for, made an exit towards her quarters.
It was a sweet night. The wind was blowing what clouds were there over the horizon, clearing the sky into tints of ethereal purples and blues over which the two moons reigned majestically. Cyrodiil was truly a blessed land, she thought. In nights like these one could envision the entire land wrapped up in the poetry of pastoral wealth with idyllic bits of life scattered all over it. Good thing Dara was none of the kind. Practical more than romantic, and ruthless even when mistakes were at hand, her own included, she merely stopped by a tree nearby and dispelling the magical seal keeping it all from prying eyes during its travels, ripped the envelope open almost with a roll of her eyes. What did Zinfar want THIS time?

- General Vereys! - a prompt salute came from the shadows while a silhouette passed by.
- Got time to waste on pleasantries, do you, soldier? , she snapped at him.

She had no idea why was she suddenly so annoyed with that salute. She didn't even know the person. But if he addressed her by her title he must of been some lower rank. She didn't even take the time to learn the whole etiquette of war for that matter. Her eyes fell again on the open letter. Yes that must of been it. A whole official epistle portraying the Academy in all of its grandeur written in Zinfar's handwriting... to her. How dare he? What has she done to deserve such an insult? Weren't they on familiar terms? Were not all of her efforts in Cyrodiil a means to support that Academy? House differences? Why those were dismissed between the two of them ever since back in Glenumbra, when first they met. For twenty years they were a living proof that houses can work together for a greater good, even when one of them is a Telvanni.

"Esteemed Professor Dara Vereys of House Hlaalu and honourable Dean of As'Danir Academy"- what happened to "Dear Dara?"

She kept on reading the few elegantly written lines, her brows frowning with every passing word:


We hereby summon your presence at the annual academical meeting of our highly esteemed educational establishment which is to take place at the end of this semester. Due to your specific duties within our ranks, your arrival is expected at no later a time than within a week from the receiving moment of this letter. A time spell has been included in these lines for your convenience, meant to keep track of your travels so that no delay should occur from the above mentioned date. It should activate as soon as you touch the letter.



" Pompous son of a guar!" was the first clear thought Dara had upon concluding the reading of the letter. She threw her eyes over its content again before snapping her fingers, and summoning a small flame watched it all turn into ashes. One week! She had one week to reach Morrowind and find some excuse out of the war!