Jorwen’s brows went up at the mention of battles in Hammerfell. He hadn’t taken the elf for the type to leap into the fray, soldier or no. At the mention of youth, a soft chuckle squeezed past his smiling lips, “Weren’t we all, eh, young and foolish?” Thoughts bringing him to battles long past, fires long past and different men sitting where Keegan was and more around a fire just like this, all long past. He ever so slightly shook his head and regained his smile before he nodded at Keegan’s reminder of Daelin and the dark work coming, “Reckon we should go.” And he stretched a hand away from the fire for Keegan to lead the way.

As they walked, Keegan pointed out Dumhuvud doing his usual rounds, this time to a petite girl that looked like she had no place in this camp. He was about to bring himself over there and let Dumhuvud know where to stick his axe next and ask where in the hells the girl’s parents were before he saw Sevine there. The Wolf-Tooth wasn’t a woman to take lightly. He found himself smiling at how anger was slowly creeping across Sevine’s face after Dumhuvud had pushed past her. He figured he should at least keep Dumhuvud from getting killed, no matter how much he hated the man. “I’ll be along with you. I won’t be long.” He said, walking to the verbal melee.

Sagax was whipped out of his thoughts by a sudden booming voice from nearby, and all the sounds of the camp returned to him. He was ever so slightly irritated; he was quite enjoying his star-gazing. Scanning the area for the source of the rude interruption brought to his attention a large nordic man, the same one that was shouting above the camp during the big announcement. Apparently he kicked cats. With him were two other people, one Sagax recognized as a woman named Sevine but he didn't know the other one, who was much smaller than both the man and Sevine. The cat kicker was up in the smaller woman's face, yelling about swindling and games or something. Sevine was very clearly not happy with his intrusion. Sagax then took a note of a man who he couldn't really remember the name of...Jibber? Jorbin? No, wait, Jorwen, yes, Jorwen was his name. He didn't really appear to be looking for a fight. Maybe he was going to attempt to intervene and calm things down? It would be most welcome; whatever would get the cat kicker to quit bickering.

Sagax hopped back down from his perch and stretched out. Sitting on hard wooden crates didn't exactly do wonders for one's joints. Deciding that maybe Jorwen would appreciate some assistance if things did get a bit heated, Sagax found a tent nearest the confrontation and hid behind it, head slightly poking out so he could watch the affair. Hell, maybe he'd even get to see that cat kicker get taken down a notch. What kind of person kicks cats, anyway? That's just cruel!

Felix tried to get a few moments of sleep before the attack against the Forsworn redoubt, but although he felt tired, he didn't fall asleep. The camp was stirring, and Felix just listened the voices. Ashav was talking something about magic, but Felix couldn't tell exactly what.

Felix tossed his furs away and rose up to stand, dressing in his clothes and armor. Lastly, Felix picked up his battle-axe. It felt good in his hand, and Felix knew it was something he could trust. He tucked it under his belt, and started to walk towards a fireplace. If he was going to stay awake, he could listen a few more of Helmi and Björn's jokes. They should tell those to that vinegar-pissing Dumhuvud, Felix thought. He could get something more to complain.

But they weren't at the fireplace, and the said fireplace had been reduced to glowing embers. It still gave some warmth, but Felix didn't linger to enjoy it. He wanted to move around, to keep the cold away, to ponder about his future and to think about the attack. Felix took a short walk just outside the camp, and thought how he would survive the attack. Fights are not like in the songs, I fear. He had been in a couple tavern brawls, but mostly only as a spectator or at the receiving end of a Nord's punch. One time someone even had thrown a tomato at him. And he hated tomatoes, especially rotten ones that splashed into his face.

And he had heard some tales from the grizzlier mercenaries that the fight at hand was just a small one, that there wouldn't nothing to worry about... but it was easy for them to say. Felix was as green as grass, and smelled as such.

Felix stopped for a while and listened the sounds of the world. A north wind was blowing. And... nothing else. Sure, the camp was as noisy as all of Oblivion, but the world outside of it was all quiet. The wind blew, but there were no other sounds. It's just your imagination, dear Felix, he thought all by himself. Felix turned around and started to trace his footsteps back.

Pheeeeeeewwwww, he suddenly heard and felt a brush of air next to his ear. Arrow!, a thought ran in his head. He took his axe from his belt, crouched and looked around. The night was dark, and he couldn't spot any movement. But someone was there, that was sure. He started to make his way back to the camp with a faster pace, to warn the others of the Forsworn just outside the camp.

Then Felix heard footsteps behind him. He turned, and spotted a tall man in armour, most likely looted from some caravan, nearing him fast and his sword raised, ready to swing it. Shit, was the first thought Felix had in his head. The Forsworn was just a few feet away, and swung his black sword at Felix. Moving clumsily, Felix hardly dodged the blow aimed at his head, and buried his axe with haste to the belly of his opponent. The axe struck the Forsworn's armour, just slightly scraping it. The Forsworn had corrected his aim and struck Felix with the flat of his sword, and after that strike Felix head felt hazy, and he felt how he slipped into unconsciousness. The last thing he felt was that he was being dragged somewhere.

‘’Funny you said that, I thought I’d have to ask really nicely to get that offer.’’ Sadri smiled, if only for a second, and then leaned on a crate that was about the height of his shoulder. ‘’You will be leading the assault on the Forsworn flank. I wanted to settle on some things before our assault, prepare.’’ Sadri unsheathed his sword and pretended to examine it slowly so that Edith could see it, and deduce its properties. ‘’This here, it’s quite the weighty blade. Suited for lopping heads off.’’ Sadri sheathed it again with a fancy move, and continued. ‘’Eh, I’ll cut to the chase. I don’t think it will do much good in a mining tunnel. Things are bound to be cramped in there, not very good for swinging. I was wondering if you had something better suited for thrusting.’’ Sadri paused. ‘’I was also wondering whether you had a spare chainmail coat, or anything of the sort. I don’t plan to take this inside with me,’’ Sadri patted the collar of his padded coat to attract Edith’s attention to it, and continued. ‘’It’s too bulky. In case we have to do some potholing. The rest of my armor is fine, but I figured that some more would definitely help. Now, I’m afraid I don’t have much money to pay for all I’m asking – so I was wondering if you could simply loan them to me, for just the assault.’’

"What can I say, I read minds." Edith joked, something Ashav would never do. "Not trully, I am not one of them mages from Winterhold. But still, looks like you have a decent weapon already." She commented on the Sadri's weapon. The Dunmer made an elaborate move sheathing it, which elicited a small grin from her. "Though you are correct, it would be less worthy for stabbing." Finally, someone had the common sense of protecting themselves, unlike a certain Imperial brute. She walked around Sadri when he brought attention to his coat. The first impression of it wasn't too bad; it would stop a limited amount of harm. But since no one else wants she steel handiwork, might as well put it to good use rather then letting it rust. "Just cleaned up a set of chain mail earlier, roughly your size but probably going to need tightening around the waist." She pondered, payment in addition to logistics. To be fair, Edith prides herself an honest woman, so after eying the strange gadgets Sadri possessed, she couldn't not find one suitable payment. "You could keep them, but only if you agreed to help me." She started, mind already returning to the arcane charges and glanced at Sadri's hand stump. "You must be familiar with enchantments, yes? How about aiding me in obtaining charged souls gems?"

Sadri considered himself lucky to be offered such a nice and protective gift in his old age (despite being relatively young for a Mer, Sadri considered himself to be old, even though he probably had about two hundred years in front of him so long as he didn’t screw things up), and smirked for a moment, forcing a breath from his nostrils to voice something resembling a laugh. But the Quartermaster’s counteroffer put Sadri in a bad position. He didn’t know how to soul trap. ‘’I guess it’s time to educate this fine lady on how enchanting works,’’ Sadri thought to himself as he stopped leaning and flexed his facial muscles for a second, preparing himself for the talk ahead and thinking of his wording.

‘’I suppose this,’’ Sadri said as he raised his stump and flexed the invisible muscles where his wrist once would have been, ‘’is why you’re asking me to fill up soul gems. I would be willing, though there’s a catch.’’ Sadri scratched his hair with his phantom hand and continued. ‘’You see, you can’t enchant anything without a soul gem, and a soul gem doesn’t work without… well, souls. But the ability to ‘trap souls’, that’s not a part of the school of enchanting. It’s something that Mysticism claims to itself. And the best my magic can do is to cure my headache. I usually buy pre-charged gems and then apply my own enchantments.’’

Sadri didn’t want to shoot down her offer completely, though, so carried on in a lighter note. ‘’I could, of course, look for someone who can actually cast the soul trap spell. And maybe help whoever that is fill those charges of yours.’’ Sadri stopped to think. There was no doubt that there were people more skilled in magic than him. ‘’Maybe that Altmer can do the job. What do you say? Maybe that Redguard could too.’’ He paused again. ‘’Worst case, I could just give you the soul gem for this thing, even though it’d probably fill only one of the charges. I’m used to having just one arm, though I reckon it’d diminish my effectiveness in the upcoming attack.’’ Sadri didn’t actually want those charges primed, as after all, an explosion underground could be very bad business, but he didn’t want to look completely contrarian and lose his chances of getting that hauberk. ‘’Should’ve bought that Redguard plated mail when you had the chance,’’ his grumpier side mused in his mind.

Edith's eyes narrowed at Sadri's explanation of soul gems. Her prior enthusiasm now slightly diminished, and it looks like this is not the spot for what Imperials called "one-stop-shopping". She grumbled under her breath, as much as she had worked through these days, she sincerely hoped they would finally receive the proper supplies they need. But lo and behold, only half of these charges arrived, and arrived without primers. The contemplation that was plain on Sadri's skin changed her mind just enough; one soul gem is not exactly worth losing his magical appendage.

"I see," She nodded, eyes temporarily zoning out as she mulled over what she just heard. “Well, I believe the High Elf, Keegan, is on his way out to scout. I shall visit the Redguard then, wait.” She pointed to Sadri. “We shall visit him. He might need your help.” Having made up her mind, Edith decided on Sadri assisting Jonimir as suitable payment.

Beside official business, she also caught on the Dunmer mumbling to himself. If there was one thing she couldn't stand, that would be her comrades hiding shady worries. “Anything else that concerns you?” Edith inquired, maintaining the most patient tone possible. He better spit it out, she thought to herself, there are still work to be done.

‘’It’s not a concern, I’m just complaining to myself. In the past I had a chance to get a suit of armor, of Redguard make. It was an excellent piece, mail reinforced with steel plates ‘sewn’ into the mail. But I didn’t, and now I have to ask for spare armor. I can’t say I like that,’’ Sadri mused. Perhaps in the future when he had more money, he could stumble across a similar piece in Hammerfell. But Anu knows where life leads you, after all – so Sadri decided not to linger on his past regrets, and ask about something.

‘’Although I am wondering one thing – just how effective are those charges? I’ve seen military mining go very awry in the past because of awry methods, and I don’t think you would want to be buried alive underneath the soil just to get through a simple barrier. I sure don't.’’

“A good set of armor is hard to come by, that much I do know.” Edith concurred and nodded. At the mention of the charges, and their effectiveness, Edith first raised an eyebrow but then turned it down to a sigh. “Ashav assured us that the mages of Winterhold tested them before they were sent. Of course, I think they are much more effective than pickaxes.” Edith said, rubbing her hands together to keep them warm. “Truth be told, I have doubts about the risks too. But I am not an expert on this matter; we shall only see when the time comes.”

“Let's go find Jonimir now,” She nudged to the tent opening. “Perhaps he will know more.”

Wishing to get the coat of chainmail without any problems, Sadri squeezed himself out of the tent opening and walked alongside the quartermaster towards Jonimir's tent, hoping to find the mage and get him to fill some gems.

Farid, it was the Redguard's name. He was young and dexterous, with knives and punches thrown out so fast that even Daelin couldn't keep track of them. He was one of the best in the camp, a fighter of proven might and a team member that closely obeyed orders. Besides him, there were two more scouts, two others that Daelin also approved as his go-to scouts.

“Why is that Argonian in your tent?” There it was again, Farid's cocky attitude made him just short of Daelin's favorite. “Why do we even need extras?”

“Because he,” Daelin explained. In the distance, Keegan Vasque was walking towards them. The three scouts turned one after another, examining the newcomer. Daelin managed some more words before Keegan came in earshot. “and everyone else, all offer unique capabilities.”

“Right,” Farid muttered. He was taking it a bit too far with the whole confidence thing, Daelin was pretty certain. Then again, Farid was also quick to recover. So by the time Keegan came around, the Redguard already shifted to a neutral look.

“You must be Keegan Vasque.” Farid held his hand. “I've heard about you.”

“Sure.” Keegan returned a weak handshake. Did he really? Probably not, there's no way that sounded genuine. “And just what have you heard?”

“Where's the Nord?” Seemingly not even bother to acknowledge Keegan, Farid started on his own. “That crusty redhead, the oaf with a big blade. Not that we needed him.”

“Alright, that's enough.” Daelin cut in, he waved his hand at Farid, signaling for him to shut up. Seriously, youth nowadays and their boisterous energy. “Keegan? Have you seen him?”

“Uh, yes. He's, well, resolving a dispute.” Keegan answered, mostly the truth but also secretly hoping the worst for Dumhuvud. All a sudden, someone dashed in from their side, nearly tripping over some tent pegs. The person was a Nord, not Jorwen but another tough-looking chap that was often seen consorting with the Imperial Bard.

“Excuse me, I have potentially urgent news.” The Nord burst in. He was still catching his breath.

“You don't look like a Jorwen.” Farid commented. The Nord, now slightly recovered from what appeared to be a wild run, held up his arms in disbelief, mouthing seriously? silently.

“Seriously?” Keegan said aloud, clearly directing it at Farid than the Nord. The Redguard might possess a sharper wit than Dumhuvud, but his arrogance certainly is on par, if not exceeding.

“My name is Helmi. My friend, Felix, the Bard, has been gone for the better part of last hour.” Helmi said between gasping breathes. His sleeve was rife with dirt and grime, but Helmi did not care as he smudged it against his sweat drenched forehead. “We need to find him; I should go with you.” He sounded worried.

Farid clearly wanted to spew out some witty retort, but Daelin held up a finger before that. The scout beside him shook their head, and the third one snickered. “Felix, correct? We will search him, but it is the best for you to stay here, in the camp.”

If six people and an Argonian behind the tent wasn't enough, another Dunmer just had to budge it on the perfect time. It was Madura's this time, his pen and writing pad in hand and the ever so awkward helmet sat on his crown. Daelin, Keegan, Helmi and the rest turned again, all casting sharp glances at the interrupting journalist.

“By Azura!” Bumping into Helmi was enough to prop his head up from the pages. Maduras exclaimed. “Sorry about that, is this a bad time?”

“Yes,” Daelin said, impatiently. “Now out with it.”

“Well, I was hoping to accompany you on this excursion.” The Dunmer started, shrinking a bit when the mercenaries' eyes fell upon him.

“Hold on a moment, you are letting him go but not me?” Helmi turned to Daelin, hands on his hip.

“Both of you are not” Daelin returned. “I understand that you are worried, Helmi. But venturing into the valley could just befall worse fate on you, for the more we have in our party, the greater chance we will alert an ambush. We will find Felix, I promise.” He laid his hand on Helmi's should like he did with Utu-ja earlier. Helmi sighed, he drooped his head in resignation before nodding and walking away.

“Jog along, Maduras, shoo.” Farid piped in, mimicking Daelin's impatient tone.

“Actually, Ashav told me I could. Here is the proof,” The journalist pouted like a brat sticking up to his sibling, it was kind of amusing for Keegan. Maduras began fumbling with his satchel, hastily searching for the proof from Ashav. For the third time in minutes, someone else approaches. This one was definitely Jorwen, and looked like he survived Dumhuvud without a mark. For Daelin though, he couldn't help but wonder if they could ever leave before being tied down again. Who knows, the next person coming over could be Ashav, which will mean Daelin has to explain why they were still dallying here instead of doing reconnaissance. Damn Maduras, Daelin didn't have time for this.

“Alright, Maduras. Only if you agree to stay in the middle, keep quiet and do exact I say.” Without wasting time, Daelin waved for Jorwen's attention. After that, he fetched for Utu-ja. Their group of seven is now complete with eight, eight fellows descending into the unlit, uncertain valley.

“You did put the Cat-Kicker in his place, right?” Keegan asked as they methodically hiked down the camp slopes.

Bosmer. Short lads to be sure, but useful with a bow, useful in the thick brush, useful with building. Unless it had to accommodate Jorwen’s great height. He had to duck extra low beneath the mouth of Daelin’s tent, nodding to Daelin as he went through and the Bosmer nodded back. “Well, shit, you’re a damn sight bigger than when I last saw you. You still in your growing years, are you? Why’re we bringing a giant along?” A Redguard with thin, corded muscles flexing under ebony skin said, rolling his shoulders and popping his knuckles as if he was getting ready to get in the circle with Jorwen instead of a briefing.

“Why’re we bringing a child?” Jorwen grumbled back, narrowed eyes settling on the dark-skinned face below.

Maduras snorted with his hand over his mouth in the corner of the tent and even the Redguard himself cracked a smile and nodded at him. Which was good, he was tired of Dumhuvud and his like. Keegan muttered something under his breath just loud enough to be heard as Daelin went over their plans. Jorwen just shrugged, “A man like Dumhuvud is only put in his place when he’s put in the ground. Hopefully he gets on Thrice-Pierced’s nerves. Wake up with a cut throat, only man in Skyrim more prickly than Cat-Kicker.” He only stuck his chin out and nodded towards Daelin to put their attention on who needed it. He’d be damned if he was killed because he missed something in the briefing.

Utu-ja just kept polishing his dagger while the other scouts arrived and Farid farted out his usual breath of human wisdom. The attitude was normal from him. It wasn't that bad, compared to some other humans. At least he kept it to words. The misshapen argonian had long since established his value to Daelin. The opinions of his peers didn't matter so much. But, the air always seemed to sour whenever that mouth of his lolled open.

Keegan's arrival drew a sideways look from Utu but there wasn't much that was different from before. His eyes went back to the dagger. It was almost as polished as his skill could achieve. It would do. He put it in its sheath and turned an impassively reptilian expression on the rest of the assembled scouts and volunteers in time to spot the wildly rushing nord as he burst in.

A nord running through camp wasn't so uncommon, especially when Dumhuvud was in a mood. Though, this time the nord said something odd. Not many nords would say "potentially urgent". This nord must read a lot. People who read a lot used odd words sometimes.

Farid opened his mouth and Utu's nostrils twitched. Whenever he said anything it made everything smell worse. Well, it didn't matter much. People like him usually ended up smelling bad for awhile after thinking too little of something dangerous. At least the stink faded when only bones were left.

At least the rest of the things this running nord said were normal, and didn't make the air stink. But, it was a little silly. The camp wasn't large but there were many, many things that a person could get stuck doing for an hour or two. Running around like a startled rabbit after his friend didn't check-in for not even one hour didn't say good things about the nord's manhood. But, the worst part was that now they had a bard to look for on a scouting job. Bards made noise. It was what they did for a living. They could be quiet sometimes but it was usually on those rare occasions when they weren't drunk enough to snore. Never had Utu seen a bard who was both awake and quiet.

So, Daelin actually approved the search and promised results. At least they didn't have a handicap coming along from the start. It was just when he was entertaining that thought that Maduras bumbled in and proved that counting chickens was a fools pastime, hatched or not. That handicap was coming anyway. It just was painted ink-black instead of lily-white.

Utu took another pinch of the herbs. They didn't seem strong enough anymore.

Finally, Jorwen arrived and Daelin told Maduras his proper place in this job. It was time to get down to business. Utu answered Daelin's wave by standing silently and coming closer. The darkness of the hunt was waiting. He didn't have a strong adventuring spirit but the dark always felt more like home than the day. He would be more comfortable once everyone started trying to be quiet.

Headache was the first word that popped into Felix' head when he started to wake up. His head was pounding, like on a morning after drinking too much Nord Mead. The world was all grey and black, without colours. Felix could hear sounds, a blurry bundle of voices talking, the wind was howling. He was being carried on someone's shoulders, tied and bound like a pig ready to be slaughtered. On his cheek a blood stain had dried, but it seemed that his head was fine.

There were three men, Felix noticed as his vision improved. He couldn't see them clearly in the night, but the stars were alight, and lighted their steps in the hilly terrain. "Carry on, Buttercup, we're almost at our post" one of the Forsworn said. "Soon we could can roast him on the fire and interrogate him about the camp's defence."

"Don't call me that, you know how much I hate that name. Next time I'll throw you down a cliff" the man who had been called the Buttercup grunted. "You don't have to carry a burden."

"Have it then by your way, Conan, but next time, don't miss with the bow. Arrows like the one you missed aren't very common in caravans." The men continued in silence, only grunting and panting while running and walking toward their post, where ever that was.

Felix tried to keep his calm. He wasn't dead yet, and it was quite comfortable to be on someone's shoulders. The man who carried him was a large one, and thick with muscle. It seemed that he could navigate through the hilly terrain as easily as a mountain goat.

Heck Felix, you just keep on running into trouble, but it could be worse, he thought, trying to reassure himself. Just keep the act on and you'll survive this. His legs felt numb, mostly because the rope around his legs were so tight. He didn't dare to move them, fearing that the men noticed he had awoken.

The climbing just went on and on, and the trio stopped only a couple times to catch some breath or to figure out a path. When Felix was thinking that the climbing and running wouldn't end, they halted for good and he was put down. Conan the Buttercup wasn't very gentle at it, and Felix grunted noisily. "Ouch!" he almost howled.

"Oh, the bastard is finally awake. Do you want to wake the whole countryside?" one of the other men asked rhetorically. "Deeds like that often make living men dead."

Act cool. "Well, try yourself being tied and bound for gods know how long, and don't complain" Felix said without much of a thought. He was numb and hurt, and his fast tongue had always been his worst enemy.

"A spiky one, aren't you? A true fighter" the man said, with a voice full of pride and mocking tone. Felix saw that he had a fine steel armour and a black iron sword. His face was hidden in the darkness. "Your handiwork was just bad. Luckily, we needed a captive to be interrogated, and you were the right man at the wrong place. Now, tell us how the camp is defended. How the guards hold watches, start from that. If we like your answers, we might just cut off your legs instead of roasting you alive on a fire. Your choice."

I have no option but to lie, but that's what I was taught to do my entire life. To lie and tell stories. Felix started to talk, telling all kinds of lies and weaved a net like none other. And the Forsworn believed him.

The preludes to reconnaissance missions were always short. After all, if they already had plenty of information to act on, then why would they be out to gather them? Daelin knew this for a fact, as he spent only a few minutes briefing the scouts. Jam packed nearly to the limit, his tent housed eight people including himself, all of whom stood around a compact table with a detailed map on it. The Bosmer began making faint marks on the map, several circles were drawn for possible traps, X's were put down as locations they need to visit and arrows intercepting through it all for their path.

“Now, we all tend to follow this trail when we go down there. So we will follow it and search for Felix throughout.” Daelin traced his finger along one arrow and stopped on several crosses on the way. His hand paused at the middle of the map, where a thin blue line represented the river. “If we do not find any clues pertaining to Felix, we'll cross the river and continue on our original goal; to assess paths fit for the battering ram and mark dangerous hideouts.”

“Stay on the trail and maintain a steady pace, my torch will be the only one, follow close and don't step in the bushes, Y'ffyre knows what nasty traps lay in behind.” Daelin stood as tall as a Bosmer could, examining the faces carefully as he continued. “If we are under attack, divines forbid, we will retreat slowly while keeping our guards up.” With that, he left the map out for a last glance before folding it neatly inside his jack pocket. Questions were not bothered to be asked, Daelin thought they would just have to improvise, if things go wrong.

Bow slung and a quiver of twenty arrows tied to his belt, Daelin led the group out. On his way, he saw Edith and Sadri walking towards Jonimir's post. They exchanged nods, silent signs of good luck.

Descending from their hill top camp was routine for Daelin. But Keegan, who was not so much athletic and used to nighttime hiking, stumbled on the rocky surface. He fell forward, but thankfully, halted himself against the scaly back of Utu-ja. Keegan's face reddened with embarrassment, only if they could he him under light. “Sorry,” His apologized meekly.

Once they reached the valley floor, Keegan decided to bring out his staff for support. It would be a makeshift alpenstick, albeit at the cost of the staff's durability. The Altmer mage lingered in the rear, where torchlight was a good distance away. It was nearly pitch dark, and even his fingers were barely visible. That said, they were audio and aromatic presence where visuals lacked. The wind whistled around them, nestling soft chafes between leaves. The air was no doubt cold, but to Keegan it always smelled of the wild; a natural scent of juniper ever so present in every part of the Reach.

First ten minutes were uneventful, Maduras even talked and took notes, somehow writing despite near darkness. Daelin allowed him to talk, they were close enough to camp so that the fires were still distantly visible; it wasn't dangerous enough yet. But a while longer into the journey, when shrubs from both sides draped closer on the trail and it was barely wide enough for three men. Daelin, who was leading with Farid on his side, held up his left hand just above his shoulder, it balled into a fist, telling those in the rear to cease moving forward. There were apparently creatures moving, so Farid hushed Maduras and took the torch himself. Daelin's bow was now in hand, and an elven arrow notched against the bowstring. It was aimed to the bush on their right.

A figure leaped out of the undergrowth, it was a fox. When its scuttling feet passed the trail, Daelin relaxed, returning the arrow to its quiver.

“It must be thanking you for its life right now.” Farid commented while returning the torch to the lead scout.

“And thanking you for your amusing comment.” Daelin duly noted. Though his ammunition was no longer primed, he still held the bow firm in his hands. “Stay focused.” He ordered. So they did, and after inching forward for no more than fifteen steps, they stopped once more. Are there enemies around? No one, not even Daelin was certain. The environment just had a tense aura, it felt like someone was shadowing their journey.

“Witchmen?” Farid whispered, dark skin gripping sheathed shortsword.

“No,” Daelin shook his head. He stood to full height and waved for the rear guard. “Come and look at this, on the ground.”

From the back, Keegan came forward. What he saw under the torchlight were dirt, while the dirt differed little on the surface, actually treading atop revealed it to be softer and of looser grains. In essence, it would be easier to leave prints on this part of trail, as the eight of them already had. But Daelin was pointing to something, a pair of faint troughs against the dirt, and it looked quite recent.

“Someone was being dragged this way.” Daelin concluded. “Likely Felix, likely towards their redoubt.”

“What's that-” From the back, Maduras had yet to follow the others. He was instead gazing to the trail sides. When the scouts were busy examining the tracks, the Dunmer decided he found something in a bush nearby that's worth a look. No one was telling him to do what he's not supposed do. So he did it.

Clank

“Ah!” By the look of it, Maduras merely wandered several feet off the trails. By the sound of it, metal just met flesh. Daelin was quick to act. Immediately after Maduras had stepped on a trap, Daelin already pounced on top of him like a sabrecat, and covered his mouth tight, preventing anymore loud screams.

“Scream again and you give us all away.” Pressing his palm into Maduras' twisting face, Daelin hissed. Maduras was on the ground and iron spikes from a clamp embedded inside left ankle, he gagged and struggled, without result. “I'll release you but you can't scream, understood?”

Maduras nodded, tears streaming down his face due to shear pain. On the trail adjacent to him, Keegan and Farid both stood with their weapons drawn. However, the night was still eerily quiet, save for Maduras' choked sobs.

“Two of you, here, now!” Daelin called. Maybe he didn't say it loud enough, or perhaps no one quite grasped what happened yet; nobody came over. Keegan and Farid exchanged a glance together, staff and swords still held on the trail as if anticipating a fight. “Damn it, Farid, Jorwen, Utu, anyone?”

“Go!” Keegan urged, nudging Farid away. “I'll keep watch.”

Luckily, Farid and another arrived quickly. With them holding Maduras steady, Daelin set to work on cutting away loose trouser and examining the wound. Fortunately, the spikes weren't buried very deep, and the bleed didn't look severe either.

“Lucky for you, it was deer trap.” The Bosmer said.

“Beginner’s luck.” Maduras uttered. He cried, well, less now.

“I wouldn't go that far.” Farid returned.

“Alright, you two hold him down while I get his leg out.” Pointing to each of the Dunmer's shoulders, Daelin ordered the scouts. Once they secured Maduras in place, Daelin stripped off one glove and placed it on Maduras' chin. “Bite on it.”

Slowly but surely, the spikes went out of the leg. As expected, spurts of red liquid began flowing out. Daelin had already in place a piece of cloth, and rapidly pressured it against the wounds. This makeshift bandage wouldn't hold for too long, so they'll need a dedicated healer. Maduras seemed to agree, as his teeth almost chewed through the leather piece separating them.

“I guess my joy's over.” Maduras tried to stand, but he stumbled awkwardly and fell back in a lump. “And my walking ability too.”

“That's not certain, it did not sink too far.” Daelin responded. He went for a healing potion in his bag, wait, why did he bring two bottles of stamina potion? Must be getting loopy from sleep deprivation. “Still, you're going back to camp.”

Before they could press on, Daelin would need to ensure Maduras went back in one piece. After all, he always wanted a heroic story on the newspaper. Something that couldn't be done with the journalist bleeding to death. “Again, we need two people helping him back.” He spoke to Farid and the scouts watching the trail. “And anyone have a healing potion?”

Collaboration post between @MiddleEarthRoze,@MacabreFox, & @Leidenschaft

A quiet sigh of irritation passed Roze's lips as she looked on at the rather rude intrusion into her and the Nord's woman's introductions. Her grin gave way to a more narrow-eyed, flippant expression, mind already brimming with thoughts on how to make this arsehole's day worse.

Normally, she wouldn't have stood for some brazen man touching her without her permission - actions like this usually resulted in a knee to the groin, and perhaps even the taking away of certain parts usually deemed quite invaluable to over-bearing warriors like this one. However, she was certain that, despite the man's universal hatred around the camp; she wouldn't get off scot free for harming him. Chances are that she would end up dead on the front-lines of the attack if she laid a finger on Dumhuvud. Therefore, she was going to have to deal with this in a far more...lady-like manner.

Rolling back onto her left foot so she was leaning away from the figure before her, Roze offered up an impertient smile.

"You must be Dumhuvud, the Cat-Kicker of the camp! Thank Goodness we have you here. Gods only know how we would have coped against the Forsworn Alley-cats without your aid." She said cheerily to Dumhuvud. "As for my business here... well, I'm not sure if you've heard, but the people in charge of this place are hiring for help. I have come to lend my bow - and I look forward to using it alongside those large feet of yours against the deadly Forsworn... or cats, in your case."

Beneath the surface of Sevine's pallid skin, her blood boiled with hot, wild rage. The wisps of air that evaporated from her mouth, rising up into the night air like white tendrils of smoke. Her first reaction would have been to step in front of Rozalia, and defend her, thief or not, as the young woman had aforementioned, and she did when Rozalia made her own sarcastic retort. The look upon her face spelled bitter contempt for Dumhuvud, his words knotted her stomach with disgust, she knew that he enjoyed picking on the new arrivals. The cracking of his knuckles, and the sneer on his face only angered her more. She had no qualms with Dumhuvud, and that made it easier for her to challenge him.

She pushed forward, past Rozalia and grabbed Dumhuvud's forearm in an iron-like grip, and growled something fierce at him in a wrathful tone.

"If you're looking for someone to pick on, pick on someone your own size, I don't care who you are, Cat-Kicker. I'll fight you right now if it's blood you're looking to spill, because I'd be happy to spill yours."

Sevine knew that she could get into a lot of trouble for speaking to Dumhuvud, but she wouldn't tolerate belittling of others, especially for their own personal satisfaction. Her other hand travelled to the war axe at her hip, ready to defend Rozalia and herself, if need be. If one were to gaze upon Sevine, they would see her crimson brows furrowed together in, a pair of intensive, green eyes glaring at Dumhuvud, and a frown so severe, and frightening, it would make any child cry. But, Dumhuvud was no child, and she knew that she could full well receive some type of repercussion for speaking out.

"What the hells did you say to me, you fucking harlots?" Dumhuvud saw Sevine's fingers twitch towards her axe and her hard words. Only gave him more reason to crack his nasty smile and a chuckle gurgle up from him as he rested his hand on the haft of his axe. "You've got sharp words, girl, just be careful you don't cut your own throat on 'em."

"What's this about spilling blood and cutting throats, eh?" Jorwen stepped up facing Dumhuvud's axe-hand. His face was hard on any given day but the shadows cast about the angles of his face, narrow-eyed and heavy bearded made it look that bit harder.

"This don't concern you, Jorwen." He sniffed and Jorwen could see Dumhuvud's dawning realization of how many people stood against him. A few of Dumhuvud's housecarls hung about in the dark, eyes agleam with anticipation of the building violence in the air, thick and putrid as the smell of blood.

"I see a Legionnaire standing against a Stormcloak." Jorwen said, head tipping forwards and the shadows swallowing a bit more of his face.

"The fuck does that mean?" Dumhuvud growled.

"Six times I gave the Legion a learning about standing against a Nord in his own lands and six times they were at least honorable enough to stay with the Legion." Jorwen took a step forward and Dumhuvud’s eyes stayed locked on his until they were close enough almost to touch noses. “All except you. I’ve been meaning to have words about that since you bumped me, Dumhuvud. You been on my mind and now you’re right in my hand. So, you need a learning, boy?”

The pair stood like that for a few long moments, shoulders tensed, and right when Jorwen was sure they’d all be getting bloody sooner rather than later, Dumhuvud stepped back with a frown as nasty as his smile. He backed away slowly until he was in the shadows, then like wolves him and his went back to the night to look for easier prey. Jorwen stood there looking hard enough to knock chunks out of the mountains before he let go a huge breath smoking on the cold night air, age setting its hand upon him again. He managed a smile, “I was about to piss, I was.” He ran his hand through his thick hair and chuckled, “My name’s Jorwen. Folk sometimes call me Red-Bear, think you already met the Wolf-Tooth.” He nodded to the woman with the respect one warrior gives to another, “Sevine.”

Sevine let go of Dumvuhud’s forearm, and took a step back as a familiar man stepped between them. Jorwen Red-Bear, the tailor that had mended her dress sleeve back in the Civil War, swayed the situation to a more calming one, even though Jorwen had confronted Dumvuhud just as Sevine had done. Inside, she still fumed over Cat-Kicker calling Rozalia and her harlots, but she let it go. The tension in the air grew heavily between the two men as Sevine watched quietly, her temper simmering down.

She watched as Dumvuhud walked away, a disgusting sneer plastered across his face. Gratitude emanated from her body as she turned round to face the towering man, his beard was absolutely grand, and reached past his chest. A friendly smile came over her face.

“My friend, Jorwen! It is good to see you again, I knew I had spotted you about camp.” She embraced him quickly, as a welcoming gesture before stepping away. Glancing at Rozalia, she grinned again.

“Sevine Varg-t’uk, by the way. A pleasure to meet you Rozalia.”

Unlike Sevine, Roze couldn't help but crack a wicked grin at Dumhuvud's reaction to their words. It was always highly amusing to her to see how easily big fellows like this one were wound up.

The situation became all the more entertaining when another Nord lumbered over to give them aid - despite his mountainous appearance, once Dumhuvud had slunk back into the shadows like the skeever he was, the daunting look from Jorwen's face disappeared, and it became clear he was far more friendly than most others she had met at the camp. Roze looked up at the large man, smile settled into a far more friendly one now.

"Red-Bear? I've met brown bears, black bears, and even snow bears. I am honoured to finally meet a red one." Roze said in a somewhat teasing manner - however, there was gratitude in both her words and her smile towards the pair before her. "You can both call me Roze, if it pleases you - and it's also a pleasure to meet you both."

Glancing behind her shoulder to see that the Cat-Kicker had in fact, retreated in full, Roze chuckled under her breath as she looked back to Sevine and Jorwen.

"A damn shame that a bastard like that has power in this camp - thank the Gods someone else is in charge."

"You won't be thanking the Gods in his name when you're in the thick of it. You arrived just in time, lass." Jorwen said. He looked around at the bustling camp. People sharpening their blades, checking their armor, psyching each other up. Thrice-Pierced nodded at him as he passed with a wicked grin splitting his face, a grim reminder of the task soon at hand. "Sevine can give you the short of it. I need to be somewhere else. Neither of you die, you hear?" He said, waving his goodbyes.

As Jorwen walked away from the two women, Sevine’s eyes lingered upon the bearded man until she could see him no more. Turning to look at Roze, the huntress offered her an optimistic smile.

“Well, the company is planning an attack against the Forsworn within hours, there are people needed to help carry the battering ram, as well as carry the ladders to breach their walls, we’re also in need of mages, and archers. I recall that you said you were a thief, I’ll hold no judgement against you for that, but what is your main choice for a weapon? Can you wield a blade? Or shoot an arrow?”

The Breton woman was striking in appearance, especially for her eyes, such a beautiful shade of blue. With her diminutive stature, and innocent, child-like air about her, Sevine felt an obligation to look out for the young woman, even more so since Cat-Kicker targeted her.

Roze let out a light chuckle at Jorwen's parting words. It was common for her to cheerily tell people to avoid death in her departure from a conversation; for some reason, some people got offended. She couldn't see why - it was technically a nice thing to say.

"Well, despite these obvious bulging muscles I have, I think I'll avoid the battering ram." Roze replied jokingly to Sevine, relaxing in the larger woman's presence. Despite the fact Sevine was larger, older, and definitly more intimidating than Roze, there was a trusting aura about her. A kindness hidden in those deep pine eyes.

"No, my forte when it comes to dealing death lies with the bow and arrow." Pausing as she unbuckled her cloak, she let it fall to the floor to reveal the bow around her shoulders - she held it out in front of her proudly. It was definitely an old one - the string had been replaced countless times. But the bow itself was still a magnificent looking specimen - regularly polished and cleaned, the Dwarven metal gleamed like it had been just made.
Well, if one ignored the scratches.

Looking back at Sevine, she regarded the woman shrewdly.
"You look like you can handle a sword just fine - but I'll bet you prefer the bow too." Roze guessed with a knowing smile.

Sevine gave a hearty laugh at Roze’s joke to her bulging muscles, “I was beginning to wonder how you ended up here, a small thing like you would easily be run down underfoot.”

As Roze unbuckled her cloak, she revealed a magnificent bow, well-used, and made of quality Dwemer metal, Sevine’s eyes lit up in awe.

“My, that is quite a piece you have! I haven’t seen many bows before made of metal like this, only in Markarth really.” She admired it from where she stood, “Well not so much a sword, I prefer my axe in close combat.” Here she turned to the side, revealing the war axe she would have used against Dumvuhud had things escalated.

“But you’re right, I prefer my long bow over anything. That’s why they call me The Huntress. Ever since my mother passed when I was young, my father taught me how to wield the bow. If you run into our quartermaster around here, the blonde Nordic woman, her name is Edith. We grew up in Falkreath together, she could enlighten you with many tales of my hunts. I once served with the Stormcloaks during the Civil War, that’s how Jorwen and I met you see. Any arrow I ever loosed, struck true, and caused fear in the hearts of the Imperial soldiers we fought against.” Finished speaking, Sevine eyed the young woman, looking her over head-to-toe, as if she were looking for something she could not see.

“If you need a place to pitch your tent, or lay out your bedroll, there’s plenty of room by me, in case you wish to avoid Cat-Kicker again. He’s a foul man, never liked him much myself.” Added the huntress, placing a hand upon her hip. She quite liked Roze, as the young woman had a unique sense of humor.

Roze couldn't help but smile at Sevine's story, and how it was somewhat similar to her own.
"My father taught me how to wield my bow too. This was his. My Mother taught me my more sneaky attributes." She replied, holding her bow closer to her fondly. It was one of the few things left of her father - being a family of Thieves and plunderers, they didn't have much in the way of items with sentimental value; stuff like that was irreplacable. Other than her Father's bow, her Mother's necklace, and various letters from both, Roze carried nothing of personal value.

That didn't mean she'd be quite happy to part with anything, of course.

Roze looked back up, somewhat surprised at Sevine's offer. Here she was, having only just met her, and she was pretty much offering Roze protection. Although honoured, there was a small amount of doubt niggling away in the back of Roze's mind. All throughout growing up, she'd been taught to never depend on someone else for safety. At times, it was unavoidable - in illness, it was always nice to have someone you trusted watching your back. But Roze was not ill, nor injured.
Before the battle, at least.

"Thank you for the offer... however, I may not look like much, but I'm used to looking after myself." She said, some of the joking in her tone receding. It was fair to give off the impression that she was naught more than a jovial and innocent cutpurse, but that wasn't a label she was happy to retain for the rest of her life. It was forever tiring to have people assume she needed protection. However, Sevine seemed nice - one of the more genuinely good people Roze had met very few of. It would be both advantageous and fun to have a friend like this one - especially considering the fact she was unperturbed by Rozalia's thieving nature.

"However, I'll gladly take up your offer. Despite the fact the rocks by my bedroll are prettier looking than the Cat-Kicker's face, I've still yet to get a conversation out of them." She said, quirky grin returning as she retrieved her cloak from the ground, shaking the snow from it.

Jonimir laid on his bedroll, and was seen sleeping with his blanket over him. His tent was small but organized. Food and Food objects on one side, and his books and journals on the other. Overall however his temporary living space wasn't anything special. A small/table was seen with also a quill and some parchment paper on top of it. With jot notes of the Forsworn/Reachmen. The parchment paper mainly had Jonimir's thoughts on the enemy, mostly his thoughts on the magical prowess of the Forsworn and spells he's already identified that they use.

Sadri walked alongside Edith with a brisk pace on the duo’s way to the Redguard Mage’s tent – it was obvious from his demeanor and body language that he wanted the whole ordeal done with quickly. In his opinion, the magic charges were unnecessary –dangerous, even– but the armorer lady, Edith, wanted them to be ready, and Sadri was not the type of person to ask for something from someone and then berate them. Sure, the charges could hurt them, but it was her decision. He’d rather die with his principles rather than to live without them.

In front of the tent, Sadri came to an abrupt halt and looked back at Edith. Sure, he wanted the chainmail for himself as soon as possible, but he didn’t know what kind of impression he would leave on Edith if he were to barge in like a rabid bull, so he simply waited for the woman. ‘’Ladies first,’’ he said as he gestured with his hand for her to go in.

"Aren't you sweet?" Edith said sarcastically. Sadri was turning out anything but. It was pretty clear, from the look of him, that this whole plan surronding the charges bothered him. Oh well, she's in charge here. "Look, I will not use these things unless it is absolutely neccesary, does that settle you?" She said before ducking into Jonimir's "living room".

The tent inside was well-organized, at least relative to most other mercenaries. She heard of this Redguard man, who used to be a scholar in destruction, keeping well-established notes of magical encounters. As to be expected, there were objectes commonly seen with magic users. But what caught Edith by surprise was the smell of fermentation, it smelled like brewing mead. Ashav never mentioned specific rules against alchohol, and she admitted to drinking herself. However, the asleep form on top of the bedroll felt like someone too intoxicated to be fighting.

"Wake up." She gently tapped Jonimir's shoulder.

Sadri sighed quietly as Edith 'consoled' him about the usage of the charges. He had hoped that he wouldn't come off as frustrated and nervous, but in the end, he had. He didn't like it a bit, but there was no point to lingering on past mistakes. It would be better to simply fix things. ''Should settle that before I have to fill these charges.''

He watched, his arm and stump crossed, as Edith tried to wake the Redguard. He felt like hired muscle - granted, he was, but not specifically by Edith. ''This fellow better wake up fast,'' Sadri thought to himself - the sooner those charges were filled, the better.

Jonimir must be a heavy sleeper, as he still napped without signs of waking. She grabbed both shoulders of the Redguard and shook them. If she was a Forsworn, Jonimir's throat would have been long slit.

"Maybe you should dump that on him." Edith pointed to a bowl of half-finished chicken soup on Jonimir's desk.

''You're the boss,'' Sadri hummed as he felt the temperature of the chicken soup that Edith pointed at by pressing the back of his index and middle fingers against the side of the cup. It was cool, nearly cold even - Sadri figured that it'd need to be heated again to be properly edible. He lifted the bowl with his hand and walked over to Edith, bowl of soup at the ready. Sadri's eyes rolled over to the quartermaster, waiting for confirmation - a good henchman wouldn't ask, but the 'maybe' said by the woman gave off a degree of hesitation, Sadri figured.

Edith would be hesitating if there are matters to hesitate about, which right now, there are none. She was actually amazed at how much Jonimir can sleep through. The Redguard can probably doze through the Oblivion Crisis and Alduin roaring beside him, and still have unaware of a single thing. Perhaps he was cursed by Vaermina?

"Give him a minute." Edith said and shook Jonimir again. Dumhuvud would prefer slapping, but she considered it slightly uncivilized. After a minute had passed, Jonimir showed no evidence of consciousness; her brows knit togeather in worry; what if the mage was really poisoned or cursed? "Alright, give him the dose." She nodded to Sadri.

Following Edith's order, Sadri complied monotonously and held the bowl of soup over Jonimir's face at an angle that allowed a steady stream of soup to pour down on his face, but made sure that all of it wouldn't flush out, splash on his face, and make a mess. He moved his hand to make lines with the soup, trying to hit locations on his face that were unaffected by the stream. He specifically tried to avoid the goatee - Sadri knew that it was like hell trying to wash out facial hair. Eventually, he stopped after pouring about half of the cup's contents - wasting any further would, hopefully, be unnecessary.

When the chilled liquid impacted Jonimir's skin, the man began to shift uncomfortably. When Sadri administered the dose, Jonimir was definitely less drowsy and more agitated. He stirred, half opening one eye and muttered some incoherent curses, and then in an amazing display of willpower, burying his soup drench face into the pillow. He went back to sleep.

"I have no words for what I just saw." Edith groaned. Fair enough, Jonimir wouldn't help, but maybe his well-stocked supplies would be more reasonable. Looking around inside the tent, Edith found a tiny soul gem resting on the corner of the desk. "Not like he's using that." She noted. Below that desk corner was a sack, and lifting it produced clattering noises of colliding crystals. And there it was, after untying the strings Edith saw four minor soul gems, they hummed with modest energy. "These look charged to you?" She held up the bag for Sadri to examine.

''I've seen worse,'' Sadri replied quietly when the woman voiced her amazement about the man's heavy sleep. Some fly stings in Valenwood could make you sleep forever. Tsetsus? He didn't exactly remember the name of the flies. Not that it mattered. This place was far too cold for them to live, and now wasn't exactly story time.

Edith finally gave up on trying to wake the Mage up, and started rummaging through the tent, trying to find something to fill the gems with. Usually, Sadri wouldn't approve, but they did not have much time, and after all, she was the boss. He observed quietly as the woman traced a single soul gem to a sack. He watched the woman fumble with the sack, and eventually brought it to Sadri. He grabbed the sack with one hand and stuck his stump into the sack, feeling the contents with his ethereal hand - they felt as if they were pushing the telekinetic appendage away. He pulled one out of the sack and watched it writhe in the grasp of his phantom limb.

''Yup. Charged.''

Edith looked on as Sadri's stump, for the lack of better description, interacting with the soul gem. The way this gem twitched above the Dunmer's prosthetics was a curious sight. She suppose there would be certain explanation for what he just did, but for now, he trusted Sadri for what he's worth. She stared briefly at Sadri's stump, a sense of wonder at first and then repulsive feelings of what his arm truly felt like. Still, she had a job to do. As much as she hated dishonest sourcing, as she blinked the thought away, this was neccesary. And if they choose not to use Jonimir's gems, she would simply return them.

"Good." She said. Prior to leaving with the bag, she took a piece of Jonimir's parchment and scribbled on it with his quill. She wrote a short note apologizing for taking his items without notice, and the items' intended usage. The piece was left on the table, right beside the nearly drained container of soup. Sight of the bowl almost made her feel sorry for Jonimir, almost.

A Schafty collaboration

---

The journalist was wounded. That wasn't all too surprising to Jorwen. For all the things that could be said of bringing a man of his size along, he still knew how to creep through the bush like a predator. He had his doubts Maduras would last any considerable length of time, even less so if it got too bloody, and this mishap, while he felt bad for the Dunmer, was fortunately timed early enough into the trip to have the man sent back to camp. Why they'd bring a journalist with no experience was beyond him, but as the Dunmer started to shake and for the ragged breaths to come smoking out on the night air in tiny puffs, he could see why the journalist should stay well away from anywhere he might have the chance of seeing his own blood. Two of the scouts volunteered to take him back to camp and only to add to the case against him, he none too quietly half-whispered, "Good luck!"

Jorwen shook his head. He looked to Keegan and the others and they all seemed seasoned experts against Maduras' first impressions. Not so much as a peep out of a lot of them. Once Daelin got his boots back on the trail, they went back to following the clear tracks the men had left. It was suspiciously easy to follow, easy enough that Jorwen and another one of the scouts kept their eyes and ears wide open for an ambush. None came, thankfully, though not for a lack of imagined faces in the dark, every whisper of wind-shaken leaves a Reachman's signal to his fellows. Finally Daelin held his hand up for them to stop and waved them over to him. His lithe fingers traced the spot where the dragging stopped, leaving only footprints. "You think they slit his throat and dumped him?"

"No blood. They probably picked him up. Two sets of tracks," his four fingers splayed out to the darkness and a look on his face as if he was divining secrets from the dirt itself rather than just looking at some bootprints, "One set's bigger, deeper than the other one."

"One big man, one small. But two men is all." One of the scouts in the back smiled. "Clumsy and careless, then."

Daelin shook his head, "Could be more at their camp. We'll follow on and find out." And they continued on. It was a while, felt even longer with the silence before they came to a clearing, where Daelin motioned for them to gather in a circle. They'd stopped after Jorwen and Daelin picked up men's voices being blown in from somewhere close. The tracks also went off the path and deeper into the bush, likely where the camp was. The man sent to check came back and nodded, holding his hand up and splayed out to say five men. "Three men. Three men to go down there first while I take the rest and put us in position. Who goes?"

Keegan wanted to go back, and he really emphasized on that when he volunteered to escort Maduras. His place is not in a fight, or any type of life-risking conflicts. He's not sure if he could actually be useful when the time comes, or would he simple get in the way of others.

Daelin wasn't having any of it though, he told Keegan they needed a mage along, in case the Forsworn had an arcane card up their sleeves. In his place were two scouts he hasn't known too much about. Farid hauling back an immobilized Maduras only compounded on existing fear. Farid didn't show an inch of fear with his expressions, but merely a smug look that spoke of “I told you so” to the journalist.

For the second time, they were on the trail following this dragged man. Jorwen was in the lead, and Farid had fallen back with him and the Argonian. At least that was the case for only a short while. The Bosmer and the Nord stopped, which meant the tracks did too, somewhat. Keegan listened intently as they discussed tracks. It was important apparently, because even Farid was quietly observing. Then Farid shook his head and smiled, declaring the kidnappers clumsy and careless.

“What could they possibly be doing with him?” Keegan asked, wondering if it was only easy because they were walking into a trap. His staff was in-hand the entire time, and despite having a weapon at the ready, he still felt less certain as ever. “Perhaps they are baiting us?” He addressed Utu-ja too.

Utu-ja didn't do more than slightly tipping his head. Farid answered; he always did. “Could be,” He said softly, not making himself too audible. “Or could be them getting sloppy. Either way, we kill them sooner or later.”

And it was certainly sooner than later. They stopped near a clearing, and Daelin claimed he spotted enemy activities. They huddled around a circle and planned while watching each others' breathes exhaled into the Reach wind. Keegan didn't like it; he didn't like pushing into the wilderness and he definitely did not like the implications heard from the faint voices of unknown men.

“Me.” Utu-ja hissed, marking the first time he spoke this evening. His tail twitched and clawed hands eagerly cradling the polished elven bow.

“Myself and the Red-Bear as well, unless he decides to run the other way.” Farid piped in, eying Jorwen with a teasing glance and waiting for Daelin's approval. He sounded a little too confident for the impending fight. But Keegan was glad to let it slip for this once, for he would be much better with Daelin, in the back and further away from melee.

"I'll go." Jorwen nodded grimly, taking his shield off of his back and unsheathing his longseax. Not a glance cast Farid's way until he spoke again, "Wouldn't want the children wandering in the dark alone."

Again, Farid chuckled. It was always good to laugh before a fight, took some of the edge off. That being said, he looked sidelong at Keegan and he looked no better for the quiet chuckles and smiles going around. "Got to have fear to have courage, elf." He leaned closer and smiled, "I'm close to pissing, myself, truth be told." he clapped Keegan on the shoulder and they moved out, Jorwen taking the lead. It wasn't long before they were close to the fire. They could see the shapes silhouetted against it and they weren't being too kind to Caileach. He wasn't expecting them to, of course. They crept closer to the fire, Jorwen wondered if Daelin and his lot had gotten to their positions yet. He crept closer still and hoped Utu-ja was in the bush with an arrow nocked. He was close enough to make out the curves and blue paint of the man's face as he tore into the heel of bread in his hands.

He brought out his knife and hid the blade against him and among his beard to keep it from glinting in the moonlight or the fire. Now, his arm lanced out, fast as a snake and buried the heavy blade of the knife into the man's forehead. All he did was let out a long croak before going cross-eyed. Jorwen yanked his blade out with a sickening wet crack and Farid exploded from the darkness with an ear-splitting yell, stabbing a man through the neck and slicing through one's leg before sticking his blade poking out of the front of the Reachman's throat. Another rose from the fire, dropping his meat and going for his sword. He didn't get far before an arrow thumped into his eye. A good shot, but he couldn't tell who it was from. Supposed it didn't matter. He raised his shield and sent a blade glancing off of it. He punched out with the rim and caught the Reachman in his throat. He stumbled back and he stuck the longseax through the man's ribs and into his heart. Quick and clean. Only one left and he was on his knees beside Caileach.

The lad might have gotten a little overzealous with a lie and earned their ire. Mercy wasn't something Reachmen were known for, if the wounded coming from the front and passing through their camp wasn't evidence enough.

The clearing was a perfect target from the treeline. With a fire in the middle, the enemies would be hard-pressed to find their attackers. Plus, they have the element of surprise, which means if one scout dispatched one Forsworn immediately, this fight would be over before it starts. Bolstered slightly by Jorwen's comment, and loosened up just a bit from the banter between Jorwen and Farid, Keegan followed tightly after Daelin. They were led halfway around the clearing outskirts, where a fallen tree provided decent cover and naught obstructed their sight line on the enemy fighters.

From their established position, Keegan could already see Jorwen and Farid tearing through armor and flesh. They were so fast that in the time it took them to position, two out of five already fell on the ground. Daelin made haste to align an arrow onto a Reachman trying to grab weapons, but another shot by Utu-ja found the same mark beforehand. Red fluid rushed out of the metal embedded eye-socket, and the Forsworn collapsed extremely close to the fire, which even lit his fur armor ablaze. Only two more now, one of them had recovered enough and advanced rapidly on Jorwen. Distance between friend and foe disappeared suddenly, and they were too much near for Daelin to safely attack. Instead, he let loose an arrow to the side of Jorwen's opponent. It whooshed by, momentarily distracting the Reachmen and giving Jorwen time to deflect incoming blows.

Only one left, or so they thought. Out from the vegetation across to Daelin and Keegan, a Forsworn busted out with dagger drawn. If one payed attention that moment, they would notice his trousers were not properly buttoned, and with even closer examination, feces could still been seen leaking out of his rear. In short, this new arrival was defecating in the woods when his comrades came under attack.

Utu-ja was by far the closest one to this new arrival. His location camouflaged rather well against men around the fire, but to the sixth Forsworn, it was in plain sight. The Argonian heard rushed steps at the last moment, just as dagger flew towards his head. There was no time to dodge, not directly from shooting position and surroundings tangled by branches. So Utu raised his bow in defense, putting the elven alloy between himself and the blade. As expected, his bow missed the dagger, but it did propped against the Forsworn's wrist and halted the stab, to an extent. The dagger still pierced through Utu-ja's bracer and into his scales. Still, not blocking would have it stuck in much further.

The common reaction for the Argonian would be pushing back, but that would be exactly what his foe readied for. On the contrary, Utu simply allowed himself to fall backwards, and in the same instance, tilting the Forsworn forward too and making him lose balance. Right before Utu-ja tumbled over, he swung his tail to the opposite direction and brought himself back to balance. At the same time, the Reachmen stumbled, straight into an uplifting knee. With his enemy disoriented and clutching his stomach, Utu began delivering knife thrusts like he was gutting wild game.

"Ugh!" The Argonian groaned as he sent the last blow home. There were human wastes dripping on his trousers and boots; he hated that, he hated the foul fumes that came with the worst parts of humanity. It gave him motivation to add in an extra jab or two.

Opposite to Utu-ja, Daelin had another arrow notched and ready to let fly. This one was trained on the last Forsworn kneeling beside the captured bard. It would be moderately dangerous for Felix, but Daelin was sure this one would strike true.

“Hold a second,” Keegan suddenly interrupted. Thus far, he had done nothing but observe. What if he could do something useful? What if they could capture an enemy for interrogation. After all, they had done such thing to Felix; why not repay the favor? “I can paralyze him, let me do it.”

“What are you waiting for, then?” Daelin returned. His aim did not change, if Keegan failed to put his target down, the arrow would have to finish what it originally intended to do. The spell did hit, and it paralyzed the man before he saw it coming. Keegan breathed a sigh of relief; that wasn't so bad.

After they defeated the last foe in sight, Daelin held cover for several seconds, he scanned and clearing and only came out after ensuring no more surprises would jump on them. He called for the group to rally again, and asked if anyone took any injuries. Utu-ja said nothing at first; he did not want to disappoint his boss. But when Daelin noticed an entry on his forearm, and suspicious green liquid around it, he knew the Argonian had been poisoned.

"It's fine." Utu-ja hissed. Waving the concerns away with the injured arm. "Argonian's are resistant."

"I have a potion, anti-disease potion." Keegan said. He searched through his bag, finding the bottle he kept for those rare assassination attempts. Utu-ja paused and looked at it intently, as if he was deciding the lesser evil; whether he would drink it or just grin and bear it. He settled on the first, but only taking a short swig and leaving at least half for Keegan.

They'd dragged the man all the way back to their little hideout in the clearing. Jorwen had kicked dirt over the fire, scattered the embers and sticks while Farid hid the bodies and took their supplies. If anyone came searching for their friends, they'd find nothing, and that was bound to get them talking. Jorwen had too many years to count behind him that said it's what the enemy thinks of you that demoralizes him most, sometimes not what he sees of you. There was a reason they called him Red-Bear, not just because of the color of his hair. He sat across from the Reachman as he came to. He had his knives laid out before him and scraping the last of them on a whetstone. They'd made the man watch Jorwen sharpen each knife, none of them saying anything at all while he did it. Jorwen could see when the paralyzing spell had worn off as the man slowly unfurled like a frostbite spider from hibernation, limbs loosening and he took in a heaving breath. As hard and mean as they all looked now, Jorwen wouldn't fancy being him. "Tell us about the redoubt."

The Reachman didn't answer. Jorwen didn't say a thing but Farid and Daelin stepped out of the shadows and grabbed the Reachman by his shoulders and Jorwen let one of his knives glint in the moonlight. The Reachman opened his mouth and Jorwen cuffed the words back down his throat. He went to speak again but Daelin kneed him in the gut. "I tell you when to speak." Jorwen grumbled. "So speak."

"There's a cave that leads right to the leaders' chambers. I can lead you there." He said.

"Where is it?" Farid hissed in his ear.

"It's up me fuckin' arse." The Reachman cracked an ugly, gap-toothed grin before it was wrenched away as Jorwen grabbed him by his hair and mashed his face into the dirt.

"Bring me a bodkin." Jorwen said, looking up at Daelin and the elf nodded, returning with the needle point off one of his shafts. He looked back down at the Reachman, "You spoke out of turn."

He wedged the tip of the bodkin between the fingernail of the man's thumb. He didn't have to push it even a quarter inch before Farid slapped a hand over his screeching mouth. The Legion teaches you about interrogating a man, especially in a bush war the likes Jorwen was used to fighting. But he didn't learn this from a legionnaire. You also learn a lot about interrogation being a prisoner of the Dominion, even if only a few weeks. "I can give you a few more gaps in your teeth."

"Who are you?" The Reachman asked.

"Does it matter?" Jorwen asked. "Is there a password to get into the redoubt?"

"All that matters is you are a pest, in our Reach." The Reachman spat, quite literally and sending blood and spit straight towards Jorwen's eyes. "Not even in your wildest dreams. To Oblivion with you!"

Keegan, who had thus far been spectating from a good distance away noticed the escalation in interrogation. He himself, like Jorwen, was once victim to brutal interrogation. If there was one thing he learned, it was that the prisoners either broke fast or never broke until death. The situation at hand is steering towards the latter, which would be not quite a productive use of time. He could let Daelin, Farid and Jorwen beat another hundred shades of blue out of the Reachman, but he somehow knew that they would soon be beating a dead horse, or a dead man, more accurately. It looked like Daelin was right when he insisted Keegan to be accompanying them; it was time to work to his magic again.

While Jorwen recovered from bloody spit in his eyes, Farid already lashed out from the side. The Redguard lad let out a backhand strike, and then another, both messing up an already deranged face. "Stop, Stop!" Keegan entered and waved. "This is clearly not working. I can try something different."

"You heard him," Daelin ordered. His hand firmly grasping Farid's forearm, and despite how much Farid struggled for another hit, Daelin's vice-like grip never relented. "Give Keegan a chance."

"If you say so." Farid said. He put his arms in dismissal, turned and walked back to where Utu-ja crouched. "Switch up, time for your fun." He told the Argonian, who had been guarding the semi-conscious bard and the path leading up to their location. The two exchanged a fast stare and Utu stood up without a word. He tread back just in time to see Keegan waving a charm spell in his palm.

"You will tell us everything you know." Keegan commanded the Forsworn as his hand waved in an arc between them.

The Forsworn laughed, but it was bitter and struggled laughter. He did not seem affected by the spell, but at least he wasn't resisting with ease. "No, I will not." He coughed.

"You will obey now." Keegan waved again. This time it was an even wider arc and he channeled all the magicka he could muster; his right hand even glowed bright cyan. Magicka seeped from his skin to the Forsworn, and their surrounding glowed from the radiation of magical excess. The Reachman's pupils grew wide, his muscles tensed to the extreme and then loosened, along with his eyeballs rolling back.

"What is happening?" Daelin asked. Keegan simply shrugged, his head pounded after concentrating so intensely and his vision blurred. "Wake up, speak!" Daelin yanked the Forsworn by his neck, shaking the dizziness from him. It worked, the Forsworn opened his eyelids again, and his eyeballs portrayed hazy defocus on nowhere.

"Tell us about the redoubt." Keegan commanded once more. "Tell us everything."

"I, I, won-" The Forsworn stammered, but he clearly could not hold back magically altered thoughts any longer. His will dissolved and his voice turned from anger to a mindless drone. "I will tell you everything." And so, monotone sentences spilled from his tongue, it told of guard patterns, defensive positions and certain weapons placements. But it lacked any major details, nothing close to pass codes or tactics or the grand schemes of those who ran the redoubt. After blabbing on for several minutes, the Reachman's voice slurred, bubbles rose from his throat and he passed out.

"Anything good out of him?" Farid came in as he rejoined the others. He was calmer now, though it was as calm as the fiery lad could be. Not far behind, Felix was regaining much of his bearing, and the bard even insisted he could watch the path by himself.

"Not exactly," Daelin answered. "He's probably just another pawn. Keegan found a couple of useful tips, but nothing groundbreaking."

"What are we going to do with him now?" When Farid and everyone else turned to look at him, Keegan pointed to their prisoner, who was now out cold on the dirt.

"Jorwen?" Daelin said, he brought their attention to the Nord. Since Keegan was attempting was to coerce the prisoner's mind, Jorwen had been left out of action. It was so easy to forget that he was the one being spat upon. "You are the insulted party here, you should decide his fate."

Jorwen had gotten blood on every conceivable inch of him at one point or another. A lifetime of war will do that to a man. He'd also been spat on and been the one doing the spitting at one time or another. He wasn't fazed in the slightest when the Reachman spit in his face. Truth be told, he'd do the same thing, but when they all turned to look at him, he looked at each of them in turn. His face was hard, he tried to be a fair man, a good man in everything he did. But this was war, and war doesn't need good men, men who smiled and patched up their daughter's skirts or a loving wife's sleeve. It just needs killers, men who killed in the dead of night, killed men sleeping, killed men awake. Cold men. So he looked back at the Reachman whose face was shifting back into the same face they'd all seen back at the fire. The face belonging to a man who could hate anything and everything. His eyes settled on Jorwen and Jorwen stared back. Farid unsheathed his dagger and started walking toward the man before Jorwen's big hand draped over his shoulder, not squeezing at all but holding him like iron anyways. "This ain't for you, killing a man tied up." Jorwen said.

The Reachman heard that and he started struggling to get away even though his ankles were bound too, he'd found. "Give me a blade! What's the matter, you afraid to face me? You twig-thin milk-drin-" And Jorwen's seax had tore through his skull before he could finish.

"We're wasting moons' light. Let's get a move on." Jorwen said, cleaning his blade on the dead man's shirt. They disappeared back into the bush to return their findings. Hopefully it'd help.

"Indeed we should." Daelin agreed. Giving the dead corpse a nonchalant looks and leading out with Jorwen. There was no point covering up this body, as the main attack would happen before the other Reachmen found it. "We shall survey the creek before returning."

Keegan fell behind the group as always, except this time he lagged back further than usual. He couldn't help but feel disgusted at how Jorwen executed their prisoner. Paralyzing the Forsworn from the start gave Keegan some strands of hope that they will spare the man, sparing their enemy. How unrealistic, now he thought about it; blind mercy has no place on the battlefield. He wished he could be more like Farid, who only admired Jorwen's swift death dealing.

The creek had nothing significant, not too far from theory and not too complicated to deal with. Zero difficulty was encountered saved for Farid nearing tripping a hunting snare and Keegan almost spraining his ankle on a peculiar tree root. Daelin had walked several circles on their side of the water, and he then requested Keegan to perform detect life spells. There were no lifeforms, or at least, none they could sense within range. Utu-ja studied water depth; uttering something along the line of "even midgets could hardly drown". The lead scout believed him, and that trust was enough to persuade him against crossing over. Plus, Masser and Secunda were in the later part of their arcs now. They spent enough hours as it is; it's time to brief Ashav and his subordinates.

By the time the scouts arrived back in camp, the makeshift moondial Edith constructed read no more than one hour before their primary offensive. Daelin took his scouts to Ashav, who had already geared up with all of his equipment. He told Daelin and his scouts to remain with him in the camp during the main assault. The five them would serve as Ashav's command staff and runners, they would be sounding a giant warhorn that could signal retreat across the valley. This would be somewhat of a rest for them, while others risked their lives on the frontline.

"Put us back out there, we could still make a difference." Farid protested. He seemed to have an endless apetite for combat. Keegan frowned, the Altmer dissagreed wholeheartedly, he just couldn't comprehend certain individual choosing a bloody fight over warm tents.

"No." Ashav told them. "That part of your work is finished, what is upcoming for you is equally as important."

After everything, they finally got one hour free time. They saw Maduras near Ashav's tent, his leg wrapped in thick linen and a healer weaved restoring energy around him. Daelin also led Felix to the same place, where the healer started examining the bard as well.

"Well," Farid said, grinning softly to Jorwen and Keegan. "At least nobody died, yet."

Sagax couldn't help but laugh at the cat-kicker's look on his face after being torn into by Jorwen. Seeing such a brute be put in his place was extremely satisfying. Though while watching Dumhuvud pout was amusing, the tiny Imperial would rather the man not see him chuckling and give him a reason to go off on the skulker, and so made his way to the other side of the camp as inconspicuously as possible. Along the way he saw many people making last-minute checks, making sure their armor, weapons, and provisions were all in order. The assault on the redoubt was not too far off, though the scouts were just sent out so there was still a little bit of time. Sagax decided to set his pack and sword on an open table and conduct an inspection of his own, as superficial as it would be since he hadn't really been in any combat and thus his gear wouldn't be too out of order. He first checked his shortsword, holding it straight outwards from him. The blade gleamed with light from a nearby campfire, its sheen comparable to a fresh blade from a forge after a good polishing. There were no kinks or dents in the blade, nor were there any bends visible. Sagax flourished the blade, which had no practical purpose as far as he could see, but he liked practicing the tricks his father taught him. Setting the sword back into its scabbard, Sagax turned his attention to the contents of his pack. All of his potions were in their right pockets, his food items had avoided being smashed up, his canteen showed no signs of leaking, his gold was where it all ought to be, and his cotton "pillow" was stuffed snugly amongst everything else. His clothes and armor were obviously all there, it would be a rather large call for worry if they somehow found their way elsewhere.

Between the bustle of the camp, the last minute gear check, and his own little freakout beforehand, Sagax never even thought to write back home. Even though he had made himself as positive about the situation as possible, he still knew that this just might have been the very last chance he had to exchange words with his family. Sagax dug through his pack and pulled out a bit of yellowed parchment, a quill, and a small inkwell. He cleared some space by setting his sword to lean against one of the legs of the table, and began writing.

"Piper,

Good to hear everything's alright back home. Sorry about that delay with the last letter, I got a little caught up with settling in with the company. Didn't really have any time to just sit down and write.

You say not to do anything stupid, but I think I may end up going against that very soon. By the time you receive this letter, we'll have attacked the redoubt; a full-on assault. Everyone in the company will be there, and I'll be part of the main attack force. Scouts were just sent out, and we're all making sure everything is ready. Yes, before you even start writing, I checked my sword, armor, everything, so I'm not going in with a bent up blade or anything.

I know you don't want to hear this sort of thing, and I know how upset mother will be just by reading this letter, but you need to know. I might not come back from this. The Forsworn are not known for their mercy, and they very rarely take prisoners. I'll fight as smart as I can and I'll try to stay quick on my feet. I'm confident that I'll make it out, but I'm writing this letter on the off chance that I don't. If I do die though, I'll try to make it worthy of song.

I love all of you back home. If I don't make it, don't do anything stupid yourself, alright? No heroics.

- Sagax."

That was that. Sagax hated being fatalistic, but he had to account for everything. Piper suicidally trying to cut through the Reach to avenge him was something that Sagax did not want in the least. At least with the letter his family would get some closure. He slipped everything back into his bag for safe keeping. He decided that he would ask Ashav later to keep the letter for him and send it in his absence in the possible future. Sagax took a seat at the table, not really sure what to do with himself, and decided to wait to be called upon for something.

Tsleeixth cursed his stupidity for the hundredth time. He had thought to volunteer for the scouting company when Ashav had called for a meeting of the company, but unfortunately he had started coughing due to his bloodlung and as such he had tried to -as best as he could- discreetly move away from the rest of the group of mercenaries until his coughing fit stopped.

Of course, once the coughing had stopped he had time to ponder on his idea to join the scouting group and had realized that his skills weren't particularly useful for the task that the group had to accomplish "Agh, should have asked someone in the College if they could have cured me" He thought to himself, cleaning his lips with the sleeve of his shirt, trying to wipe off any blood that could be found on them, and took a swig from his waterskin to wash off the taste of blood from his mouth. He knew that he should probably ask one of the healers to help him with the sickness but he didn't want to be incapacitated for the coming battle in the redoubt, not to mention he didn't want word of his sickness reaching Ashav or, worse, Dumhuvud, knowing that the man would use the fact to torment him over it and make some sort of disparaging comment on either his persona or the argonian race.

He quietly made his way back to his tent, hoping that no one had noticed his temporary disappearance from the camp, and settled inside of it quite happy, looking for his bottle of mead and drank a little bit from the contents of the bottle, the sweet alcohol cheering him up, and picked a book, spending some of the time before the battle reading from it. However, as time dragged on he started feeling restless, and began looking over his equipment, poking is head outside of his tent when he heard a small commotion.

Apparently two of the members of the scouting party had to return while carrying the dunmer journalist, Maduras he thought his name was, with them. He stopped one of the members of the scouting party as they came "Hey, why are you back? And why did the journalist went with you?" He asked to the man in a perplexed tone, his tail twitching slightly behind him.

"No idea really, but he insisted on coming, said Ashav gave him permission or something. Long story short he hurt himself in a hunting trap for deer shortly after we left the camp" Said the scout before he continued to his own tent, leaving Tsleeixth more confused than before.

He returned to his own test and kept on checking his equipment, making sure that his steel sword was still sharp. Once he was done checking his equipment he wandered through the camp for a little bit, chatting with some of the other members of the company with whom he was acquainted but eventually he made his way to the table where he saw a small imperial man who -by his looks- was new to the company.

"What was his name, I am sure I have heard it somewhere, was it Sagar, or Sagat, hmm...not really sure, I do am sure it started with s though" He muttered to himself under his breath, slightly embarrassed at not being able to recall the man's name, before he made his way to the table, sitting besides the imperial man "Hey there, how are you doing?" He asked the man, offering him a friendly smile and his hand for a handshake "Not sure we have properly met, my name is Tsleeixth, glad to make your acquaintance" HE said in a friendly tone, his tail twitching slightly behind him due to his curiosity.

Here be a collab between @Mortarion, AKA Tsleeixth, and @Frizan, AKA Sagax

Sagax regarded his guest warmly, getting up and looking Tsleeixth in the eyes...as best he could, anyway. The argonian stood taller than Sagax, even if only by a few inches. He took Tsleeixth's hand, shaking it firmly and confidently; Sagax was well aware of the racism argonians faced, especially in Skyrim, and the last thing he wanted to do was convey any sort of animosity towards his comrade. "Well met, Tsleeixth! No, I don't believe we have. In fact, I just got here. I'm Sagax. I guess you could say I'm very green; never seen much actual combat." Sagax was almost immediately drawn to the beastman's scarred eye and the signs of burning on his chest. He gave a guess that Tsleeixth was no greenie like he was. He also noticed blood on Tsleeixth's mouth and sleeve; he couldn't tell for sure, but it looked fresh. "Huhm...are you wounded, friend? Or did a skinning go wrong?" He asked the latter question with a hint of amusement in his voice. He knew how messy skinning an animal could get, and he was glad he hadn't been asked to perform the act himself, though he found that the facial expressions of some people when the blood splashes on their clothes were pretty comical.

"Well met Sagax, a pleasure to meet you, and don't worry aboutbeing green, we all have to start at some point" Said Tsleeixth with a friendly smile "I mean, I started wandering Skyrim by the time I was 20, so I do understand how you are feeling" He said, giving the young man a friendly pat on his shoulder. He noticed Sagax's eye wandering to the scar over his eye and the burnt marks on his chest, which didn't bother Tsleeixth much but he tensed slightly when he asked him if he was wounded andlookeddown, noticing that there was still blood in his sleeve and touched his lips, feelingsome blood on them still "Shit!" He and cleaned the rest of the blood on his lips with his sleeve and then grabbed a nearby tankard, pouring it's content overhis sleeve to wash away the blood as best as he could. Once he had calmed down a little he looked to Sagax in the eyes "Bloodlung, that's why I had blood on my sleeve and on my lips" He said, he knew that Sagax was asking him out of curiosity -evident by the amusement in his tone of voice when he asked him if a skinning had gone wrong- and as such tried to calm down "My apologies, I don't want Ashav or anyone else to known that I have it" He said in an apologetic tone "Hope I didn’t startled you, thoughtI had already cleaned the blood" He explained to the young man.

"Bloodlung, huh?" In truth, Sagax wasn't familiar with that particular disease. Rockjoint and Witbane were the major threats back in Cyrodil. "Ah, don't worry about that, it wasn't exactly startling, I was mostly just curious." He understood Tsleeixth's plight. If the company knew, they would probably boot him out under accusations of being an unreliable combatant, and the argonian probably wouldn't have many places to turn. Besides, Tsleeixth looked very combat-capabable to Sagax, despite the illness. "Don't worry, the company won't hear a word of it. We need everyone we can get, and you seem like a really nice person to have around." Tsleeixth's musings on his early days made Sagax wonder if he could get as far as he did. "And, yeah, I suppose you're right. We gotta start somewhere. Though I would dare say that I haven't even started yet." Sagax unsheathed his shortsword and toyed with it, spinning it by the grip like a baton. "I haven't even used this thing yet, and my armor's barely got a scuff on it. I'm not saying that I'm relishing the battle ahead or anything. Honestly, I'm rather nervous, but I'm certain we'll all get out of it fine..." He stopped messing around with the sword and placed it on the table next to him. "I guess I'm just looking forward to a chance to prove my worth. Something that'll make people say 'Wow, I can't believe Sagax pulled that off' after we all get back to camp." He laughed to himself as he looked over at the rest of the people in the camp, most of whom were combat veterans. "Though I think I'll have my work cut out for me! Hehe."

Tsleeixth relaxed a little bit when Sagax said that he wouldn't tell anyone of his disease "Thank you my friend...I mean, I don't think Ashav would kick me out, or at least I hope he wouldn't, but I do am sure that there are people who would certainly ask for me to be kicked out, perhaps a nord who's name starts with a D but I am rambling at this point" Said the argonian, laughing a little at himself. He smiled a littlewhen Sagax said that he hadn't even started yet andlooked as he showed him his short sword "Well, by the looks of it you do seem to have some combat training" He said and reached for his belt, taking his steel sword andplaced it on the table "This is the weapon with which I started, and the onlything I had before leaving was reading too many books about heroes and too many foolish ideas in my head" He said, laughing a little since the imperial man reminded him of himself when he was younger "But, really, don't worry, I am certain that you'll fare well in the battle, you just gotta keep a cool head and not take too many risks, I know you want to prove yourself but sometimes it's best to prove oneself over time than with one heroic act" He said, smiling a little, hoping that he was helping Sagax in some way "Hmm, but that is enough about the battle ahead, don't you think?" He asked, chuckling softly "So, with that in mind, why don't we talk aboutsomething else for a little while?" He said, relaxing a little as he placed his hands on the table and ran his thumb over the old steel sword.

Reflecting on Tsleeixth's advice briefly, Sagax started to think that maybe he was pushing himself harder than he ought to. His comment on the heroics brought him back to Piper's words and how scathingly she'd scold him over his foolish haste. Sagax couldn't help but smile at the scene playing in his head, he just couldn't help it, he'd done the same many times before as Piper threw every seething word she could conjure up at him. She absolutely HATED it, and that's mostly why he would just keep smiling despite how much his mother would tell him to quit 'antagonizing' Piper. "Yeah, you're probably right. No sense in just charging ahead like a glory hound. I certainly wouldn't want to grow to be like a certain nord we all know and love!" Placing his sword back into its sheath, Sagax sat back down. "Hmm, I agree. We'll be dealing with it soon anyway, no reason to harp on about it. Besides, I'm sure we'll hear ALL about it from that particular nord when it's all said and done." Tsleeixth's comment about his literary forays intrigued him. Sagax had only read books on history and philosophy during his schooling, none very exciting. The only historical account that had ever really drawn him in at all was a recollection of Jagar Tharn's clever usurping of the emperor, and even that was written in the drab monotone most commonly ascribed to Imperial recordkeepers. "So, do you still like to read in your downtime, Tsleeixth?"

Tsleeixth laughed a little when Sagax mentioned that he didn't want to grow like a certain nord in the camp "Hmm, agreed" He said, stilllaughing a little bit as he picked his sword and put it back into it's sheath. He was a little surprised when Sagax asked him if he likedto read in his downtime "Hmm, yeah, I still do" Hesaid, smiling fondly as he recalled fond childhood memories "Yeah, I loved to read as a child, guess the habit followed me all the way from child to mercenary" He said, chuckling a little "And you, do you like to read in your downtime Sagax? Or you occupy your free time with other hobbies?" He asked the young imperial, although he was a little distracted since he was still reminiscing of his childhood a little "Hmm, hey, if you don't mind me asking, what brought you to this line of work?" He asked Sagax after he had answered his question, pondering on the why of the young imperial's presence in the camp "Don't get me wrong, I am certain you'll make a fine mercenary, but I am wondering what brought you here" Hesaid, smiling a little "Sorry if the question makes you uncomfortable, it's just that I was reminiscing a littleabout my own childhood and remembered why I became a mercenary, and that led me to getting a little curious as to why you where here" He said, hoping that he hadn't offended the young man

"Me? Well I....uh....I do...erm..." Sagax actually struggled to think of anything that he did that could be considered a hobby. He picks locks, but that probably isn't classified as a 'hobby'. The closest thing he could think of is his affinty for scaling things, climbing. "Well, I guess I like to do a bit of climbing. Mountains, walls, trees, it doesn't really matter. If I can get a grip on it, I can climb it. I liked scaling the temple and the big manors back in the Imperial City when I was a child. I'd usually end up scaring my sister half to death but I got a lot better at it over time. Though I can't really practice my hobby out here..." Sagax waved his hand at their surroundings. "Even if I did try to climb whatever hills there are around here, I'd probably end up getting my head taken off...and not by arrows, but by Cat-Kicker as he'd end up making up some asinine reasoning for why I shouldn't be scaling the hills around here." Sagax rested his legs on the empty seat next to him. "As for reading, it's mostly been boring recountings, and even then that was many years ago when I was being tutored as a child. I haven't done much reading since then." Tsleeixth's last question caught Sagax slightly off guard, but he figured it was going to come eventually. Someone like Sagax, a small, thin Imperial who hadn't seen a lick of combat doesn't just up and join a mercenary company an entire province away just because. "Well...remember what I said about not being a glory hound? That's actually what I am, now that I think about it. Though I'm not seeking glory for glory's sake. It's part of a plan I've come up with...a very convoluted plan with a low chance of success, but I'm sticking to it. You see, my father, who was the captain of the Imperial Watch at the time, was falsey imprisoned for a crime he didn't actually have any hand in. I'm going to try to gain recognition from the Elder Council, and free my father. That's why I'm here." Sagax relaxed himself, leaning back in his seat. "First step: Survive this attack. Pretty simple, I'd think!" he said with a chuckle and a self-assured smile.

Tsleeixth was a little surprised when Sagax said that he liked to climb, chuckling softly when he mentioned that he liked scaling the temples and manors back in the Imperial City but snickered when he mentioned Cat-Kicker making some asinine reasoning as for why he shouldn't be scaling "Tell me about it, Dumhuvud always has some idiotic comment to throw around. I remember that the first time Ashav and him found I was a conjurer was to say something along the lines of "conjure me a warm bed now!' or something equally idiotic" He said, laughing a little bit, and listened as Sagax said that he had only read boring recountings but only when he was a child "Ahh, I see, hmm, must have been pretty boring, though I wouldn't know myself, didn't had much of a formal education" He admitted to the young imperial. He looked as Sagax seemed a little startled by his question about why he was in the mercenary company, and was about to apologize to him when he began telling him his reasoning for becoming a mercenary. He listened to the whole story without interrupting and once Sagax was done he stayed silent for a while, pondering on it "You are very brave" He said, breaking the silence "And I do think that your goal is very admirable, I do believe you when you say that your father was falsely imprisoned, and I can understand your reasoning since I became a mercenary wanting to become a hero too" He said, giving the man a smile "But, have you thought on the fact of the Elder Council listening to you?" He asked him "Don't get me wrong, I am not trying to dissuade you, but do you think that the Council would listen to you, a man who's heroics were performed in a military company while in distant Skyrim? I think your best bet would have been to enlist in the Imperial Legion, or join a troupe of adventurers in Cyrodiil" He said, thinking partly to himself.

"In any case, I'd also recommend you to save money, as a backup plan, try and see if you can get the Elder Council to release your father through legal means or, at worse, through a few well placed bribes" Said the argonian, frowning slightly before letting out a sigh, his tail twitching slightly "I know it's not ideal, but it's best to try and have a back-up plan in case" He said to Sagax.

"I see where you're coming from, Tsleeixth," said Sagax, swinging his legs back under the table, sitting up straight. "...but I don't believe the Legion would have me. Even if they did, I would most likely be 'blacklisted', and kept as a mere foot soldier. I'd never gain in rank, and my deeds would be ascribed to someone else. As for adventurers...I don't know, they've always seemed so...temporary. It would start out all fine and dandy, sure, but evenutally issues would rise up, and with no real leader like there is here, things would just keep escalating. Differences in ideology, morals, all those things would just drive us apart. Here? We know who the enemy is, we know who we're getting paid to fight, and we all know we can only get paid if we work together and do our best to come back from the battles." Sagax continued on as he idly kicked some rocks away behind him. "Adventurers by their very nature are drifters. They may not always agree on where to go, and so, they split apart, sometimes to never see each other again. I want adventure too, but I'm not an 'adventurer'..." His face contorted into mild contemplation. "If that makes any sense. I want a more permament band of companions, people I know I can fight with and turn to when the odds start weighing against me. These mercenary organizations are, from what I've seen, more permanent than the title implies. Everyone wants a little glory, money, but they also want allies, and the more reliable the source for all of these the better. These companies are a great way to get all of these...ah, but I'm rambling, excuse me." Sagax took out a single gold coin and flipped it between his fingers. "As for bribes...I don't believe in them. Do it right or don't do it at all, that's my outlook." He continued playing with the coin, watching it almost as if he were hypnotized, but he was still politely listening for Tsleeixth's response.

Tsleeixth listened as Sagax gave his counterargument to his idea and the argonian had to admit that he raised various valid points. He chuckled softly when he noticed that the young imperial man began to play with a coin but was still polite enough to pay attention to whatever he was going to say "I must admit, you raise various valid points" He began saying "On your comment on the Imperial Legion, you are probably right but you could also go under a pseudonym or a false identity as well" Pointed out Tsleeixth before letting out a soft chuckle on the comment that Sagax mad on 'adventurers' "Hmm, true enough, I concede defeat. I suppose I suggested the idea because, well, when one generally thinks of adventurers one remembers the Nerevarine, or the Dragonborn, the Hero of Kvatch and so on, but like you say bands of adventurers don't work like in the books one reads" Said he argonian, letting out a soft sigh "But, when it comes to mercenaries...I do think you put much faith in the organization itself. Ashav has gotten a good thing going here, that's true, but even so you can see tensions, look at Dumhuvud Cat-kicker for the prime example" He said "I'll propose you a hypothetical situation, let's say that Ashav were to die in the attack on the redoubt and Dumhuvud declares himself the leader of the company, what do you think would happen? The way I see it, there would be two outcomes" He said, thinking for a little "Either many people would stay in memory of Ashav, but quickly disperse and break the company due to Dumhuvud himself, or someone would challenge him, and in that case the group would most likely separate itself and a conflict would ensure. In any case, the group as it is now would break" He said, lacing his fingers as he propped his elbows on the table "The ugly truth here is that, while you can, and usually will, make friends inside a mercenary company, as childish that might sound, what binds our loyalty is most of the time coin" He said.

Tsleeixth rubbed his eyebrow slightly, letting out a soft sigh "So, while your point on mercenary companies usually wanting the same is spot on, the loyalties, for lack of a better word, that bind such groups are more often than not easily broken" He said "As for your comment on the bribes, I did say that it wasn't ideal, I wouldn't want to take that option myself, but I do think that it's a possibility that it's always best to keep in mind" Said the argonian, chuckling softly and let out another sigh as he waited for Sagax's answer while he pondered what he had just said.

Sagax listened intently to the argonian, glad to hear that his own viewpoints weren't just being thrown to the wind. He started to be become visibly angry, though. Not at Tsleeixth, but at his hypothetical of Cat-Kicker taking over the company and inevitably causing a divide, which would set back Sagax quite a bit. The worst part is that Sagax knew that such a hypothetical was entirely possible, and could come to pass very soon. The man began gripping the coin in his palm so forcibly that his hand began to shake. "He'd ruin....EVERYTHING. For EVERYONE..." he said to himself under his breath. Sagax came too far to be stopped now, and he sure as hell wasn't going to go sulking back to the Imperial City like a beaten dog in a storm. Eventually Sagax closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and let the coin fall to the table with a clank. A calm smirk grew across his face as he sighed. "Well...we're not going to let that happen now, are we? Coin is what binds us, and no Ashav, no coin, because Cat-Kicker would laugh in our faces if we asked for fair pay." Throwing the coin back into his bag, Sagax looked Tsleeixth right in the eyes. "But...enough about that. How do you like Skyrim, Tsleeixth?"

Tsleeixth looked at how Sagax reacted to his hypothetical situation of Ashav dying and Cat-Kicker taking control of the company, and the anger of the young imperial man worried him a little, specially when he said that they 'wouldn't let that happen' something that gave the argonian an uneasy vibe, although he guessed -and hoped- that Sagax meant making sure the attack on the redoubt went as planned. He was slightly unnerved when he saw a calm smirk grow across Sagax's face, and wondered if his little tirade on the nature of mercenary companies hadn't had a detrimental effect on the imperial man. He eased a little when Sagax asked how he liked Skyrim "Boy, I have been living here longer than you, my family came here when I was six, so Skyrim is as much my homeland as it is of the nords, no matter what those idiots with a 'Skyrim for the nords' attitude say" Said he argonian, chuckling softly. He stayed chatting with Sagax for a little while but eventually went back to his tent,though Sagax opted to stay at the table, after biding farewell to his young friend, wanting to inspect his equipment one last time before the scouts returned.

Hobbled, stumbled and limped; Maduras and two scouts arrived in camp. They were received by a Nord teenager named Dough-Boy; the messenger around their encampment and Ashav's personal errand boy. Dough-Boy asked them why they have returned so early, and why they only returned with three. The boy was worried, but Maduras told him about his foolish move and sent the lad back to his boss. As they continued looking for a healer, Maduras and the scouts came by Tsleeixth coughing his guts out.

“What's his problem? Is there a bloodlung pandemic spreading around?” The Dunmer looked to his escorts.

“Not that I know of.” The one supporting Maduras' left side shrugged.

“Likely just him.” The right side man added. “And here he comes.”

“I think I can manage from here on.” Maduras said. He felt better, no, more used to his injured leg now. He told one of the scouts to greet Tsleeixth, partially because Tsleeixth really looked like he needed help, but also because Maduras wanted to put someone else there in case the said Argonian starts to hack up blood.

---

Dough-Boy was sure glad to be busy now instead of later. His boss had the common sense of tasking him with pre-assualt duty, rather than mid-assault, or Kyne forbid, post-assault cleanups. Dough-Boy was faint of heart, he could puke just at the sight of a nosebleed. That would be rather problematic, seeing how he would be cleaning up both the blood and his own vomit afterward.

Thankfully, not much bleeding is happening around camp, and it must have been exactly why he was sent to collect parcels. Ashav, who had earlier received the letter from Keegan, realized the Altmer won't be the only person sending them out. Dough's boss didn't want planning to be interrupted, and Dough-Boy loitering around anxiously counted as interruption.

When the mercenaries made their final inspections on equipment, Dough-Boy hustled from tent to tent, collecting everything outbound in a large sack over his shoulders. He walked by Tennant beating up an improvised punching bag. Dough-Boy avoided the Imperial man, he was always scared to being substituted as a meatier target. Ducking from Dumhuvud and his posse of two fellow brutes, Dough came by Sevine helping Roze setting up. He carefully trudged up to the ladies, asking if they have any parcels to send and then turning back the way he came from. On his journey back, he realized he missed several tents, some of them being Lucex, Jonimir and Sagax. Lucex was like Dough in age, but unlike Dough-Boy's unmistakable boyish goatees, Lucex was ambiguously feminine and not too shabby on the eyes. Dough remembered trying to be more than friendly with Lucex, and later realizing he was a man. Since Dough was not interested in other males, as far he knew, interactions between him and Lucex had been awkward ever since. So fair enough, he skipped Lucex and went for Jonimir. He found nothing more than a sleeping man, smelling like, chicken soup? There were rumors of the Redguard mage secretly brewing alcohol, but could he get drunk on chicken soup? Pondering led him to Sagax, and Dough played with his bead bracelet until Tsleeixth exited.

“Pardon me,” Dough-Boy approached Sagax. There were writing materials, so it looked like he ought to be adding more items to his bag. “Ashav was asking me to collect mail, and do you wish send any?”

---

Having been embarrassed by Jorwen and Sevine, Dumhuvud felt the need to vent on someone more, vulnerable. To his pleasure, the talk of Jonimir asleep like the dead was just the perfect opportunity. Jonimir's face and facial hair was already smeared with soup. But it didn't take long for Dumhuvud to find two bottles of mead. He smirked, Ashav would surely want him to address the issue of liqueur in their camp, and the Cat-Kicker was more than happy to oblige, by making a beer-soup mixture on Jonimir's ugly features.

“Sorry pal,” Dumhuvud mocked, he was feeling anything but sorry when he poured a bottle of mead on Jonimir. “But you know the what happens when you bring mead to battle, or sleeping on the job.”

The Cat-Kicker felt better all a sudden, and Jonimir will wake up feeling worse, perhaps soggy.

---

When the moondial reached four in the morning, two groups were ready and assembled. Based on the scouts' recommendation, which was that the flanking routes were too narrow for twelve, the flanking group was halved to six. Half, and not all of them willing, were reassigned to the main group, bringing Dumhuvud's fighters to roughly thirty-five. Sadri, Jonimir, Lucex, Tennant and Relmyna remained under Edith's command.

Save for Ashav, the scouts and non-combat personnel such as Dough-Boy and Maduras, the rest embarked down the valley. Both groups marched together at first, and they split close to the creek. Edith and her subordinates took to a side path marked earlier by Daelin, while Dumhuvud ordered the battering ram across the river ford. Originally, four mercenaries were set to push the ram, but with the added weight of ladders attached to the ram's side, and resistance from uneven terrain, six people were now helping it forward.

The horizon was visible under a dark orange hue, Ashav assured them to be an advantage. But the creeping shadow-like shapes, partially illuminated, was inspiring the opposite in many.

---

By the time Edith arrived on the creek bank, she was sufficiently away from Dumhuvud so they could not see the other group. However, they were still close enough to hear noises once in a while, and it was mostly the Cat-Kicker berating his “troops” for their “sluggishness”. Edith sighed, that man is going to give his position away with that.

As she hid behind weeds that were on a creek shore about waist height over the water, Edith found this part of the creek to be fast running, about knee deep and had plenty of sedge growing throughout. This part is ideal for crossing, the running water and thick sedge growth would make them hard to hear and see.

Edith leaned down and dipped her hand in the creek, she felt cold streaming biting her fingers. Slowly, she eased one foot down after another, and the small splash of water quickly seeped into her boots and lower trouser. She took long but slow strides, and her sword and shield at the ready. There were nothing in the water, or in the distant bank, but as she brushed aside several water plants, Edith spotted a pair of archers in the distance, running towards Dumhuvud's direction.

“Shh.” She whispered to the others. “See them over there?” Waving the group over, she directed them at the archers. “Keep your heads down, keep moving, do not do anything stupid.”

---

Further down the creek, Dumhuvud was barking at the six people pushing the ram. As soon as it hit the creek bed, the wheels had been having a poor time moving forward. About ten of them already crossed over and saw nothing in front. Most of these mercenaries ahead, including Orakh, bore shields as the vanguard of their assault. However, Dumhuvud was insistent for most of them to stay with the ram, so that they could protect it and push it faster. This meant the group had to stay in the creek, it was only ankle-deep but there were nevertheless lots of cursing regarding water-logged boots and standing around with no cover.

“Haul your dumb asses back here!” The Cat-Kicker shouted at Orakh and those who went ahead. “Make yourselves useful, is that too much for your brainless heads?”

“We're clearing the roads ahead!” Orakh countered. He also addressed the people around him. “Don't listen to him, stay on your guard.” The Orcs order fell to some deaf ears but was also heeded by others, some went back to Dumhuvud while some stayed with Orakh.

“Chief!” Sadann, the Redguard spearman besides Orakh called out. “Movements, in the grasses, to the left!”

“And right!” Someone else added.

All a sudden, arrows, spells and even rocks rained down on them from all sides. Between the torches they held and the sheer size of their group, it was very confusing for the mercenaries. In addition, some of these arrows were burning. One of them struck the man between Orakh and Sadann, the projectile nailed him in the neck and he went down with a bloody gurgle.

“Shields up! Hurry!” Orakh shouted. His own buckler leveled with another, and quick thinking immediately saw the benefit of halting an arrow intended for Sadann.

In the creek, Dumhuvud and the rest, about thirty mercenaries clustered around the ford, were also taking in missiles. However, most of the projectiles were aimed at the ram, and they were also the flaming ones. It looked like the Forsworns were attempting to burn the siege weapon, or trying to disable it by setting it ablaze. Dumhuvud was angry, but it seemed like his anger was directed at his own men rather than the enemy.

“Move this piece of shit forward.” He grabbed onto someone pushing the ram, and threw him aside. Dumhuvud landed on the ram and began pushing himself. “Quit slouching around, damn it!”

The man who were thrown aside by Dumhuvud fell on creek bed, as he got on his feet, a fire spell flew right into his chest and ignited several parts of his outfit. He dropped back in to the creek water, but as desperately as he screamed and rolled, the magical flame could not be extinguished by water. By the time Dumhuvud managed to inch the ram forward, the man was already burned to a crisp. He was not the only casualty, as someone else towards the back of the group caught an arrow in the belly.

Fortunately though, the man took an otherwise critical hit for the ram. Therefore, with Dumhuvud and additional mercenaries pushing it forward, the ram cleared of the creek and landed on the opposing shore. It was also by this time, the arrows and spells thinned and was gone as fast as they came. The shadowy movements Sadann saw ran back towards the redoubt. At least three mercenaries had already fallen and they did not even catch a good glance at a single enemy.

“What in the gods' names were you thinking?” Dumhuvud, now sweaty and dirt soaked on the trail, delivered a powerful punch to Orakh's cheek. “You could of gotten us all killed.”

“Me?” Orakh countered. He held his ground and stood face-to-face with Dumhuvud. “You were the one standing in the creek, getting everyone killed.”

The situation felt tense, Dumhuvud and Orakh came close to beating on each other. But Sadann budged in and directed everyone's attention to the sky, where a bright magelight ascended from the valley. It was some sort of signal. “Uh, look!” Sadann said with every bit of urgency he could muster. “They know we're here now. We really need to go, fast.”

Before it was time to leave for the battle, Sevine had erected a tent she had brought with her finally, as she was too lazy to do so before. She extended an offer to Roze to share the tent with her, as there was plenty of room for two women. However, she left it up to the thief to decide.

A young man approached them, and asked if they had any mail to send out. Sevine shook her head solemnly, she hadn't brought a quill, ink or any paper with her. Perhaps she could borrow some from someone in the camp if she came across it. She hadn't heard from Liliana in a few weeks, but that did not trouble her, she understood that her younger sister had a new life after marrying, and that entailed new homely tasks as well.

Finally, when the time came to leave, Sevine had outfitted herself with her bow and quiver on her back, with her shield covering the two. At her hip hung her war axe, and she donned her full set of armor, from her leather jerkin, to her bracers and boots, as well as her helm.

"Try not to get killed out there, I'd hate to lose anyone on the first night of battle." Sevine said to Roze, and with that she offered her a sympathetic smile before departing.

She joined the others that would push the ram, unfortunately, their group was headed by Dumhuvud. Now, not only did they have to push the ram through the valley, but they had to carry the extra weight of the ladders too. It didn't help the fact that Dumhuvud's voice filled her ears with constant, berating words. With five other people pushing the ram through the valley, Sevine drove her shoulder into pushing the ram, with her boots digging into the ground beneath her.

The light was minimal despite the orange glow coming from the eastern horizon, beckoning the call of the sun, though still hours away. As the group came to a creek bed, Dumhuvud insisted they pick up the pace even though they had to cross the water.

With both feet in the creek , Sevine's leather boots filled with chilly water, which made for an unpleasant feeling at best. Dumhuvud began to call for some of the mercenaries ahead of them to come back and help out. Some came, while the others remained up front.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, arrows, rocks, and spells of every kind were launched at the group as they cleared the creek. One man on the ram was struck with a flaming arrow, despite falling the flowing water of the creek, the flames could not be extinguished. Sevine kept her head low so as not to be an easy target, she could hear the whistling of arrows overhead, singing past her before finding their mark on some unfortunate mercenary.

Knowing that if they stopped moving they could become sitting targets, Sevine continued pushing the ram, putting all her weight behind it. Sweat stung her eyes as it rolled down her forehead from the strain. In the distance, over the redoubt, a bright light briefly illuminated the skyline. It looked to be some sort of signal, an omen that the forsworn now knew of their arrival. She gritted her teeth, and kept an eye out for any enemies, they needed to get the ram to the redoubt quickly if they wanted to bust down their walls.

Just as Sagax began packing up his things and clipping his scabbard to his belt, he was approached by a young man who asked if Sagax wanted to send along any mail. "Oh, yes actually! Right on time, thanks." he said, handing his letter to the lad. Sagax threw his hood back on, looping the thick wool strings through holes in the hem, and fastened the strap of his pack to keep it from flopping around later. "May Mara's benevolence find its way to you, friend." With that, Sagax set off to join the frontliners, and into his first foray into actual combat.

Sagax opted to stand to the side of the ram as the stronger of the group pushed the hulking weapon. He shook with anxiety, death-gripping his sword's handle, eyes sweeping back and forth across the dark horizon as soon as the tents of camp were out of sight, heart pounding as he locked on to each shadow. All of that building up of confidence and praying just simply were not comforting him, though that wasn't exactly hard to notice. Anyone glancing at him would think him to be cowering even before anything actually happened, as Sagax prowled low to the ground, sticking to the tallest tufts of grass he could find. In truth? He was both cowering and staying obsessively alert, though one looked to have a higher priority than the other.

Sagax had finally begun to calm himself when the group reached a creek, where Dumhuvud began shouting at some people who went and scouted ahead to get back to the ram. The brute's howling did nothing to help Sagax's nerves, though what happened next nearly sent him over the edge, as arrows, spells, and rocks began hailing down on the group. Their main target was clearly the ram, though others took hits as well. He saw one man at the ram get lit on fire by a spell, and futilely rolled in the water before burning up completely. His screaming rang in Sagax's ears, but his attention was immediately directed to a mercenary that got hit in the stomach with an arrow. That was when an arrow flew past Sagax's head, missing its mark by a terrifyingly small margin. He didn't look to where the missile came from, he just ran. What madness drove him to do so he did not know, but while fleeing the rocks and arrows bolting past him, Sagax slung the hit man's arm over his shoulders and began dragging him through the muck. He could still hear the man breathing, and it was heavily labored. He kept telling Sagax to leave him and run, that he wasn't going to get out of this, but Sagax repeatedly retorted that he was fine, that it was just a flesh wound, and that he would get back to camp just fine. But what Sagax said did not mimic what he thought. He knew that the man's wound couldn't be mended by a simple healing potion, especially in the current situation, but Sagax deeply hoped despite all evidence to the contrary that he'd be able to save his comrade.

Sagax tried his best to keep up with the ram, but the weight of his comrade with all of his equipment greatly strained Sagax's small frame, and he had to stop quickly several times to catch his breath. Arrows kept flying by him, some being nearer than others, but Sagax pushed forward, eventually getting near enough to the ram to actually make out Dumhuvud's ramblings amidst the shouting of others around him and the swishing of arrows and spells that filled his ears. Sagax did what he could to take his mind off of the smell of blood coming from his wounded comrade, who was getting worryingly more quiet as time went on, keeping his eyes forwards to the other end of the creek, thinking that if he could just get there, he could set the man down and maybe help him. When the group finally arrived at their destination, to Sagax's great relief, everything got much quieter, with the Forsworn retreating back to the redoubt.

Sagax carried his comrade to a small boulder and set him upright against it, clasping his hand on the man's shoulder. "We made it, friend! I told you! You're going to live to fight another day, just like I said you would!" Sagax's triumphant smile slowly faded, as he noticed the man did not respond. No grunt, no words, not even the faintest sign of movement. "H-hey...friend! Did ya hear me? I said we made it! You're gonna...be..." He finally realized that the man's eyes were closed. This, with the lack of movement, or any response at all, forced Sagax to accept the fact that, no, the man was clearly not alright. Not in the least. He had died along the way to the shore.

It suddenly hit Sagax as to just how...tired he was. The stress of the moment, hauling his comrade through the creek all the way to the other side, it just made him so exhausted. He fell backwards, landing right on his bottom, with his arms resting on his knees, breathing heavily. Sagax himself didn't even really know what he expected. He knew perfectly well that people die on excursions like this. But he never expected for someone to die right on top of him, as he carried them to safety. Seeing someone kick the bucket from a distance, and having them go to the gods right in your arms, Sagax learned, were too very different things. He said only two words: "Well...shit..."

"Well," Farid said, grinning softly to Jorwen and Keegan. "At least nobody died, yet."

Jorwen cracked a grin and shook his head, “Oh, the night’s still young, little lad. I’ll be in my tent.”

Jorwen strode off through the night, the whipping wind playing hell with his hair. He’d finally got back to his tent in time to sit and watch some of the others scramble to muster into their two groups. He didn’t fancy being in their place and it felt shameful to say that he felt relief from not being them. He’d spilled enough blood tonight though, enough blood in all his years, even. He felt like he’d earned the right to be able to just sit down every once in a while and give some other young, brash, newbeard charge off to spill blood for no other reason than that’s how men were made in Skyrim. Too much stock put in a man’s swordarm and not in his brains. Dough-Boy arrived just in time to break Jorwen’s brooding and he was thankful for that. “Any mail? Letters, trinkets, anything?”

“No, none.” He shook his head and reminded himself to write back to his wife soon. She deserved to know what was happening in the camp just as much as he deserved to know how her and their daughter were coming along. “How did you get that name? Dough-Boy?”

“I was apprenticed to a baker ‘fore this. Man said I should get out there and experience something before coming back, do some fighting, bed some girls.” He said, shrugging his shoulders.

“You done any of that?” Jorwen asked, looking up at the boy while spinning his ring round and round on the leather cord he wore it on.

“No.” He shook his head, “I thought it’d be all glory and combat. All I do is bake here and collect mail for the couriers. Figures I come out here to make something of the world and all I get to do is the same old thing I was doing back home.”

“Is it?” Jorwen grunted.

“It is. Thought I’d use this more.” And he patted the rusty cleaver on his belt.

“Picked the wrong company to sign up with for that. Good for you, though, the life I lived isn’t for everyone. Figured the world would be a better place if this business of war was a thing of the past.” Jorwen shook his head and looked at his hands, remembered killing that man tonight, even though he couldn’t defend himself. Maybe they should’ve untied him, maybe he should’ve said sorry, but he wondered if they’d switched places if the man would untie him or say sorry and he found that to be a slim chance. “You go back home after this business is all over and you stay there. Never pick up a weapon again if you can help it.”

“If you say so.” The lad looked like he was anything but convinced as he turned and went back to his business of collecting mail. He sighed and let himself fall back onto his bedroll, taking the leather cord off of his neck letting the ring dangle above his face. Couldn’t afford an amulet of Mara when he was young and just coming back from the war, so they made due with the help of a friend long gone now. That’s what they always did, him and Halla. They were strong, and if you asked Jorwen, Halla was even stronger than him. Strong with the mind, quick with the wit, and that’s where strength really counts. He missed Halla, missed his daughter, Solveig.

He’d drifted off to sleep, it seemed. Farid’s smiling face was hovering above his and he flinched, almost wrapped his hands around Farid’s head and cracked his nose with his forehead before he recognized the bastard. “Ashav wants us.”

“How long was I out?”

“Not long. D’you see that light?” Farid asked.

“What light?” Jorwen asked, cocking his brow.

“That’s what Ashav wants to talk about.” The smile didn’t disappear from his face, “Seemed urgent.”

Jorwen sighed and rolled back onto his arse, where he clutched his chest and let out a long, gravelly cough. His eyes were screwed shut and he shook his head before opening it, hacking again to clear his throat and spitting a gob of phlegm into the dirt. “That cough. Doesn’t sound good.”

“When’s a cough good?” He got to his feet and dusted his pants off. He rolled his shoulders and shook his head. Back to business, then. He walked back to Ashav’s tent with Farid in tow as he tied the leather cord back around his neck. It’d be a while before he saw his family again.

Tsleeixth was doing a final inspection of his equipment before he began putting it on. He smiled with satisfaction when everything seemed to be in order and was preparing to put on the chestpiece of his armor when he heard someone address him by name. He turned around and saw the scout he had stopped before to ask about Maduras poking his head into his tent "Yes, what's the matter?" He asked the man, rather perplexed why he would be talking to him instead of trying to get some well deserved rest. He knew that the scouts would be exempt from the upcoming attack on the redoubt but it was still weird for one of them, even if they had to return earlier due to Maduras injuring his leg, to be bothering him, specially if they knew that Tsleeixth himself would have to leave shortly for the battle and as such needed to start getting ready.

"It's rather urgent I know you have to get ready for the attack on the redoubt but this is rather serious" Said the man, frowning slightly and looking like he was trying to decide on the best way to phrase something unpleasant he had to say. The argonian raised an eyebrow but nonetheless followed the man to a little area of the camp that seemed to be empty or, at the very least, away from prying ears, which only raised the confusion Tsleeixth was feeling and made him feel slightly nervous "So, what is it that you wanted to talk about?" He asked to the scout, crossing his arms.

"Well, you see, as we were returning with Maduras we catch you outside...you know...coughing blood" Explained the man, letting out a soft sigh "Look, I have seen other people with Bloodlung and yours isn't...well, it isn't very good but I am sure it's still easily curable. Look, I haven't told Ashav but not idea if Maduras or the other guy have told him so if I were you, I'd tell him right now or after the battle I am sure he'll understand" Said the scout with a smile, obviously trying to reassure him, before he left after giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder. Once the man was far away Tsleeixth cursed loudly, kicking a pebble that was nearby him, at having been discovered "Damn my luck, guess I'll have to talk to Ashav after the attack on the redoubt, if either of us makes it out alive that is" He grumbled, letting out a soft sigh as acceptance settled in and returned to his tent to put on his armor.

He was ready a short while after and went to join the group pushing the ram. He saw Sagax among the group but was still feeling upset and so he kept his distance from the group, the presence of Dumhuvud doing nothing to ease the argonian's foul mood. Once the order to move was given he picked up a few ladders, realizing that he wasn't strong enough to help push the ram in any meaningful way.

He was caught by surprise when someone shouted they heard movement from bot the right and left side once they had reached the creek and cursed loudly when he saw arrows and spells flying at them. He tried to shoot a few spells back and thought to summon an atronach to divert some attention from the ramp but he was brought out of his musings when he heard someone being thrown to the water. He at first thought someone of the group had been killed but instead felt anger swell within him when he realized that it had been Dumhuvud pushing someone into the stream. To his horror he soon saw the man being hit by a fire spell, the smell of cooking flesh hitting his nostrils and he began sweating as he started having flashbacks to his time in Winterhold and of himself at a younger age as he was attacked by an out of control flame atronach and how he rolled in pain on the ground trying to extinguish the magical flames.

He forced himself out of his stupor and continued moving, briefly noticing that Sagax seemed to be trying to carry a man who was clearly dying. The part of his mind that still clung to reason told him to shout to the young imperial, but the memories that had returned from the depths of memory to the fore by the sight of the burning man -and Dumhuvud's shouting didn't help in the least- turned his mind solely to the task of keeping himself alive.

He followed the group mindlessly until he noticed they had stopped, getting out of his stupor slightly when he saw Dumhuvud getting into an argument with an orc, the leader of the group that had been in front of the ram if he remembered correctly, and noticed Sagax on the ground. He approached the man and shook him quickly to get him to move "On your feet Sagax" He told the young imperial before he went to the center of the group, where Cat-Kicker was discussing with the orc. He was about to punch Dumhuvud, blaming him for throwing that man to the creek and leading to his death, when he noticed the magelight and Sadann trying to direct the group's attention to it "He's right, we can argue and fight back at camp, right now we've got a job to do" Said Tsleeixth, lending his voice in support of that of the redguard, for whatever good it did.