---

"Listen up, you pitiful bunch of skeever shits!" Dumhuvud Cat-Kicker shouted. His voice boomed across the clearing. The Nordic man stood on a wooden crate, clad head to toe in steel armor and an axe draped off his belt. He was an intimidating sight, though also not a likable one. Fifty mercenaries gathered in the camp's center, where tents surrounded them in a semi circle and several dying campfires still blinked their last embers. These people hated Dumhuvud, and getting called by him this late in midnight was not particularly helping. When Dumhuvud began speaking, not many listened.

"Shut up! Hear out Ashav out!." Dumhuvud bellowed. At the mention of their leader, more and more stopped their chatters. They turned their heads to the front, where an Redguard man now replaced Dumhuvud from the crate.

"As you all have known," Ashav announced. He struggled to make his speech loud, but it simply could not. His throat was tense, and the damaged vocal cords inside could not manage more than a raspy growl. Fortunately, a good sum of his audience halted their noises. Their faces anxious and worried as their ears carefully took in each word. A moment of gathering such as this was rare, actually, there was only one instance where the entire camps assembled in one place.

"The enemy entrenched themselves across the valley to the north." He pointed behind him. Immediately rear of Ashav was the command tent, its large red fabric wide enough to house several bulls. And much further beyond lies the valley, where the muddy waters of a shallow creek snaked through a mile and half of dense brush. "Now, despite our efforts to patrol the roads, the Forsworns could still harass the convoys."

"We are going put an end to that." Quickly as order came, it broke down again. Murmurs spread across the crowd. They knew what Ashav meant. The Forsworns had to be cleared out of their redoubt, sooner or later. There were those who hoped that they could wait long enough for the Dragonborn's army to do their dirty work. That moment couldn't come soon enough.

"Silence!" Came Dumhuvud's bark. His eyebrows formed into a "V" and forehead caked with frustrated wrinkles. His right hand balled into a fist, which was brought in front of his reddening face.

"Every one of you will be up in the frontline." Ashav continued, seemingly nonchalant to his enraged battlemaster. "So if you haven't got any weapon or armor, now is the time to get some." He nodded to Edith, and she nodded back. Bright-Wings worked all day for this moment. While they do not have a forge in this camp, Edith scavenged used equipment from passing soldiers, with whatever tools she had, made most of them usable. Their stockpile was mostly iron and raw hide, mismatched blades and armor pieces not exactly fit for an army. For many though, it would be better than nothing.

"Before," Ashav rubbed his throat. Talking loud bothered him like it had for many years, but he blinked it away as he always had. He could not, and would not show discomfort in front of these men and women; it would be bad for morale, no one took orders from someone incapable of giving them. "-before we get to the formations. Daelin needs three extra scouts, any volunteers?"

The crowd fell eerily silent. Couple of mercenaries looked at each other, shaking their heads in knowing that volunteering meant testing the Forsworns defense with their lives. After a few seconds passed, one hand shot up above the rest; it was the golden skin of an Altmer.

"Me." Keegan gulped.

---

Three hours ago...

Even separated by a tent, Keegan could hear the Dunmer journalist scribbling away. Maduras had a habit of pressing his quill too hard, and wrote rather, audibly. Considering how rough Maduras' parchments were, writing with force seemed somewhat necessary. Those who were forced to sleep near Maduras were not very impressed. The journalist would write well into the night, and the noise consisted not only of quill scratching paper, but also shuffling bags, clunking mugs and other audio cues best not to be mentioned. Downtime was difficult for the mercenaries, and not exactly easy for Keegan either. Some mercenaries occupied themselves by hunting, organizing supplies, sparing with each other and generally stayed usefull. Others, the more introvert types, would favor isolation. Keegan himself was both to some extents, and he was a bit jealous of Maduras; the journalist had plenty of tasks to keep himself busy, and also no anxiety for upcoming patrols. Actually, Maduras did accompany several patrols. "Taking field notes", the Dunmer said, no one was sure what notes he took.

When Keegan emerged from his tent, Maduras was sitting beside a campfire. Magnus, from which light and magicka descended upon Mundus, was at its last perch before setting for the night. Campfire and torches were now essential for vision, and the face of Madura's interviewee reflected orange fire-hue. Words that Maduras recorded was spoken by Daelin, who had a dagger in one hand and a sharpening stone in another. Akin to Daelin's bow and armor, his dagger was of the same make. The basis was common Nordic materials; leather and steel. But it had an unmistakable Bosmer motif to it. Minor decorations in animal bones attached to wherever they do not hinder function, they were nondescript but no keen eyes could pass them.

"So you have heard of the rebellion," Maduras said. He flipped through pages of his notes.

"I have, but it was no concern to me." Daelin responded. What rebellion were they talking about? Keegan was curious, so he stood just out of their sight, where he could hear but not see.

"You are a Bosmer, does the plight of your homeland not trouble you?"

"I was raised in Skyrim, Valenwood is no more my home than Morrowind is yours."

"But your ancestors call-"

"I don't see how that is relevant," Daelin clearly wanted no more questions, he could be heard moving from his place and sheathing his dagger. "If you'll excuse me, this interview is over."

Daelin was coming this way. Quickly, Keegan opened his satchel and pretended to dig through it. Keegan could feel Daelin walking by and casting a suspicious glance his way. He really shouldn't have eavesdropped, but the news of conflict in Valenwood peaked his interest. It meant that the Dominion was at war again, their own oppressive governorship backfired just as it did in Elsweyr.

Thoughts of the Dominion were far away, and Keegan had be grounded on what's at hand. The night was starless, another cloudy day so typical for the Reach. A thick fog had blanketed the valley that separated them and the enemy. The camp was bustling, and the last patrol had just finished their two mile trek from the road. It wasn't certain whether they engaged the enemy or not. The valley remained a great unknown to him, but it was obviously the Forsworn's home turf. Just this morning, Keegan participated in the first of five outings. He saw a pair of Forsworn fighters, but just as they appeared in a moment's notice, they were gone the next. Point was, not many were certain of what await them out there. Plus, visual clues from the returning parties weren't reliable. Since the mercenaries had few opportunities to clean their equipment, yesterday's blood would layer on the blood before that. For some barbarous folks, displaying the enemy's remains stroked their egos like no other. Keegan could never get used to that; he liked his outfit pristine.

"Did you see anything?" Keegan asked the red-haired Nord man as he passed. His name was Jorwen, someone remarkable for his heavy red hair. There were a couple of others with them; Sadri, Tennant and Lucex. That should be the last party out this day, and Keegan suppose they'll be out early tomorrow to ensure the Forsworn did not place any traps.

After hearing Jorwen's reply, Keegan nodded and continued to the command tent. Inside, Ashav was standing before a map, with Edith and Dumhuvud discussing something. Clearly, matters of importance were being considered. For one, Keegan always wanted to keep himself informed, however, after the run-in with Daelin, he wasn't sure whether listening in secret was a good idea. So the Altmer settled with parking himself directly outside of the tents entrance. That way, if they didn't want any onlookers, they would have shooed him away.

"That convoy yesterday was the third." Dumhuvud said. Why was this Nordic man always frowning?

"They should have posted extra guards." Edith replied.

"No guards can prevent the witchmen's tricks!"

"Then they need to take a different route, at different times."

"No, Dumhuvud is right." Ashav's low growl finally came over the rest. He picked up a letter and placed it over the map. It bore the seal of the Dragonborn. "They want us to act."

"Act? You can't possibly think about attacking the redoubt." Edith exclaimed. She swiped up the letter and dropped it with shock after reading it. She paced several steps back and forth, before finally pointing to the map. "It'll be suicide, they know this, you know this."

"There are risks," Ashav started. He drew a couple of lines on the map, and placed his hand on one of them. "But if you flank this portion, we can encircle their position. Now, we need-" A loud crash sounded outside their tent. Someone carrying a box full of provisions collided straight with Keegan, bowls smashed against the ground and hot soup burned through Keegan's trousers. It was embarrassing; not only was a fine leg-wear soiled with beef broth, Keegan also produced a rather loud and rather sharp scream for many to hear. After all, he's pretty sure nobody enjoyed being splashed by soup.

"We will finish this later," Ashav waved Edith and Dumhuvud away. Edith made sure to help the provision carrier with his wares, while mumbling about how foolish their plan was. Edith, Keegan noted, always helping when she could and perhaps valued mercenary lives more than she should. Dumhuvud also made sure to do something on his way out, that is to intentionally bump into Keegan. Dumhuvud, Keegan fumed, doesn't his name mean "idiot" in Atmoran?

"Keegan Vasque." Ashav called. He stood with his hands on his hips, his expressions clearly not amused. Normally, his tent flap would be open. Those wanting to address him rarely needed applying. The Redguard man was a straightforward one. In this case, his remark was disdainful sarcasm. "Do you feel the need to get in people's way?"

"No, sorry." Came Keegan's dumbfound apology. He really needed to stop meeting people like this. "I have something to ask, if you don't mind."

"What is it?" Ashav said. Ashav was not in a patient mood, nor that he was ever too patient to start with.

"I want to forward my, uh." Keegan wasn't sure how to phrase this. He had to get it out of his mind, one way or another. Just say it clean, he told himself. "Forward my will if I don't survive."

"Well, never knew you had one." Ashav was partially surprised. "To who? Where?"

"It's here on the back; Auridon, Summerset Isles." Keegan flipped open the satchel and produced an envelope. He hesitated a moment before passing it to Ashav, still questioning whether or not this was the right choice. It had been far too long, despite what his parents forced him to do long ago, they deserve some kind of closure if he falls. Even if they no longer cared, or remembered, or even still existed, Keegan had to do it for his own closure.

"Summerset, you're a long way from home." Ashav mused. He pocketed the letter and massaged his throat.

"Further than you can imagine."

The sun was starting to set, casting fire all about the sky between the dark iron of the clouds. As always in the Reach, the wind was keening, whipping the rough grass around the way Jorwen hated. Even so, he’d been crouching in the grass and moving quiet as a cat in it through two wars and countless odd jobs besides. White-Eye hadn’t moved in what seemed like hours, same with Thrice-Pierced. The only movement was his lips, sending a dark stream of tobacco spit onto the dirt. “Those are Reachmen, alright.” White-Eye handed the spyglass over to Jorwen, “Odd sight. What do you make of ‘em, Red-Bear?”

Jorwen grabbed the spyglass and put it to his eye, squinting into it, looking about the camp the Reachmen’d put up in a clearing near the road. He couldn’t see much through the screen of trees, but he could see that they were Reachmen. Covered in mail and more furs than a puffed-up Thane trying to make himself look like he wasn’t from Morthal or some other backwater town. Some of them were covered blue in tattoos and all of them battle-hardened by the looks of them. “Aye, Reachmen. Think they’re fixing for an ambush on a peddler or maybe one of our supplies coming in from Markarth.” He had to fight the fear from his thoughts that his wife or daughter would be among the next unlucky travelers on the road, but why would they? Jorwen told them to stay behind Markarth’s good walls. As he kept looking his eyes snagged on one and he brought his little circle of vision back onto the one he thought he recognized. “Couldn’t be.” He muttered but with every second his eye stayed on the man, the feeling of recognition came on stronger. “No.” He sighed, just couldn’t be.

“What?” Thrice-Pierced asked, holding his hand out for the spyglass. Still, Jorwen had it to his eye and he was trying to remember where he’d seen the man who’d caught his attention. “What?” Thrice-Pierced asked again, voice getting short and growly.

“What is it?” White-Eye asked, the eyebrow above his blinded grey eye going up in curiosity.

“Nothing. Think we can take them without spilling too much blood? Barely got the number on them but we can surprise them.” Red-Bear said, tossing the spyglass over to Thrice-Pierced.

“You’re the one I hear all them stories about ambushes and raids about. Reckon if you think so, I’m inclined to agree.” That didn’t sit too well on him. He didn’t want lads’ lives all hanging on his say-so. Could be his say-so was what’d get them killed and a family missing a son or sons missing a father.

“Fuckin’ Reach bastards, skin ‘em all and burn their fuckin’ homes.” Thrice-Pierced muttered, face screwed up with scorn as if scowling enough at them would make them all drop dead.

“Well, I think if we can persuade them off their little hill... You know, give them something to think about.” White-Eye said. These were men fixed on doing some dark work come morn and some unfortunate soul cursed with making the mistake of being there would get his throat cut by Reachmen. Needless to say, none of the folk they were spying on needed his doubts.

“Aye, we’ll give ‘em something to think about, alright, the fuckers.” Thrice-Pierced spat. He was one for spitting, was Thrice-Pierced.

“No.” Jorwen shook his head.

Thrice-Pierced had a look like Jorwen had pissed on his boots instead of appealing to reason. But that was folk from Windhelm for you, always fixing to fight. Especially Thrice-Pierced. “How many Nords you think they gutted and ate, huh? You fine with that, Red-Bear? Getting soft, eh?”

“Coming from a man named Thrice-Pierced, you’d think you’d have learned your lesson the first time.” Jorwen grumbled. “Besides, you probably had scores enough to settle with some of them.”

“Difference is, at least they’d be dying right. Ending the feud in the circle, not like whatever the Reachfolk gave them.” He spit again and licked some juice from his lip, “Fuckin’ shame is all.”

“Fixin’ to charge are you?” Thrice-Pierced reared his ugly head White-Eye’s direction, “Maybe we’ll find you a cliff to charge right off of. Until then, I’m taking Red-Bear’s word. Don’t need advice on fighting from a man named Thrice-Pierced.”

“Reckon we’d do more good for Daelin and Ashav to sit pretty right here and keep an eye on them. We only move if they look like they’ve caught the scent of some travelers or some such. Aye?” Jorwen said.

“Aye, Chief.” They both said. He was happy his name still held some weight, at least to the grey-heads and folk who knew what they were about. Not like the fresh-faced new-beards angry about being stuck at the rearguard, not knowing how lucky they were to be far from the front.

“Just a fuckin’ shame is all.” Thrice-Pierced was mumbling as he handed back the spyglass to White-Eye.

“Just go down there, hero.” White-Eye smirked, “We’ll tell your wife you loved this road so much you just had to die for it.”

“Fuck off, White-Eye.” Thrice-Pierced looked away and spat, shaking his head.

“Shit.” White-Eye whispered, all gape-mouthed. “There’s some dumb peddler trying to shave some hours off of a trip.”

“Fucker shouldn’t have been late, then.” Thrice-Pierced spat, hands working into fists, ready to go.

Jorwen whistled something that sounded like any other bird around and out of the grass came a lean, short man. The only thing showing in the shadow of his hood was his dented chin and scarred mouth. “What’s to do, Chief?” He smirked with his missing teeth. Cleftjaw. Quietest man in Skyrim.

“Tell the others to get off their asses. it’ll be weapons, quiet as the wind.” Jorwen said, no excitement to be doing bloody work after all these years.

Cleftjaw nodded, “Right y’are, Chief.” Quick and quiet as a tadpool through water, he disappeared through the tall grass again. “Well? I said weapons.”

At that, White-Eye and Thrice-Pierced brought out their tools, quick and as familiar around them as a tailor with his needle. Their blades were clean as their faces were dirty, Thrice-Pierced held his axe like a lover and his face was as if it was one, all his own. White-Eye was checking the edge of his sword with a thumb, a heavy frown on his face. Steeling his nerves. Jorwen was doing the same, checking his shield over and the seax sheathed at his side. Checked his knives and then his big blade. Satisfied, they looked to each other and started their way towards their camp. “Nice night for it, eh?” Thrice-Pierced said, smiling like a man who’d got just what he wanted on his name-day.

“If you say so, you mad fucker.” White-Eye muttered. Jorwen knew how he felt.

* * *

They’d made it back after a bit of excitement. A few hours away from camp, you’d think it’d be a welcome thing to get a break but fate has a knack for muddying the water all up. Jorwen’s ass hurt and his back ached, didn’t get any type of good feelings after a scrape, especially at this age. All Thrice-Pierced did was nag and whine about the aches in his joints even after getting just what he wanted. Send three old warriors out to do a young man’s job. Probably if they had Cat-Kicker with them it would’ve turned out far differently, but they didn’t, and they were all the better for it. They parted ways with shaken hands and nods, people already pestering him about torn pants or a leaky tent. The camp was all bustle and he was in no mood for any of it after the night he had. All he wanted to do was read his wife’s letters for the hundredth time and get some real sleep. It wasn’t long before a thin-bearded lad scurried up to him and told him they were forming up for some speech in a couple hours.

On his way back to his tent, some Altmer asked him if they’d found anything. Jorwen just shrugged and patted his blade resting on his shoulder, pommel in his palm and point in the air. “Might’ve.” Not better at all for it either. Still had blood on his sleeve. Slowly, the hours passed and he’d read his wife’s letters by candlelight after shooing Maduras off for the hundredth time. Now, he heard people scuffling and running and walking to gather around Ashav and his closest men, and woman. Jorwen fell in with them and listened to what Ashav had to say. Talk of an offensive, he was sure he could hear Thrice-Pierce’s smile widening far enough to rip his cheeks right apart. “Fucking nonsense.” Jorwen’s lip curled in contempt for the plan. Ashav must have been desperate, or hiding stupidity well all this time.

“Right about that.” White-Eye had found a place next to him, shaking his head. Men of his and White-Eye’s experience rarely found themselves rushing to the fight. Always seemed to catch themselves in one. He remembered Aelfgar telling him, what felt like a century ago, that the battle’s never over for folk like them. Told him once you get your palms bloody it’s hard to wash them clean again. He heard them call for volunteers for scouting and a din of hissing whispers went up around. Young lads egging each other on to volunteer, old folk whispering about they wanted nothing to do with scouting. The first to raise his hand was the altmer from before. He looked to White-Eye and the old soldier just shook his head. Maybe he should’ve agreed with White-Eye, but then he got to thinking maybe he’d save a few lives lending his experience to the scouting party, make sure there weren’t any traps, no ambushes.

“Fuck.” His wife had always said he had a knack for being his own worst enemy. Maybe she was right. Slowly, his hand crawled up towards the sky and he swallowed, the words coming up like burning bile, “I’ll be your second man.” And some turned to look at him, maybe wondering what use a giant could be at scouting, others taking solace the Red-Bear would be scouting for them.

Somewhere in the crowd Thrice-Pierced laughed. Ashav nodded, “Good man.”

“Now why’d you go and do a thing like that?” White-Eye murmured, looking at him as if he’d volunteered to have his head hammered down by a smith.

“You know what.” Jorwen’s hand returned to his side and he had a face that looked like he’d stepped waist deep in a pool of shit. “I’ve no fucking idea.”

Utu-ja had just finished oiling his leathers in time for the assembly. He had been busy with night fishing and day hunting for the past week, sleeping for a few hours at dusk and dawn. He was tired but had managed to make some small difference in the expense of feeding so many people, at least enough to earn his pay. That was the least he ever did. This wasn't as forgiving a job as hunting beasts alone. Here he was surrounded by humans, many of them didn't think he was any more than foreign trash. For an argonian in Skyrim there was no room for appearing lazy. It didn't ever seem to matter that he'd never known anywhere else. Everyone in Skyrim saw an argonian and thought they were from Black Marsh. Utu didn't even really know where that was. He hadn't even seen the sky until he was sixteen.

He arrived at the fringes of the assembled crowd and circled until he would be out of sight of the general disapproval of the humans. Only a couple of them saw him. Their flabby lips turned up in the middle into sneers before they looked away. He was well accustomed to avoiding notice in camp, or anywhere else really. Still, there's always a few that look for things they don't like. The trick to avoiding serious trouble here in camp was being noticed just enough by the right people and avoiding the wrong ones. That was one of the reasons why he spent as much time as possible being useful and elsewhere at the same time, helping Edith and Daelin. This scouting mission looked like a good chance to continue a successful trend. Besides, Daelin already knew how good he was with both his eyes and his bow.

Utu stood as erect as his stooped posture would allow, waiting until two others had raised their hands. He wanted to know who else he would have to deal with. The orc was strong enough to hold an enemy at bay. The elf had some magic, likely as not. With him as well they might do a decent job of picking off vulnerable enemies as well as scouting. Besides, he would make sure to bring any information back. There might be a bonus in it for him if he did good enough.

Raising his voice and his hand above the crowd he called out to Ashav in a clear voice. "I will go, sir." Then he lowered his hand.

There was more risk this time but it was still the same as everything else in life. Don't die. Don't fail. Don't lose anyone or anything you might need later. They were simple enough rules. It could be harder to follow them than it was to set them though.

Before the Night Raid
------------------------------

Tennant clenched his fists tight in front of his face. Squinting his eyes and slowing his breathing, he drowned out all the signs of his immediate outdoor surroundings. The howling wind became a mere breeze, the freezing cold became but a frosty tinge, the bright orange sunset turned into a pale haze.

The fighter assumed a Boxing stance, keeping his guard up to such a degree that it covered his already-impaired cycloptic vision, but he nonetheless knew what direction his fists had to take.

He began to count down in his head. 1... 2...

He suddenly burst forth from his guard and struck, with a jab, the overstuffed dust sack he had tied to the rock. The one on the upper left. The impact caused it to effectively explode, releasing a cloud of dust into his vision and forcing him to retreat behind his guard once again.

3... 4... 5...

He burst forth once again, this time ducking to avoid the bulk of the dust cloud, and throwing three punches in quick succession; mid-left, bottom-left, mid-bottom. With each fierce punch, he exploded three more dust sacks, throwing an even bigger cloud of dust onto his body, but he once again shielded his eyes.

6... 7... 8...

Tennant hopped backwards; while this was happening, one of the flour sacks could theoretically have contained a deadly Elsweyri insect, ready to launch itself at him and sink its poisonous fangs into his neck. That would not do. Peering downwards, he saw what looked like a small chunk of Earth. Wasting no time, he turned slightly to his right and stomped it flat. That was the insect that could have killed him. But it had not. His awareness had disallowed it.

9... 10... 11... 12...

But wait! There could be more insects hidden inside another sack. In fact, Tennant was sure one of them... the one slap-bang in the middle... had something solid inside it when he was wrapping them around the rock. It might have been just another bit of Earth, but no chances were to be taken. The large fighter hopped to his right with surprising agility, mirroring his previous position, before once again exposing his eyes to the dust for a mere moment. He ducked and lunged forward with a mighty Cross, aimed slightly upwards and slightly to the left, so as to burst the middle sack in such a way that any deadly insects contained within would fly harmlessly over his head.

"Ugh...ach!"

Though Tennant had already burst the middle sack and covered his eye once more, he practically froze in place once that hacking and coughing noise coming from behind registered in his mind. Somebody had managed to enter his general vicinity while he was preoccupied.. but the question was, who?

Holding up one forearm to shield his eye and keeping his the fist of his other arm reeled back in preparation for a potential defence, he swivelled around on the spot. The sight that greeted him was a rather young Nord, possibly a teenager, dressed in ragged clothing and waving his arms about to clear the clouds of dust Tennant had created with his training.

Tennant relaxed his posture, standing straight and resting his hands on his suspenders. He recognised this cub. He was one of the new fighters at the mercenary camp. One of those that was obviously way in over their head; though from what he understood, the Redguard in charge of the place knew this perfectly well.

"Agh..." The boy finally cleared the dust from his vision, and looked Tennant in the eye... as best he could, anyway. Being an extremely tall, one-eyed man will have that effect.

"Are you Tennant, uh... Ibnaz?" The boy said, nervously.

"Ibnazh." Tennant corrected him with lightning speed. It was a common mistake, a mistake that is corrected so often that it eventually turns from a chore into an automatic response. Tennant barely recognised he'd said it. The frown on his face was meant to convey annoyance at having his exercise interrupted, instead.

"S-sorry." The boy apologised after a pause. He then tried to stand straight in an admirable but transparent attempt to seem authoritative. "Ahem, the Head Scout had picked some names out of a hat and- well, not literally a hat, y'know, just... randomly selected some names for patrol duty. Well, not all of the names, he left out the names of people who'd done it already, and quite a lot of people have done it already, so it's not really much of a, uh, surprise that-"

"Get to the point, cub." Tennant cut in, figuratively and literally, since he also chose that moment to start walking past him. He already knew where this was going.

"Aye. Sorry." The boy apologised again, before seemingly noticing that Tennant was walking away. The boy power-walked to get back in front of him. "You've been picked for a nighttime patrol. Uh... now, I think. You should go to the main gate."

"...I see." Tennant replied, pinching the slightly sweaty bridge of his nose, as if to fire up his senses again; though one could be forgiven for thinking he was taken aback. He angled his view downwards, noticing that the boy was practically quaking in his shoes.

"Tell me, cub, do you really want to be here right now?" He asked, beginning to walk again, untying the now-dusty tunic previously tied around his waist as he did so.

"Um... well, not really..." The boy walked with him again, this time apparently making a conscious effort to walk with 'seriousness' and avoid shaking too much. "...But it's something that's gotta be done, yea? Everyone has to fight these days. I-if you don't fight, you die, simple as that."

"Maybe." Tennant stopped upon reaching an old tree stump where he had placed a cup of lukewarm water, crouching momentarily to pick it up. "...But when you tremble like that, it gives me the sad impression you're going to get yourself killed horribly because you felt the need to prove your manliness by going off to war ten years too early. Think about that."

With that bit of advice, Tennant downed the water in one go, enabling some of it to dribble out of his mouth and on to his chest. Carelessly tossing it towards the boy, he proceeded to slide his thick grey tunic over his large torso.

The boy managed to catch the empty cup. "But I-" He managed to half-heartedly stammer out, but it was ignored. Tennant simply lumbered his way towards the main gate with purpose, taking slow but long strides, and his expression blank.

He may have been confident that he was one of the few people who knew what he was doing, but really, whether he faced victory or defeat, both outcomes would force improvement out of him. All he had to do was take it all in.

Night was coming quick, yet the bustle of the camp almost seemed to intensify. So much chatter and noise, with rowdy demonstrations of skill and heated competition abound. Anything to throw off the shroud of boredom was welcome to these people, and with good reason; sitting on a dingy back road hardly made for a busy time, especially with the job given to the camp, which was to simply observe and nothing else. There was an outlier to the activities, though. Sitting atop a pile of crates near some tents was a hooded man, absentmindedly twiddling with the tassels on the sheath of his shortsword and watching his comrades.

Sagax had never felt quite so out of place before. He had never seen combat and his skills with a blade were weak, contrasting with some of his comrades who ranged from grizzled veteran soldiers to career mercenaries, all with their own tales of glory to tell. He was as green as green could be, and everyone knew it. This made Ashav's decision to admit the man into the group all the more puzzling to Sagax, though he wasn't about to question the decision. This is what he wanted to do, and he was grateful for the opportunity Ashav granted to him.

Setting his shortsword down, leaning it against the bottom crate, Sagax opened his pack and removed a letter he recently received, before he had joined with this company. It was signed by his sister, Piper, but he hadn't been able to read it until now since he had some duties to attend to after he arrived in the camp. Opening it, Sagax began to read over his sister's rough print. Both Sagax and Piper received a rather decent education, but Piper simply refused to "pretty up" her handwriting; she saw it as a waste of time and paper.

"About time you wrote back! I'm sure mother would have been brought to tears of worry if your letter arrived a few minutes later than it did. Oh, and since you asked, aside from being sick with worry, she's completely fine. Her rockjoint finally went away with time and a few doses of medicine.

So, made it to Skyrim, have you? Conflict's thick up there I hear, you should be able to find work with no problem. Just make sure to join up with people who know what they're doing, alright? We want to see you come home eventually. Don't do anything stupid, and no heroics, either!

Things are alright down here. Some people give us dirty looks, but I shoot one right back. Apparently I've grown up to look pretty mean. I'm glad. I ain't "Pretty Piper" any more, and I don't have time for anyone's shit. I'm making good money guarding the local shops; boring though. I'm thinking about joining up with the Imperial Watch. The pay I currently get is nice and all, but it lacks purpose, you know? I know I'll be treated with distrust, but that'll just be part of the challenge. I'll prove our family still cares for the people of the empire, even if they don't much care for us. I wonder what father would think of what we do now?

But I think I'd have taken up enough of your time by the time you read this letter, and mother's calling me down to help with something. Take care, Sagax.

Oh, and Varulae sends her love.

PS. Kidding! Really though, she's glad that you're alright."

Sagax was pleased to hear that everything was fine back home. Piper's musings on joining the Watch surprised him, but he supposed that it was to be expected. She had always wanted to be like her father, completely taken in by Caius's lectures on protecting the empire and serving its people dutifully, and growing up always vying for his approval. The fact that she had not grown bitter and resentful to the very people that scorned her and her family, and instead thought to take it upon herself to serve and protect them was, to Sagax, a testament to her moral character and integrity.

Filing the paper away in his bag, Sagax grabbed his sword and hopped off his perch, wanting to take a small tour of the camp and get a read on his comrades. He saw several people he had met at the signing tables, but they seemed a bit too busy for Sagax to pester. He caught a glance of a provisions carrier collide with an elf outside of the command tent, but saw someone come out to help, so Sagax simply kept walking. Eventually Sagax zoned out, and "toured" the camp about ten more times before coming to his senses after hearing some brute of a man shout above the camp. A gathering was occuring, and the leader wanted everyone.

Sagax made his way to the back of the crowd, out of the way of all the nords who he knew were not very welcoming of new blood. "Sending a boy to do a man's job", and other such things would be muttered as the Imperial passed. He found a comfortable spot out of sight next to a quiet argonian. Ears open, Sagax heard the call for volunteers to join a scouting party. His heart began to race, and his nervousness was positively visible: his legs shook slightly and his face grew stiff. He looked around at the others, secretly hoping that others would throw up their hands. Sagax was relieved to see two hands shoot up almost instantly. The elf he saw earlier, and a nord. A lull occured afterwards, though. The Imperial fought through his fear, and rationalized that his speed would be of great use, and his hand was halfway up when his neighbor raised up his own. Sagax knew enough about him to know that he was extremely skilled with bows. Perhaps it was for the best that he go instead of Sagax. "What would I do with my speed anyway? Run away to leave my comrades to die? Yeah, great skill you got there, Sagax..." he muttered scornfully to himself. He shook his head and turned to the argonian, hand outstretched for a shake. "Good luck, friend."

Dawn

The smell of wet dew filled the dreaming huntress's nose as she slowly awoke to the chill of the morning air, her blanket draped across her shoulders. Opening her eyes, Sevine Varg-t'uk took in her surroundings as she recalled where she was. Still alive, and with the mercenary company under the command of the Dragonborn. She had reached the encampment just days before, and had reacted in surprise upon seeing her old childhood friend amongst the other soldiers, Edith Bright-Wings. The blonde maiden, just a smidge taller than herself, and Sevine had grown up together in Falkreath. She hadn't seen Edith since the war, and couldn't be happier to see her again. However, they hardly had time to exchange a few hellos, before Sevine had gone off on patrol.

The dawn patrol left as soon as the east horizon had begun to turn red, with the sun beginning to slowly rise. Their party consisted of 4 soldiers, Sevine serving as an archer for the group, two men who wielded iron shorts words, and one other man with a bow and war hammer. The early trek down to the main road, then across to an old hunting path had filled her with vigor at the idea of encountering enemies this early on.

The morning sun rose ever higher, shinning precious rays of light upon the world, dispelling the darkness that once belonged to the night. The huntress' blood-colored hair glistened like a dancing fire in the light of the sun as she moved through a field, her bow ready with an arrow notched. Her evergreen eyes scanned their surroundings continuously for any signs of warning or danger. She let her mouth hang open, silent breaths of ghostly vapor escaped from betwixt her lips.

The patrol ended with no reports of seeing their enemies about three hours later, as they returned to the camp. Sevine departed from the group and went to where she had stashed her gear by her bedroll. She knelt in the dirt and rummaged through her leather rucksack, looking for her book, The Black Arrow, Volume 2. She had read the book countless times, as the book bore the signs of wear and tear from being read over, and over again; the pages were thin at the corners, and somewhat smooth, the occasional stain of tea appeared on a page or two, even a note written in charcoal could be found within.

Sitting upon her bedroll, Sevine cracked open her favorite book and began to read it from the beginning. There was never a better time to brush up on her archery skills, or even to read an entertaining tale on such tedious days.

"Sevine Varg-t'uk! I knew I had seen your head of hair about the camp. It's been a while since I have laid mine own eyes upon you. How do you fare? And of your sister too?" Edith asked, she had a whole hearted smile upon her face. Sevine lept to her feet and happily embraced her old friend.

"Aye! I could say the same about you, Edith! Ah, I am well, my sister Liliana, is just married to that boy from town, Lodjolf Thorn-Raker." Sevine released her friend as she took a step back from her.

"You are truly a sight for sore eyes, Sevine. Your father would be proud of what you have become." Edith knew that Agnar had passed away, just years ago.

"Aye, that is true." Her voice faltered, as she went again, for another embrace, hugs were not common-place for Sevine, but in times like these, Sevine would not deny the opportunity for one.

"Let me be on my way, I have some work to finish up, and I'll let you get back to your book." Edith stepped back and patted Sevine emphatically on the shoulder.

"Of course, I'm certain I will see you around camp more, blessings of Mara upon you." Sevine smiled once more as Edith embrace her again, this time departing shortly after.

The hours passed before she spotted a familiar looking man pass by, Jorwen Red-Bear, she wondered where he was going, but continued to read her book. In the back of her mind, Sevine recalled a time during the Civil War, just a few years back, when Jorwen had graciously mended the hem of her dress sleeve. She thanked him repeatedly, but had felt as if she hadn't repaid the generous deed in full.

Nightfall

Jerking awake, the huntress pulled the book she had been reading off her face. She had fallen asleep, and placed the book over her face to block out the light of day. Due to that, Sevine had slept through the rest of the day, and well past the evening, she imagined it to be around midnight, by the blackness of the night sky that hung above her like a velvet curtain sparkling with diamonds that were the stars themselves.

"Listen up, you pitiful bunch of skeever shits!" Thundered Dumhuvud Cat-Kicker, a Nordic man dressed head-to-toe in steel armor, as he stood upon some crates. Sevine rose from her bedroll and moved closer to where the other mercenaries had gathered.

As Dumhuvud called for everyone to pay attention, and hear to Ashav out, Sevine couldn't help but to think back to the Civil War, where she had first lain eyes upon Cat-Kicker, on the battlefields on a few occasions. She still remembered as a fellow comrade explained how he earned his surname, literally kicking a Khajiit to death.

Listening on, Sevine discovered that they would soon be leaving to spring an attack on the redoubt they were watching over the past few days. Instantaneously, her heart beat quickened at the mere thought of an encounter during the night, if they pulled this off right, they would have the element of surprise.

Three people volunteered to be scouts, an Altmer, an Argonian, and Jorwen himself. Grasping at her amulet of Mara, tucked inside her armor, Sevine closed her eyes and offered up a prayer for her fellow comrade, hoping for a safe return, for all of them. She knew that being a scout, they ran the risk of being taken down first by the Forsworn. The rest of them would be heading out in 4 hours to bring on the main attack. Once Ashav finished speaking, Sevine departed to get ready.

She checked every strap on her leather armor, loosened up all of her muscles thru quick exercises, and counted all of her arrows before slinging her quiver across her shoulder, where it lay draped across her back. Checking her bowstring, with a twang of her fingers, Sevine determined it to be satisfactory. Sheathing her war axe at her hip, Sevine stared questionably down at her wooden shield. She had left it behind countless times, and had done just well with her axe and bow, yet Sevine recalled the times where her shield had saved her life from many a sword swing, or arrow shot. Reluctantly, the huntress decided it would be best to bring it with her, just in case she wasn't going to use her bow as much.

‘’Oh, that’s good, keep at it, suck it good…’’ The Mer’s somewhat incoherent mumbling expressed a degree of bliss as his long-time companion’s skill released more and more fluid from his swollen meat, swallowing it all. To an eavesdropper outside the tent, the monologue, accompanied by sucking sounds, could’ve been related to certain sexual acts. The truth, however, was far more disgusting (unless you’re into that sort of thing) – the Dunmer was not on the receiving end of fellatio, but was simply allowing a leech to suck out the blood from the side of his eye. This Dunmer, old compared to most men, was ailing from cataracts, a problem that simply did not fix itself with the usual healing potion or spell. Like the leech, these solutions were only temporary. But at least, the leech’s secretions would stop the clotting in the area for some time, and thus allow for a longer lasting effect than the potions. Plus, it kept the Dunmer from distracting himself with magic.

After the leech dropped upon sucking enough blood, this scarred Dunmer raised himself from his makeshift bedding and looked at the thing. Years ago, when he had been first introduced to this leech, he remembered being quite disgusted. Over time, however, the Dunmer warmed up to this rather intriguing creature, even giving it housing, in the form of a can full of water, and a name. Mora, he called it, named after the Daedric Prince. For all he knew, the Prince’s form was that of writhing tentacles, and this thing did not seem that different than the description. The Dunmer spent about a minute watching the creature’s odd movements, and after deeming it satiated, rubbed some ash on it, taken from his Skooma Pipe, to make it release the blood it had sucked out. After letting it empty, the Dunmer clasped on Mora with two fingers and put back in its small housing.

As always, his eyes felt more in sync after this treatment. He rubbed the bleeding spot with the sleeve of his right arm. The edge of the sleeve had reddened over time thanks to this, but the Dunmer didn’t mind that. He wasn’t paid to look good. In fact, the truth seemed to be quite the opposite. In his current line of work, it seemed that the uglier you looked, the better your impression. And he, thanks to some of his bad decisions, had racked up a good amount of scars on his face. While this caused him to be seen as a rather shady and unattractive type (again, unless you’re into that sort of thing), he was seen as a ‘tough looking sonuvabitch’ by the recruiter, and this meant that he was received with an amount of respect, even amongst the Nords.

His skooma pipe was still warm. He brought the mouthpiece of the pipe to his mouth and took a drag to help ease his mind for the new day. As he let the smoke out through his mouth and nostrils, he couldn’t help but feel relaxed, most likely thanks to the odd properties of moon sugar. His eye was good, the sugar was quality, and his sleep was uninterrupted. He couldn’t think of much better in life. As the fog of the sugar cleared from his head, he took a sip from his flin. He felt the liquid wash his insides with warmth, which provided him with enough energy to finally get up on his feet. After putting on his armor, he slowly squeezed himself out of the tent and threw a gaze at the misty mountains of the Reach. Why they called it the Reach, he had no idea, but certainly it was a nice place to look at. Aside from that quality, there wasn’t much to it. But that was enough for him. He had been in plenty of places that were not accommodating and ugly also.

All around him, the camp was bustling. Men and Mer carrying around crates, shouting, the one note songs of hammers hitting iron and the crisps of campfires far and near seemed to fill the air. He wished to enjoy this moment of commotion going around him as he was relaxed, to feel himself unbound-

‘’Sadri! You’re on patrol duty!’’

Oh fucking shit.

---

The Nords were a hardy and stubborn people – so stubborn in fact that they could defend absolute bullshit as truth just because someone else suggested the opposite. Sadri knew this and simply took a non-confrontational stance in most arguments, but the Nords themselves seemed not to understand, or more likely, they were just too stubborn to change their ways. In a way, he admired that, similar to how he admired a goat climbing up a mountain just because. But to spend time amongst goats was not wise, for any moment they could get pissed and ram you. Then again, Sadri never did pride himself on his smarts.

Thankfully, most of the goats here were too busy with each other right now. Sadri wasn’t even listening to their argument, although he could make out swears flying out like lightning bolts from a Storm Atronach. In his gut was a feeling that warned him for an upcoming fight. And as if on cue, one of the Nords warned the group to arm themselves. Sadri’s right hand went for his broadsword, only to bounce off the hilt. He looked back at his right arm – it wasn’t there. Just a stump made of treated bone. ‘’Oh, yeah,’’ he thought to himself. He often forgot. He pulled it out with his left hand instead. There was no need to entertain anyone with nifty magic right now, and over time, he had gotten used to using it with his left hand as well. Hopefully things wouldn’t get intense enough to make him use his right 'hand'.

Felix aep Caileach was sitting by a fire, sharing it with two tough-looking Nords and one skinny Imperial. His comrades, as he had learnt to call them, were cooking some late night meal and exchanging banter and tales of their adventures. Felix was drinking dark ale from a small wooden mug and trying to nibble a hard rye bread.

"... and then I told them this one joke; what's the difference between a Reachman and a bucket full of shit. 'Nothing', they answered, but then I replied 'Wrong, the bucket of course!'" a tall and brawny Nord named Björn the Bald told Felix and other men by the fireplace. Felix feigned amusement, as he didn't enjoy such jokes, while the others laughed wholeheartedly.

Felix had heard that Björn was a former Stormcloak, born in a farm near Whiterun, and he claimed that he had witnessed one of the Dragonborn's duels with a dragon. Helmi the Hammer, the other Nord by the fireplace, had one day claimed that Björn's story was ridiculous. The men had started to wrestle in the mud, wrestling and punching each other for quite a while, until they both had been exhausted. They had buried their grudges and had become friends quickly.

"Have I told you about this one time when I had to wrestle with a snow troll?" Björn asked. He had drunk some mead and ale, so one couldn't trust everything he said. "You did not do that, I am sure" Helmi said with slighty doubtful tone. "You wouldn't even be here if you had wrestled with a troll."

"Hell I didn't. I wouldn't do that even for thousand coins" Björn said. Another burst of laughter. Felix smiled a little. "But I could have, y'know. Björn the Troll-wrestler, that would be a good name to settle for."

"I think that would make a mighty song" Felix said. He had made few friends in the mercenary company, and he included Björn in them. He laughed easily and shared his experiences and sparred sometimes with Felix, although he wasn't much of an challenge for a veteran Stormcloak soldier.

"You could make one, bard. 'The Song of the Troll-wrestler', and the name of Björn the Bald would always be remembered." Björn took a sip from his waterskin. Björn shook his head. "Damn this water, it's too mild for me!"

Felix' companions continued to exchange crude jokes. How many Khajiits are needed to repair a barrel? Only one, but you have steal it back. A mage, a Thalmor informer and an elf walked into a tavern, and he wanted a drink. It seemed that Björn and Helmi had an infinite number of jokes like these. The other Imperial mostly stayed quiet and laughed with them. Felix hadn't catched his name.

Björn wasn't much older than Felix, but he had lived most of his life in the same farm as where he had been born. Once the fighting with the Reachmen ended, Björn would go back to his family's farm and rebuild it, as it had been razed during the Civil War.

Felix couldn't say the same. He had been forced to leave Leyawiin and his family in fear of Imperial's police, Penitus Oculatus for his part in an illegal protest and in a skirmish with legionnaires. Throughout his escape across Cyrodiil, Felix had felt extreme fear and extreme tiredness, feeling like a hunted animal, finally reaching Skyrim just after the Civil War's start.

For few years, Felix made a living by traveling from town to town from one end of Skyrim to another and singing about Dragonborn and of other heroes, far away from the reach of imperial agents. Now, Felix felt almost safe. He had joined the mercenary company as an act of drunken foolishness, after he had drunken too much of the sweet but strong northern mead. He couldn't remember all the details about that fateful night, but the next morning he had woken up in a wagon full of furs and weapons, sporting a hammering hangover.

Sometime before midnight, Felix had to go to relieve himself to a nearby bush. His piss hissed and steamed when it hit the cold ground. He was shivering, when he had done relieving himself and pulling his trousers up, he decided to go back to his backpack and take a look at his manuscript he a carried. He had been tasked to record and detail the mercenary company's happenings and goings into a book. Felix had named the book as Devils of the Reach. It was a catchy title, and it was also better than his first title, Our War against the Witchmen. At least it sounded better.

While walking to his backpack, Felix was stopped by an assembly of mercenaries that had gathered to hear commander Ashav's speech. He tried to speak loudly, but Felix could spot that he was slightly struggling to get his voice heard. A scouting sortie was ordered, and volunteers were asked to attend an elf called Daelin. A couple had already volunteered, as Felix understood it.

Well, time to write this down and get some sleep, Felix thought.

If today was like the weeks before, Felix would probably be comfortably tucked inside his bedroll. But the tired group was alert right now, if from not excitement then anxiety. For some of the mercenaries, it would be their first battle. Within these new bloods, some would experience their last. If their patrols this week taught them anything, it was that fighting the Forsworn could never be a clean fight. Just routine guard watch could be lethal, there's no tell what kind of casualty a fortified camp could inflict. Fortunately, Daelin and his scouts would do their best to prod for openings.

"Take your pick," Ashav said. He stepped down from the crate so the lead scout could perch on it as a vantage point.

"It'll be Utu-ja, Keegan and uh, Jorwen." After examining the raised hands, Daelin wasn't left with too many choices. He had to pick three from less than ten, and not many of them suitable for the upcoming excursion. The three selected were qualified in their own fields; a warrior, a mage and a marksman. A balanced party is not a specialized one, but they were not were not expecting any specialized engagements. They have only the faintest idea of what to expect, so more talents equate to more ways out of trouble.

"You three and the three scouts from this afternoon, come to my tent after this." Concluded Daelin. He wasted no time freeing up the crate for Ashav. It was kind of absurd for the wooden box to be used as a makeshift stage, not so different from children playing make believe games. Practically, on the other hand, took high priority of wood and carpenters, where skilled woodworkers such as Tennant were busy crafting barricades and shields instead of a proper platform. Keegan himself had a bit of knack for woodworking, but compared to trained hands like the Imperial wrestler, his work paled as a novice. He had the opportunity to browse some of Tennant's handiwork; no doubt about it, Tennant's products echoed the aesthetics of Elsweyr. The Imperial's last name was of Ta'agra origin too, so his Khajiitti styled woodwork must be novelties serving to remind him of his connection to Elsweyr. Speaking of novelties, Ashav himself found strange comfort in this particular crate; it became some sort of lucky charm. Ashav once told onlookers around the campfire, that surviving all those decades tend to foster superstitious beliefs. Whether that be the Daedra or made up nonsense, people like Ashav have to find reason in order to cope with the unknown.

Keegan though, rarely associated his luck with objects. Weapons are weapons, tools are tools, all of which would require living hands to wield them. As an alternative, he found himself obsessed with patterns; the ways objects and people interacted with each other. It was the reason behind his successful (and occasionally, failing) career. Magicka, people and the environment all give out hints when they move and shift. It was how he kept his illusions real during performances, how he outmaneuvered thieves in the back alleys and how he kept his guards up during dangerous patrols; paying attention to patterns. Clearly, the pattern would soon be destruction. Keegan saw it before in Hammerfell, tension before the battle was always the highest, for a single detail in planning could change countless lives during its execution.

"Listen carefully," Ashav announced. He had retook his position on the crate. Towering slightly even above the tallest mercenary, the Redguard had a scroll in one hand while the other held a canteen. Ashav took short pull for the canteen, and wiped several water drops from his chin before talking. "Our attack will commence in four hours, the time known to sailors as nautical twilight. The horizon will be illuminated, but land is still dark without contrasting the sky. Since our opponents have the high ground, we will use lighting to even the odds."

"Now, we'll be divided into two sections; a flanking group and the main assault." Looking down to the scroll at hand, Ashav started to reveal their tactics. "Edith and I handpicked twelve of you for the flank. She and the twelve will attempt to infiltrate an abandoned mining tunnel underneath the redoubt. For the rest, you will follow Dumhuvud up the main path, where you will breach their gate and defeat anyone unwilling to surrender."

"We all know how stubborn these Forsworn could be, and how difficult it is to kick down their wooden planks." Ashav smirked, as if he was hiding an ace during a card game. At this time, the same runner that delivered patrol orders brought forth a disk the size of a dinner plate. It had a shiny metallic surface, with speckles of reflective shard embedded unevenly throughout. At the center of the plate was a hole sized just right for a soul gem.

"This is an arcane charge. It is made to create magical explosions. Stick it on their wall," Flipping the charge around reveals a piece of paper covering adhesive materials. "-place the filled soul gem in this slot and give it ten seconds," The charge was then spun back to its front face. "-and it'll blow a hole big enough for you to crawl through."

"The explosion is channeled to its back, but whoever is placing it should give it a couple of feet from the front." Excitement had simmered down from Ashav's face, where it was replaced the usual grimness. "The wizards from Winterhold shipped five of them to us. There were suppose to be ten but gods know where the other five went."

"Therefore, two charges will be given to each group." Scratching his chin briefly, Ashav continued to talk and held up two fingers. "I'll keep the last one in reserve, in case we need it for other purposes."

Wait, Keegan thought to himself. This arcane weapon is all well and good, but he never saw a soul gem. "Hold a moment," Keegan raised his hand. It was just time for Ashav to take another sip of water; perfect opportunity for questions. "Where are the soul gems? Are they charged?"

Dumhuvud lurched forward from his spot, poised to deliver another shut-up rant. Ashav was fast to answer though, leaving his battlemaster no time. "We have a handful, but they are not yet filled."

"Then how are we-" The murmurs among mercenary mages and Dumhuvud's ear shattering throat clear cut off rest of Keegan's sentence. He never heard someone clear their throat this loud, and Keegan was pretty sure he would tore his neck if he did something like this.

"As I was saying," Ashav briskly waved, he waited only for the crowd to calm before pressing on. Keegan's hand was still raised, but none of the commanders heeded him. "You mages can figure this out. In case you can't, Edith had assembled a makeshift ram."

"Along with ladders and wood axes, their walls should not hold us back." The emphasis was on should. This plan was uncertain and incredibly dangerous. Breaching wooden palisades was one things, but breaching under the Frosworn's relentless arrows and spells was another. From what they heard, the enemy's walls were not at unscalable heights. They stood one to two times over the average human, and its weathered wooden construction provide decent foothold for talented climbers such as Sagax. The axe was probably not used directly against the wall, instead, Ashav must have planned for smaller obstacles and wall debris after they have breached. But what of the ram, how would they even transport it across the valley in the first place?

Keegan was not the only one to ponder that question, as Ashav had noticed the several interrogative glances from the crowd. "The ram is on four wheels and is light enough to be pushed by four men."

"You mean pulled by horses?" Someone shouted.

"No, four of you will push it."

"You are not serious, how could you expect us to push that thing for mile and a half?"

"I am dead serious," Ashav said, his tone exact match for his words; it was stern in every bit. "Animals tend to get snared up in the shrubs, and their noises will give our positions away before it even starts."

"This is suicide! I'm not going-" A young Breton lad, looking not much over his teenage years, began barking right in front of Ashav. Edith sighed, and hung her head down in defeat. Ashav stopped talking, because his speech was drowned out by the lad's high pitched whining. Dumhuvud looked like he was purple, and veins all bunched up on his skin. He was furious, and wasted no time in stepping to the Breton, grabbed him by his collar and threw him flat against the dirt. All around the front, others had dispersed and left a semi-circle around the spectacle.

"Anyone else feeling like useless halfwits can sod off right now," Dumhuvud shouted. He spat, a mouthful of saliva landed right beside the boy. "-without your pay." He added. His face was a shade redder than the lava of Red Mountain, and if he was a Khajiit, the nails of his balled fists would have dug right through the palms. Whether it was restraint, or more likely, the glaring look from Ashav, Cat-Kicker reluctantly returned to his place. He was no less frustrated, but kept his mouth closed for the time being.

"This is your last chance to exit the company," Ashav said. He voice was tired from prolonged voicing and some words became unintelligible. They had been gathered for a while now, time spent arguing here would be better spent preparing for battle. The night was pitch dark and those not prepared were shivering in the frigid winds. So Ashav picked up the pace, it felt like he simply wanted to get this over with. "Leave now if you do not wish to participate, of course, you will leave with no compensation."

"And if you have questions, now is the time to ask." In moments like these, not everyone dared to speak up. Some wanted answers, while others wanted not a minute less of their precious four-hour nap. Either way, Ashav was not in the mood to address every single concern. So after a few exchanges, he dismissed the camp and waved everyone off. The last thing before mercenaries went off on their own was Edith's announcement. The scroll held by Ashav earlier was now in her hand. She was reading off the page as many started to depart.

"With me on the flank are; Sadri, Tennant, Lucex, Jonimir, Relmyna..." Her voice trailed on. Edith wished her friend, Sevine, could be there with her.

---

Immediately after the assembly, Daelin was right back to work in his tent. He had much to prepare. For one, the spyglass used by the patrol earlier was scratched, it wasn't major but it would teach Daelin not to lend precious equipment to Jorwen again. Actually, Jorwen was surprisingly deft for a man of his stature. One would not normally see a skilled tailor behind the thick red hair. But he was just that yesterday, working miracles to mend Daelin's beaten gloves. The patchwork itself wasn't anything intricate, but it did the job. To be honest, Daelin was just glad to have Jorwen along.

While Daelin inspected his supplies and made final notes on his maps, Utu-ja was the first to arrive outside his tent. The Argonian was a familiar sight, one that he worked alongside with in the days before. Utu was a fine shot with the bow, one that even rivaled Daelin's own. But the Argonian was also not one to socialize, which was fine by Daelin. They shouldn't be talking aloud during scouting excursions, and those who did tend to end up with with projectiles buried in their flesh. Still, Daelin remembered forwarding a letter to Utu, he had trusted the Argonian enough to not open or censor it.

"You're here early," Dealin flashed an exhausted grin. A fresh batch of herbal mixture was picked up from a bowl and he started chewing on it. It is going to be a long night, and the traditional herbs would have provide him with the energy to see it through. "You said something about the letter earlier, what can I help with?"

For the minutes before Jorwen and Keegan's arrival, Daelin would be discussing Utu-ja's letter and other topics they felt like sharing.

---

Everywhere else in the camp, Dumhuvud was lowering the morale of everyone he met. First, he bumped into Jorwen and sneered about his facial hair. "Don't you dare touch my cloth again before shaving that bloody rat nest." He ordered, though Dumhuvud never had Jorwen mend a single garment before. Next, he approached Felix and his posse of "friends". Dumhuvud was sure to not miss the opportunity of telling Felix how poor his music sounded. "You play that crap again and all us are going deaf. So stow it." He berated. Then, Dumhuvud strolled by Sadri's tent and groaned about all of Sadri's possessions. "I don't know what you're doing with your pile of junk, but you better watch it or I'll burn every one of them." He jabbed his finger into Sadri's chest. Before ending his "tour", Dumhuvud landed himself near Tennant.

There were carvings, the collection Tennant made in his spare time. The latest one had an outline strangely similar to a camp stool. Dumhuvud frowned, looked like he would be having a conversation regarding stole property. But upon closer inspection, the wood revealed itself the shape of a cat, a cat alike to another he saw before. The frown dropped from Dumhuvud and was replaced by surprise; he left without a word.

Utu-ja was never comfortable with social situations. But, he knew how to fake it when he had to. He only turned his head to look at the source of the voice that had wished him luck when he had heard from Daelin where they were supposed to go. Then he turned and raised a long arm to clap the boy on the shoulder as he passed in a friendly way.

"You'll need it more." He said quietly with a gentle look from his deep brown eyes. The boy would be part of the assault. Scouting parties had the advantage of stealth to reduce their odds of catching enemy arrows. "Don't turn into a quiver." Then he walked on, avoiding notice as before, with his fingers nearly touching the ground. The boy hadn't been rude so Utu had hope that he would survive. There weren't enough nice people.

He swung by his tent and grabbed the rest of his gear and his bow before going to Daelin's tent, still arriving well before the other two volunteers. The tent smelled of herbs and leather and other things that Utu never could seem to recognize. It smelled like Daelin too. The smells always made his nostrils tighten a little to keep from being overwhelmed. Still, it was always a good day when he was here. It meant work and a chance to impress the boss again and make the nords less of a danger to one misshapen argonian.

Utu-ja had been going to just stand by the entrance and wait as he had done before, but Daelin brought up that other matter. Utu had been wondering what was going on when he received that paper. He had looked at it briefly but it was just more ink scratches on paper to him. It was good luck that he had a chance to deal with this before the work started in earnest.

He reached into one of his oiled packs and drew out the letter. He looked thoughtful for a moment before stepping forward and putting it down on Daelin's desk. The letter bothered him a lot. It even bothered him enough to show in subtle twitches of his tail. He had no living family or anyone else who could know where he was. So, how did this letter arrive? Besides, he couldn't read. So, who would send something that he couldn't read?

"Daelin, I can't read and nobody should know I'm here." Utu said simply, holding the letter out for Daelin to take. "If this is for me at all then it needs to be read for me."

The argonian was embarrassed at having to bother one of his bosses with this but the letter was too suspicious to leave alone and he didn't want just anyone to find out what was in it. The whole thing was worrying. Utu's mind had been swimming around in circles, trying to figure out something that could bring him to the attention of somebody who wrote letters. He just couldn't think of anything. His hands were still but his tail had a tension in its movements that betrayed how disquieted he was by this.

@Frizan@gcold

“Do you even think your knees are still up to sneaking?” White-Eye’s wince was poorly masked by a smile that looked twice as uncomfortable at asking the question. Jorwen just looked at him, his knees weren’t a problem a few hours ago, but he was getting old, that was for sure. One pop, or something worse, and they could be spotted, scalped, strung up, skinned, eaten and whatever the hell else the Reachmen did to people who had the unfortunate luck to be in the general vicinity.

“Reckon we’ll find out.” White-Eye kept that wince on his face but it was a telling thing that the smile had dropped off. The old boy shook his head, no doubt having the same thoughts about age and mishaps he was. Damn it, someone had to be encouraging. That someone wasn’t the one who bumped shoulders with him. Bumped shoulders was a generous way of putting it, really. There are few people who could budge Jorwen and Duhmuvud was not one. It’s a widely held gesture that it’s the thought that counts though. Jorwen was too tired to fight anyone who wasn’t trying to stick him with a blade, so he let it pass, albeit with a mumbled, “’Least I stayed on one fucking side in the war.”

A younger Jorwen perhaps would have turned around and smashed his head into itself with his big hands, but youth and its machismo had left him a long while ago. Mumbling was about all he was willing to do, especially because he liked this shirt and getting any more blood on it would be a terrible chore to get out. And Ashav wouldn’t be too happy. “Surprised you let that pass. When I knew you, you would’ve stuck a knife in his head and that big fuck-off sword up his arse.”

“When you saw me last we were young gloryhounds cutting down Reachmen for the sport of it.” Jorwen frowned, not ever wanting to relive those days.

“Strange thing that we’re cutting down Reachmen for pay now. What do you think Aelfgar would think?” White-Eye asked, looking at his nails before chewing on one.

“Probably ask why in all the Princes’ Hells I haven’t retired yet.” They walked past a few lads going at each other with their weapons, getting one last lick of practice in before having to use the things for real. He shook his head, hardly believed he was like them once, hardly believed he was a tailor before that. Life takes you down some strange paths though.

“I’ll leave you to ponder that one by yourself for now. See you on the other side, eh?” White-Eye slapped him on the back and he nodded. He hoped they saw each other on the other side. Alive, preferably. Out of nowhere, Cleftjaw fell in step with him. He had to double-take and flinch before realizing who it was.

“Nice night for it.” Cleftjaw said. “At least that’s what Thrice-Pierced told me. Wonder why I even hang around you lot.”

“My winning charm?” Jorwen smiled, “Make sure White-Eye and Thrice-Pierced make it out alive. And you, young’n.” Jorwen said.

“Aye, I will. Been doing it since the first patrol I had with you three.” He smiled and slapped Jorwen on the shoulder, “I’ll see you on the other side, Chief.”

“Good luck.” He nodded to the younger lad.

“Won’t need it.” He winked back before disappearing into a crowd in that eerie way he had a knack for. How a man could do that so easily was beyond him. He shook his head as he finished his trek back to his tent and found Keegan sitting at one of the fires. A welcome face, if not one he knew for very long. Or at all, beyond a few glimpses around camp.

“Care if an old soldier sets himself down here?” He asked, with as friendly a smile he could put on.

Hillside Camp

Between Markarth and Karthwasten

8:00 PM, 26, Mid Year 4E 205

Jonimir was seen sitting on a chair, in a guard post that was facing North-West, out of the camp. Cold air blew across, as he simply observed the environment in-front of him, of Skyrim. Skyrim by many was considered a harsh land, and Jonimir knew of it. He always wondered how could you farm and manage to sustain corps in the unforgiving lands of Skyrim.

Over the past few weeks, he has been keeping a low profile from the Synod. The Synod are college of magic based in the Imperial City. Ever since the public displeasure over the Mages Guild happened after the fabled Oblivion Crisis the college was split into two different cells, the Synod and the College of Whispers. Both preach and teach the same knowledge, however there agendas and goals differ. It’s funny for some of the mages that a merger hasn’t been purposed for a while, despite them disliking the same things. Things of the nature of Necromancy, Daedric Worship and other acts not considered holy or worthy to the public eye. But yet one thing was clear, even to outsiders in both of the guilds, a power struggle. The Synod and College of Whispers want to be considered the best by the Elder Council. Various short hand tactics were often employed to ensure that both colleges get the best research digs, students and even often the best government jobs to investigative sites of interest. Weather these tactics involve the usual backstabbing of sources, to making people disappear both colleges always wanted that upper hand on the other, no matter the cost.

Over the two decades Jonimir spent at the Synod, he enjoyed them to an extent. The knowledge and teaching was some of the best, and helped further his craft and his magical knowledge. But on the other hand the issue of the Synod power hungry leadership and unwillingness to at times consider various theories on fringearts like Necromancy often cast a shadow of doubt in Jonimir’s head. Thus, his joining of the Blue Blood Mages due to his desire to explore a new frontier in his magical career, these fringearts. . In Redguard culture, Necromancy is shunned and utterly considered inhumane, and for the most part all other cultures and races agree with this. However necromancy also has some more humane uses, in the art of soul trapping. Soul Trapping by scholars is considered a part of the school of Conjuration however loosely connected with Necromancy. Yet any commoner would easily mistake the art of soul trapping for necromancy, mainly due to unlawfully taking someone’s soul and placing in to a gem. However the thing that most people in Jonimir’s eye’s don’t understand is that soul trapping is one way to enchant goods, some enchantments even providing great benefits to soldiers and at times, to common folk.

Jonimir finished up his soup and his mead, before taking a nap, he prefers to man the guard post at night since their is a strong possibility the Synod could send a agent in the mist of the darkness to the camp.

11:00 PM

Jonimir woke up, after taking a quick nap of 2 and a half hours length. The noise of a major congregation arriving awoke Jonimir before he looked to the group, surrounding Ashav. Jonimir moved towards the group, sticking to the back of the group. After listening to the conversation for a brief moment, he made his way towards Edith with his hood up. “If you're leading the flanking, sign me up” Jonimir said. Before Edith could reply back with a statement, Jonimir went towards his usual spot, of eating his favorite bowl of chicken soup.

The dark of the night gave way to a vast, expanse of stars, that appeared endless, and infinite. Sevine sat seated on her bedroll, her head tipped skywards as her eyes scanned the heavens in admiration. She found beauty, and peace everywhere within nature; to Sevine, that is where she felt most at home. Out of habit, Sevine reached up and began unbraiding the long coil of her hair pinned atop her head. The blood-coloured strands fell free from their prison, and hung down her back in crimped waves. She pulled the top portion of her hair back, removing the longer strands of hair that would get in her way during the battle to come, and separated two more portions, gathering up her hair from each ear to the split in her hairline, and began to braid her hair again, this time in a tighter, fresher braid that wouldn't come loose in the heat of the fighting.

Rising from her seated position, Sevine went in search of Edith. She knew the quartermaster would be heading out with them to join the fight. The striking blonde had occupied herself with adding the final layers of her armor on before Sevine greeted her happily.

"There you are! Are you getting ready to go with us?" Inquired the huntress, placing a hand upon her hip with a lop-sided grin plastered on her face.

"Aye, you know I'm leading the flank, to infiltrate that abandoned mining tunnel?" Edith glanced up in surprise, happy to see her friend visiting her before battle.

"That I do, and I wish you the best of luck. Is there anything I can do to help out on the way up?" Offered Sevine with heart-felt sincerity.

"Hm. There, we need help with pushing the ram I built, and we need help carrying the ladders to the attack. Care to help with any of those?" In truth, Edith cared not if Sevine helped, she knew how strong the huntress was, and the countless times where Sevine carried her kill over her very shoulders with ease. There was not a doubt in her mind that Sevine could perform the needed tasks.

"Certainly, I can help push your battering ram." So saying, Sevine thrust her hand out to Edith. The quartermaster shook her hand firmly, the same grin on her face that Sevine had.

"We should be leaving here shortly, in the next hours to come. I would suggest you get ready to go, make sure your arrows are straight, the feathers not frayed, and your blade sharp." Replies Edith, with that Sevine merely nodded.

"Talos guide you and keep you, and Mara love you always." Sevine called out as she strode away, waving goodbye to her friend.

On her way back to her bedroll, Sevine spotted a young Breton woman in the camp that she had not noticed before. The woman she spotted had a curious pair of a cerulean-blue eyes, with curled ebony tresses; at first, Sevine couldn't help but stare at her in confusion. Surely the woman wasn't a warrior of any sort, she certainly didn't look the part. Perhaps the young woman was a cook? Or an apprentice of some type? Sevine decided it would be best to say hello instead of gawking at her like a newfoundling.

"Hello there, you're new to the camp aren't you? I haven't seen you around here in the days before." Sevine flashed her a wide, friendly smile as she extended her hand towards the woman.

Sagax paced nervously near his tent, contemplating the coming battle. He would be a part of the frontal assault, with all eyes, and arrows, directed at him. He had never been a part of open combat before, the most opponents he has ever faced that weren't rodents is two, when his father and Piper sparred with him to practice fighting multiple opponents at once. One on one combat was incredibly different from the future siege he would be taking part in, that much he knew. Sagax wondered how he would act during the battle, and ran different scenarios in his head. He could simply run...but what company would take him after such cowardice? Perhaps he could scale the walls? Though if his comrades couldn't keep them distracted, the Forsworn manning the walls would shoot him down with haste. If he COULD get up there though, and the soldiers were distracted, he could get some quick and clean kills. Sagax would much rather the latter happen. But then what if he couldn't find it in him to take a life? That second of hesitation could mean his death. Sagax put his hands to his head and exhaled slowly. Maybe it was better to just not think about it, and deal with the issues as they came. It would do no good to discourage himself before the fighting even began, it would turn all of the bad scenarios in his head into self-fulfilling prophecies.

Taking his seat on the pile of crates once again, Sagax stared up into the night sky, attempting to calm his nerves. He tuned out the jabbering of his comrades and focused on the sounds of the animals nearby, and the crackling of the fire next to him. The biting wind of Skyrim hit him constantly. Instead of taking cover, Sagax detached his hood and stuffed it into his bag, letting the gales whip past him. The sounds of the chilling winds flying by him helped Sagax calm his mind, leaving only his thoughts of home and his mission. This battle would be the starting point on his path to great fame and glory, and ultimately the freeing of Caius. This replaced Sagax's fear with confidence. Well, most of his fear anyway. There was still that nagging feeling in the back of his head telling him to quit and go home, but he paid no mind to it. He instead clasped his hands together and stared at the countless stars in the sky. "Sweet Mara, give me the strength to see this through. For the sake of my father, my mother, and my dear sister..."

Sadri, like most of the other mercenaries, hated Dumhvuud’s guts. Bastard just had to go around and put people off, right? He would get back at him, but unfortunately, he was in a mercenary group, and had a contract to uphold. And said contract kept him from accidentally stabbing him during the thick of combat, from conveniently forgetting the guy about to stab him, and from accidentally burning his tent down or from accidentally pissing all over his bed while he was away and burning his tent down at night. ‘’Once the job’s done,’’ he thought to himself, trying to calm down his bad side. Sadri did not like the fact that he had principles. Without them, he probably would’ve been in a much better position. He envied people who could forget their oaths. He also absolutely hated them. Such is obsession – like having a crush on that girl who rejected you.

But Sadri had much bigger problems. Ashav had chosen him alongside others to be part of the flanking group in the assault that was to come in about four hours. His group was to go through an abandoned tunnel – obviously cramped quarters. He had fought in cramped quarters before, back when he was in Valenwood, and by Anu, he had hated every single second of it. Swinging anything would be almost impossible, and then there was the fact that the damn thing could come down on you. As if Ashav had wanted this to happen, his group was armed with magical charges. He wasn’t actively bothered, his professionalism was too strong to let that happen, but nonetheless, tunnel rat duty was one duty he didn’t like.

At least he wouldn’t have to push that ram prepared for the Forsworn defenses, and he decided to console himself with that. Sure, caves were shitty, but having to push that thing was probably even shittier. ‘’Enough pondering,’’ he said to himself. He had preparation to do for the upcoming attack. Perhaps talk with some of his to-be-comrades about tactics. Perhaps offer them some flin to better their relationship. They had four hours. Sadri felt like he had to do something, and for once, smoking his pipe to spend time didn't come off as very productive.

He went over his belongings to better prepare for the upcoming attack. His padded coat, while flexible, was too bulky, and he didn’t want it in the way in case they had to spelunk. ‘’I should remove it before we go, and put on the rest,’’ he made a mental note, and hoped that the rest of his armor could protect him. Sadri knew he’d be pissed off if he lost another arm. The damn prosthetic was expensive. You could buy an ebony sword with that amount of Septims, and Sadri would rather not beg his parents for money again. Speaking of his parents, he made a mental note to send them a letter about his life and how he's faring. Ask about their situation. Perhaps tell them he met the Nerevarine. That could lighten their mood.

‘’Where’s that woman when you need her?’’ Sadri left his spot and began walking through the camp, looking for Edith. He could talk tactics, learn details, in other words prepare – and perhaps even get himself some better toys through clever wordplay. Maybe a sword better suited for thrusting, or some chainmail.

"Ah.. good first impressions Roza - late to the fray. That'll gain me some friends." Was the first thought running through the young Breton girl's mind as she exited Ashav's tent. Having arrived to the camp only a few hours ago, she had wasted no time in making her way straight to whomever was in charge. After some false directions, and plenty of laughs in her face, she was told to go to either Ashav, or Dumhuvud - although according to most she had encountered so far, the latter wasn't particularly the most pleasant company.

Especially to a late-comer like herself.

Ashav - a daunting Redguard man - turned out to be grim and somewhat grumpy, but wasn't all that perturbed by her lateness. If anything, he seemed relieved for one extra pair of hands helping out; although he did gave her a dubious look over as she entered his tent. She could hardly blame him - the amount of looks she'd received already told her that the majority of people here looked far more... well, quite simply more than her.

Once they had discussed quite briefly where her talents lay, he had told her she would be joining the other archers. He didn't go into any particular detail about the plan, nor who the other archers were or where to find them. However, she was hardly one to complain - deciding that, as per usual, she could look after herself upon exiting their Camp Leader's tent.

After finding a somewhat quieter corner of the camp, Rozalia threw down her bag and bedroll, and perched on a nearby rock. Sighing heavily, she watched as her warm breath swirled out into a mist before her, eventually dissipating into the freezing night's air. Unbuckling her cloak, she draped it across her makeshift bed before pulling her bag closer to her - she would be colder without the extra layer, but she'd definitely be better off in the night with it around her. She didn't carry blankets - too much of a burden on an already heavy load for a nimble thief like herself.

"Gods above... what was I thinking about coming here?" Roze muttered to herself as she cast her eyes about the camp. There were some very questionable looking characters that she had passed on her brief walk through the place. Was this really a place for a Thief? No... but for a criminal, she'd definitely go for yes. Not only that, but she hadn't seen any other Bretons as of yet - most likely because of the aims of the mission. The Reachmen they were going in to fight were the same race as herself - now, this didn't particularly bother Roze in the slightest, considering all the sick things the Forsworn were known to do; but she just knew certain close-minded individuals in the camp would draw conclusions to this fact of shared race, and then misjudge her for it.

Deciding to not dwell too much on the fact - but making a mental note to add another damn thing to the list of reasons she needed to watch her back for - Rozalia began digging through her bag for a bite to eat. The road hadn't been a fair one to her - because it was far too dangerous to travel during the night, she had journeyed along during the day, thus making her arrive rather late at night to the camp.
"Ah... if Mother and Father could see me now. Mother would kill me - Da would likely be by my side, making jokes." She thought to herself, the image in her mind bringing forth a light chuckle, and just like that, her mood flipped to a most pleasant one. Although not a usual place for a thief, the battlefield was not a totally alien concept to her. And also...
Hell...
Money is money.
And a thief likes money.

---

After a swift supper - and a slight dipping into of her mead stash - Roze picked herself back up to take another look around the camp; perhaps to find a useful comrade that would tell her what exactly was happening in the next few days. As she wandered around the various tents and groups of people, Roze found that now that was more settled in, the place looked far less foreign. The raucous laughter coming from various tents, accompanied by the clunking of tankards and slosh of liquid gave her a sense of ease, and the braziers and torches lit throughout the place blazed away merrily - yet the light was not yet too bright to affect her view of the sky.

Oh, and what a sky it was. If she could be paid for skygazing, Roza would do it daily. The constellations were always bright - sometimes the twinkling of certain stars would break through even the thickest cloud cover - and the two moons were, as always, luminous and large in the night sky. Even further North, you'd be lucky to see shimmering lights dance across the sky, as if the Gods themselves had brushed a living myriad of colours across the blanket of darkness that lay behind the stars.

Roze's inner musings and contemplation on the beauty of the sky was broken by a sudden introduction. Looking back to the earth, Roze was more than surprised to see someone had actually spoken to her in a non-patronizing manner. A striking woman stood before her - not seeming to be much older, but there was a height and a huntress's look about the redheaded Nord that gave her a somewhat intimidating look. Well... more intimidating than herself, at least.

Seeing both the hand extended in welcome, and the friendly smile, Roze returned them both in kind; a grin that one would assume to be naught but sweet spread across her face, dimples creasing in her cheeks - however, as always, there lay a mischievous glint in her eye.

"You're quite correct - I arrived only a few hours ago. However, after some vague instructions and less-than-vague insults from various people, I'm settling in nicely." Roze returned the handshake with a light chuckle following her sarcastic tone - although hardly one to complain, she was always happy in turning something into a joke. It was always - well... nearly always - a good ice breaker.

"I'm Rozalia Éathliel. If you've heard of me, then I haven't been doing a very good job of Thievery as I assumed I had." She added, again with another chuckle.

"Are you sure this isn't from-" Daelin started question, but stopped when the letter reach his eyes. While he never got to know Utu well as a person, he always suspected Utu was not one with many relatives and friends. But this letter was in no shape or form from a relative; it was serious matter. Though now the complication was how the author of this letter managed not only to locate this outfit, but accurately identify one individual out of fifty. This was bigger than Daelin, and the thought of taking it to Ashav certainly crossed his mind, but he immediately put it off. Before they let anyone else on this, Utu himself needs to choose.

"This information is grave indeed," Daelin concluded, after he read the content to Utu. He returned the paper back inside its envelope and handed it back to Utu. "We should keep this to ourselves, for now. It'll cause quite a ruckus if others to know."

"Utu, I have a lot respect for you and your work." Daelin placed his right hand on the Argonian's shoulder. He looked into Utu eyes, seeing nothing but genuine confusion. It was either Utu-ja played the role very well, or most likely, the letter was indeed unknown to the Argonian. "I would not stop you or tell anyone else about the letter. To be honest, there are merits in their arguments. This individual," Daelin halted when the name nearly came out. They could never be certain of privacy in the camp, so keeping their voice down and omitting the details will better protect against eavesdroppers. "-despite what they done, what they supposedly done, should be given a chance to explain themselves first."

"Whatever you decide on, it would be for the best if you act on it after our mission." Daelin said. The others still have not yet arrived, but then again, Utu was always quick to report to his station. This would be a good time for Utu to respond, to voice his own thoughts on the letter. Daelin's tone, volume and word choice made one point clear; keep it a secret. Receiving details like this particular one tend to make people nervous, Daelin knew, in a way. Getting antsy right now was not exactly helping, since Utu could suffer from both the slip of tongue and slip of foot.

"Here," He took the bowl of herbal mixture from table and extended it to the Argonian. Daelin was positive Utu saw him consuming it several times before, and took hints of not only its energetic properties, but also how it cleared the mind of ambient thoughts. "-this will keep you focused, just chew before you swallow."

---

On the other side of the gathering, Keegan was also fumbling with a bowl of ingredients. The caravans from earlier today had brought replacements they desperately lacked; weapons, food and even living bodies. In the week they had been placed on this hill crest, loss of personnel was slow but continuous. The earlier days were the worst, they had no idea what the Forsworn devised to inflict casualties, now, they've found out with a small stack of corpses. Then again, these unexperinced mercenaries would need to re-learn lessons some paid their lives for. As much as in pained Keegan to think, some of these new blood would need to be spilled before complete understanding is reached.

Looking on the bright side, fresh food tasted fairly decent.

What Keegan did right now was preparing tea, a Breton-styled mint chai so often sold in the cafes of Daggerfall. In front of him lies a campfire, with dried twigs lit aflame by magical sparks. The cast iron kettle was suspended from a wooden stick, which was in turn, was held up by one metal crutch on each side. Underneath Keegan was another piece of wood, a rickety wooden stool that had two rigid legs out of four. This was the position Keegan was in before being called to the assembly. Something around an hour earlier, he had been forced to skip the last course after ingesting a tangy hickory-smoked venison. Without surprise, the appetite was lost by the time that "useless halfwit" begun barking, it remained gone as of now. Dessert was out of the question, so liquid refreshment would have to be the filler.

Not a moment too soon, just as the rusty kettle began steaming, someone else came to join him. It was Jorwen, and he wore a tired but friendly smile. In the distance, Keegan could spot some of Jorwen's patrol-mates, the one that called himself Cleftclaw in particular was walking away.

"No, not at all." Keegan looked up, nodded and tried his best at an equally warm smile. However, he suspected that between the poor visibility and his tired facial muscle, it didn't feel as amiable. Instead, he directed for Jorwen to sit on the ingredient box, since the stool underneath was the only one here. While Jorwen went to sit, or perhaps not, Keegan fetched kettle from its stand.

"Got another mug in the box, if you want some." Keegan added before Jorwen could sit himself. "Brewed from the stuff that came in earlier today." He sniffed the hot vapor exerting from the kettle head, the steam was hot but its scent was crisp cool.

"Brave of you to volunteer, I almost did not." While sipping his drink, and either pouring another for Jorwen or simply setting the kettle back on the makeshift stand. "To be fair, I think I'll have a better chance getting through scouting than actual fighting."

"You're a warrior, though." Keegan mused. Taking another careful sip of the hot liquid, he swirled the minty flavor in his mouth before putting it down and resuming the conversation. "You've been in battles, and whatever happened on that patrol earlier didn't seem to bother you."

"I've seen bloodshed, but still could not stomach being in one." Scratching his head and gazed nervously into the flame, Keegan sighed. Who said scouting doesn't involve fighting, maybe they were sent to fight ahead of the main force. A cold gust blew by, nearing snuffing out the fire and forcing Keegan to shiver. Why did it have to be this cold, in Mid Year, nevertheless. "Not sure how you keep on fighting, but I surely am glad for that, when we're out there."

---

Edith always walked away with a faint grin after conversing with Sevine, and this time was no exception. In a camp of battle-hardened warriors, a familiar face, someone whom she could trust was both welcoming and comforting. The constant presence of Dumhuvud and Ashav was not exactly healthy on her mood, though Daelin was more pleasant to be around. What Edith missed the most were soft beds and warm food. She was like any other Nord, in that the chill rarely bothered her. But she was also like any other living being, human, elves or beastfolks; a cozy home was always superior than a damp and wet tent. The initial excitement of a being a mercenary quickly worn off, and as much of a novelty it seemed now, Edith was beginning to ponder on her retirement. Maybe, just maybe, she'll leave after a few more contracts. Find a stable job in the city or some quiet village...

For the night ahead, Edith had a job to do. With the last piece of armor fastened, she decided to tie up her blond strands similar to how Sevine wore her scarlet ones. If she was more of a "lady", as her aunt once lectured, she would be deliberating on more elaborate hairdos with Sevine. But she's not, aunt and uncle be damned, and she thoroughly enjoyed the benefit of not spending hours on her hair. Not a fashion expert doesn't mean she won't appreciate practical ways to dress, in fact, she's quite fond of this hairstyle.

After that, she sought out several members of party and ensured they were properly equipped. She wanted to visit Jonimir first, to solicit ways for charging soul gems. Arcane arts was not her forte, so she settled on distributing her smithed goods as priority. Halfway through, she stumbled near Tennant. As always, the Imperial man did not bother to gear up with weapon or armor. Edith heard stories about this seven feet tall fighter, who supposedly killed Forsworns with his bare hands.

"As much as I respect your abilities." Edith said to Tennant, in a matter-of-fact rather than patronizing tone. "Some armor would do you no harm."

"You know, in case danger cannot be avoided." She wasted no time offering a leather jack, or perhaps a set of steel chain mail stored in her tent. Of course, she expected the latter to be rejected. Slowing him down, Edith heard Tennant say before. A giant of a man like this one doesn't appear the speedy type, but then again, he supposedly sneaked up on a troll. Full of surprises, Tennant dwarves Edith not only in height, but in is tall tales as well.

"Surely someone else would appreciate a good set of metal," Edith mumbled to herself; how about Sadri?

Like Tennant, Sadri was no less curious. He talked like an elf of books but also bears the scar of brutal clashes. Not to mention, many would grimace in disgust after hearing the slew of "sounds" coming out of his tent. Still, in the few times Edith listened to the Dunmer, she found his tales no less amusing then Tennant's. Learning the history of fellow mercenaries was something Edith thoroughly enjoyed, and as a result, she would like to see most of them survive the upcoming fray.

"Greetings," She hailed. Putting on the air of a saleswoman that she learned from her aunt, Edith gave a knowing smirk. "Seems like you could use ten pounds of steel."

---

Lastly, a troublemaker such as Dumhuvud would never pass the opportunity to roast some fresh meat. Fortunately for him and unfortunately for Roze, the right situation was just at hand. Upon seeing the newly arrived Breton, Dumhuvud made a beeline towards her like an eagle diving to snatch gophers, shoving Sevine aside while on his way.

"Well well, look what we have here." His jaw twisted into the signature sneer well-despised by all. He cracked his armored knuckles and looked down at Roze, both figuratively and literally. "Someone's little girl got lost in this part of the woods, heh?" Without giving Roze a second to breath, he took another step forward and sharply shoved her shoulder away. "What's the matter? Are you trying to swindle us? Do you think we are playing some kind of game here?"

Jorwen nodded, appreciating the effort that went into the lad’s smile. Though, lad was a relative term when it came to mer-folk. They look like a newbeard but have enough years behind them to be your father. He’d never seen tea before, didn’t even know what it was. He’d heard it was similar to a potion but without all the fuss. He’d heard the folk down in Hammerfell and High Rock to the east were fond of the stuff, but why a man would go through the effort of putting leaves and roots in water to make it taste different if it at least wasn’t going to close a wound was beyond him. He took the offered cup anyways and while listening to Keegan voice his nerve a little, which was always good to do for some before the battle was on, he peered at the liquid inside the cup. Just looked like dirty water to him. But, he was here to foster some trust and camaraderie. Time comes, might keep them together and save a life. Might save his. He took a sip and found it wasn’t all bad and nodded at the cup. “I’ve a lifetime of battles behind me. Fought in the great war, helped Ulfric break the Reachmen at Markarth and then helped him push out the Empire, all the good that did us in the end.” He snorted. “You won’t hear anyone else say it, but if we get through this without having to fight, I’ll be a happy man. I’ve fought at night, fought in the day, been on both sides of what we’re about to do to these Reachfolk. I can’t say I’m happy about Ashav’s decision but he’s Chief, commander, whatever the folk in Cyrodiil or wherever else call him, he’s in charge. Chief gives you a task, you do it, and you do it all the way.”

He shrugged, “Anyhow, we all know what’s coming, no use talking about it. I will ask you where you came from though, and what makes an elf like you sign on to a company like this.” He took another sip of the tea, “Not bad, by the way.”

Utu-ja watched Daelin's face as he read the letter, first to himself and then aloud for Utu's ears. It was as strange as he had feared. He continued to listen to his superior's thoughts and the worry in his voice without speaking. The confusion in his expression was growing stronger, slowly drifting toward an absurd kind of bemusement as he thought back on what he had heard, over and over again.

Utu heard Daelin speak of respect for his work. That respect was something that Utu had earned. It had not been easy. He was not inclined to throw it away for such a dubious offer. The problem now was how to deal with the letter. Daelin was nervous about it and clearly wanted it kept quiet for now. They had a battle to fight. Distractions kill. As a hunter, Utu knew that better than some. In fact, depending on what Daelin wanted done on this scouting job, he might be using that little fact to silence a few Foresworn bows before they got to sing a single note.

The incredulous confusion of Utu's expression finally broke with the offer of Daelin's chewing herbs. He took a pinch and chewed slowly, breathing the scent deep into his lungs and exhaling out his nostrils. It was invigorating, though mild. It was also relaxing. He found hidden tightness flowing out of his muscles and his tail stopped twitching. He took his time before swallowing. With his mouth empty it was time to respond.

Utu let out a low chuckle, soft and cold. "My first breath was Skyrim's air and Skyrim's dust. I think my last should be the same." The look in his eyes was clear. His decision seemed made, though the offer was still lingering in the back of his mind. "Thanks for reading it for me and for the herbs and advice."

That was all he said before crouching in the corner of the tent with a shake of his head and setting himself to checking his armor and bowstring. There was no sign of problems. He had taken good care of them. His dagger could be a little sharper but the tip was fine. Still, it was something to do. He pulled a small piece of oiled leather out from under one of his bracers and began polishing the dagger's long blade. If Daelin wanted to talk more that was fine but Utu knew that in the end it would be his actions that would decide whether he accepted the job or not. Things can change after all and loose lips could kill too.

@gcold

Depending on the individual, first time experiencing the concoctions of the Forenya Bosmeri varied greatly. Once Daelin allowed a boy in Riften to have a bite, and the end result was more than five-hundred Septims of property damage. The polar opposite was not unheard of either, for some felt absolutely nothing after ingesting the herbs. Utu-ja was somewhere in the middle, and it sort of speaks for Daelin's growing alchemical proficiency.

If the mixture did indeed clear Utu's mind, then his decision was made. Just as he said, Daelin would respect it either way. Though he did notice the Argonian's tail ceased to twitch, which meant that a weight was lifted off his shoulder, or something like that. Quite frankly, Daelin would never understand the role tails played with the beastfolks. Tsleeixth did the same, so it must be significant.

"Of course." He acknowledged as Utu positioned himself out of the way. Just as they had finished, the trio of scouts from the noon party appeared on the anterior of his tent. Daelin nodded at Utu-ja, seeing him back to work again, and walked out while leaving the bowl with remaining herbs for the Argonian.

"Ah, finally. You have the spade?" He could heard faintly outside, talking to the scouts. "Good, can't tell you how many snares we dug out with that."

---

While Jorwen talked, Keegan split his attention on the fire and studying the Nord's face. There were surprisingly amounts of similarities between the fire and Jorwen's expressions. Besides both being colored in fierce red, both were also tired but still burned with lingering vigor. "Fought in the Great War, you say?" Keegan noted with a cock of his head. Taking several large swigs of tea and feeling the warmth spread to his extremities.

"Glad you enjoyed it, the tea, of course." Between Jorwen's words, Keegan had drained most of his cup. So when the Nord finished talking, he reached to the kettle again, pouring himself only halfway full and presented the extra to Jorwen.

"You know, I also saw a few battles during the War, in Hammerfell." Keegan didn't exactly tell too many people of this particular part of his past. Well, since Jorwen tried to open up and asked him the same, he might as well have to; damned Nords and their honesty. "Not as a soldier though. I was young and foolish then; quarreled with my family on Auridon and managed to stowaway on a naval vessel."

"Next thing I knew, I was snagged up as a prisoner of war." Keegan continued. Back then, he was probably of similar age as Jorwen. But human tend to live fast and die young, while Keegan looked physically indifferent from the young man two decades prior, Jorwen most likely underwent significant metamorphosis, for better or worse. Appearance up front can be deceiving though, as Keegan doubt he encountered any less of what life could offer. "But here I am, and it looks like my fortune didn't improve much in between. But I presume you aren't the lucky one either, or anyone else here is, for that matter."

"Anyways, sounds like an interview here with that Maduras fellow." Somehow, Maduras was just coming their way at this moment. Keegan sighed, the last thing they needed right now was another interview. "And speak of the daedra."

"We should report in, figure Daelin's waiting on us." He suggested and also led the way to Daelin's tent. In transit though, they came by Dumhuvud harassing a new recruit, a sadly familiar scene for Keegan. "Here goes that ruffian again." Speaking to Jorwen, Keegan pointed to the harassed party, a young Breton woman looking utterly out of her place. "Someone should do something, for her sake."