Tennant was one tough son of a bitch. Not many would have the courage to charge headlong into a bear, not to mention a magically enhanced ursine. Such attempt without a weapon or armor further compounded his bravery, and stupidity. Hearing a story like this one would no doubt make some wonder if the man had been hit too many times in the head. Yes, he had, and he lived through the worst concussions Tamriel had to offer, one more was just another notch in his belt.

“What on Nirn just happened?” Relmyna gasped. After Sadri has broke the silence, rather casually, considering the fight they just encountered. Unlike Sadri, the younger dark elf practically stood astounded, jaws wide open in disbelief when she opened her eyes to see the same cavern, not some gloomy realm of Oblivion. “I, I almost soiled myself. Sadri, Edith, I owe you two my life.”

Edith simply chuckled and nodded. Her left arm, the one that bore the shield and the full brunt of the bear's assault, was throbbing with dull pain. Even though she fought for years before, challenging men, elves, animals and even daedric creatures, few had the raw power of Smokey. Her experience and training took on a mind of their own, thankfully, as she wasn't sure what would become of Relmyna otherwise.

“Right, you're welcome.” Edith responded. With her right arm, the one with full response, she waved the all-clear to Lucex. “Looks like that blade came in handy.” She said to Sadri. At least there was one part she actually planned well for. As the group went to check on Tennant, Edith pondered on how the main assault was going. They were fairly deep underground, and any tell-tale signs of a battle topside would be drowned absorbed by meters of thick earth. Edith though about her friend, Sevine; her peer, as much as she averted him, Dumhuvud; and thirty some other mercenaries. There was the chance that they were turned back, or even eliminated. Failing the main assault would leave her flankers to wither on the vine, just four against a whole redoubt.

Seeing signs of life in Tennant brought some measures of hope back. The wrestler was not conscious, dark bruises on his skull accompanied by dried blood from nostril was unsettling. On the positive side though, his heart still beat, and small puffs of air came out at regular intervals.

“He wouldn't be hurt if I just aimed a little higher.” Lucex fretted. The confidence and purpose in him was gone. No longer were solid strides and fluid grip on his bow, all replaced by a guilty limp hurting through his sense of responsibility. Lucex was the one staying behind, he was sitting back comfortably while Tennant was flung head first into stone surfaces. Lucex stood at the rear of the group, like he always had been before. He had one job, one shot he failed to deliver. All a sudden, the tunnel ahead seemed so long, and the pit they stood in seemed so much deeper.

“You can't dwell on it.” Edith reminded him. “You can't dwell on any of it.”

Lucex looked up, he closed his eyes when Edith reached out to him. When they opened again, he gave Edith an affirming nod. It was not reinvigorating energy, but rather simple conviction to finish what he started.

“Relmyna, stay with Tennat.” Edith instructed the Dunmer girl. Between their group, Relmyna was most out of her elements. Her physique, frail and petite, would do no good in another fight. As fast and witty she was, Edith knew straight up melee would be Relmyna's doom.

With that settled, only Edith, Lucex and Sadri climbed out of the pit. Relmyna sat cross legged beside Tennant. The Dunmer girl closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall. Smokey's corpse, combined with the rotten smell of death was almost too much to bear. They could have Sadri perform his telekinesis on Tennant by lifting his body out of the pit. But Edith realized by doing so would exacerbate any unseen trauma to his neck or spine.

Immediate top of the pit was another table akin to one they say earlier. On this particular one was a dead body, with a gaping cut on its throat and skin rotten from decay. Lucex could not recognize the person, but Edith recalled the dead man as one of Daelin's scout missing in action on their first day. Alongside the corpse were enchanting equipment; glyph markers, candles and discarded soul-gems. There was one roll of parchment, and it documented briarheart transplant procedure requiring additional soul energy.

Lucex twisted his face in disgust. As a hunter, he wasn't disturbed by decaying bodies. What did hit home was the morbid implication of what happened to the poor chap.

“Nothing we can do for him, let's keep moving.” Edith carried on, albeit with her own reservations about her observations. She took the parchment and stuffed it under her belt. Ashav would want to see this.

Indeed, Ashav would want to keep tab on many things. Just around the corner of the tunnel were two more tables. One of them completely empty. The other one, it held a disc with a gem shaped whole in the middle; an arcane charge identical to the one Edith carried. By the looks of it, there were more than one, and tool marks on the table wood indicated some type of work being done to the charge(s).

“This must could be where the other half of our shipment went.” Edith remarked. She rubbed her left hand and surveyed the proximity. “Can't believe Dumhuvud was right; the Forsworns stole our charges.”

“Stolen for what?” Lucex questioned.

“These devices can do a lot of damage, if the Forsworns recognize their best use.” Edith answered, and also guessed to the best of her knowledge. “Looks like this one was deactivated.” Edith mused. Parts of the charge was hollowed out, a fluid had been poured and dried on its surface. In the end, hovering her hand above it revealed no humming like it did with the active counterpart. “Anyways, we can dally on this once we clear out the Tunnel. There's something up ahead, keep moving.”

Outgoing passage was just at the fore. This side of the abandoned mine was fashioned with a door same as the entrance. The door was locked, a crude iron lock held together a large piece of wood. The door was un-reinforced and weakened with time, striking the lock location and matching several strong kicks could very well break it down. However, light seeped from underneath and multiple urgent voices could be heard from the other side. It was assumed the exit was hostile.

“We could use the charge, destroy the door and surprise our foes.” Edith suggested, shifting her attention to her allies. Sadri reminded her of uncertain risks of using explosives in enclosed space. He had a point, and perhaps the Dunmer man could better assess their options. “Or we could just kick it down, though we might very well be charging into an ambush. Either way, we have to take chances and advance through this area.”

Lucex shrugged, he didn't know hokey-pokey magic or fancy combat engineering, hell, he does not even read books. Close quarters made him claustrophobic, he wanted to get it over with, preferably with arrows sticking out killed Reachmen. Without anything to add, the Imperial trained his gaze on Sadri as well.

“Sadri,” Edith said. “What say you?”

Utu-ja was feeling surly. It was a strange feeling and one that he was not familiar with. Maybe those herbs were having more than one effect after all, in spite of the intervening hours. Still, he had only feathered two, aside from the one filth-dripper that he had gutted, and he had a dagger sting to bind. It wasn't even a bad enough wound to use a health potion on. He had had better nights.

There was always some twisting of guts among the tailless races when it came to prisoners. Some were hoping to keep the death to a minimum, others just wanted to end it quickly. Sometimes there were ones that wanted to make the suffering last longer, for various reasons. Utu was just impatient with how long it took the others to realize what was obvious to him from the start. Some animals will never let their spirit break, even if keeping it whole means their body has to be torn apart. This reachman, like most of the others, would never really surrender. He didn't want to die, of course, but all he was really looking for was a moment of weakness to exploit so he could make an escape.

Not that he would have gotten far with one of Utu's arrows trained on his back.

The rest of the scouting mission was a wash after that fight. Even the river was shallow and boring. If it had been deeper he could have used it. But it, like most of the rivers in this part of Skyrim, had proven too weak to really eat into the rocky ground. If these reachmen had so much idle time then they should spend it digging out deeper riverbeds. All it would take would be one winter full of heavy snows and a swift, hot summer to flood half of Skyrim. He had hoped to catch more prey than they had. He said nothing the rest of the way back.

The camp was unsettlingly quiet after its usual bustle. They made their way to Ashav's tent only to be treated to another of that fart-faced fool's worthless complaints. But, Ashav said their role was to change. So, it changed. Utu left the tent without a word. It wasn't that he was satisfied with their mission. But, the leader gave the orders. He followed them. If things went well from here on then he'd have good money coming. If things went less than well then he might have another chance to feather some flightless reach-birds. Their armor sold pretty well in some shops. But, he'd have trouble getting a fair price so he'd need more of it to make up the difference. Still, loot was for later.

They had an hour and he had things to do. The cycle of days didn't slow or stop for the sake of feelings. He returned to his tent and used about half of his hour off stitching the thin hole in his bracer shut with a thin strip of leather. The other half went to washing off the filth from that dripper of a reachman. Only when he was clean did he take a closer look at the small wound in his forearm. It wasn't bad. He'd had worse from wolf teeth before. He just tightened the bracer's straps to keep it shut tight and made it back to Ashav's tent before the hour was up, looking almost like nothing interesting had happened at all. Though he was still shinier than usual after washing up. The shine would fade soon as he dried off. There really was nothing to do but wait for orders, so that's what the bent argonian did.

He sat down just inside Ashav's tent and began making small adjustments to his leathers, available but not intrusive. Hopefully, no one would try to be friendly like that green boy during the assembly. He was still feeling surly and the tiniest part of his teeth showed between his lips as he worked. His tail twitched once every great while and his jaw was set. He was beginning to get a headache and his pupils were narrowed to thin slits. It did occur to him that the poison could be working on him after all. The potion he drank was meant to oppose disease, not poison. Still, it wasn't important. If the stuff was going to kill him it would have hit him a lot harder and sooner. It was probably just going to be annoying for a few hours. He focused on his adjustments.

This big fuck-off wall of text brought to you by the creative forces of The Schaft, @MacabreFox, @MiddleEarthRoze, @Mortarion, @Chrono, @gcold

Sorry if I forgot anyone. Here we go...

Everything had gone swell for the most part, as a majority of the Forsworn were scattered now, and few; many of their kin had died under the mercenary’s blades, countless arrows, and magical spells from the company’s mages. As for Sevine, and Jorwen their attention called them to the Orc, who stood in front of a once-locked building, the same Orc who had placed Sevine in charge of breaching the redoubt with the ram. They rushed to his side in unison, the elf-woman in tow; she wouldn’t leave Sevine’s side for the mere fact that she held her bags, and apparently, were of dear value to her.

One of the Jorwen’s companions fell in behind them, the huntress had seen the man before, but she hadn’t learned his name. She gleaned from the situation, that inside the edifice in front of her, that the Orc had a problem with its contents. In step, Jorwen and Sevine moved to the entrance, the sight stole the very wind from her chest. With rounded lips slightly parted in a silent gasp, Sevine could only stare in shock at the sight before her. Children. Precious, precious children. To her, it mattered not that the children were of the Reachmen, but as her eyes swept around the room, she took note of the lifeless bodies of the men and women that lay on the floor. Not a single adult remained alive. A chill crept through her spindly fingers clenched tightly around the fabric of the bag in her left hand, and spread like fire through her chest, with lips pallid, and the colour faded from her cheeks, Sevine could barely keep her head up. How could children of all creatures be left so carelessly in the midst of battle?! Her throat tightened as she fought back the sting in her eyes, was there not a care in the world for the sake of children? A buzzing sound filled her ears that made black spots dance before her eyes, threatening to steal away her vision as she leaned against the wooden doorframe.

Everything became a blur, and a pounding headache; what a sight she must appear to the young children, an arrow shaft sticking out through her breast, a face splattered with blood, and war paint? She hadn’t seen Jorwen strike one of the men, she didn’t even hear his words. She had to get out of there, to breathe fresh air. As Sevine turned abruptly, she finally heard the Breton woman’s words. Would you like me to stay as well? With red, burning eyes, the huntress could only nod “yes” in response to her words, before her throat softened enough to allow her to speak.

“Yes. Please, Roze. Can you do that for me? Can you stay here with Jorwen and watch over them?” She swept her hand towards the children, the oldest no older than six in age huddled amongst the others, mostly toddlers, barely able to walk on their chubby, new legs.

“I’m getting her out of here.” Sevine gestured to the woman behind her, “Taking her back to camp.” Then, the huntress’ eyes spotted the tear in Roze’s darkly coloured armor, there in her right shoulder, it bore the hole of an arrow shaft with blood drying around the outer edges.

“You’re hurt…” She mumbled the words more to herself than to Roze, as she couldn’t help but feeling responsible for not making sure her tent-mate went unharmed.

Orakh sighed in relief when Jorwen and Sevine arrived before Dumhuvud. He also casted a suspicious look at the Altmer. Suppose the juvenile elf was on their side, that much he could determine from Jorwen and Sevine not smashing her skull in. But was she another mercenary? Orakh never saw her around camp and she certainly was not equipped like one. Whatever the case, Orakh quit pondering as the Red-Bear put some bloodthirsty mercenary back in his place; the ground.

“Take it easy.” He told Jorwen. As the Nordic man interacted with Reachmen children, Orakh knew Jorwen had chosen their fate for them. “You'll get them out, or whatever you wish to do with them.”

Roze joined their mix-up when a child came up to Sevine. More clutter around, Orakh was not too keen on a dozen or so people bunched up inside a wooden building, fire hazard and all, the Forsworns were not yet eliminated. Therefore, Orakh left the newcomers to sort the situation out themselves. After all, that was why he asked them there in the first place. He was no carer of youth. In an Orc stronghold, the chief's job was teaching his sons and daughters the art of combat, to uphold their virtue of honor and impart iron will in the face of danger.

“You two, come with me.” He mentioned to Dazzi and another man. “And you, make sure the Red-Bear didn't punch him to death.”

Not three steps outside, Orakh caught the shape of Dumhuvud coming this way. He's not sure what exactly the Cat-Kicker would do if he saw the children, but unwanted outcomes already played in his mind. He should not let Dumhuvud know, it would be for the better if they tackle the problem without him.

“The Cat-Kicker is coming this way.” The Orc turned back and peeked through the building door. “I'll keep him distracted. Whatever y'all planned to do, it'd be wise to make it quick.”

Vurwe hadn't the time for this nonsense. The lives of Forsworn children fit somewhere on her radar beneath that of the lives of katydids and far less visible for certain. The morale play that everyone was acting out was as ridiculous as the notion that Talos at any point had been a true god. A band of killers, likely here for gold as much as false causes as honor or defense of their country had no place judging who should live or die. In many ways their ancestors were just as responsible for the Forsworns existance as the Forsworn were for their brutality.

Vurwe addressed Jorwen, whom she considered somewhat less intelligent than the Trolls she felt he was similar to, "Are you going to sit here and wait for death to come for the sake of these peakfilth? At the least if we're going to send them off to die, we can let them do it at the bottom of the mountain as well as the top and there their bodies won't freeze in time as to terrify future travellers for generations."

No matter how much the she-elf's words made him want to shove her back into the flames he found her in, they held an inkling of truth that he couldn't deny. These tiny ones would only serve as food for bears or wolves on their own. He wasn't about to put something such as these children out of sight and out of mind like soup bones after the boiling. "Do you want to help me escort them away, she-elf?"

"I want you to come down with me and..." she looked to Sevine who's name she hadn't bothered with and who Vurwe had given as much attention as an actual servant carrying her bags, that is to say none at all. She went back with the safe route of ignoring her existance, "At any rate I don't care what happens to these whelps. Bring them with if you like, though I don't see how we're going to get a bunch of waist hugging swaddlers back down to wherever your lot came from."

In Altmer society, especially that of the higher circles -if there were lower circles Vurwe was not interested in them-, children were expected even after the cycle of four moons to heed their parents. These undisciplined dirt spawn seemed to have been raised in the opposite fashion, though she supposed it was more of a cultural issue than that of poor parentage. If she were as lowborn and ignorant as some of these lot, then perhaps she'd have raised children as the animal she'd have in fact been.

Tsleeixth let out a groan as he felt himself waking up, quickly grabbing his head with both hands when he felt a throbbing pain on it before rapidly examining the battlefield or -as he quickly found out- what was left of it. He tried to retrace the events that had led him to his current situation; he, for one, remembered Jorwen grabbing the ladder that Sagax was trying to carry.

Sagax! He thought for a second as he remembered the imperial man, scanning the battlefields for any signs of him while hoping that the young man was still alive. He breathed deeply to calm down his nerves Alright, after Jorwen carried the ladder to the wall Sagax quickly climbed it that much I remember...and I think that I followed suit with my own ladder Thought the argonian spellsword as he stood up and walked the battlefield, finishing off a few dying forsworn he came across. As he walked the memories of the battle slowly came to him, he remembered climbing the ladder and fighting on the battlement and almost facepalmed when he remembered the particular series of events that had led him to his current predicament. After he had cleared a spot he had started working on summoning a frost attronach, hoping that the daedric creature could help distract a few of the forsworns and as such minimize the wounded and dead from the battle but he had been caught by surprise by one of the reachmen when he was concentrating on the summoning spell.

They had fought for a while with their fists, for they had ended disarming rather quickly at the start of the fight wit the forsworn knocking off his sword and him biting the hand with which the forsworn held his sword in desperation, and hand ended up falling from the palisade into the redoubt proper. He cursed himself for not having thought about using any of his spells to weaken the forsworn "Damn idiot" He muttered as he remembered his vision fading to black as a mercenary dragged him to a safe spot after he had defeated the forsworn soldier that had knocked him form the palisade.

He continued moving until he noticed Sagax talking with the Cat-kicker about something. He was about to go and greet the imperial man when he noticed Sevine coming out of a building. He slowly moved around Dumhuvud, not wanting the man to notice him, and made his way towards the building but what he saw inside of it equally shocked him and confused him. On one hand, the sight of the forsworn children shocked him, disgusted that the natives of the Reach hadn't bothered to evacuate their children from their stronghold, but on the other hand the sight of an Altmer woman -who was obviously not part of the company- did puzzle him, specially since she seemed indifferent to the plight of the children in front of her. He calmed down a little when he noticed Jorwen was inside of the building and the Breton girl that had recently joined, he approached Red-Bear and tapped him on the shoulder slightly "Do you need help Jorwen?" He asked the nord man, unsure of what to do -and even say- but ready to offer his help in any way he could.

Jorwen turned to see an unfamiliar Argonian tapping at his shoulder. He gave him a once-over and nodded, "We'll leave soon, we need to take these pups somewhere. With us, most likely."

As soon as the Altmer opened her mouth, Roze took a dislike to her. No matter how valid her points were about the children, certain things shouldn't be said - especially when they could hear their fate being decided right before them.

However, Roze instead chose to focus on Sevine's words - giving the Nord a comforting smile.

"As are you, Sevine. Don't be concerned - I'd consider it a failure if I didn't spill at least one drop of blood in a fight like this. It would mean I wasn't trying hard enough." She said with a light chuckle, before leaning in further and lowering her voice. "I'll watch these children - you have fun with the High Elf." She added with a sly grin, hoping to get at least a smile from Sevine. Obviously, the presence of the children had severly bothered her - as it had with plenty of others. She hoped Sevine knew she would do her best to keep these children out of harms way - because no matter their parentage, or the path they would undoubtedly take as adults, they were at the moment innocent.

Walking indoors and pulling up a chair beside Jorwen, she began taking off her armoured glove on her right hand - well... saying it was armoured was a bit of a stretch. Hard leather built up over soft leather was hardly armour, but it had stopped the blow of the axe a little bit.
Pulling up her sleeve, Roze winced as she looked at the wound. There would be another scar. Thankfully, it was quite a neat cut - about five inches long, no jagged edges.
I must have been attacked by the local surgeon. Roze thought to herself, smiling wryly, then glancing at Jorwen.

"Nice to see you alive, Red Bear. Do you have any bandages on you? I've got a slight papercut here." She said with a grin.

"Rub some dirt in it." He smiled to Roze, "I'm glad to know you made it, little one."

The huntress found relative comfort in the words of Roze, and she managed to offer her a weak smile. All other words before Roze's fell on deaf ears. Indeed, Sevine's nerves were shocked from the sight of the Forsworn children, however, she knew that she had to reground herself. Roze, Jorwen, and now an Argonian had come to offer their aid in protecting the wee babes; she could rest easy now as the blood slowly returned to her pallid cheeks. The tears that had threatened to spill forth, left her pine needle eyes dry as she turned her attention to the High Elf woman once more.

"Let's get out of here. The fate of these children lies in their hands now, and I did say that I would get you to safety."

Her words were cold, and empty, without emotion; something Sevine had mastered in stowing her emotions away. The huntress' composure changed entirely, as if her memory was wiped clean of seeing the helpless children before her, now it bothered her not. Being weak in the midst of a slowly-ending battle did not bear well with her, it never did. Fighting always came first in battle, followed by survival, but showing emotions such as love, or fear were deadly. It could get you killed, and Sevine knew that all too well.

Only once did she turn around, and mouth a thank you to Jorwen, and the others that had chosen to stay behind. With that, she exited the building, waiting for the Altmer woman to join her, bags in tow. Truth be told, Sevine wasn't bothered by toting around her luggage, not that she would do it again, but to her, it was better than having the High Elf hoist around her own bags, as it would slow them down. Besides, if need be, Sevine could always chuck the two bags into a ravine, or throw it in any of Skyrim's numerous rivers.

"Okay, we're following Sevine and the She-Elf back to camp. Anyone stops us, it means they feel a pressing need to lay down. Put them on their arses and keep moving, but let's not spill any blood we don't have to." Roze, Tsleeixth, White-Eye, Orakh and all the rest were stood around him, looking at him like he was Chief of a sudden. Jorwen sighed, rubbed his face and then stood, "Let's go."

Whatever violence ran through the mercenaries, they put it away to scoop up the little lads and lasses. Some maybe thought saving a life among all the blood today would make them better men, some maybe didn't want Jorwen or White-Eye to see them to their graves. Whichever one, they made it across the redoubt in a mass, the bleating and biting of the children readily apparent from inside the wall of muscle and metal. It couldn't have come soon enough but they'd made it out of the redoubt, Jorwen catching up with Sevine and the She-Elf. He put a reassuring hand on the obviously weary woman's shoulder, "Reckon we're done for the night, little sister. We've earned our rest back at camp."

"That, I'm looking forward too." Sevine agreed, as she offered him a smile full of exhaustion.

Indeed, she had lost her kill count for this battle, was it 6 or 8? It mattered not to her, for when she fought in her blood-lust, survival became the only thing she cared for, how many foes died at the end of her axe, she lost count over the years. The pain in her chest subsided, and it felt nothing more than a burning pinch in her breast. As the group made their way back to camp, the morning sun rose ever higher, spreading its warming rays across the quiet landscape. A young girl, about the age of three, caught Sevine’s attention as she stumbled into her. The toddler had eyes the size of the moon, a shade of burnt sienna; she gazed up at her in fear, her lower lip pushed forward and quivering. The huntress stopped briefly in her tracks, set the High Elf’s bag down in one hand, and grabbed the toddler around the waist with a hook of her arm. Within moments, the young babe was seated atop her shoulders, her tiny fingers clutching at Sevine’s crimson, braided tresses. She picked up the bag she had set down and kept moving. The others had joined them now, the Argonian, the Orc, Roze, and a few others from the battle aided them in guiding the children.

Laughing at Jorwen's response, Roze figured that as they were on their way back to the camp, any bandages could wait. Although wincing, she replaced her glove, hoping the tightness of the leather could do something to apply pressure to the wound.

Walking back, Roze was unfortunately unable to carry any of the children with her injured arm - however, upon walking behind one of the bulky men, who was holding one of the younger girls over his shoulder, she was able to get a smile out of the kid upon sticking her tongue out at her. The poor bairn was probably still too young to realize that her parents were dead, killed by the very people carrying her from her home; but she was still able to find some comfort in a funny face from the young Breton woman before her.

Working her way through the crowd, Roze caught up with Jorwen and Sevine, giving the pair a smile.

"I'd say we all deserve a drink after that. How about I take a look in our esteemed Commanders tent? I'm sure he has a fine stash of mead hidden away in there somewhere."[/color] She suggested jokingly with a chuckle - although to be honest, if someone asked her, she would have no qualms in doing so. It's not like Ashav had been down in the dirt and fighting like them. Also, what kind of thief would she be if she didn't jump to that oppurtunity? It would be like taking a sweetroll from a baby - even with an injured arm.

Hm. Perhaps get it bandaged before doing any burglaries. I may just have to track down Farid to see if he can work his magic again. Roze thought to herself; ushering forth yet another grin.

Vurwe gave Roze a look that might seem motherly, if you were found stealing from a cookie jar. She spoke to no one in particular, "Quite a band of upstanding heroes you have here. At one moment they're worried for the safety of their enemies children, the next they're trying to steal from their superiors." She was almost certain you could get your hand cut off for that in Hammerfell. That was a judicial punishment she thought should be more widely used.

Minutes into their trek, the group was stalled by the oldest Forsworn boy. He initially walked along side a mercenary man, keeping silent but keeping pace with older adults. However, the boy stopped when they reached a dark part of the trail, where the morning sun struggled to shine on. Most of the group, leading people such as Jorwen, Orakh and Sevine proceeded ahead of them. The lone mercenary stopped with the boy, he knelt down impatiently.

“What's holding you back?” The man asked.

The boy's arms fidgeted, then he hid them behind his back. His facial muscle tightened when the mercenary asked again. With an impossibly fast flash, a knife appeared between his fingers. Then it buried in the man's chest.

“A-” The mercenary gasped, only for a split second before going silent and falling on the ground. Foam dribbled from the man's lips and his body twitched exactly five times. Poison was applied to the knife, the same hyper-lethal poison the Forsworns used in their darts, the same poison that dispatched a man prior to the main assault.

Orakh turned at a the short gasp. Was he hallucinating? Was it fatigue playing tricks on him? It could not be. He turned around just when the mercenary ceased moving, and the Reachmen youth took off in a sprint.

“Hey, we got a runner.” The Orc alerted his companions. He jogged after the kid, but the weariness in his legs and the weight of orichalc plates encumbered his movement, preventing him from catching up.

Tsleeixth smiled back at Sevine, out of gratitude and trying to reassure the Nord woman with it although he was unsure if she was paying attention by that moment since she had gone back with the Altmer woman. He nodded at Jorwen’s words and scooped up one of the kids in his arms, placing him on his shoulder after having reassured him that everything was going to be ok.

He was glad when there were little troubles with the other mercenaries and was glad when they were able to catch up to Sevine and the She-Elf, letting out a soft sigh when he heard Jorwen’s comment on them having earned a good rest. He felt that his contribution to the fight had been minimal and as such was considering asking Ashav if there was something else he could do to earn his pay. He was brought out his gloomy mood however when he heard Roze’s words, laughing a little bit at them and then smiled.

He was a bit surprised when they stopped moving after a few minutes and turned to look at how a mercenary approached one of the forsworn kids, the oldest by the bunch by his estimate. He felt his jaw drop when he saw the kid plunge a knife into the man’s chest, being brought of his stupor by Orakh’s comment; he placed the kid he had been carrying on the ground gently and began to run after the older kid “Don't worry, I've got him” He shouted to the old Orc as he began to run after the kid.

After a few minutes he managed to tackle the kid to the ground, grappling slightly with him but ended up taking a few punches and kicks as the kid tried to get free. He started coughing slightly, feeling that he was about to have another of his coughing fits but managed to subdue the kid before he started coughing blood by tying his hands and then chucking him over his shoulder, but only after he had checked that the young forsworn wasn't carrying any more weapons with him. The argonian managed to carry the kid back to the group, handing him the nearest mercenary before finding an excuse to get away before he started having a coughing fit in the middle of the group

Vurwe couldn't say she was surprised from the older boy's behavior. Everyone about these mountains had proved to be savages, her party included. If these mercenaries couldn't follow their own chain of command without stealing from one another, why should the child follow prisoner conduct without violence? So when he stabbed a mercenary who had moments earlier been killing his kin and ran off, she swallowed down a startled yelp and let fate handle the rest. The boy was caught by an Argonian, a race known primarily for violence and the determination to commit it. She furrowed her brow but chose not to make any further comment.

"Why'd you bring him back?" Jorwen asked, after his gaze went from the dead man's chest wound to Tsleeixth's eyes. When the Argonian was at a loss for words, perhaps asking himself the same question, Jorwen pushed past him. The children he would take, even fierce-eyed Solveig with her looks that could kill. But this boy, he was made of something different, and his retribution was anything but uncalled for or undeserved. The mercenary holding the boy in his thick arms was having trouble with the lad's struggling, even being more than twice the boy's size. "You took a life. Killed a man."

The child swallowed and nodded, "He killed Pa." He growled, though some of the conviction had left his voice now.

"There's not a single soul among us here hasn't killed someone." Jorwen reached a hand out to take the boy's chin between thumb and forefinger, "Not even you now, boy. And what, did it bring him back?"

"Wha-"

"Did it bring your Pa back, killing that man?" The lad was starting to tear up and he shook his head, "The dead can forgive. The dead can be forgiven. Vengeance though? That's only for you. Not your Pa, not Ma, just you. Reckon you're a right blooded man now, eh?"

The lad sniffled, a line of snot finding its way to his chin, though not winning the race against his tears, "Please don't kill me. Please don't, I'll do anything, please, please!"

"Hush. It's not in a man to cry, least of all a killer, eh?" Jorwen looked to the mercenary restraining the child by his twig-thin arms, "Eh? What age were you when you first killed?"

"Sixteen." The Nord grumbled out in a gravelly bass, "I'm thirty now."

"Now, this man's going to let you go. You're a man now, man does what he wants. Not my place to tell another man what to do. You follow us, you keep up. You run? You'd better run faster'n before." With that, Jorwen rose to his full height, casting his shadow over the child. He figured they'd reached an understanding. That lad below him had killed a man at an age years before Jorwen did, and Jorwen reckoned he was the youngest killer he knew. That was war, things happen. Awful, shit things. But they happen. "Let him go."

"Aye, Chief." And he did. The lad just stayed rooted, though Jorwen wasn't watching him. He found his place again at the head of the group with the others. He was at a loss for words himself now.

"You ain't fixing to knife me are you?" He asked Solveig, and she just looked at him with those same fierce eyes of hers. She only frowned and shrugged. "At least you're honest."

The huntress' attention was distracted by some type of commotion occuring in the group, and turned about to discover its source. She witnessed in horror, as the eldest child in their herd grappled with the Argonian, and once she saw the reason why, a knife blade sticking out from the chest of one of their mercenaries, Sevine felt the urge to take the child from the Argonian, and drown the culprit in the river until the bubbles stopped.

Jorwen, to her surprise, confronted the young boy, in a fatherly voice that she was unfamiliar with after the Argonian handed the boy over to a much stronger mercenary to keep him still as the tall-reptile had a worrying coughing fit. She kept her eyes glued upon Jorwen and the boy, as he made him realize his actions. The boy pitifully explained that one of the mercenaries had killed his Pa, and it almost brought the huntress to tears. Once Jorwen finished lecturing him on becoming a man, Sevine could only shake her head in dismay. What they were to do with the children when they reached the boundaries of the camp worried her, what would Ashav say? Would he be furious? Certainly they could drop the children off at some orphanage, or at a temple for safe-keeping.

“I’ve never heard you speak like that before.” Sevine addressed Jorwen quietly, “Do you have children of your own?”

"One." Jorwen mumbled low in an exhausted whisper, eyes getting distant with memories of her now, "A girl. A woman, more like, by now. Reminds me of..." He looked at Sevine and then little Solveig tagging along at his side as best she could, staring at the ground as if it had owed her blood price. "We'll talk sometime. Drinks first, and we should get that arrow looked at."

With that, they made their exodus from the redoubt with fatherless orphans of war clutched close to their breasts or hands folded in their own, protecting them almost as if they were their own. Some, like little Solveig, had earned pet names from the mercenaries. Knife, who stayed at the back, not meeting anyone else's eyes, stuck to himself. No one could say what Ashav's verdict would be, but either way, they'd done one good thing. It was good, wasn't it? Jorwen left those questions to the philosophers. Or tried to, anyway.

Sadri was still in dull shock from the whole turn of events. His comment on the somewhat abruptly finished fight was quiet, almost like a quip coming from a mer who saw the spectacle as child’s play. In truth Sadri was simply in disbelief. Sadri had lived long, sure, but he hadn’t killed a super-bear before. Hell, he hadn’t seen one, to begin with. Nobody would believe this if he were to share this story in taverns. He had to make it more drawn-out. ‘’I killed a dire bear once with one strike of my sword!’’ Coming from an Orsimer wielding a blade the size of two men it could’ve been acceptable, but coming from a lanky, bitter looking Dunmer like Sadri, it was nothing more than absolute nonsense. Still, though, he seriously needed a promotion for that. Or some extra payment, he wasn’t sure. But he’d just saved Ashav the trouble of finding a new quartermaster and some new hired muscle.

He smashed the cleft briarheart with his foot as Edith comforted the rather overwhelmed Relmyna. He did not blame the young girl. He probably wouldn’t have been able to strike another blow on the bear if it had survived that. ‘’Now, now,’’ Sadri decided that some pep talk would lighten the mood. ‘’You don’t owe me your life – just two hundred Septims.’’ Of course, Sadri would be more than happy if Relmyna took his joke seriously and decided to pay up, but he didn’t tone it in that way. That would be just bad sport. And when Edith commented on how his sword came in handy, Sadri shrugged. The tunnel was certainly larger than he thought, and never in the past had Sadri heard of jacked up bears in mining tunnels.

Tennant was, thankfully, still alive – but unfortunately he seemed to be temporarily out of commission with his wound. Lucex was obviously shaken by the fact that his missed shot had nearly caused the deaths of the party members who had dared to take on Smokey in melee. Sadri didn’t say anything to Lucex – he himself was partly pissed at him for missing a shot when he had been needed most, but everyone made mistakes. He couldn’t blame the young lad, and he wasn’t going to vent his frustration on him. Edith was doing a better job at consolation anyway.

The group left Tennant alongside Relmyna and the dead abomination. As they proceeded, they stumbled upon yet another table, not unlike the one that held Smokey’s bear beforehand. Sadri cursed under his breath, expecting to fight yet another product of whatever long forgotten magic these rock-shagging savages weaved into reality. Only this time they were simply unable to bring back the target, a man that was apparently working for the Bosmer scout. ‘’Better to die than to end up like Smokey back there,’’ Sadri thought to himself as the group left the corpse behind. He certainly did not want his corpse defiled and used to attack his coworkers.

And they came across another group of tables (this place felt more like a surgery area than a mining tunnel with all the dissected bodies and the tables), bearing this time not slashed up corpses but tools – tools that Sadri expected Forsworn would not be proficient enough to use – instead. Edith examined one of the items. From afar, with Sadri’s bad eye, they looked somewhat familiar. And Edith proved Sadri’s gut feeling true by confirming that they were indeed stolen magical charges. As Edith mentioned that, Sadri’s mind was immediately overwhelmed by thoughts of the tunnel possibly being sabotaged. He wasn’t going to die before seeing the sky one last time. But fear of death was nothing unusual for him. He just shrugged the thought off his head. His sugar tooth was itching. He needed some huffs of moon sugar once this was all said and done.

Eventually, the group managed to reach what seemed to be the end of the tunnel. It was barred, with a construction that mimicked the entrance acting as door. However majestic it might have once been, misuse, time, and lack of treatment had reduced it to not much more than a vestige of well-prepared reinforcements.

‘’We could use the charge, destroy the door and surprise our foes, or we could just kick it down, though we might very well be charging into an ambush. Either way, we have to take chances and advance through this area.’’

Somehow, after the beat of silence, Sadri knew all too well that the decision would once more left to him. ‘’I don’t see why I’m not getting paid higher if I’m the one who has to take initiative constantly,’’ he complained to himself as he rolled his eyes as if he was viewing his options. The worst that could happen with one option was a quick execution and the dissection of his corpse. And the other option’s worst case presented to him a slow death through suffocation and inability to move. Somehow, getting his throat slit felt like a better option.

‘’I have to make all the decisions, don’t I?’’ Sadri spoke somewhat quietly, hoping that it would lighten the load on everyone’s nerves. He knew he could also be pressing on everyone else’s nerves, but he figured that getting a load off his shoulders would be necessary before making a decision that could possibly cost everyone their lives. ‘’I don’t want to use the charges, but I figure that if we don’t somehow bash the door open in one maneuver, whoever’s behind it will probably have time to prepare.’’

He paused for a second. Either way they would be putting a lot of stress on the tunnel – after all, trying to bash open a locked door would also put pressure on the supports of the door, and unhinging it that way could cause it to crumble upon the party. Blowing it up would be faster, he figured.

‘’Let’s blow it up.’’ He eyed the group for volunteers. ‘’Anyone willing? Or are we drawing straws?’’

Dumhuvud simply stared at Sagax in disbelief. Normally, dozens of curses would already be departing his lips. But the Cat-Kicker only gazed at the young Imperial and raised one eyebrow, the only one he still had. Perhaps he was still in pain, or perhaps he couldn't comprehend how this thin, lame-looking kid managed to not only survive, but also knock an enemy out.

One of his lackeys, Korkad Trollface, probably the ugliest man you'll never want to see, scampered to the Cat-Kicker's side. He stopped and examined the Imperial, laughing in utter surprise. “Haha! He lived, you owe me ten septims boss.”

Dumhuvud looked at his “housecarl” and back at Sagax. His sight, which was only provided by one-half of the visual feed, darted between. “Tie him up and bring him back.” He fumed, gritting his teeth.

“And will one of you imbeciles put out that damn fire?” Turning away from Sagax and his prisoner, Dumhuvud shouted to nobody in particular. Well, it was mostly for the sake of shouting.

“You were that one on the walls.” Korkad flashed a roll of dirty brown teeth. His breath smelled like horse shit, enough to make a weak stomach retch its content. “Never thought you had it in you.”

On the way back, Dumhuvud marched a good distance ahead. He was surprisingly mellow, having only scolded various mercenaries a few times. For most of journey, he was quiet. Behind him though, Korkad and Dumhuvud's other sidekick, Skitprat the Salty, shoved the prisoner and taunted him the whole way. One of them spat in the Reachman's face, while the other constantly tripped the prisoner over and over. Korkad and Skitprat even took the chance to urinate on the Reachman, and other mercenaries certainly wished to join in. But Dumhuvud halted them in the last second, saying, “you pull your dick out and I'll cut it off.”

The prisoner no longer resisted, he could not bring his urine soaked head up to face the sheer humiliation. The battle was bloody and merciless, so it only made since many survivors would want to add as much insult as possible to his injury. Many were hurt and some lost new found friends just hour ago, many more hated the fact this batch of gold had to be done for an absurd amount of hardship. All of their woes, present from their time here, and past in their tumultuous lives, all vented out on the prisoner.

Dumhuvud was having none of it. He ordered the prisoner to be brought in a small tent. Skitprat was assigned to guard the prisoner. While Dumhuvud went change his bandage, loud strikes could be heard from the tent. By the time Dumhuvud came back, he had no more than a corpse to dispose of.

Did he actually haul this Reachman back for interrogation? Or did Dumhuvud know that it would only serve as angry men's punching bag? The battle was over, so what was there to interrogate about? If one had the impossible talent of peering inside Dumhuvud's mind, they would sense conflict. But on the outside, the Cat-Kicker was just his usual frowning self.

---

“I will.” Lucex said soon after Sadri finished. Wrecked with guilt for missing his shot, and the feeling of irrelevance as always the archer in the back, this was Lucex's time to redeem himself. Dangerous, yes, but also an opportunity to demonstrate his courage. This is it, Lucex thought, it is time to take lead and show Sadri and Edith he was just as willing to do his part as everyone else.

The door exploded.

If Lucex had seen Orakh's subordinate topside, he would have been much more respectful of the charge's backblast. Alas, in the tight quarters of the exit and his own lack of urgency, Lucex was thrown back by explosive forces. The front of his fur armor was charred, and he landed with the wind knocked out of him. But courtesy to the layer of fur between him and the blast, his body suffered no major damage.

On the other side, a Forsworn leaning near the door was blown to smithereens. Another one in close proximity caught sharp pieces of wood splinters in his midsection, ruining a great number of vital organs. The last pair of Reachmen stood further away. Although they were unharmed by the explosion, their stunned postures was testament to the charge's psychological effects.

The blast expanded outward, and it shook the roof of the cave. Sadri's worries was not fully realized. The ceiling shook and specks of dirt showered on him and his companions. The tunnel held, it did not collapse. Before the smoke cleared, Edith helped Lucex to the side, where he could get up without standing straight in the Forsworns' line of sight. Lucex climbed back on his feet after a couple of moment, he needed to catch his breath but otherwise still capable of combat.

Edith told Sadri to take point, as her shield arm was of questionable use after the encounter with Smokey. She pointed the Dunmer to the further enemy, an archer recovering from shock. Edith herself took on a closer one, she continued thrusting her sword into her target's torso until he no longer moved. When Lucex stumbled outside, all four guards outside had been eliminated. But he saw another group of Reachmen approaching, many of them barely armed and all them fleeing through the rear gate of the redoubt. There was a fire somewhere inside the palisades, and judging by the panicking cries of Forsworn fighters, their focus changed from defence to escape.

Lucex shot dead one runner with an arrow. He aimed towards the subsequent individual, but his shot was halted by the human shield in front of the Forsworn. A Nord man, old in his late forties, was clasped between two hulking arms of a Forsworn. After his missed shot earlier, Lucex dared not risking someone else's life on his accuracy again.

“Lord Borni?” Edith exclaimed in surprise. She raised her sword and carefully trudged in Borni's direction. She knew this man, lord Borni of Markarth, who was an associate of hers and also one of her supply deliverers.

“If you value his life, you'll lower your weapon and let us go.” The Forsworn warned. To prove his point, a dagger pressed against Borni's neck. “Come any closer and his head rolls.”

At this point, Sadri had maneuvered closer to the hostage situation. Edith stood down, she waited for the Dunmer to make the first move.

“By Talos, cut these dog humpers down. Cut through me if you have to!” Borni struggled to no avail. However, Sadri chose Borni's life over the Forsworns'. Edith saw the Dunmer disengaging, and the Reachman threw Borni forward before dashing away with his comrades.

“It's over.” Edith sighed in relief. The sun was rising from the east, the early fog started to dissipate, sunlight graced the Reach after a series of cloudy days and one long evening. For the next few minutes, no more Reachmen came out of the back gates. Remaining survivors were either killed, or surrendered. The redoubt was theirs, but even when metal no longer clashed, the fire caused by Vurwe still burned with hateful intensity.

Edith would take Borni back, and asking for stretchers when she met returning mercenaries on the way. By the time she returned, most of the main assault was there before her. Actually, about half of them were absent. Her heart sunk in dread when she realized they would never be coming back. She suppose, as a soldier of fortune, she should be joyful at the prospect of less division of profit. But she felt quite the opposite. Like many others, her expression was one of tiredness and emptiness. Fatigue was only part of it, though no small part, a larger portion of her bitterness questioned the purpose of this attack. What was the point?

When the stretchers came back with a half-conscious Tennant and a semi-broken down Relmyna, Edith finally stopped pacing and sat down near a healer. There were few men and women of medical or restorative expertise, and the assault took the lives of many valuable healers. So it wasn't much surprise that she found herself alongside Sevine, who just received treatment. Looking on the bright side, her friend was still there.

She allowed Sevine to speak first, and when the huntress asked how her mission went. She waved to another healer checking Tennant's skull.

“We killed a bear.”

---

First to arrive were the witch hunters. Enforcers from Synod appeared even before some finished looting the redoubt. Some of these men and women were knights, protected by heavy armor and wielding sturdy melee weapons. Others in this group were battlemages, robe-clad figures with staffs slung across their backs. Their leader said they were looking for a Redguard sorcerer, a former member of Synod and now wanted fugitive. Some mercenaries knew they were talking about Jonimir, but none of them knew where Jonimir went. Sometime during his mission with the flankers, he had broke off with a small party and executed his own plan. Now, in the morning, no trace of Jonimir could be found. The Synod men trekked into the valley, they left hours later, disappointed and empty handed.

The second group was a massive convoy of Nordic soldiers. There must be dozens of vehicles and hundreds of troops. Leading them was general Manis, a pale looking man wearing what seemed to be Stormcloak officer armor, except that the hooded cloak was from troll rather than bear, and shabby leather replaced by gold-trimmed metal plates. He strolled through the mercenaries' camp like none of them existed. With a half dozen elite guards in tow, the general made a beeline towards Ashav. He stood without emotion when Ashav recounted his success. His only word was “good”, and beckoned his men to drop off a stash of coins before turning around.

“Hold on, where is the bonus?” Opening the container and doing a rough count, Ashav had to jog after the general to catch up.

“There is no bonus, your contract is over.” The general stated.

One of Manis' captain explained to Ashav that his contract was terminated. The whole campaign had encountered difficulties and their leader, the Dragonborn, decided to alter strategies. In short, Ashav's company was no longer needed. That wasn't too much of a bad thing, as they were severely understrength and ranks were near depleted. Almost everyone that survived the assault were wounded, wounds Ashav had few healers or medicine to treat. So he took the mercenaries along with the army's wagons, and hitched a ride to Rorikstead, where troops from all over Skyrim had been using as a field hospital. Some members asked to go to Markarth, but the soldiers said Markarth was temporarily off limit. While the merceanries fought Forsworns in their redoubt, other Forsworns managed to sneak into settlements outside of the city and massacred everyone there. Terrifying weapons never seen before were unleashed, some of them included arcane charges stolen from the shipments from Winterhold and predators implanted with briarhearts. The mining tunnel Edith cleared out last night was just one of many workshops across the Reach.

At least lord Borni was alive with them. He owned a mining operation beside Markarth and frequently came by for inspections. In a stroke of dumb luck pulled from disaster, he was spared early entrance to Sovrngarde. The Nord man was grateful for Edith and Sadri in particular, he gifted two exquiste silver rings to them before leaving for Falkreath.

It was the evening of the 28th, the houses of Rorikstead greeted the wagons. Strewn across the fields were tents, crates and injured people as far as the eye could see. There must be hundreds of wounded warriors, a testament to the price paid for war. The inn was already filled to the door, so Ashav and his men pitched their own tents in an unoccupied field. There, he encounter another Redguard from his past. Mehm, who was once Ashav's right hand man when they started, now leads his own company; the Vanguards. Like Ashav, Mehm had been contracted and un-contracted. The Vanguards are now headed to Riften, employed by the Black-Briars. When Ashav and Mehm went their own ways years ago, they did not depart on amiable terms. Time healed some wounds between the men, but their meeting was still tense. However, Farid quickly took a liking to Mehm, and he even received a dagger from their merry night of drinking.

Speaking of Farid, he was rather joyous throughout the trip. In the morning of the 29th, a courier dropped off a letter. Their employer, the private individual not affiliated with the high king's court, renewed their contract and sent the remaining mercenaries to Windhelm. Farid smiled knowing there was another fight, another bag of septims waiting for him somewhere. He spent much of his journey flirting with Roze, asking for her companionship at night and showing off his jokes, toned muscle and fluid swordplay whenever he had the chance.

Someone not as energetic during this time was Daelin. Sleep deprived and stressed to the limit, the Bosmer slept when he could. The bumpy horse-drawn carts was terrible on the bones, and not many could get sound shut-eyes while sitting on one. Suppose Daelin was just too tired to care. One job of his was over and another one was coming, he would take every opportunity to rest up in between. While he's not sleeping, Daelin chatted with his companions, mostly Utu-ja, who he had been imparting his skills and knowledge like a little brother.

Of the fifty-some recruits they took to battle, only half came back alive. Out of them, barely twenty were fit to continue fighting. With that said, not everyone that could would keep on fighting. Lucex was one of them questioning whether he made the right decision in the first place. Entire time he was on the road, he spent alone and avoiding everyone, notably Tennant. During his night at Rorikstead, a drunk soldier mistook Lucex for a maiden and forced himself on him. The situation ended with a fork stabbed in the soldier's knuckles. As the group hit Whiterun on the 1st of Sun's Height, Lucex Venatorii found himself walking beside Tennant Ibnazh.

“You can't avoid me forever, lass.” Tennant beckoned. Since his run-in with Smokey, the wrestler had made a miraculous recovery. In less than a week, potions and healing spells restored him from unconscious to walking. Though it didn't mean his injury was gone, quite frankly, his skull still felt funny, his steps occasionally fell uneven and headaches could strike out of nowhere.

“Lad.” Lucex corrected. He walked faster and kept his head down, hoping Tennant would find someone else to bother.

“Whatever, Imperials all look the same, and your names all sound the same.” Tennant grumbled, he matched Lucex's pace, which was not hard to do for a seven-feet tall man.

“Aren't you an Imperial?”

“Only by blood.” Tennant explained. “I was actually born here, in Skyrim. And I was raised by a Khajiit.”

“Anyways, the Khajiit, master Do'Zaddha, taught me to not fear mistakes. He said; 'learning from your failures is your greatest success.'”

“I don't know, I don't know if I should be doing this at all.” Lucex stopped and sighed. He had to tip his head up to see Tennant. He expected nothing but the brawn of a brute, but it was actually the opposite, there was much wisdom Lucex could find. “Shooting down a deer for meat is one thing, but shooting down men and monsters, when the survival of your friends hang on the line is just too much to bear.”

“Then maybe it's time to go back to what you do best.” Tennant answered. “On my way here, I saw a band of hunters founding some kind of guild, I bet you'll fit right in.”

And so, Lucex became aware he was just not cut out for mercenary work. On Tennant's advice, he sought out the hunters and joined their newly fledged guild. His guilt was also soothed somewhat by Tennant, though the horror in one mining tunnel would harass him for many nights to come. Still, Tennant himself felt better as well. Between Whiterun and Windhelm, he could be seen with a pep in his steps. His injury faded away with his foul mood, and all that was left was the infrequent buzz in his scalp. Eventually, he would join a fight pit when he reaches Windhelm.

Before the group left Whiterun, Madura managed to publish his report. He put in a good word about the mercenaries, and even acquired several spare copies of the latest Gazette for Ashav and co. “I witnessed unusual professionalism from these hired blades,” Madura briefed the editor, “I think I'll follow them, document their fight to the end. Azura knows it will be a fine story.”



The ancient stone bridge of Windhelm approached in the late afternoon of the 3rd. Ashav's employer arranged for meals and accomodation, which was revealed as an abandoned warehouse on the docks, several stacks of hay and four barrels of dried food. The room was frigid cold and the beef jerky tasted like dirt. Therefore, a couple of mercenaries decided to pay for room and board at the inn, with their fresh earned coins. Edith was one of them, though she didn't want to be perceived pompous sleeping in softer quarters than her subordinates, but sleeping in the cold played hell on her sore arm. She rented a room with two beds, and offered to share it with Sevine.

For Ashav, he had slept through worse. Nevertheless, he eventually stumbled into Candlehearth as well. Reason being that in his employer's infinite wisdom, he was offered fresh fighting bodies but no clue on how to contact them. All he knew was there await skilled individuals in Windhelm, all of whom his employer already payrolled. So the logical action was putting up posters, and wait inside the tavern as new recruits find him there sooner or later. In fact, he's been getting a few interests from the locals while he waited. Most of them boys and girls itching for glory. He would need much tougher folks, judging by his employer's seriousness.

When Magnus retired for the night, Masser and Secunda took their posts in the vistas of Oblivion. Except that Secunda was bright red, and the chilling colors of the aurora was a bloody red hue. It was peculiar, and many outside that evening stopped and stared into the sky. Outside the city walls, howls of wolves could be heard one after another.

‘’Dear mother and father,

I know I haven’t written to you in some time. To be honest things have been slightly busy. I know I told you last time I had sent a letter to you that I would get back into the whaling business. Well, fate has taken me to a different direction. I am afraid I am now running with a mercenary company. Do not worry – I have taken my lessons from last time. Everything is going well. I am not part of a combat group anymore, and the pay is well. I believe I shall be able to finish paying back my debt to you in a few months.’’

Sadri paused as he read his handwriting. He had gone ahead and bought a room, at a price that he believed would be higher than a man’s, but he figured it was worth it. He had enjoyed his share of shitty places to sleep in the Reach and on the wagons back to Windhelm. At least Rorikstead was nice. Though he was still somewhat sour about not being able to relax and release his stress in the company of someone of fairer physique. He did not blame anybody – after all, at least to him, he looked like a dried fig, and no doubt his scars were somewhat too heavy to create the image of a battle hardened warrior. He was more like a botched up Necromancer thrall. And in Skyrim, where the women had warm bodies but demeanors colder than Atmora against anyone who wasn’t a Nord, Sadri couldn’t work his kavorka charm to score. And he was not going to admit defeat and go to a brothel.

Going back to his handwriting, he faced a financial situation. He was quite sure that his parents did not care about him paying back his debt. As far as he knew they were doing fine, at least, the sack of coin he kept sending weren’t actively helping their situation. But at least it allowed him to have a clear conscience. Though lying about how he was no longer part of a combat group still kind of muddled it. He remembered just how sorrowful the letter he had received from his parents had felt after informing them of his lost limb. Sadri would gain nothing by bragging about how he had felled a bear monstrosity with a single strike to them.

After taking a huff from his skooma pipe, Sadri went back to writing.

‘’These lands are in troubled times, I am afraid. As far as I understand, there is trouble with the Reachmen, and the company I am aligned to recently led an attack on one of their strongholds. It has been a costly endeavor. Many of the attackers were killed, although in the end we managed to take the redoubt from them. I have a feeling that the chain of command likes me. Maybe I will get a promotion. I will make sure to let you know if I do.’’

Sadri put down the quill for a second and poured himself some flin. After downing the cup and feeling the burning liquid light up his insides, he was renewed with vigor. And the nagging feel in his right eye had somewhat subsided. There was no need to disturb Mora.

‘’There is not much more to tell you, really. I wish to make a visit sometime. I have missed mother’s stuffed pigeon. Speaking of stuffed pigeon, how is Bergama? How is Najad doing? Has he passed away yet? Please inform me if he does.



Najad was a childhood friend of Sadri, a Redguard with a penchant for climbing. It was thanks to his parents that Sadri was able to score a job in the Library of Bergama. Thanks to the human condition, he was now an elderly man, apparently suffering from chronic inflammation of the joints. Whereas Sadri was pretty much the same as he was 40 years ago, though his skin had weathered a bit and he had earned a lot of scar tissue. And of course, there was always the matter of his arm and his ear. But it was a lot better than being a bed-ridden man barely able to speak, let alone walk.

He did not have much else to write. Sadri put down the quill again, for good this time, and stuffed the letter in an envelope and sealed it with a drop of liquefied candle. After tucking the letter alongside his books, he left his room and, after locking it behind him, went for the Hall. He figured he could have a drink alongside his comrades and comrades-to-be, maybe flirt with the fellow Dunmer bard, or maybe that nanny. What was her name? Idesa? He wasn’t sure, but Sadri sure hoped he would find out.

Solveig waited in line to get to Ashav and a big sum of gold. It was only men except for her, though that’s how it always was. The hum of whispered conversations was apparent, and she caught snippets. It was always the same as the last, I’ll earn myself a name, I hope I get paid well. When the man in front of her stepped up and signed on he looked at her sidelong. She noticed Ashav even had a look about him as he gave her a once over. Usually men talked about providing for her, stroking her hair under the moonlight after staring for so long. The man who’d just signed on stepped aside so he could watch, probably hoping she’d remember she had shirts drying on the line and a chicken to cook for her husband. Ashav waved his hand, “I’m not sitting here for fun, girl.”

Solveig just nodded and stepped up to Ashav’s desk. He nudged the quill and ink towards her with a forefinger, “I’ve already had three farmers come to me who couldn’t write their own names. I’m hoping you don’t make four.”

“You’ll find I know how to do more than just write. I’m not looking to be a chronicler.” She said, the quill scratching against the parchment of what was to be her contract.

Ashav watched her write and the smallest smile crept across his lips, “I’d hope not, with handwriting like that. Besides, we have a chronicler.” And he thrust his thumb over his shoulder at a tired looking Dunmer hunched over a notebook as he furiously scribbled something. He looked up for but a moment and gave Solveig a tired nod and a smile before going back to work. She looked back to her contract and signed her name on the last line before standing at her full height and tossing the quill down. “Welcome to the company.”

“We have a name?” Solveig asked.

“The company will do for you so long as I’m paying you. We aren’t proper brethren until you prove yourself or die trying.” Ashav said, though more like he was stating facts. The man didn’t strike her as one that needed the threat of force to command respect. He didn’t strike her as a man who needed to do much, really, to command his men’s respect.

“Die trying, methinks.” The man who’d signed on before her said. He sat at his table with a couple others all looking at her like they were waiting for her to scream and stamp her feet. Maybe slap one with an arm like a noodle for insulting a lady. Instead, she kept her teeth together and took a step towards them while they leered at her.

* * *

“What do you reckon, Jorwen?” White-Eye slurred.

“I reckon you’re drunker’n shit.” It had been a fair few bottles passed around in Thrice-Pierced’s memory. Cleftjaw even had a few. A few bottles’ worth. Of course, they’d been doing this every night since they left the Reach so he had doubts that this time around it was about Thrice-Pierced. He should have told Ashav to shove his orders up his ass where the rest of his shit belonged and went back to Markarth. Instead, he told himself that he had a steady flow of coin here. It was true, but being away from family wasn’t worth the shit pay. He was getting angrier by the day, not that he thought about it, and maybe he was giving Ashav too much shit. After all, that smiling arse Farid had said Ashav had got orders he couldn’t refuse. “I’m going for a stroll.”

“Need company?” Cleftjaw looked up at him.

“Why? I look old enough to forget where I’m going and get lost?” Jorwen asked, cocking one of his brows.

“Alright, arsehole. We’ll be waiting here for you.” Cleftjaw said as he fell back onto his bedroll. Jorwen turned and walked away. Out of the warehouse and onto the streets, he looked around for where to go. It’d been some time since he’d been to Windhelm but he didn’t think a place like this would change much in five years. The Candlehearth Hall was bound to be in the same place and he couldn’t miss it. The line to sign on with Ashav’s company had gone beyond the threshold of the place. He pushed past everyone easily and found himself inside. He could’ve drank for free at the warehouse but he needed quieter partners. He flipped a coin towards the tavernkeep and she replaced the coin on the bar top with a big tankard of mead. He wrapped his big paw around it and gulped down some of it, wiping away the wetness on his lips with the back of his hand.

A commotion went up behind him that he hardly payed any attention to. Tavern brawls were a younger man’s game. She heard a woman’s voice though, too familiar not to have a look, “I do this shit for a living, little lads. You feel a need to lie down?” It looked like a puffed up warrior. She was wearing Stormcloak blue and a fair amount of fur. He could swear her bear fur looked familiar. She herself looked familiar. The man she’d hit across the jaw tried to prop himself up on his elbows but she put a boot to his chest and pressed him back to the ground. She turned to Ashav, “I proved myself yet?”

“I’ll let you know when you have. Stop hurting my men.” The old mercenary said as he waved over another new applicant. The woman turned away from the man she had on the ground and Jorwen turned back to his mead. He hoped she stayed away from him, but the Gods must have been due for some entertainment as she fell into the stool next to his.

“Men.” She said. Even without looking at her, he could hear the scowl on her voice. Jorwen just took another gulp of mead.

“Did every one of them wrong you or something?” Jorwen asked.

“Enough of them.” Her tone had only lightened a tad but he figured headway was headway. “What do you know about my problems, old man?”

“I’m old. Any problems anyone has got, I’ve probably had at one point or another.” He looked back at his mead, “Making problems for myself seems to be the one skill I’ve had all my life.”

Things got silent of a sudden. Deathly, cold silence. He looked at her and she had a look on her face that said she was none too happy to be seeing him. The surprise on his face must have been a sight, because for the first time since meeting her today, his daughter had cracked a smile. “Reckon you’ve got some fucking explaining to do, old man.”

* * *

Solveig had her arms crossed as she sat in the corner. Her mother and father hadn’t said much since she’d brought the big man home to her. It was starting to get on her nerves, after years of crying about him never being home she wouldn’t say a word now that he was. Of course, Solveig hadn’t said a word to her father the whole way here, but it wasn’t her he needed to apologize to. It was the woman he was sitting across from, quietly slurping up her porridge and looking a bit uncomfortable. “You were fine talking to me back at the tavern before you found out who I was.”

“Probably because that’s what people do.” Jorwen looked at her over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed to slits, “They talk to each other. To be friendly. They don’t smash someone’s face in to prove themselves to strangers.”

“And what business of it is yours whose face I smash in to prove myself to?” Her arms had come uncrossed as she stood to her full height, comparable to her father’s now that she was a grown woman more than five years now. “You’ve been gone more times than you’ve not been. You’ve been gone longer on one job than all the time you’ve been home put together. Don’t waltz in here and try to be a father now.”

“Is that what I did?” Jorwen said, wiping his mouth on a sleeve before standing in front of his daughter, a half head taller than her still, “Because I could’ve sworn an ornery woman with no respect shoved me through the door as if I owed her a thing.”

“Maybe not me. I haven’t forgiven you, no, but you owe her something.” She stuck her chin out at her mother, who only looked at the tabletop. Solveig felt a small sting of guilt now that she looked at her. This wasn’t the reunion her mother wanted, most likely. But it was the only one they’d get if they wanted this old bastard to stay put for once. “Talk to her.”

“I will.” The two of them stared at each other with hard eyes before Jorwen turned away first. He growled as he sat back in his chair. “Halla.” She didn’t answer, just kept staring at the tabletop. Things got quiet again and Solveig returned to her corner. After a time, Jorwen’s big hand crept towards Halla’s small ones and enveloped them. Solveig saw the shimmer of a tear falling from her mother’s eye and some of the ferocity in her own hard eyes had gone out at the sight before her. Solveig had to flutter her eyelids so she could see through a film of wetness. “I’m sorry.” He said.

“You’re going to have to say more than just-”

“Leave us, girl!” Jorwen boomed so suddenly in the silence she couldn’t help but jump. She hadn’t heard that voice since she was a child. To her chagrin, it brought her right back before she composed herself barely and shuffled to the door where she saw herself out. She closed the door gently behind her before turning to look at the street. It wasn’t much, and it was the poorest quarter of the city probably, but it was hers. It was home, or she’d make it one, at least. She’d seen him. She’d finally caught up to him and brought him home. She ran her fingers through her hair and tried to keep the tears from streaming out of her face. She had to settle for not letting anyone hear her as she slinked into the alley across from her house. Not once did he say he loved her or looked at her in any way a father should at a daughter he sorely missed. He’d called her girl, not daughter. Was that it, then? Had the old warrior been amongst blood and flayed flesh too long? So be it, she wiped her face and sniffled, taking a deep breath and regaining herself. She needed a drink. Her footsteps carried her towards the Candlehearth and she hoped no one would be able to notice she’d been crying. Wouldn’t do for a woman like her to cry, now would it?

* * *

Her hands were small, but they were warm. They were familiar and belonged to the woman he loved, which made them that much warmer. He tried to look her in her eyes but she wouldn’t meet his. It pained him, thinking this is what he caused. All the good intentions in the world and it all turned to shit. “Halla, please.”

“That is your daughter, Jorwen.” Halla said as she looked up at him. “Your daughter. She takes after you so much. When we first met, you were fierce-eyed, fiery-haired and thick-bearded. You looked every bit the hero from the Sagas and when I beared your child I saw the jealousy in every woman’s eyes. The tailor-boy went off and became a man they once scoffed at and he’d chosen me and not them and I loved you.”

“Halla-”

“I loved you because I thought you were going to settle down with me and little Solveig and be the father you wanted your own to be to you.” She said, her hands trembling but her voice and her eyes were as steadfast as ever, “I didn’t love you because you chose me and not someone else. I didn’t love you because you looked like a strong warrior. I loved you because you were the man I married. The man who saw me as a woman, not a flower to be kept cooped up in my own little vase for protection that he could feed and look at when he wanted.” It was Jorwen’s turn to look at the tabletop and get quiet, “Look at me when I talk to you, Red-Bear.” Her voice got hard and sure as sure, he looked back up at her.

“Halla.” Her words stung him deep. No matter how much he wanted to be able to walk back into Halla and Solveig’s life like nothing had happened, he knew this was how it had to be. He swallowed, opened his mouth to speak, but Halla spoke first.

“You’d rather fight than hold Halla in your arms? And now she’s a grown woman, you missed your chance. Treat her like a woman, Jorwen, because just as she needs to treat you with some respect for being her father and sending your pay to us and risking your neck,” She looked at him from under her black brows with her ice-blue eyes, “She’s traipsed across the whole damned Reach learning how to fight just so she can see you. It doesn’t seem like it any, but that woman needs someone there for her. Before she runs for so long her heart gives out or runs straight into a blade.” At that, they stood together. Halla wrapped as much of Jorwen as she could in her arms and squeezed hard enough to kill a real bear. Jorwen’s heart fluttered as he held his wife after so long. He hadn’t even held her when he was home, and now it felt like they were young all over again and Jorwen had just returned with a fresh bag of coin from Aelfgar. “And Jorwen?” Halla said, and as Jorwen looked down at her she pulled him into a deep kiss the likes of which they hadn’t shared since their first night being married. She broke away and before he could wrap her in his arms and go for more she shoved him towards the door with a smile one part worry and two parts loving, “Go be a fucking father for once.”

“It’s not going to be easy being her father.” He said with a smile.

“It’s not easy being your wife. About as easy as it is being your daughter, I’d think.” But she smiled back at him, folding her arms, “But what is it you always say? Nothing worth having is ever got easily?” She winked and shooed him off. Jorwen saw himself back out onto the street and set off towards the Candlehearth hall. He needed a drink.

After the battle at the redoubt, Sevine received two stitches where the arrow had pierced her breast. It wasn’t shortly thereafter that she was up and walking around camp. To her delight, Edith survived the battle unscathed, and as she later divulged in a fantastical tale, her group encountered some strange monster bear. One of the Dunmer in the camp, a much older fellow than the rest of them, named Sadri, saved them all by cutting the bear open under its armpit. If she spotted the man in later days, she would have to congratulate him on his efforts. However, there was not much time to do so, as the following day from the battle, their mercenary group dispatched themselves and headed to Rorikstead.

The ride to Rorikstead was a familiar, and rather pleasant one for Sevine, as she much enjoyed the scenery through this part of Skyrim. The rising, mountainous hills fell away with the lack of the pine trees that blanketed the hillsides, and turned into an open plain. There, along with the rest of the mercenaries, they made camp for the night. She noted the large group of other soldiers that occupied the fields around the hamlet, and wondered who commanded them. Were they apart of Thur’s forces? Or were they a group of sellswords like hers? Sevine never digressed the situation as she pitched her tent, and downed a bottle of Nord Mead, before climbing into her bedroll where she extended the offer to Roze, to share her tent with her again. She drifted off into a deep, exhaustive sleep, and never woke again to see if the petite woman joined her.
Over the next few days, the company of mercenaries made their way to Eastmarch, a place in Skyrim that Sevine remembered from her years spent with the Stormcloak’s. She knew that the group headed for Windhelm to seek more men and women to join their ranks, and couldn’t help but to wonder what happened to her old friend, Leif. She hadn’t seen the man in well over three years now, and she couldn’t help but to wonder if he still lived in Windhelm, the least she could do is pay him a visit. On the 3rd day of Sun’s Height, sometime in the late afternoon, did the stone bridge to Windhelm appear before them. Sevine’s heart leapt with joy at the sight of the ancient city, and dismounted to leave her horse behind at the Windhelm Stables. She then continued on foot into the city. Soon, she came to realize that the company was to stay in the docks, in a frigid room, with four barrels of dried food, and hay to sleep on. The huntress would have braved the chill, and made do with what was given to them, but Edith kindly offered to share her room with her that she rented from the inn at Candlehearth Hall. Sevine reluctantly accepted the offer, but informed her friend that she would join her later as she had to look for a friend.

Disappearing into the back alleys of Windhelm, Sevine cut through the Grey Quarter, and into the Stone Quarter, where she spent the rest of her evening searching for her old companion. Everyone she spoke to told her where Leif resided, yet when she knocked upon the solid, oak door of Raven-Stone House, no one answered. Sighing in annoyance, Sevine continued the search for her friend well after dusk. With no luck still, Sevine headed for Candlehearth Hall, ready to call it a night. As she entered the inn, the chill of evening air evaporated from the warmth of the hearth fires. Sevine spotted Ashav seated at a table, who appeared to be signing on more recruits. She noted a peculiar woman, who caused quite a fuss about knocking a man to the ground with a deft punch to the jaw, whom she firmly planted her boot upon his chest. Sevine cracked a grin, hell, if that woman was to join their ranks, she would make a damned good fighter, that she knew.

“Well look at who we have here!” Boomed a deep, husky voice.

Sevine turned around to see Leif leaning against the door frame. She rushed him, and wrapped him tightly in her arms, clapping her hand across his back.

“Leif! You wily, little devil, you!” Chuckled she as released him from her tight embrace. Leif was a tall man, standing mere inches above Sevine herself, his long, sandy-blonde hair was pulled back from his face with braids at his temples that were held back in a bronze clasp. The rest of his hair was left loose, and spilled down his back in soft waves. He still had his goatee, still braided, and still adorned with shiny beads.

“Sevine, I never thought I’d see your face again.” He said as he looked deep into her eyes.

“Oh shut up you fool.” Sevine cracked a grin and pushed him hard with her hand.

“Let’s grab a bottle of mead, this one is on me.” Leif said as he guided her to a table in the back corner. Sevine let herself be guided, and took a seat. Sure enough, a tavern-girl swung by their table and took their drink orders before disappearing again.
---
“So you mean to tell me, that this whole time, you’ve been wandering around the Reach, hacking Forsworn to pieces?” Leif sounded astonished that his former war mate had continued seeking blood even after the war had long since passed.

“Not this whole time, just recently actually. In fact, if you’re looking for work, we’re looking to take on some more people for whatever this next job is.” She said with a shrug as she raised her mug to her lips and drank heavily. Setting the mug down again, this time empty, Sevine gave her old friend a long, hard stare.

“Woo any women as of late?” She asked with a twisted grin.

“Oh certainly. I’ve yet to meet my love. I think I did meet her actually, a long time ago.”

“Really? Who might that be?”

“Why, that was you my sweet Sevine.” Leif reached out to touch her cheek when Sevine snatched his hand away, rose up from her seat, and pinned his arm behind his own back, all in one swift motion.

“Ow! Ow! Ok! You can let me go!”

“You never seem to learn do you, Leif?” Sevine pushed his face down into his bowl of beef stew before returning to her seat laughing all the while. He sputtered for air, and lifted his head up from the bowl, and wiped what vegetables he could from his goatee and beard. The nord man could only laugh in return, she had done that to him before countless times.

Sagax was quiet along the way to Windhelm, didn't even stop to chat with anyone when they stopped at Rorikstead. He sat alone, staring at the ground, thinking. Reflecting on the assault at the redoubt. Thinking about his first kill. Throughout his years, Sagax always saw himself as a good man. He was certainly no saint, his thieving years made sure of that, but a decent person. He began to doubt that. Could anyone really be considered good after they've cut down another sentient being, another person? In Sagax's circumstance it was self-defense, sure. But his blade still met the flesh of another, and ended their life. He didn't even hate that man. Hatred of that level just wouldn't hold in Sagax's heart. He just sort of...did it. One swift motion and down the Reachman went, splurting blood from his wound and mouth. No spiteful words, no roaring emotions, nothing. Just the thud of a body hitting the frozen ground of the Reach. The kill itself wasn't what bothered Sagax the most, though. It was the fact that he didn't even think about it when it happened. He just leapt back into battle, scrabbling up the redoubt wall without a single returning glance to the man he had killed. "Is that what war does to people?" Sagax would think to himself. He began doubting his place within Ashav's company, thinking that maybe he wasn't cut out for mercenary work of this kind. But what else would he do? Striking out on his own would inevitably see him strung up in some bandit's cave somewhere, and finding a new company wouldn't be easy. Besides, Sagax had managed to gain the respect of some of the others after his performance at the redoubt. Ultimately, Sagax decided to stay, and he did his best to purge the thoughts of guilt that plagued his mind. Such morose thoughts would do him no good. He had to keep fighting for his family and come back in one piece.

Sagax sat at one of the upstairs tables up at Candlehearth Hall, with his hood tucked away in his pack. He tried getting some sleep at the warehouse, but he was feeling particularly restless. Aside from that, his hands shook far too much to write anything legible, and so he made his way to the local inn to warm up. He set aside some of the bread and his canteen from his bag on the table, along with his writing tools. He gave the inkwell a good shake and, hearing liquid thrash around inside, uncorked it and began writing, taking a bite and short swig of his bread and water every so often.

"Piper,

We made it! The assault on the redoubt was a roaring success! We lost a few people, but we beat back the Forsworn in no time at all. We sent them running for the hills, tails between their legs! I didn't get hurt at all, lucky me, huh? Maybe Lady Mara really is watching over me after all. My climbing skills came in handy. I bolted up the palisade and took down a mage with a technique father taught me, half-swording he called it. My superior, Dumhuvud Cat-Kicker, hauled him away for interrogation. He must have given the man the boot later though, as I haven't seen hide nor hair of that fire-slinger.

I think I've also managed to gain the approval of the rest of the company. Next is their respect...baby steps, eh? Maybe one day I'll gain command of my own squad. Wouldn't that be a strange sight? Me, tiny Sagax, leading warriors into battle! You'd be better suited for that I'd think, and that may actually come true if you join the Watch.

We're up in Windhelm now. I've seen the Palace of the Kings, and it is a wondrous sight. It must look even better on the inside. Once this is all over and father is free, we should use the gold I'd have accumulated by then to take a family outing to Skyrim and see everything it has to offer. It truly is a beautiful province.

I apologize for any grief or stress my last letter may have caused for you all, and hopefully this letter proving my wellness will make up for it.

Tell mother I love her and miss her greatly, and Varulae that I'm grateful for her potions. I have a feeling they'll be very useful in times to come. And of course I miss you too, sister. Please don't worry too much about me, I may be small but I'm very resourceful.

I will be sure to write again soon.

- Sagax"

Putting everything back in his bag, Sagax leaned back in his chair and observed his surroundings. Quite a few cheery people, full of good mead and warm food. He was drawn to the laughter of what appeared to be Sevine and an unknown man. The man's face was wet and there looked to be bits of leek in his beard, which caused a bit of laughter of Sagax's own to erupt. Sagax hadn't made a point to say hello before, so he walked over and waved his hand at the jovial duo.

"Good day, Sevine!" He said cheerfully. He then turned to Leif with a smile. "And good day to you, sir." He was a very imposing man, even with vegetables stuck to his face. Hopefully he was as friendly as his booming laugh suggested.

Collab between Leos Klien and MiddleEarthRoze.

Ah... The satisfying crack of success...
Sylvanis could count three stages inside most results of a foe being hit successfully by her hammer - with the full power of the swing as well.
The first stage was the momentary bout of resistance, a satisfactory smile always crept along her lips when she felt her arms jar ever so slightly.
The second came the cracking of bones and the tearing flesh, in this specific case she was up against a Nord - a large brute that was at the very least a whole foot taller than her; but by the looks of him he was suffering malnutrition, which made muscles weaker as the body tried to gain energy by using more important energy sources.
His leg suffered the blow which reduced the point just below the knee to little more than red mist with shards of bone being scattered along with the head of the hammer as it passed through what used to be a mans leg.
The final stage was the stage of defeat, as the predictable events turned out a scream broke out of the mans lungs the weapon and shield fell from his hands and as he fell backwards in writhing agony he reached down to try and grasp what used to be his lower leg.

Sylvanis was quick to put this man out of his misery, as her hammer came to a stop from its previous swing she hoisted it up in the air above her head and brought it crashing down on his head leaving little more than a mixed pulp of skull, brain and mud in its wake.

And that was one more job complete - to be honest she was rather disappointed; both in the Jarl's men and the bandits that had warranted the need for a bounty to be placed on them.
It was a painfully small operation, only about 5 of them- they were ill equipped and to say 'trained' would be an insult to actual bandits.
They didn't attack all at once; which if she were up against actual trained individuals she might have said it was clever, but in this instance it wasn't.
Her hammer had large arcs that could easily take out 2 lightly armoured men in a single blow anything from leather to chain mail and they were in serious trouble- to be honest if anyone was fool enough to go up against her with out heavy armour then by default they were in trouble.

Sylvanis sat herself down with a small thump and set her hammer down in front of her - now came the joyous occasion of cleaning bits off the metal.
"I love this part..." Sylvanis muttered wearily- at least 100 gold was waiting for her back in Windhelm - some drinks awaited in the Candlehearth as well as a warm bed.
She stopped suddenly half way through the process of picking some skull off when it dawned upon her.

The bridge...

Who the fuck builds a city on the end of a bridge?!
Aside from the obvious and distinct tactical advantage in a siege it brings.
This was the down side to that city; at least in Sylvanis' eyes. After throwing away the scrap of now very messy cloth, she picked up her hammer and rested it over her shoulder as she typically did and began trudging through the snow; kicking as she did, on to Windhelm - and the blasted bridge.

She wasn't to far from it, only a few miles walk which took her about an hour to complete, the weather wasn't too bad a bit of a nippy wind a very slight snow fall. As she crossed over a hill she seen the city, it was a large and daunting piece of stonework that looked more like a large fortress than a hospitable city; and even its hospitably was debatable.
Well to most Mer it wasn't overly hospitable, but the Nords here learnt fast what racism towards Sylvanis earned them.
And before she knew it there she was- on the verge of that long bridge over the river- and there she stood.
Waiting.
She knew she had to cross it; three of the most beloved things awaited her - a warm bed, a cool tankard of mead and of course hard earned gold.
Something roasted over the spit couldn't hurt either - she was in the mood for venison.
But in order to get that, she had to conquer the one thing she couldn't with her hammer.

This blasted bridge.

---

---

As usual, the twins were being less than companionable to a customer on the wintery road to Windhelm.
Hiding a smile, Rhasha'Dar watched on as his younger siblings danced around the poor Breton hunter they had happened across on the road, pestering him with various wares or ridiculous stories.
"Ah, come now! By the looks of your arms, you could certainly use a potion of strength."
"Don't be ridiculous sister! This is a strong man - obviously more brawn than brains. Have this rare enchanted amulet, it'll make you ten times smarter!"
"This one spits on her brother's wares! A waste of money; a scam! Why not purchase this fine leather cloak? It'll give you the warm nights you're obviously not getting with women-"

Finally getting tired of the twin's patter, he walked over swiftly, grabbing them both by the ear and offering the disgruntled hunter an apologetic smile.

"This one apologises - dropped on the head as kittens, these two were." He said with a chuckle, quelling their complaints by twisting their ears further. "Allow this one to give you a discount to make up for their behaviour." He added, pushing the twins away and offering the hunter a fake discount - a common ruse the twins used. They'd annoy potential customers, they would be offered a discount (Whereas in actuality, the prices were raised by 5%), and the poor fool would fall for it. It was rare for people to walk away from a supposed discount, no matter how much they really needed the wares.

However, the Hunter was only too happy to receive a "small" price for the 50 iron arrows he purchased, and once departing from the caravan, the twins began chuckling as Rhasha'Dar doled out the money. This ruse was as far to thieving he was comfortable getting.

"Excellent work today, Ma'Zardi!"
"No, no, Ma'Zargo, this one bows to your astounding acting!"
"This one thinks we should stop talking and catch up with the others." Rhasha'Dar cut the two off, giving the pair an amused look. Although undoubtedly annoying, he did love them dearly, and the road would indeed be a boring one without them.

It didn't take long for the three Khajiit to catch up with the others - the ominous yet familiar silhouette of Windhelm set in the distance. Due to the general distrust of the Khajiit population as a whole, it was impossible for the 30-strong group of cat-people to enter the gates of the city. Most in the caravan preferred this; camping on the outskirts was far safer, and there was certainly far less insults thrown their way. As for Rhasha'Dar, he was heading into the city - upon hearing rumours on the road of a large mercenary group looking for new blood, his interest was immediately piqued. It was about time he found battle once again - otherwise he'd fall out of practice with his spear.
And he certainly didn't want a repeat of that.

The twins also volunteered to come into the city with him - no doubt to cause trouble, get drunk, and steal from the unsuspecting Nords; but the pair could be as smooth as silk when they wanted to be, and had even the most racist of Nords enjoying their company eventually.
Until the Nord woke up the next morning to find everything they owned gone - from their weapons to their underwear.

After saying his goodbyes with many in the camp, the three of them made their way towards the bridge - noticing a lone figure stood there, staring ahead. It was only on closer inspection that Rhasha'Dar recognised the ridiculously large hammer compared to the smaller woman.

"Still frightened of bridges, yes? This one is not surprised - it is very hard to kill a bridge, even with that large hammer of yours, Sylvanis." Rhasha'Dar said warmly as he approached his old friend. Naturally, the faces of Ma'Zardi and Ma'Zargo lit up with glee - their favourite Bosmer toy had returned to them.

---

---

Sylvanis was brought out of her thoughts - which was mostly just a reel of continuous curses to people who made bridges, and turned towards a rather familiar voice.
It was her furry feline friend, Rhasha'Dar.
Truly- Malacath has showered favour upon her for her recent crushing of her foes - bridges were less of a foe when she had cats to distract her.

"Bridges are frightened of me too! It's a mutual sort of fear we have going." Sylvanis replied with a raised tone, clearly hiding the fact that she was petrified of bridges - even though Rhasha'Dar was there when they crossed on when they travelled together- it wasn't a good moment for her.

"Anyway, enough about bridges, everyone always talks about bridges near me; it's annoying." She said, swiftly changing the subject and darting a warning glare towards the twins as they shared a mischievous smile.
"What are three doing here? Where's the rest of your fluffy friends?"

Rhasha'Dar chuckled lightly, walking forth and the pair grasped forearms - neither of them were on for cuddles. "Yes, this one can see the bridge trembling." He replied sarcastically.
"The caravan has stopped by the stables - this one has decided it is time again for spilling blood." He said, then glanced at each twin on either side of him.
"And we have decided to test our mettle in the local inn - lots of Nords-" Ma'Zardi began, only for Ma'Zargo to interrupt.
"Stupid nords-"
"Yes, stupid Nords; and lots of gold!" She finished with a chuckle, giving Sylvanis a sly look. "This one recalls your stomach for mead. Lay bets down, yes? Collect plenty of gold from the trolls in the city."
Rhasha'Dar gave his sister a stern look - he knew what their games were like, which was fair enough in most cities in Skyrim. But in a xenophobic one like Windhelm, it could potentially end in death. The pair were quick with blades, but Nords were certainly one to hold grudges.
"Stick with only bets - this one is not breaking you out of the local jail. Again/" He hissed, and Ma'Zardi stuck out her tongue at him, scowling.
"Hard to believe they are no longer cubs." Rhasha'Dar thought to himself with a roll of the eyes - and then looking back at Sylvanis.
"This one is going to Candlehearth Hall - have a drink together again, yes?" He asked, knowing she would never likely turn an offer of alcohol down. He also assumed she would appreciate the company across the bridge.

Sylvanis was amused at the twins proposition, she could beat the Nords at a game of drink fairly easily; especially after she had done some killing, which always made her thirsty; but she had already done something like this in the past in this city, no Nord would dare accept now, especially anyone who was a regular at the Candlehearth.
The first time was always a fresh and funny event in her mind, they though that such a small elf wouldn't be able to handle it - but how wrong they were, the number of agape jaws on that night was extensive.

"Candlehearth? I have a room already paid up there, and if you buy the first round I may grace your table with my presence - no Nord will bother you if I'm sat there that's for sure." She said with a small smile.
"I've just got to turn in a bounty first so I shouldn't be too long - crushed some "bandits"; if you could call them that, round about an hour ago, they should have ran when they seen me. Bastards made my hammer messy." Sylvanis gave her hammer a little jiggle on her shoulder to signify her distaste of having to remove bits of skull from it.

"How rude of them." Rhasha'Dar said in an amused tone, casting his eyes on Sylvanis' warhammer. It was truly a daunting thing to look at - although one could appreciate the ridiculousness of it compared to it's small owner.

"Can we get this over with then?" Sylvanis gave a grim look over her shoulder towards the bridge.
She'd rather spend a night in Oblivion than cross a bridge- except Oblivion probably has bridges in it too.

Standing on the threshold between solid ground and hard stone, she said through gritted teeth towards the twins "Make one joke, and you'll be swimming to the docks..."

Ma'Zardi and her brother laughed at Sylvanis' threat - Ma'Zargo throwing an arm around her shoulders and planting a kiss on the top of her head jokingly before dancing away with his sister.
"Make jokes? This one could not be more serious." He chuckled, and Rhasha'Dar let out a small sigh of relief as the twins began skipping ahead, jumping up on the stone balustrades of the bridge and doing various tricks - probably in an attempt to make Sylvanis uncomfortable. However, he preferred them risking their lives on the bridge than with Sylvanis - he didn't want them entering the city by flying over the walls after a hearty hit from the warhammer.
"Will you also be joining this mercenary group? This one has heard they are paid a decent amount." He inquired as the pair made their way across the bridge.

The fact that Sylvanis was on a bridge didn't sink in till about a quarter of the way across it, and she quickly became nervous, the grip on her hammer became tighter and she had a nervous look in her eyes, the feeling of walking on air rather than stone took affect and the feeling that the bridge would collapse took hold in her mind.
She quickly began talking to dismiss it from her mind.

"Mercenary group? I've been out of town for a few days, hunting those disappointments - but if they pay well I probably will, need some work anyway; what are they looking to new blood for? They got a big job or expanding?"

Rhasha'Dar shrugged, taking his pipe from his bag and sticking it in his mouth as he searched for some tobacco.
"This one does not know. Travellers on the road say the group have just journeyed from The Reach, dealing with Forsworn." He answered, words somewhat muffled behind his pipe - finally finding some tobacco leaf and putting it in the bowl before lighting it. The stem of the pipe was certainly looking battered now - he'd have to pick up a new one in the city before he completely chewed the end off.

The Bosmer and the 3 Khajiit were half way across the bridge now, they got a few dubious looks from the guards that flanked each side of the bridge - their patrols were no doubt long and very cold - boring too.
Sylvanis gave one of them a nod of the head; she knew quite a few of the guards as she generally got her jobs from them, the one that gave her nod of the head in return was the one that gave her her last job, he never disputed her success in these matters as it was what she did best.

Sylvanis turned back to Rhasha'Dar and contemplated this job offer - it was well payed according to him, so it was worth investigating what it would entail, at the very least.

"Forsworn huh? My parents fought the Reachmen a long time ago, hard to imagine they are still about after all this time. From what my parents told me, the For... Sorry, the Reachmen, used stones and cheap iron for their arrow heads - good old Orichalcum plate turned them away with ease."
She said giving her breastplate a thump triumphantly.

Puffing away on his pipe thoughtfully, Rhasha'Dar regarded the two guards on either side of the main gate shrewdly - as if expecting them to say or do something to the small group. However, they must have recognized either Sylvanis or himself, for they did nothing but watch them as they passed on through into the city.

"Perhaps the Forsworn are so often under-estimated, that people get too lazy around them. It would explain how so many have died at the hands of those savages." He pondered aloud, smiling slightly at Sylvanis' bravado. From the stories he'd heard about the Forsworn, he would prefer being cut down in the field of battle than be taken alive.

Looking ahead, the merrily-lit Candlehearth Hall stood out against the cold stone of the city - to the left lay the marketplace, and to the right, the Gray Quarter. From what he had gathered from various people, the recruiting would take place tomorrow, at the Hall. Apparently, the host of mercenaries had already arrived and were staying somewhere in the outskirts of the city - so hopefully, there'd be some rooms left in the place. If not, Belyn would always lend him and his siblings a bed for the night.

Sylvanis wasn't overly fond of this city- barring the Hearth in the center of the city the rest was gloomy and depressing, and the populace matched that. However getting paid will lift her mood up considerably, as well as that drink, she certainly needed it after crossing that bloody bridge.

"Right, Rhash I'm going to get paid; why don't you and the trouble makers grab a seat and some drinks in the Inn? I shouldn't be too long."

Sylvanis shook her companions hand once more and departed- passing by the Inn and heading towards the Palace of the Kings, where upon that steward would give her her bounty.
Shoe observed the goings on of the residents as she made her way there, it was early evening and most people had either finished doing their shopping or business and were heading home to make dinner- or alternatively heading to one of the various inns and taverns dotted around the city.
A few of the Nords gave here dubious looks, but most she passed gave her a smile and a greeting, they were the ones that had drank with her before, or at least knew that she wasn't like most of her kin.Before long she was stood outside the large black steel doors that made the entrance to the Palace, lucky she needn't wait out in the cold just to catch the Jarl's steward as he was just leaving the palace itself.

"Ah. Sylvanis, what luck! No doubt you've dealt with that Bandit problem plaguing the southern trade route? Of course I needn't ask, you've never failed yet and that task was hardly a tough one for you."
He reached down to his belt and removed two coin-purses.
"50 septims in each one, as promised."

"Thank you sir, it's always a pleasure killing for you." Sylvanis said with a gleeful smile, and the steward returned a cheerful laugh before shaking her hand and heading towards the Market place.

With her hands heavier she headed back to the inn with a skip in her step - T'was time for drinks!

Upon Rhasha and the twins entering the inn, there was a distinct lull in conversation at the sight of three Khajiit - two of them being that rather uncommon Suthay-Raht at that as well. However, a few people recognized Rhasha after a moment, and simply turned back to their drinks as the three found a table in the corner and got drinks. After a quiet word with the owner, it turned out there was a room available for the three Khajiit - Elda was somewhat hesitant in giving a room out to them, but after paying in advance, she was quite happy to let them stay.
Upon seeing Sylvanis enter, bounty money in hand, the four shared drinks well into the night, eventually walking - or staggering, in Sylvanis' case - to their respective rooms and passing out till late afternoon on the next day.

By the time Rhasha'Dar arose, it seemed that the recruiting had already begun downstairs - glancing out the window, he could see the line stretching out of the building. Much to his disappointment, many were young and greener than grass - no doubt under the impression that this would bring them fame and glory. Tutting lightly, he dressed, prodding his snoring sibling's awake before leaving his room, knocking on Sylvanis' door adjacent to see if she had awoken from her drunken stupor.

"Ugh.... Whats that thumping....sound..."
Sylvanis awoke with a thumping headache and a tongue that felt like a bear had shed its fur in her mouth whilst she had slept.
After her mind cleared a bit she deduced that her feline friend was knocking on her door - the faint glow of a late afternoon sun confirmed this as she drew the shades back from her small window.
After stumbling a bit - mixed with scatterings of swearing - Sylvanis eventually got armoured up, and with a yawn hoisted her baby upon her shoulder, the weight a welcomed feeling as she pushed her door open.

"G'Morning you three... why's it so noisy?" She said groggily wiping some sleep from her eyes.

Rhasha regarded his companion with a somewhat stern amusement - clearly, she'd just gotten out of bed like his childish siblings. The two of them were yawning behind him, slumped on the wall and still half-dressed. Obviously, he had been the only who had drank a sensible amount last night.
"It's afternoon, Sylva." He said with a smile, glancing down. "And you seem to have gotten your boots mixed up. Perhaps correct them before joining the mercenary group downstairs, yes? First impressions and all that."

Waiting while the twins got properly dressed, and Sylvanis corrected her footing - and ignoring the cat-centered profanities being muttered under her breath - the four of them walked downstairs. While the twins gave a brief goodbye and headed back to the caravan on the outskirts (They would say a proper goodbye later, when the mercenary group left Windhelm), Sylvanis and Rhasha'Dar fell into line to sign up.
They were given a few surprised looks - generally, Bosmer and Khajiit went for more rogue-type styles. But this Khajiit was not small and sneaky; and this Bosmer was not one for bows and arrows.

Approaching Ashav, he mentioned that Rhasha would be the first Khajiit to arrive in their company. He wasn't particularly surprised; considering the amount of Nords in the group. Signing his name, he stepped aside and regarded the inn floor as Sylvanis signed up. There were definitely new faces in today; most likely the original recruits of the company.

As Sylvanis walked up to the table where upon she would sign up she got a quizzical look from the recruiter.
"Bosmer? With a Warhammer? That's a new one- here's the contract, I assume you can write, or at least I hope you can."
Sylvanis gave a raised eyebrow in retort to that last statement, but after setting her hammer down next her, with a large thump and the creaking of floorboards following it.
"Don't worry, I can swing this hammer well enough to relieve a foe of his head." She said with a sly smile, and signed her name on the parchment.
It was a messy scrawl, but that was just her handwriting summed up.

"I can't wait to see that; truly." he replied dryly.

Sylvanis stepped out of the line after picking up her hammer and returning it to it's normal position and talked to her friend.
"So. What should we do for the time being? Drink?" The question had a rhetorical feel to it, and it was indeed meant to be that way.

Rhasha gve Sylvanis a dry look in answer to her question. "What else are we to do in an inn? With you, at that?" He said with a wry grin.

{The Biggest TES Collab EVER: Brought to you by - @Frizan@MiddleEarthRoze@LeidenSchaft@MacabreFox }

Only seconds after pushing Leif’s head into his bowl of stew, did Sevine hear her name being called. She was uncertain of the voice who called to her but when her eyes landed on the man that addressed the two of them, Sevine felt he was the same man that cheered for her back on the walls in the redoubt. On closer inspection, she could tell he had the markings of an Imperial despite his black hair that covered a pair of striking, green eyes. Sevine did recognize him however as being a part of the company.

“Hello there lad, take a seat, won’t you?” Sevine asked with a smile as she pushed a chair out to him with the toe of her boot.

“You know this scrawny fellow?”

“Him? Yeah, he’s in the company. Weren’t you the one cheering me on at the walls?” She gestured for the Imperial to sit down, and join them. Mead always made Sevine a friendlier, and more approachable person, it made her smile more than she could help it. As she eyed the man carefully, Sevine couldn’t help but notice how thin as a twig he was, she made a mental note to order him up a bowl of stew as well once the tavern-girl came back ‘round.

Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, Sagax was pleased with Sevine's reception of his intrusion. He'd hate to come off as annoying to one of the few people he knew by name in the company. He could almost feel Sevine's bewilderment at his size. It was the same kind of look his mother and sister would give him when he skimped on meals to leave more to them. He was used to it though and paid the glances no mind. "Oh, thank you." Sagax responded, as he took the chair and adjusted it in a way that he would be facing his company properly when seated.

Smiling at Sevine's question, he nodded and said "Ah, yes, that was me. I thought you could have used a bit of encouragement." He took a seat with Sevine and her friend. "My father once served in the Imperial Legion, you see, and among the things he taught me, he stressed battlefield morale. If your soldiers feel as though the battle is lost, nine out of ten times, it is." Fidgetting with his half-cloak, Sagax looked back up. He knew people in Skyrim weren't particularly warm to the Empire, especially not in Windhelm. "Uh...you don't have an issue with that, do you? My family line having served in the Legion?"

Leif spat angrily on the ground upon hearing the man’s words about his family being Imperials, but Sevine silenced him with a deadly look filled with venom. The blonde man only glowered at Sagax in fuming stillness, as he sat with his arms crossed. Leif found it hard to forgive the Imperials for trying to rule Skyrim, and take away their worship of Talos.

“Not at all, when you fight in battle as long as we have, it matters no more who your enemy is, but what does matters, is that you make it home. So to answer your question, no. Your father sounded like a wise man, morale is essential in every fight no matter who you face.” Sevine replied with a nod of her head.

The tavern girl finally made her way upstairs, and headed over to the table, where she stopped to check on her guests needs.

“Is there anything I can get you?” Her voice was sweet, and reminded Leif of apple orchards in the springtime.

“Aye, three more bottles of mead, and another bowl of stew for him.” She said as she hooked her thumb at Sagax. The girl merely nodded, and then disappeared below.

“What did you say your name was?” Sevine asked as she realized she still hadn’t learned his name yet.

Sagax tensed up at Leif's reaction. "Should have kept my big mouth shut..." he thought to himself. Thankfully Sevine came to his aid and silenced the man with a look hard enough to shatter the very walls of the White-Gold Tower. "Y-yeah. My father spent quite a few years in the Legion before he came back to the Imperial City and joined the Watch." He eased up again, knowing that Sevine's friend would listen to her if no one else. "My mother works as an alchemist in the Imperial City, but apparently they met during a campaign near Falkreath. Her family moved from...Anvil, I think it was, and..." He stopped himself and chuckled sheepishly. "Sorry, I'm getting sidetracked. I do that sometimes."

"Anyway, yeah, I'm glad that you don't have a problem with that. I'm not a very...confrontational person, and I'd sure hate to be on your bad side!" Sagax smiled jokingly. He was suprised to hear Sevine order a stew for him. They had just met, and she was already making friendly gestures. "Well, I guess that means I've made a new friend." He thought. The more the merrier, the saying goes, and Sevine certainly was one of the merrier women he'd met. "Me? Oh, well, I'm Sagax. Sagax Speculatus. A pleasure to meet you...formally, anyway!" Sagax stood back up and held out his hand. A habit he picked up from his mother when greeting people. "Remember your posture!" She'd always say.

As Sagax spoke of his family, and how his mother and father met, Sevine listened on quietly, in a respectful manner with her eyes focused on him. Leif even eased up, and relaxed in his chair as the tavern girl made her way back to the table, and set the three bottles of Nord mead on the table, along with the bowl of stew for Sagax.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, your folks obviously raised you well.” With that Sevine rose from her chair, and grasped Sagax’s hand in her own, shaking it firmly. She didn’t believe in weak handshakes, those were for ninnies.

“Well met, Sagax Speculatus, I am Sevine Varg-t’uk, and this here is my old war mate, Leif Raven-Stone. We used to fight alongside each other in the war. If you ever want to learn how to woo a woman, incorrectly, and horribly, Leif is the man to look to.” She joked as she released his hand and returned to her seat. Leif cracked a wicked grin at her comment and only chuckled to himself.

“Horribly, and incorrectly you say?”

“Aye. I don’t know any man who could write sappier poems than you. Where is your skill? The grace for love’s sake, Leif?” Sevine teased openly as she lifted the bottle to her lips, and again drank from the brown glass bottle.

“Those sappy poems have won me many hearts now!” Leif thundered with a grin.

“And how many women have actually stuck by your side?”

“Well that depends? Are we talking about my wife in Solitude? Or my wife Whiterun?”

“Oh you fiend. Please tell me you don’t.”

“Of course not, I couldn’t have all those misses waiting for me, there wouldn’t be enough to go around.” Leif winked at Sagax, if Sevine was kind enough to order him mead, and stew, he was alright in his eyes at least; Imperial or not.

“So are you looking for work?”

“You mean mercenary-type?”

“Aye. I think you ought to sign up, it’ll be like old times.”

“Then I’ve beat you to it.”

“You already did?”

“Aye. As soon as I caught wind that helped was needed, I signed up when your company leader, Ashav I believe, posted the first set of fliers here. The pay sounds good. How has the company treated you so far, Sagax?” Leif asked as he took another sip from his bottle.

He couldn't help but laugh along. "Well then, if my mission ever becomes 'woo the fair ladies of Skyrim' I will certainly be sure to look you up, Leif. I'm no bard, so I'd need all the help I could get!" Sagax said as he popped open the mead Sevine was nice enough to order for him. He took a drink and found the brew much to his liking. "I had heard nordic mead was good stuff, but simple word of mouth doesn't seem to do it much justice." He never had mead before, always just sticking to the water in his canteen. Now he knew why everyone loved the stuff. "It's all wine and brandy back home, not much in the way of ale or mead. I never really took to that stuff, but mead? Hehe, maybe I'll keep a bottle on hand for occasions."

Sagax set his bottle down and look toward Leif when asked how he fared within the company. "Well, it was a rough start, to be sure. Was green as a Cyrodillic leaf in summer. Still am, honestly, though I've got some actual experience under my belt now, even if it is little." Sagax left out the part about his first kill. He saw no need to sullen the merry atmosphere, and no good would come from dwelling on the event. "Got a lot of insults thrown my way. The prominent one was milk-drinker. Not quite sure what that means, though, but I'm guessing it has something to do with being a weakling." Sagax chuckled and said "Well, I can't really argue with that if that's the case." The Imperial rolled his shoulders. They were a bit sore on the account of the not-to-comfortable wagon ride to the city. "But now, I think I've at the very least garnered the approval of the rest of the company." He ended and took another drink from his bottle. He'd definitely need to order another one for later occasions in the future.

Sevine grinned at Sagax’s taste for the Nord mead, most Nord’s brewed their own mead, and ale, there were distinct flavors, meaning the mead from Riften, tasted slightly different than the ones brewed in Solitude. It was Nord mead nonetheless.

“I prefer wine, Alto Wine is delectable, but there are others that I have tried. If you ever get the chance, try some Black-Briar Mead, or some Honning Brew, both are especially delicious.” Sevine commented as she raised her bottle to her lips again and took a heavy draught. Leif could only laugh aloud at Sagax’s contemplative words about being a milk-drinker. She had to admit, Sagax appeared older than her, even if by a few years, so she couldn’t call him a boy by any means.

“Being a milk-drinker, is like being a greenhorn. It does mean you’re a weakling, but in the sense that you’re new to the ways of battle, and you’re more likely to get scared, and unable to fight because of what’s going on around you. They’ll stop calling you that once they see your true colors, people mainly pick on the new recruits, because they’re not sure if you’ll make it through the battle. But if you’ve survived a Forsworn battle, then I’d say you’re a pretty lucky fellow. I used to sail the Sea of Ghosts back in my hey-days as a young man. I’ll tell you one thing, Sagax, I was damned scared when a ship with black flags tried to overtake our ship. That was my first encounter with pirates of course, and I was more than happy to run a blade through them, than to submit to death.” Leif stood up suddenly, his chair slid back against the floor as he stood. He locked his sky-blue eyes on the huntress and said, “I’m going downstairs to grab another round.”

“Don’t get lost wooing women, Leif.” Sevine cautioned with a teasing smile as she watched her companion leave for the down stairs below. She then turned her attention back to Sagax.

“So you said your parents met in Falkreath? I’m from there originally. What did you do before joining the company?”
---

In the meantime, downstairs, Leif had already ordered a next round of three bottles of mead, and slipped the bar-keep coin for payment across the wooden countertop. A curious woman, who reminded him a lot of Sevine by her scowling face, caught his eye as she entered Candlehearth Hall. She looked fierce in her Stormcloak blue outfit, and bear fur draped across her shoulders. His eyes lit up at the sight of her, she was a strikingly beautiful woman, with fiery red hair. Leif left the mead bottles on the table, gesturing to the bar-keep to hold onto them, and he made his way over to the red-haired woman.

“Well hello there, the name’s Leif. I saw you from across the room, and I thought you looked a bit lonely. Can I buy you a drink?”

Leif's words were encouraging, in a strange way. Like Tsleeixth said, everyone starts somewhere, and Sagax's start was here, in Ashav's company. He was certainly scared during the assault on the redoubt, but he took a bit of pride in overcoming the urge to just run away from the fight. He stuck with it, thick and thin. He'd learn to ignore the fear eventually. If not, then Dumhuvud would be sure to beat it out of him. So he certainly had a good incentive to overcome it personally.

When Leif got up to go downstairs for more drink, Sagax turned back to Sevine. "Yeah, I've heard of Black-Briar and Honning Brew. They're partnered I think, which is a fairly good move I'd say. Mead is clearly a big business here in Skyrim, lots of gold to be made. It'd be a waste of time to quarrel for a monopoly." Such quarrels were thankfully uncommon in the Imperial City, as most of the merchants all took part in some sort of trader's pact. Everything was fair, whoever got the customers got them because they had the goods which were more desired, not because of some underhanded pricing tactics.

"As for my parents, yeah, it was a kind of chance meeting I suppose you could say. At the time my mother was a caravan ringleader based in the area. She had a great eye for detail, so she oversaw every good that went in and out. My father, while being a normal footsoldier, a Praefect if I remember right, he also doubled as quartermaster. The Legion contracted my mother, and so they naturally spent a lot of time with each other, coordinating shipments and such. Apparently they took such a liking to one another that when the campaign ended, they got together and moved to the Imperial city. I don't know every bit though, so please excuse any holes. For instance, I don't really know what became of that caravan ring. Mother never told me much about them."

Sagax drank more from his bottle and raised his eyebrows at Sevine's question about his former employment. "Me? Oh, well...I was...an errand boy. Just ran packages and things like that for the local merchants."

"Probably wouldn't do well to elaborate on my thieving..." He thought to himself.

"Hallo Sevine - I hope you saved a drink for me." Roze announced herself as she approached the table, throwing herself into one of the spare chairs beside her friend, and a man that she had yet to know. It seemed she had interrupted a story from the small Imperial, and as such she offered up an apologetic smile.

"Do excuse me - I've just grown sick and tired of staying in that awful warehouse they've set us up in. I've slept in stables nicer than that place." she said, then paused, chuckling lightly. "And I've dealt with trolls with better manners than some of the men in there." She added in after-thought. Now that most of the men had grown accustumed to her small stature, and decided that she wasn't going to be a Forsworn-in-disguise, the flirtation had never stopped. With Farid on the road, it had been compaionable and even amusing - but locked in a warehouse with dozens of men looking for a good time was simply too damn annoying for her to deal with. Deciding that it would be better for her to vacate the premises rather than threaten castration, she had made her way to Candlehearth Hall, wherein she knew Sevine and Jorwen would perhaps like a drink.

"Rozalia Éathliel, at your service." She introduced herself to the man, offering up her trademark mischevious smile.

The huntress smiled in delight as her tent-mate showed up at the table, she wasn’t expecting to see the woman at any time this night, but she was glad nonetheless. She gestured for her to take Leif’s seat as she sat, and grinned wider. The raven-haired woman was a pleasant sight for tired eyes.

“That’s exactly what I thought. I would have stayed behind and toughed it out, but Edith offered to share her room with me. I’m not sure that you know, but her and I go way back. We’re childhood friends to put it lightly. If you’ve got the coin Roze, I’d suggest booking a room while you can here. That blasted warehouse is a shithole. Let the men keep it. We’ve earned a hot meal, a drink of mead, wine or ale, and a warm bed. Not some damned freezing warehouse.” She shook her head in dismay. Thankfully, the tavern-girl came round again, and brought them the bottles Leif had ordered. She set the bottles down on the table and looked at Sevine.

“Is there anything else you need ma’am?”

With that, Sevine looked to Roze and raised her brows as if to say ”Well?” Sevine was a generous person in nature, as she didn’t mind treating her friends. Who else was she supposed to spend her coin on? Her family? That only now consisted of Liliana, and her new husband, and they were miles away in Falkreath.

“If you’re hungry, order something. It’s my treat tonight.” Sevine said with a nod of her head.

Roze raised her eyebrows in slight surprise - she still wasn't used to other people spending money on her. That just wasn't the way she was brought up. However, she inclined her head in thanks towards Sevine.

"Most generous of you, my friend. I'll take some rabbit stew, if you have any." She said to the tavern-girl, who immediately went to retrieve some from the kitchens.

Sagax smiled at the new arrival. He had seen her before at the camp, talking to Sevine. It was nice to know her name finally. "Well met, Rozalia. I'm Sagax Speculatus." Looking at her shoulder, Sagax could see that her wound was healing nicely. Or at least he assumed. Hard to see through the woman's armor, but she wasn't showing any signs of discomfort. "That was a nasty hit you took during the assault. Nice to see that you aren't having any complications with the healing. I would have helped but I had to get a ladder to the walls."

He continued playing with his half-cloak absentmindedly. He wished he wasn't so damned fidgetty, but he couldn't help it. It was just a force of habit for him. "And I saw you got a very...warm welcome from Dumhuvud back at the camp. Good job keeping your cool. Though I think Sevine..." He smiled and nodded at the huntress. "Was about to make Cat-Kicker eat his words, served up on her axe blade." Sagax laughed as he spoke, imagining Dumhuvud's face if Sevine had confronted him the way she wanted to. A sight to behold, truly.

"Ah, don't worry about it. Despite the injury, it was quite amusing seeing you cheering Sevine on." Roze chuckled. As for her wounds, they were indeed, healing up nicely. Following the end of the battle, Roze had been patche dup alongside Sevine - although thanks to the extra cut on her arm, had recieved far more stitches. She'd been forced to leave it in a sling for a good while - the thing irritating her along the road from Karkarth to Windhelm. It was only when she saw the city in her sights that she abandoned the damned thing - her arm had healed up fine anyway.

The shoulder still ached slightly when she drew her bow, but that was some muscle stiffness that she'd have to work through. She'd be damned before giving up her bow.
--

Solveig had come back to the Candlehearth to be alone. Either this fool was blind to the puffiness of tears underneath her eyes or she'd cleaned up well. She looked him up and down with a curious set to her eyes before speaking, "And who are you, Leif?" She said, sticking her thumbs into her belt. "I've not heard of you before."

To his surprise, instead of dismissing him with a groan, the woman seemed to know his name already. Leif grinned like a sly skeever, trying to bite an unsuspecting person in the sewers. Her eyes were red, probably from crying, but that mattered not to him, she was still beautiful in his eyes.

“Yes, I’m Leif, Leif Raven-Stone to be exact. I couldn’t help but to notice how beautiful you are. A woman like you shouldn’t spend her evenings alone. So is that a yes for the drink? Anything you like, wine, mead, ale?” Leif shifted his weight so that he stood closer to the woman. Most women would simply laugh, and blush at his word’s though he could tell that this Nord woman could put him in his place if he weren’t careful.

"You're a forward man, Leif." Solveig said, resting a hand on the counter, "I've met a lot of men like you. But I met them years ago, when they were young and still yet to grow from it. You look a worldly man, yet your name's not whispered in fear by your enemies or praised in the halls." Solveig tugged on the short sleeve of her blue tunic, "My father and men like him earned names with this cloth, Red-Bear, Wolf-Tooth, White-Eye, but I've never heard of Leif Raven-Stone. Until the songs of your deeds are on my tongue long before I've set my eyes on your face, we've nothing between us."

Solveig put her hands on her hips and took a step forward, her foot next to Leif's own as she brought herself close enough for her breath to tickle at his ear, "Besides, Leif. I fancy women." She stepped back with a smirk and slid forward a few coins, "Whiskey, if you have it. Mead if you don't."

Solveig watched Leif's face for his reaction. In truth, Solveig was never keen on narrowing her options for lovers or company, a fact held close until men like Leif came trundling along. But usually they were seasoned adventurers or proven housecarls, a few she'd beaten in the circle.
---

Sevine noticed the shock on her friend’s face at her offer to buy her food and drink. If she had the coin, which she did, Sevine didn’t mind sharing at all. She picked up the habit from the war, as she was more careful with her money than most other soldiers.

“We’re were just talking about his parents, and how they met. They’re Imperial’s who worked closely together. It’s a very sweet, romantic story.”

“Ah, yes. Cat-Kicker. The man is a sore in my mouth. I don’t care for his brutish attitude. If he tries anything again, I’ll be more than happy to put him in his place.” Sevine grumbled darkly. With fresh bottles of Nord mead, and a bowl of rabbit stew, Sevine raised the dark, brown glass bottle up as if in a toast to Roze and Sagax.

“Well here, to our first battle, and making it through alive.” She said as she extended the bottle towards her companions. She wondered what was keeping Leif, though the huntress merely assumed that a woman had caught his eye, and that was the reason for his delay to rejoin their table.

"I'll toast to that." Roze said cheerily, mood instantly picking up at the prospect of mead and food.

As for Dumhuvud... well, the less said about the ''Cat-Kicker'', the better.

"I have a feeling he'll find some other source of entertainment - when I entered, I noticed we've received out very first Khajiit recruit. A big one, at that." She said with a chuckle, supping her cool mead and sighing contently.

"So, sharing love stories then?" She asked, looking at Sagax. "I find that true love often stems between good friends. Happened with my parents as well." She threw in her opinion on the matter - and true it was. Not only good friends, her parents had been a great team when it came to fighting.

The huntress couldn’t help but to chuckle darkly at Roze’s words as she clinked her bottle with hers and Sagax’s in response. She ran a hand through her crimson tresses with a sigh as she gazed at her companions.

“Some men would do well to learn that lesson. I wish the same could be said for me, but if I die an old maid, then so be it, at least I have fought well in my days. Love is a fickle thing. Mara bless and guide me, if I ever do find it.”

Sagax raised his own bottle in a toast. "To long life to us all." He said with a cheerful grin. "Hopefully no one will be taking any more arrows, Mara willing!" Drinking deeply, Sagax put the nearly-finished bottle down and laughed quietly at Roze's comment about love. "That's the truth, if my parents taught me anything. It may seem like love can just happen, but it's very rarely the case." He began thinking about Piper. Maybe he'd end up coming home to see his sister with someone she can say she loves. That'd be the day, not many men worthy of a woman like her would be able to put up with her attitude! "Ha...I wonder how many lechers my sister has bloodied? Maybe none of them are dumb enough to try, but gods know the men in the Imperial City all think themselves handsome and cultured." He shook his head and rolled his eyes. Sagax was glad he was raised to treat people with respect, and that he had grown to have enough sense to leave people be when they aren't looking for company.

Sagax shrugged at Sevine's response to Roze. "Don't worry about that, Sevine. There's someone out there, I'm sure. But if there isn't, I'd say it would be better to go out alone but happy and with no regrets than to die with a heavy heart and someone you don't love."

Sevine smiled at Sagax, again, she really liked how well spoken he was. "You are right,if I do not find love, at least I have lived a happy, meaningful life."

---

“Ah, a forward man, I may be, but I am ever confident in my abilities. Surely a woman such as yourself, hasn’t cast away all hopes of falling in love with a man.” Leif said in return as he reached out to tuck a stray strand of red hair behind her ear. He liked her spunky attitude, and it would not deter him in the slightest. His smile was soft, and his sky-blue eyes twinkled with mischevious thoughts. It mattered not to him, if she preferred women over men, he still desired to hold her in his arms, and kiss her forehead tenderly.

“I have never met a woman like you. Your eyes remind me of the northern sky over the Sea of Ghosts when it is but a clear day, or more rather, the blue that is the color of the frozen ice.” He murmured quietly in return as she whispered in his ear, truth be told, her breath in his ear forced goosebumps to rise in its wake along the nape of his neck.

“I haven’t earned my name, really, it’s more of a family name. I fought in the Civil War, but I’ve done more sailing, which probably explains why you haven’t heard of me. Though I do know a woman upstairs whom you’ve probably heard of. But enough of that. I haven’t caught your name, love.”

"Do you now?" She grabbed up the cup of whiskey and nodded to the keep, if her eyes were mesmerizing sea-ice before, she made them into the blue of stormy seas as she spoke to him, "And if you ever touch my hair like that again, you'll be short a few fingers. A warning for a forward man." Before the silence could become uncomfortable, though she doubted Leif would be perturbed by it, she nodded to the stairs, "Take me to this woman."

---

She leaned forward, cupping her chin in the palm of her hand and smiled lopsidedly, at Roze and Sagax. Their company lifted her tired, battle-worn spirits, and she was glad to have them close for companions.

“What of you, Sagax? Has any lucky woman claimed your heart?” Sevine asked coolly, she had to admit, Sagax wasn’t all that bad-looking in appearance, he was actually quite attractive despite his thin, skeletal body frame.

---

Leif’s brows arched up in surprise at her words, but only grinned even wider. He really did like this woman, and her attitude. It didn’t matter if she wanted to meet Sevine or not, he could still woo her up the stairs.

“Come now, I wouldn’t hurt a fly, much less you. I would treat you like a garden of roses. I would tend to your body with care, and ever with gentleness, I would be the bee to collect your sweet nectar, and to pollinate your flower. But enough of that, come on then. I’ll take you to her.” Leif nodded with his head for her to follow him up the stairs to the second floor, where Sevine and the others waited. With quick steps, he ascended the stairs and returned to his table, where he saw another beautiful woman seated with his friend, and Sagax.

“Sevine, there is someone that wishes to meet you.”

She looked up in surprise at Leif’s sudden return, and mention of someone that wanted to meet her.

“Is that so?” Sevine asked as she rose up from her chair, and looked past Leif, down the stair well, where Solveig emerged.

“Mmmhmmm.” He said as he fetched two more chairs, dragging them over from another table without any occupants and placed them around their table to accommodate the more guests that joined them.

"This one says he'd pollinate my flower." Solveig nodded at Leif as she sat down in the chair he provided. She paused with her cup of whiskey half way to her lips as her eyes went about the table and rested on Sevine, "Sevine? The Huntress, the Wolf-Tooth?" She swallowed and stood. How many times had she heard stories of the warriors who brought victory and fought with bravery in the Great War, her father and the Wolf-Tooth among them? And now she was sitting so close to a woman she could only hope to become like, fierce in battle and gentle in peace-time. Though, gentle was something Solveig was never too good at. Either way, she bowed her head and stuck her hand out. If there was one woman she'd met that made her feel nerve for the first time in a long while, it was this one, "I've heard stories, Wolf-Tooth. In my own endeavors, I only hoped they would be as great as yours." Her voice had lowered to a respectful volume as she looked to Sevine from under her red brows. Had she come off too sycophantic? Would the Wolf-Tooth even give her her time?

Although interested to hear Sagax's response - she knew quite a few fellow Thieves at the guild that would be over him like and bees and honey - but with the arrival of two more, the answer would have to wait. Despite the lack of introductions, Roze could not stop herself from laughing at the firey-headed woman's words about the Nord; he was a handsome one - but he looked the cocky type you often saw in the Bard's College at Solitude.

Leif took his seat next to Roze and smiled at her. Damn it all, he was handsome. Sevine knew that too well, it was something with the way he pulled back his hair, that much she knew. He admired the petite woman, and especially her long, black curls. She looked innocent, but Leif knew better to judge on appearances solely. He wasn’t any rag-tag sailor in Windhelm, no, he lived there, and took good care of his body, and mind.

“I haven’t seen you around here before. Are you travelling with Sevine?”

---

Much to Sevine’s surprise, a woman, close to her in age, appeared behind Leif. The flame-haired maiden seemed ever respectful at meeting Sevine, which made her feel confused. Sure, she had a nickname during the war, but never had she met anyone who felt honored to meet her. The huntress rose from her chair and extended her hand toward the maiden in a welcoming gesture.

“I’m surprised you know who I am. Then again, I’m proud to have served Skyrim, and the Stormcloak’s. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for my people. I’m sorry if my friend pestered you, he’s annoyingly good at that. We served in the war together, this man, saved my life countless times, and I his.” In the back of her mind, Sevine felt as if she recognized Solveig, well not her personally, but her features… The hair, the tallness, the serious face…

“I am, Sevine Varg-t’uk. Who might you be?” Sevine asked with a friendly smile. Obviously, anyone who had heard about Sevine’s deeds in the civil war, was a friend of hers.

Sagax was, to understate things, taken off guard by Sevine's question. "Me? Oh, no. In fact, I've never really thought about it." His list of friends was short enough, yet his list of potential partners was even shorter, if existant at all. He was about to continue when Leif arrived with a fierce-looking, red-haired woman. "Well, that didn't take long at all."

Much to Sevine's apparent surprise, this woman knew of her, and looked almost pathetic when greeting the huntress. Who was Sagax to judge though? Everyone has people they look up to, and it's only natural that they would pay their idols the greatest respect. Sagax barely stopped himself from laughing out loud when the newcomer mentioned Leif's intentions of "pollinating her flower". How in the world that man hasn't ended up in a ditch somewhere was a great mystery to the snickering Imperial.

Finishing off his mead, Sagax sat quietly while Sevine greeted their new guest.

Roze regarded Leif with a shrewd look, still amused at the comment by Solveig.

"Yes, I'm here with our friend Sevine - we killed some Forsworn togther. Y'know, typical bonding time." She said with a chuckle. "As for Windhelm... well, it's not my first time here. I'm usually visiting on business though."

Technically, she wasn't lying - she still did a lot of work for the Guild despite having left it with her mother, and quite a few of her contracts had let her to the stony city of Windhelm.

She sat down again, clearing her throat and knocking back her whiskey to regain her edge. The look she got from that little Imperial lad was not lost on her, any more like it and he'd earn his place on the floor. She looked back to Sevine, "My name is Solveig. I'm a warrior that's fought thirteen duels in my time holding the spear." She cast a glance at Leif and Sagax with that, "Frithjolf Iron-Arm and his fighting band yielded to me in the circle one by one, and by the end of it, I'd earned six victories from them. The other seven were hard men, all of them their blood my spear licked and victory I'd gotten drunk on."

She sat back in her seat and sighed quietly, turning her cup round and round with her fingertips. Even in the joyous applause of the circle or the red joy in a challenge answered, it was never lost on her why she'd gotten into the business. Her thoughts went back to her father, hoping he'd talked to her mother and at least made an effort to fix things. She shook her head and put a fierce smile on her face, "I'm no stranger to the thrill of battle. Or at least a duel." She admitted, "I wish I was with my father in the Reach, him and his just returned from the bloody business. Do you know him?"

“Oh so you’ve fought with Sevine as well? As did I. She is a valiant warrior, no? Be careful not to look like the enemy if you’re on her side. When she gets whipped into a frenzy, it’s hard to stop her. What did you say your name was?” Leif asked smoothly, his voice sounded like that of cool water breaking over rocks, smooth and dangerous. He turned his attention back to Sevine, and Solveig, as the two began discussing matters of greater importance.

"I didn't say what my name was." Roze replied smoothly, downing the remainder of her drink before continuing. "But since you asked, it's Rozalia. And no - I'm not interested in your pollination either." She added with a chuckle.

"Pollination? No, I have never uttered such words. Besides, you are far too beautiful, to be addressed so lewdly. If anything, yough ought to be treated like a sovereign queen, lavished with roses, exquisite foods, and the finest wines." Leif returned with a surprised raise of his eye brows. If there was anything Leif wanted to do, it was certainly to cuddle the Breton woman against the bareness of his chest, and run his fingers along her jawbone, or to run his fingers through her hair.

The Nord man sounded smooth, and eloquent in his words; he sounded as suave as silk speaking, if it could talk.. Yet if anyone were to witness what he had said below to Solveig, and then to see him now, sweet-talking Roze and he did, they would know exactly what kind of man he was. This did not make Leif a hero by any means, bu rather a man who forgot himself, and was so deeply moved by a woman and her beauty. And as he saw it, there was no harm in flirting with women, especially if they turned him down. If anything, it strengthened his persistence. Eventually, in the back of his mind,he would find someone to settle down with and call a special place home.

"You are as beautiful as a rose. Very eloquent, but I iamgine also very deadly, with your thorns. I can tell you are not one to be trifled with."

---

“Your father?” Sevine asked in a bewildered tone. It finally clicked in her mind, as she remembered who the woman before her reminded her of. She was rather impressed with Solveig and her record of fighting. The woman sounded like Sevine herself, as she was equally valiant in battle, and duels, as she was.

“You’re not related to a Jorwen Red-Bear by any chance are you? If you are, you look just like your father now that I think of it, and I’ve fought alongside him, many times, and as of recent in the redoubt. Damned good tailor as well.” She grinned broadly, there was not a doubt in her mind as to who Solveig resembled. The realization broke over her like an early spring morning, shattering the last of winter’s grip on the land. The woman before her held the same stance, and body posture as her father. It dawned on her what Jorwen had last said to her, how mournfully he spoke of his daughter, as if he had not seen his beloved family in years.

"I hope you have had the chance to speak with him, I could tell he missed you sorely when we rescued a group of wee babes, now that I think of it, there was a red lass that looked as fierce as you that he doted on. Beasts they were, but children we made them," Sevine hoped that whatever sadness Jorwen felt could be expressed throw her words.

"So he spoke of me?" Solveig tried her best not to let a smile dominate her face. "And aye, the man's my father. Haven't seen him often even in my twenty-eight years. I hoped to catch him soon and I did." Solveig smiled at her empty cup, "So you know him? Fought with him? What's he like out there, in battle and in camp?" She didn't see her father emerge from the stairs enough for his torso to show, his big arms crossed behind Solveig.

Sevine watched without telling Solveig,that her father was behind her with a flick of her eyes and leaned in on her elbows.

"Your father? He is one helluva a man. Jorwen Red-Bear is one of the most bravest men in all of Skyrim. He has saved my life twice, did you know that? Once in the war, and just now in the redoubt. Both times, had he not come in like the big red hairy beast of a man he is, I would have died back in the war. He is a kind man, a man who loves with an easy gentleness. But he is frustrated in war, like he is missing something deeply in his life. And now that I have met you, I know what it is. He missed you. He fought to stay alive for you, killed countless men in the face of death, in the very maws of hell. I am not aware if your mother is still alive, but if she is, then your father is one passionate man. He is truly, a Red Bear. And I know that he loves his family." The huntress had met her gaze dead on while she spoke, and did not avert her gaze to address the man standing behind her.

The pay from that battle had not seemed impressive. It wasn't that uncommon for people to be cheated and it seemed that this happened to Ashav as well. Utu-ja had been quiet and nearby during the exchange of coins and he had witnessed the end of the contract. It soured his stomach.

To soothe that suddenly petulent organ, and salve the possible diminishing of his budget, the quiet argonian had resumed hunting when the company stopped at Rorikstead. There wasn't much real game around with so many hungry people in one place but there were plenty of less pleasant beasts to pick off. During their one night in Rorikstead he had slipped away, only returning near dawn to pack up and keep up with the company. He hadn't come back empty handed. There were several more clean wolf hides in the company's supplies than there had been at dusk. True to form, he had added his little bit extra to the pot.

It wasn't that he was generous and his current status with the company leadership was solid enough that he was far from insecure. Rather, the overhead of running the company cut into the profits and the profits added to the odds of any bonuses. Since he couldn't manage to get a good price for what his hunting skills provided from a merchant it was better to help the company save money. And the prospect of a bonus was one thing that pulled a long, slow smile out of his usual blank expression.

Every so often he would bring in something good. Something that could tip the scales in a tight spot. Something that might actually be good enough to earn an on-the-spot bonus. He had lucked out this time. It wasn't a big score, and he might not get that bonus, but he felt good about it. It was the kind of score that could make the difference in a pinch. He had spotted a sleeping hawk and made sure that it never woke up. That bundle of feathers would make for a solid dozen healing potions once he had a chance to go gather the other ingredients he needed. He intended to make the potions himself since he had the skill. He just needed to find an alchemist's shop so that he could borrow their equipment. That would have to wait till they reached the city so he stored them away in one of his oiled pouches.

Unfortunately, aside from catching those wolves by surprise while they were stalking a fox, the rest of the hunt got worse and worse until it ended on a sour note that made Utu hesitate to go immediately to Edith as he usually did. This particular haul had cost him seven good steel arrows. He had a terrible case of sore feet as well, one was even swollen. It wasn't a total debacle but he wasn't really expecting to stumble on three frostbite spiders. He also hadn't expected to have to cover so much ground while running away. He had barely managed to stay ahead of them long enough to bring them down and it was luck alone that brought the chase to an end before they came into sight of the town. It was also luck that he had survived, not that he would willingly admit that to anyone else. His foot was swollen because the last spider that fell landed on it when it died. Those things were heavy.

It was insult to injury that the three of them only had four vials worth of venom. That was barely enough to match the loss of the arrows that had been broken after striking the beasts, nevermind the trouble of having to backtrack for the wolf hides that he had dropped when he spotted the spiders. The spider bodies were close enough to town that someone would find them within a day or two but nobody ran into those things often without looking for trouble so the town would probably be fine. Rorikstead might double some watches for awhile once the bodies were found but with so many warriors gathered there really wasn't anything to worry about. He hadn't seen any sign of other spiders either so he decided not to mention it.

The real problem was trying to avoid having to explain his foot without sounding like an idiot. Daelin was commanding a lot of his time on this trip. Utu was learning from him but that kind of thing made it hard to hide the foot problem. It would only take one potion and he could replace the one he had once they got to Windhelm, but in the end he just kept quiet and rode along like before in the hope that resting the foot would bring the swelling down without needing to use a potion. At least the foot wasn't broken, he knew that much.

The brief time in Whiterun was sufficient for him to slip away and do some gathering. His swollen foot slowed him down more than he thought it would and he barely made it back before nightfall.

Utu proved to be right, the swelling did go down by the time they got across the bridge into Windhelm. As for whether or not Daelin had noticed his foot, there was no way to tell since the man hadn't said or done anything about it. Thankfully, there wasn't all that much for him to do after they arrived. Ashav set about recruiting replacements and Edith had been to distracted by her injury to worry about doing inventory so far.

The wolf hides had gone unnoticed for now, much like his less than perfect hunting trip. Maybe it would be better if he just kept his extra efforts quiet. There were still potions to brew though. He couldn't stomach the thought of letting a good dozen hawk feathers go to waste. He obtained directions to an alchemist's shop from a passerby and spent a little coin for a room at the inn. He got a very small room in the attic space with a cot and some straw on the floor. It was about what he expected and it would do. He just didn't like leaving his things in that warehouse and there was too much risk of being robbed if he carried everything around with him. So, he left most of his belongings in the room. All he brought with him were his dagger, a few septims for more arrows, and the thigh pouch that had the feathers in it.

He neither hid nor advertised his passing to anyone as he came down from his room and passed through the common room of the Candlehearth. It wasn't like anyone was likely to actually miss him if he made himself scarce for the day. It didn't occur to him that he would probably look odd with so little gear. Looking the way he did with his stooped posture and a tail that vaguely resembled that of a tadpole, he would have stood out in Blackmarsh, nevermind having only one thigh pouch and a dagger beside his leathers in a strange city in Skyrim. He spotted a few people he recognized but they all seemed busy and he did have business to take care of so he offered no greeting that might distract them.

But, Utu had heard about how the main battle had gone from those who chatted along the trip. Sagax was one he knew who had done well enough. It seemed that he was in good, strong company as well. Though the argonian only knew Sagax personally, he knew Sevine by sight from their time in camp and Rose by the small tales he had heard of her. The Bosmer woman and the tall human were both unfamiliar but they both seemed strong. Although, the human man seemed eager to have his face rebuilt from how he flirted with such strong ladies. He might have stopped by for a moment but the scene turned too serious for him to want to interfere. Instead, he passed by without more than a glance around the table and headed downstairs toward the line of recruits and the door.

Solveig looked into Sevine’s unyielding eyes as she spoke all the good words in the world about her father. She almost didn’t believe the man had missed her that much, but it hurt deep in her breast and only gave her more questions as to why the old bastard just couldn’t stay a tailor. Even so, she held Sevine’s gaze long after the woman stopped talking and she stayed like that for a while. There was strength in those eyes of hers, but something else. And there was a knowledge and wisdom in her words that told Solveig that the Huntress was missing something too. One seeks those with hurts like their own after all. Her mouth moved as if to speak, but nothing came out. The others at the table held no meaning to her, much less everyone around them, and Solveig felt her breath catch in the back of her throat as she looked away finally. “Thank you.” She felt her face getting hot and she raised her cup to her lips only to be reminded of its emptiness. She cursed herself, and just as she rose, Jorwen disappeared downstairs. “I have something I have to do. We, um,” Her hands fussed at her belt as she tried to push out an invitation to further drink and conversation, but instead she settled for a lame, “I’ll be seeing you.”

She couldn’t get downstairs fast enough. She didn’t know if it was that she met a hero of the war or something else, but her heart fluttered at her words and her eyes stayed with her. She swallowed and wiped her face with a hand to collect herself, taking a deep breath and continuing on as if nothing had happened. She sat down at the bar and ordered another whiskey only to have her coins pushed back to her by a big hand and then see the man’s coins being the ones scooped up. “Leif, if you ever-” She turned around but the words were held back by her surprise.

“Whiskey?” His gravelly bass rumbled so deep she could almost feel it. She only nodded as wetness crept around the corners of her eyes. “Whiskey.” Her father told the Keep and he refilled her cup in a flash. Jorwen set himself down next to her and they stayed silent for a while. Neither of them looked at each other, or at least Solveig couldn’t bring herself to look at him. “I’m not angry with you.”

“Could have fooled me.” Some of the vitriol had left her voice, though she did try. “Girl, is that what you call me?”

“I hardly know what to call you these days. It’s just,” Jorwen struggled with the words, “to see you so grown. I said it to your mother, I’ll say it to you- I’m sorry.”

“You’re going to need to say more than just-” And a big arm was draped around her shoulder, feeling like a mammoth was pressing down on her as it tightened and pulled her into a hug. She slapped at him weakly, though it felt good to be treated like a daughter for once. No matter that feeling, she couldn’t make it easy for him. You don’t gallivant around Skyrim and expect to have a warm welcome when you come home. At least not from her. “More than just sorry, old man.”

“What should I say then?” Jorwen’s voice came soft and his eyes looked every bit as sorry as he sounded, “Tell an old man.”

“Tell me you’re a suicidal old half-head past his prime.” Solveig said as she laughed through her sad smile. Jorwen let her go and returned to putting both his hands on the bartop. He had a smile of his own and shook his head.

“Maybe I am.” He muttered, that sad smile as he looked at his mead. He took a swallow of it and wiped his lips. “I’d have to be to leave you and your mother. You two are the most beautiful women I have in my life. You’ve grown, my little Thane.”

“So I’m told. I still haven’t forgiven you. Not until you put your sword away and stay with me and ma.” Solveig said, a sternness to her voice.

“I can’t now. Too much gold coming in and it’ll help your ma settle us in here.” Jorwen said, a bit of regret tinging his words.

“I figured you’d say that.” Solveig took a big gulp of her whiskey and put the cup back to the bartop with a clack. “It’s why I signed on with you.”

Her father had erupted into a coughing fit. He wiped the mead he was about to drink off of his chin and spent a moment wiping at his huge beard. He’d had that since she was a girl, it was a shame it’d be getting sticky with the honeywine now. She only smiled and shook her head, “Why in all the Princes’ hells would you go and do a thing like that?”

“Because I’m my own woman and I have a right to do my part to make sure your old ass doesn’t get stuck with a spear.” She said. He couldn’t deny she was a woman, and he couldn’t deny it couldn’t hurt to have another watching his back, but she could see it in his face still. ‘My own daughter? To hell with that!’ She gulped down the rest of her whiskey and bared her teeth at the good burn, “What have you to say now, old man?”

“I say White-Eye’ll shit when he sees how you’ve grown.” Jorwen chuckled before taking another drink.

“I bet Thrice-Pierced’ll be pleased to see me. Reckon I’m the one who could’ve gave him the name Once-Pierced.” Solveig laughed as she remembered the incident with the fork. “How is he?”

“Dead.” Jorwen said.

The smile went from her face, “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Would’ve happened sooner or later. The man was due for it, no doubt.” Jorwen sighed, though it caught in his throat as a cough and Solveig could see a hint of sadness in his eyes before he closed them and took a few long gulps of his mead, “Being a fucking idiot will do that to you. You’re not worried? There’s a thousand men all out for us and we’ll be heading back out to meet them if Ashav’s taking on new blood. They’ve killed Thrice-Pierced and more men just as hard.”

“When they kill me I’ll worry.” She smiled to her father before finishing the last of her whiskey, “Besides, I’m no hero. I belong in the shieldwall, not charging in and screaming my head off with a big fuck-off blade like yours.”

“Lots of men die in the shieldwall too.” Jorwen grumbled.

“I’m not lots of men.” Jorwen narrowed his eyes at her and shook his head, a grumbling sigh escaping him.

“Not easy being your father.” He said.

“Not easy being your daughter.” Solveig smiled, “But looky here, I’m still hard at work at it. Where’re you?”

“Right damned beside you.” Jorwen muttered, and he slid a few more gold pieces across the counter, “I’ll need as much drink as I can get with you.”

{A collab by @Chrononaut and @Leidenschaft, Sponsored by Alinor Vintage}

Vurwe had promised a large sum of money to be given to the mercenary company for her rescue. She promised that this gold would be given as soon as they reached the city in Skyrim with the bank that held it. She told no one which city it was. Occassionally, a man in tarnished armor, with a sullen and desperate look of consternation upon his face would say, "Do you have the gold?" and she would say "No." then send him off to fetch her a bottle of Alinor Vintage, which she reassured him she would pay for along with the reward promised.

This continued for weeks. She would deflect suspicion with small coin payments, as a sort of assurance she would pay the exorbitant reward of 5,000 gold to be divided upon the mercenary party. If anyone were to confront her about her lack of payment, she would act dejected and confused. "What payment?" she would say. Then, when reminded, she would say "Ah, yes! That payment. Well, it's in [whatever was the next stop]. You can carry on for that long, can't you?" as she slipped two septims into the hands of whoever was confronting her. They accepted these coins with diffidence and suspicious glances as they walked away.

The road was long and cold. Vurwe kept warm by huddling in the back of carts and swearing surreptitiously under breath each time the wagon hit a bump. She cursed each snowflake that crossed her steely gaze. Sometimes she would accuse the closest Nord of having summoned this winter to vex her. They would usually laugh and offer her some mead or a leg of ham. She would lift her nose in austere rejection of the slightest notion that she would drink, in her own words, "That snow piss."

It was through these methods that she reached Windhelm without being stabbed. Now that they had ceased traveling and some had began to suspect that she was playing them for fools, she decided now was the time to slip away into the Candlehearth inn until they went away. So, sallying to an empty inn room, she rested.

------------------------------------------------

It took exactly five hours before someone realized she hadn't paid for the room. They sent a heavyset Dunmer man named Gordol who knocked with one tap then shoved the door open with one burly arm. After a series of noises that sounded much like someone being chucked against a wall, Gordol came out carrying a screaming, flailing Altmer woman over his shoulder like a potato sack. He held her knife in a lions paw of a hand.

Jorwen was three big tankards of mead down and he was just starting to feel it. That old familiar feeling of sluggishness and sheepishness tainting all his actions. It wasn't enough to make him sing, thank the Gods, but he felt something. He turned around at a small commotion, some people laughing at something while calling, "Knife-Ear! Knife-Ear!"

His thoughts immediately went back to the Altmer lass from the redoubt that'd been traveling with them for a while. She didn't strike him as someone who would get into trouble, but trouble could find anyone in his experience. When he turned around, he was greeted with the tall lass draped over a big Dunmer's shoulder like a fresh kill, a knife in his big hand. He feared the worst, and he put a hand on Solveig's shoulder which she shrugged off and stood with her father. "D'you know her?"

"You could say that." Jorwen grumbled.

"Okay." Solveig said, stepping forward with her hand on her knife, which was no tool for eating, he could tell.

"Ah, fuck." He fumbled around on his belt and snatched a coinpurse with a fair few coins giving heft to the little thing. He tossed it over Solevig's shoulder just as she was about to do something they'd all regret and the Dunmer caught it in one meaty paw. "For you, big man. Let the lass go."

The Dunmer looked at the coinpurse then back to Jorwen, then back to the coinpurse and tested the weight in it. He nodded, tossing Vurwe unceremoniously onto a table and continued on his way to sit at the door with his arms crossed. Jorwen offered a hand to the woman, though he already knew his hand was going to be slapped away. Didn't hurt to try at a good deed, "What were you up to?"

Vurwe slapped away Jorwens hand of friendship, instead choosing the sharp barb of flustered impertinence, "Sleeping, as opposed to drinking like a slattern." She glowered reproachfully, sliding off the table and sitting as elegantly as she could while still looking absolutely pissed in the closest chair. She sat as tight as a spring, arms crossed and ruffled hair. Her fingers clenched her arms. She said, glowering at at Solveig, "Who's she? A relative or a whore?"

"Slattern?" Jorwen muttered, the word sounded strange on his tongue. His eyes went wide as Solveig stepped forward with a hand outstretched towards Vurwe's face.

"I'll cut you bad enough you won't even be able to whore yourself out!" Jorwen held his daughter fast until he felt she wasn't going to tear Vurwe's head from her shoulders. She muttered angrily, "Calling me a whore."

"A relative." Jorwen said, easing away from his daughter, unsure if she'd try at it again the second he took his hands away, "My daughter, actually. I'm sure you two will get along fine. You're a long way from home and she's the one with the knife, girl." He looked back at Solveig, "And the ones with the knives can do well to be kind to the ones with the gold. She's got a few pieces to spare."

The pair took a seat opposite Vurwe. As soon as things seemed to have settled down, it seemed Solveig was apt to fix it, "So, Father, who's the elf-whore?" She shot a sharp look Vurwe's way and made no effort to hide it. "Camp slut?" She leaned closer, "Can't imagine you'd have decent earnings."

"Actually," Vurwe began haughtily, "I have a store of gold that the limited scope of your intelligence has no way of properly visualizing. Beyond that, I convinced Ashav that I deserved a share of the earnings." She raised a hand that had among its fingers three expensive looking rings. Beyond that, her dress with its filigree design and opulescent material looked like it belonged in a Breton court rather than the harsh life of a mercenary company. Though with many of the imperfections it had earned on the road, it looked like it had seen better days.

"Your Father helped me in my daring escape from a Forsworn stronghold. Namely by carrying my things." She remembered the event well and how she had been absolutely surrounded by idiots. At one point she had even accused a nearby archer of having the aim of a blacksmith and had taken the bow from his hands. After missing the first shot, she blamed the craftsmanship of the bow and threw it back to the confused man.

"Oh, well my father is a kind man by all accounts." Solveig said, "If it were me, I'd have shoved your things up your ass and kicked you down the nearest ravine."

"That's no way to talk to friends. Or acquaintances. Not even she-elf ones." Jorwen said. He looked to Vurwe, "Can't say you look like you're having an easy time with lodging. I could invite you to stay at our home. So long as you don't say anything to make my wife cook you up for our next meal."

Vurwe accepted the offer on the basis that she would likely not be able to slip into this inn without Gordol being sent down to huck her at the wall and drag her out again. The lodging couldn't possibly be any worse than most nordic rooms, which seemed to be comprised of itchy straw beds and animal furs. Even the pillows were made of straw, which was baffling as they had chickens. What were they using the feathers for?
------------------------------------------------

A few hours later, the three and Jorwens wife found themselves sitting at the most tense dinner in all of Skyrim. Vurwe had organized her utensils in the proper Altmer order and was busy, it seemed, waiting for Jorwen to eat more before she did. Jorwens wife seemed baffled that Vurwe would eat only after Jorwen had, and Vurwe was even more baffled that Solveig was eating more than her father which made her appear glutenous to Vurwes refined standards.

Jorwen nibbled at a leg of lamb, watching Vurwe sit with her nose upturned with might be a stick up her arse with the way she had herself. The one who seemed the most unperturbed by it was Solveig, wolfing down her meal while her eyes were locked on Vurwe like a wolf's, protecting its meal from its rivals. He looked at his wife, who only shrugged, cleared her throat and began eating. After she swallowed the morsel, she spoke in a polite tone, "So, how do you and Jorwen know each other?"

"Found you up an ass's arse, didn't you, Pa?" Solveig said before swallowing noisily and shooting a dark smile at Vurwe.

"She was in a Forsworn redoubt before we took it. Reachmen were probably looking to ransom her." Jorwen smiled to his wife, "You're alright now, aren't you? Fine enough to speak?"

"Yes, they felt I was valuable for reasons that I completely understand." she said, daintily lifting a nibble of meat and placed it in her mouth with a smooth, refined motion. She gave Solveig a lip curl that seemed to be a subtle increase in the amount she was frowning. It seemed she could always frown harder, somehow.

Dinner had continued on much like it had started. Solveig's savage glares with Vurwe countering with subtle frowns and an aura of self-importance. Jorwen's awkward smiles and Halla's shrugs. Despite being so old, the two women were at each other's necks like adolescents the whole night, and when they all finally lay in their beds to sleep, Jorwen had no doubts that Solveig was dreaming of wringing Vurwe's neck until her head popped. To be honest, he felt much the same meeting her, but her insults and glares had blunted over time. He wasn't so sure about Solveig's feelings. He sighed and his wife laid an arm over his chest, "What's wrong, Warrior?"

"Nothing." And he closed his eyes, hoping that it would be just that.

Tsleeixth kept himself apart from the rest of the company, thinking on his actions when he chased the kid that had killed the mercenary. He played Jorwen's question in his mind over and over again, Why had he brought the kid back? He thought while they traveled towards Rorikstead; he had seen Sevine's reaction when she connected the dots and realized the kid had murdered the mercenary, that of murderous rage.

The argonian let out a soft sigh "Would they grow hating us or considering us heroes?" He mumbled to himself, touching the scar above his eye as he remembered how he had been saved by a patrol of Stormcloacks during his childhood before he shook his head slightly. He was a mercenary, those questions weren't there for him to ponder, he just had to be content that they had managed to do what most people would consider a good deed. Of course, the fact that his coughs seemed to be worsening didn't help matters and was one of the other reasons why he kept to himself more than usual, hoping that no one wold notice the coughing fits that overcame him more frequently now; he thought about visiting the healer in the field hospital that had sprouted in Rorikstead to tend to the many wounded soldiers but decided against it, fearful that news would reach Ashav that he was sick with Bloodlung.

As such, Tseelixth he resigned himself to visiting an apothecary once they had reached Windhelm, hoping to obtain -at the very least- something to ease his coughing fits, hoping that the money that they had gotten from the contract on the redoubt would be enough. He had heard some of the mercenaries mention that they hadn't gotten their bonus due to the cost of the campaign, something about the Forsworn using Briarheart-enhanced animals as a sort of weapon but he didn't pay much attention to them yet the chatter of some mercenaries with regards to their families reminded the argonian spellsword that he hadn't written to his home in a while, something which he promised himself he'd do once they had arrived in Windhelm.

As such, Tsleeixth went mostly unnoticed during the trip towards Windhelm, deciding to stay with the rest of the company in the abandoned warehouse they had been given to sleep in instead of going to pay for a room in an inn and waste his coin. The next day after their arrival, Tsleeixth discreetly made his way towards Windhelm's Grey Quarter; once he arrived there, he made a few inquiries until he was pointed at an apothecary that was assured would give him a fair price.

He knocked on the door "Excuse me, anyone in?" He asked, opening the door slightly "Yes, come in" He heard someone reply, opening the door fully and entering the local at the voice's insistence. Once he was inside, Tsleeixth noticed an old dunmer man sitting behind a counter, the apothecary by his guess "So, what brings you here?" Said the apothecary, slightly annoyed to be bothered in what had been so far a quiet day. The argonian spellsword stayed for a while with the apothecary, relaying his situation to the old dunmer "So, do you have a cure for Bloodlung?" Asked Tsleeixth at the end of his explanation, his tail twitching behind nervously, at which point the dunmer apothecary let out a soft sigh "Normally, I'd say yes. But with the war against the forsworn, and with my stores of ingredients almost depleted I am afraid that I don't have the requisite ingredients to make you a cure" He said as he laced his fingers together "But, what I can do is make a potion that would help to ease your coughing fits, and I might also give you the recipe but that would cost you extra" Said the old apothecary, at which point Tsleeixth let out a resigned sigh and paid the man the price he asked for the potion and the recipe to make it.

Frustrated, Tsleeixth went back to the abandoned warehouse that they had been given to sleep, hiding the bottle and the recipe in his pack before he asked one of the mercenaries that had stayed there for parchment, ink, and a quill with which to write a letter.

"Dear Father and Mother,
I know it's been a long since I wrote to you two, without taking into account the money I have sent back home, and for that I am terribly sorry. If you recall, in my last letter I told you that I was planning to leave the College of Winterhold and to search for work as a mercenary. I know you counseled me against it, but I must confess that I disregarded that piece of advise and began working as a mercenary.

Now, do not worry, the man who leads this company, Ashav is his name, is quite competent and we've had few casualties so far. I don't know if this letter will reach you before the news, but the company recently assaulted a Forsworn Redoubt, an attack in which we were successful. Although we suffered quite a number of loses, but I am confident in the future of the company and before you start worrying, I was left uninjured during the attack.

Please, write me back as soon as possible. We are staying in Windhelm for the time being, but I am unsure on for how long we'll stay, probably not much time. I wish both of you the best and, please, do take care.

With warm regards
Tsleeixth"

Once he was done writing, he folded the letter and sealed it with a piece of wax from a nearby candle. He eyed the letter for a few seconds, slightly unsatisfied with it, but ended up leaving the warehouse after putting the letter in his pack when he realized that he did not know from where he could send the letter. With that thought in mind, he made his way towards Candleheart hall; once he got there he made his way to what seemed to be an empty table, where he asked for a bottle of mead for himself once someone from the inn noticed him "Well, today's not been a very good day" He mumbled to himself, paying for his drink once it got to where he was and took a swig from the bottle, not bothering with a tankard.

Leaning back in her chair with a heavy sigh, Sevine looked to her comrades with a sleepy gaze, the potency of the mead she drank, had reached her fully, as the apples of her cheeks grew bright red.

"I think I'm gonna call it a night you three, my back aches, and so do my feet. I'm not sure how long we're in town for, so be sure to get plenty of rest." The chair beneath slid backwards across the hewn wood bars, as she rose up.

"Why don't you come home with me tonight?" Leif suggested as he too, stood up from his chair, though with much more haste than Sevine.

"Leif!"

"I don't mean it like that, Sevine! C'mon now, you know me truly. After all these years, I've never laid a hand on you, and that's not what I'm asking for now. I'm asking you to come to my house as a guest, under my roof. I'll even cook breakfast, and there'll be plenty of bacon." His broad-shoulders were squared as he placed both of his hands before him on the top of the table, and leaned hard upon them.

Sevine weighed his offer as being a guest in his home, however, the thought of declining Edith's offer in place of another friend, much less a man at that, made the experienced warrioress feel a pang of guilt. She then looked at her other two companions seated at the table before her, and raised her brows in a peculiar manner of speculation.

"Consider that a yes then," She began as she broke into a broad grin. "You had me at bacon. What if I want to bring someone?"

"Who did you have in mind?"

"Either Roze, or Sagax of course! Preferably both if you have the space available. I'd hate to leave my fellow comrades to that din of that frigid warehouse. But Roze, if you don't want to come with us, go down stairs and ask the keep for Edith, our quartermaster, ask her what room she is in, go knock on her door and tell her Sevine gave the bed she promised me to you." With that, Sevine pushed her chair in to the table, and followed after Leif. She trusted him fully, hell, after the countless times he saved her in battle when she first joined the war during her fledgling years as a soldier, how could she not? Besides, there was bacon. And if there wasn't... Sevine hated to even acknowledge her next thought as to what she would do if Leif lied about that. He would certainly have a black eye by early morning tomorrow, that much she knew.

The two departed from Candlehearth Inn under the cover of a chilly, cloudless night. The twin moons that orbited Nirn held an unsettling crimson hue, even the aurora borealis above ran in mystifying ribbons of vibrant colors, from red, to orange, and faint shades of pink with splashes of yellow. Even the seasoned warrioress, as she strolled through the cobblestone streets of the city alongside Leif. The two walked with a fire in the belly, as the cold turned them against thinking of lingering outside much longer than needed. A cloudless night in Windhelm were bound to be frigid, even in Second Seed, though come morning the day would be considerably warmer. The muscles in her jaw tensed, causing her teeth to chatter noisily in her head as she forced her eyes to stay open.

"You better have plenty of fucking bacon Leif!" Sevine gritted through her clenched jaw as she wrapped her arms about her body, trying desperately to retain what body heat she could.

The two walked in step under the cover of a chilly, cloudless night sky, thin, white vapors rose from their noses, and mouths as they struggled to stay warm. Even though it was the beginning of Second Seed, any cloudlness night such as this was certainly bound to be cold. The moons of Nirn hung in the sky like large, pearl faces, though on this night, as with a few previous nights, the moons were cast in an unsettling crimson hue, while the borealis above danced with mystifying colours of the deepest red, fiery orange, even shades of magenta, and splashes of yellow. Sevine felt unnerved the past nights as well, maybe the battle at the redoubt had knocked a nerve loose? The painstaking sight of all those poor helpless children, it still bothered her days later. She had begun to question where she stood in life, morally speaking. Sevine felt a pang of guilt for experiencing such pleasure over blood-shed in the heat of battle, it made her feel alive, kept her going, and fueled her fire. Yet, the teachings of Mara contradicted her feelings. How could she be a loving person, if she found excitement in taking a life? It made her feel dirty.

Not before long, the two arrived outside of House Raven-Stone, a weathered two-story home made of grey stone, with whitish-grey daub plastered on the upper floor. Fumbling with the iron-lock, Leif released a sigh of relief as the lock clicked, and he pushed the door open to reveal a darkened interior.

"Let me fetch a candle." Leif said to her before disappearing into his home. She could hear him, though she could see him, as he ran upstairs to fetch a candle. As she stood inside the doorway, with her arms wrapped tightly about her, Sevine tried to retain as much of her body heat as possible.

Finally he returned downstairs, bringing a fully lit candelabra with him. Shadows were cast across his face, as he moved from room to room, lighting the house as he went.

"Come in! Shut the door, make yourself at home. You've been here before, I know." Leif called from within the kitchen.

She stepped inside, and shut the door behind her, she hoped her comrades would join her, but if they didn't, she wouldn't hold it against them; to each their own. Two wooden, pew-like benches were arranged to form a square around the main hearth, and were adorned with velvet pillows. There, Sevine took a seat, and allowed herself to relax for once. As she let herself lay against the pillows, feet fallen to the side, head tipped back, Sevine painted a perfect picture of exhaustion. She could hear Leif bustling around in the kitchen, but she was too tired to care what he was up to. Eventually, Leif joined Sevine as he places tinder, logs inside a soot-covered hearth where he then lit the logs afire. Then, he rose to his feet, and sat next to his friend.

"So tell me what I've missed."

"How do I even answer that? Where do I begin?"

"Wherever you want."

"In all my years, I've never felt more confused than I do now. I feel as if I'm at a precipice in my life. I've fought too many battles, killed too many. I feel like a monster when I step out onto the field with my axe, and bow in hand. I do not fear death anymore. Then I think back, and I wonder, what if I had never went to fight? Would I have made a difference? Who would I have become as a woman, would I have children now? A family? A husband? Would I be unhappy? Leif, I don't know what to think anymore. When I close my eyes, I can still see the faces of those I have killed, they float beneath eye lids, I can even hear their cries of pain in my dreams. I can't remember the last time I've had a happy dream, Leif. I've become a predator." She struggled to speak through an ever tightening throat, her eyes became glossy in the glow of the fire.

"Sevine..." Leif began as he turned his attention upon her, he grasped her chin in his free hand, and turned her face to look him in the eye. Then ever so gently, he released her chin and smiled a smile of sympathy.

"All of your questions will be answered in time. You must keep faith. You have sacrificed your life countless times for our country, what more could your country ever ask of you? You deserve to settle down and make a life you now. Maybe get a cabin in Falkreath, or just over Ilinata's Deep in the Reach like you've always talked about. Or have a farm outside Whiterun. You ought to think of saving up your septims more wisely."

Keegan was shivering, he shook the whole journey. The Reach was cold, Whiterun was cold, and Windhelm's turbulence could out-chill both. Seriously, it was summer, and it was colder than the coldest winter on Alinor. He lived in High Rock, where the final months actually brought snow. But here in Skyrim, flowers blossomed in the field while water froze in nearby pounds.

In spite of his hardships, Keegan just couldn't endure much of mercenary work. He witnessed Lucex quitting at Whiterun, and to be honest, the Altmer considered the same. He earned a decent share, though without the promised bonus, this share would be insufficient to settle his debt. Perhaps the rest would have to come from safer work, something that does not entail the risk of daily dismemberment. He could stop at Whiterun, but before the chance of exploring the city, Madura had whisked their horses away. The journalist, Keegan somehow found him more approachable than most. Members like Farid were too far absorbed in themselves, certain kind as Jorwen were no doubt mourning their friends, and others such Utu-ja just didn't strike the social impression. Keegan noticed a young Altmer woman joining them on their journey, she was apparently rescued and promised a fat reward for her rescuers. He would converse with her but she was too busy leading idiots around with false promises. So as much as Keegan was annoyed by Madura's incessant questioning, he found these interviews a decent way to pass time.

Pondering the question of his past and many more recent problems, Keegan rocked through days of rickety wagon ride and found himself in a barren warehouse. Of course, no one celebrated the works of hired soldiers, no one would bother treating them like regular human, elves or beastfolks needing proper sleep. Now, what truly was miserable was his unruly “comrades”. For some reason, they decided dumping Keegan's food and hygiene items into the port was a humorous jest.

Keegan was not impressed. It was an unfriendly prank at his cost, and it was tempting to repay the favor. Though he could weave some kind of illusion to knock the scoundrels out or make them perform undignified actions, Keegan also weighted the risk of failure which could have himself thrown in with his stuff. That might not be the worst; the others could beat him up for it.

Right, being beat up, that was his lot one hour after. In the hour leading up to him lying helplessly on the floor, Keegan had been scouring Windhelm for replacement supplies. He first went to where the Nords set up shops, but the merchants either have no matching items, or they rejected him on the basis of being “a piss skinned prick”. Funny, how hypocritical for the “pricks” to call others that. Anyways, he diverted for the Gray Quarter, where a Dunmer-ran general goods store still had an open door.

“Hello? Oh! Uh, well, huh, excuse me for a moment.” The store owner, who Keegan caught no more than a glance, stammered. The merchant seemed to be surprised looking at Keegan, and the man looked down behind his counter and disappeared behind a corner.

“Uh, he's here, you should, uh, eh, help him.” The same merchant was apparently nervous over something in the back room.

“Are you alright?” Keegan inquired, first concerned but then worried as two fully armored individuals emerged. They were covered from head to toe in heavy combat gear, with their faces covered he couldn't even make out their race or gender.

“Are you Keegan Vasque?” One of them, a deep voiced man, asked.

“No.” Keegan shook his head, he dared not to make eye contact with their helmet slits. As he backed up nervously towards the door, it opened before Keegan could reach it. Two more people, also clearly armed for a fight, cornered him from behind. “If you'll excuse me, I have to be on my way.”

“Not so fast.” One stood like a brick wall in Keegan's way. This person was shorter than Keegan, but they were wider with brutish muscles. “Don't think you can get away this time.”

These were debt collectors, he ran into folks like them when he escaped from High Rock. “What do you want?” Keegan shivered. Damn it, his legs are shaking.

“You know what we want. Pay up for your crimes.” The leading brute demanded. Behind the row of muscle and iron, the shopkeeper peered carefully around the corner, his gaze darting away from Keegan but conflict could be seen.

“Su-sure, just take my money.” Keegan offered them his pouch coin, the payment for mercenary work. It was hard-earned and all he got to live on. Still, it was better to live poor for a while then not to live at all.

“That's it?” One debt collector sneered as he weighted the pouch and then snatched it away. “We'll consider this your apology for being difficult, now you still need a couple thousand for your crimes.”

How could he whip up thousands of gold coins out of nowhere? What did Horace Fontaine expected? Who in Oblivion carries thousands of septims in their pockets? Keegan had reason, but he understood this situation was an appeal to force. He could not win by the proper way, so he played dirty instead. While the enforcers studied the pouch, Keegan lit up a paralysis spell and fused it into the closest man.

One enforcer collapsed but three more quickly caught on. Keegan bolted for the door while recharging the spell, but in close quarters the brutes got the jump on him, literally. They wrestled him to the ground and restrained his hands. They tied up his wrists and directed his palms in an unoccupied direction. These men knew how to fight a mage.

Yes, present time, Keegan was getting beat up. His helpless body was contrasted with his panicking mind; it race a thousand miles a minute. Could this be the end of Keegan Vasque?

Punches and kicks descended down to his prone body. They struck everywhere and it hurt everywhere. These enforcers used not their weapons, but only their metal covered knuckles and feet. They made sure he turned a ghastly purple but avoided vital organs the same time. Keegan was in pain but a long way from being killed.

Just a minute into his ordeal, someone opened the door and intruded on the scene.

“What is happening?” A woman's voice sounded.

“Don't worry about it.” An enforcer waved her off. “Nothing's happening, be on your way.”

“Why are you crowded around-oh...” The woman's sentence trailed off when she discovered a bruised Altmer on the floor. The enforcers shifted away from Keegan and turned to the woman. They reached for various armaments, and the woman responded with a spell that emitted metallic noise. Two enforcers' weapons disintegrated, and the last one attacked with his dagger. However, the woman called forth a bound sword and parried the dagger away. In the next stroke, she sliced off two fingers from the enforcer.

“Had enough yet?” She taunted. The enforcers hurried off through the door, one of them clasping his bleeding hand while another hauled off the unconscious brute. “By Stendarr, they surely did a number on you.” She said, untying Keegan and helping him up.

To Keegan, the woman was much shorter than he. She was a human, and judging from her lower height and medium complexion, a Breton or Imperial. She wore a sleeveless robe that flowed like a dress and an orange shawl most likely knit from spider silk. Her face was ordinary, her nose was slightly retreating and her ears minor alongside rest of her features. On top of her head was black and short curly hair. She carried no weapon.

“You got here just in time, if you haven't came along...” Keegan uttered, he dared no think otherwise.

“You and me both.” The woman nodded. “I take it shopping here was not too pleasant.” She raised an eyebrow at the cowering merchant, who lowered his head and cowered in a corner.

“No, not really.” Keegan said. He didn't want to bother with this crappy part of town any more. He should get back to a safer place, maybe Ashav, who values his life on the basis of a semi-valuable employee. “I should go now.”

“Just a second.” The woman pulled on Keegan's arm. “We should stick together, in case anything else may hinder us.”

“Fair enough.” Keegan admitted. The encounter left no severe injury, and nothing a healing potion couldn't mend. Nevertheless, he was in neither shape or mood to fend off additional assailants. So they went off on their way. Keegan last saw Ashav heading to Candlehearth, and that's where he will go. The woman also bounded for the same place. Keegan learned her name; Ariane. And when she asked for his, he hesitated for a moment before giving her one his “pseudonyms”.

Behind the largest table was Ashav, sheets of paper splayed about and small groups of awed individuals sat around him. Madura was smiling and wrote quietly in his journal, as he always did when Ashav said anything. Ashav, the man himself, had several flagons placed in front of him. Evidently, he was buzzed with alcohol, and more buzzed than healthy.

“Up your bottoms, I mean, bottoms up. Ah, let us welcome my troops, come sit down.” Ashav slurred. He tried to pull aside a chair, only ended with it tumbling back. He was as loud as his guttural voice could be, but in that drunken moment, the Redguard held everyone's attention. “Meet Keegan Vasque, our very own trickster, and Ariane Fontaine, the, what-do-they-call-you? Musical? Oh right, mystic”

Two of them stared at each other dumbfounded, they finally sat down after Madura pulled the chairs upright. Ashav was already forgetting the newcomers. He blabbered on about a particularly exciting adventure in Black Marsh. Most of the folks around the table, young and callow, were bewildered. Ashav garnered a healthy turn up, and collected assorted talents from the large crowd. Recruits or not, these men and women were lively. Ashav was letting his hair down (figuratively, as he is bald), maybe too much.

“Fontaine, you couldn't be related to Horace, could you?” Keegan breathed nervously.

“He is my uncle.” Ariane wasn't feeling joyous either, she was fidgeting with her showl. “And he mentioned your name at times. The fire starter who burned down a theater, now I know why these brutes were attacking you; they were bounty hunters.”

He gulped, this was going to be a long night.

Sagax quietly ate his stew during Sevine and Solveig's conversation, and went a little wide-eyed at the revelation of the red-haired woman being the daughter of Jorwen. "Well, that would certainly explain things." He thought to himself. She carried a lot of her father's traits, for sure. She seemed a bit more fiery-tempered than Jorwen, but that just made Sagax wonder what Red-Bear himself was like in his youth. Was he just as calm as at present? Or was he a raging mass of muscle, constantly barreling towards his foes and cleaving them in two without a thought? Perhaps that would be a question for Jorwen later...or maybe not. At least not in the near future, but perhaps when, and if, he and Sagax would become what could be considered friends. A question like that just didn't seem like something to ask to a stranger, but to someone you've come to know well.

Listening to Sevine speak of Jorwen like she did was fairly moving. Such great comrades, such great friends, who have been through Oblivion and back with each other. War wasn't all bloodshed sorrow. Strong bonds could be forged, and you could make lifelong companions. Perhaps that's why some soldiers could still be so merry after wartime, they have so many people to share life with. Friends could be lost as well, of course, but the ones you still have can help soften the blow. Sagax started to think about Caius and his service in the Legion. What were his experiences? What bonds were formed between brothers-in-arms? How did he cope with the loss that naturally came with war? These were things Sagax should ask his father after he has been freed, if the greenhorn had not learned the answers himself during his time with Ashav's company.

After all was said and done, and Solveig and Jorwen had departed, Sevine announced her intentions to finally go and get some sleep. Sagax initially gave Leif an odd look when he invited Sevine to his home, but only ended up laughing when everything got cleared up. He was getting fairly tired himself, and was a little surprised to hear Sevine extend an invitation to Roze and himself. An at least not-frigid place to sleep, good company, and bacon sounded nice, but Sagax doubted Leif had enough room for all three of them. Aside from that, he had the idea in his head that, by toughing out the freezing warehouse, he would build himself up to being able to handle even worse conditions. After Leif and Sevine left, Sagax stood up and addressed Roze. "If you'll be going to stay with them, please tell Sevine that I have to turn down her invitation. There probably won't be enough room for everyone, so I'll stay at the warehouse." With that, he bowed to Roze respectfully and made his way downstairs, back to the warehouse. Not before stopping to get another bottle of mead for the road, of course.

Solveig woke. She shot a hand to her face as she rolled over to sit on the edge of her bed. She’d had strange dreams of seas of blood while the moons bled, and she looked outside her window to see them doing just that. Under it all, she had Vurwe’s neck in her hands as her eyes rolled back and her tongue lolled out, so not all was dark and cryptic. She rubbed at her face and let go a sigh, trying to rid herself of sleep and put enough vigor in her bones to start the day. It worked well enough to put however vigor in her bones needed to shuffle about the room, grasping up her clothes and putting them on. She buckled her belt with her two knives, one short, one long, dangling in their sheaths and looked at the spear and shield in the corner. Thirteen duels she’d won with those and countless hours of sparring those things had survived. Her shield bore the scars as well as her. She took a few slow steps towards them and ran her fingers over the face of her shield, remembering the time spent with her old mentor and nights spent under the stars both alone or in the arms of another when she felt she wanted company. She remembered hearing the news coming back from the front that her mentor had died. Then she thought about the other old bastard she knew and thought how terrible it’d be to hear the same news about him.

She put her hands on her knees and stood. She left her room after donning the old bear fur and she stopped in her room’s doorway when she saw her father sitting at the table alone with a cup. At that moment, as she stood and watched without him noticing, she remembered Sevine’s words about her father. She made him sound every bit the hero her mother and the grey-heads in the taverns talked about, taking old songs and throwing away the names of the old heroes and putting in the new. She thought of that and found it too truthful how short the memories of man were. The heroes of old, held dear for a thousand years so easily pushed aside for the new, and then the cycle would come round again sooner or later. The old man sitting at the table looked tired, not terrifying. He looked beaten, almost, not brave. She felt no shame for him, no pity, war was for the young to fight. All the more reason for him to stop and finally realize that. She continued her walk into the kitchen and sat opposite her father. He didn’t greet her, just looked at his cup with distant eyes. “Have you given any more thought to it?” She said after a time.

He seemed to have woken from sleep, the way he jumped to look at her and then about the room, looking as if he wasn’t expecting to be here. He cleared his throat and looked back at his cup, “Thought about what?”

“Hanging up your sword, putting your shield on the wall.” She said, “Picking up the needle and thread again, going back to the old trade.”

He looked at his hands and she looked too. To be honest, they weren’t tailor’s hands. Not anymore, at least. They were scuffed and scarred, some of his knuckles were scabbed and the nail of his forefinger was blackened and that of his thumb, cracked. She’d seen hands like that a lot, but they belonged to warriors. Killers, not tailors. He set his hands back on his cup and gave Solveig one sorry-eyed glance. “You ever hear the saying, an old horse can’t jump new fences?”

“Don’t give me that, you old fool.” Solveig said, and she felt her heart jumped and muscles tense. She worked to calm herself down while her father hadn’t so much as looked at her. Excuses, lies, he wants to leave. “Just don’t. You’ve a wife. We bought us a home here. I signed on hoping to take your place, you damned fool!”

“You’ll wake your mother and our guest.” Her father muttered while he stared her down. “Sit.”

“I’m your daughter, not your fucking dog, old man.” She hissed. She let a few moments drag on before she sat to let the old man know she sat because she wanted to. “Old horses…” She rolled her eyes and frowned.

“You think me a fool now but you spend enough time doing black work and you’ll see.” Jorwen said, he looked at his hands, “These hands used to be smooth. War makes everything it touches ugly. It changes everything, Solveig.”

“And what? It makes you forget how to be a father? A husband?” She spat, “You can sit here and make like your entire life was shit, but what’ll it get you? I don’t understand.”

“Should feel lucky you don’t. Why do you carry those? Why’d you take up the spear? Pottery not enough for you?” He asked.

She felt her lip curl and stifled a growl as she sat back and looked away. Her fingers fussed with each other as she spoke, “Because, you don’t earn a name in this world without at least some blood on you.”

“You live longer not looking for any.” Her father said, “Why do you even want a name? You fret so much about me being gone yet you carry those around on your hips like they’re something to be proud of.” He pointed to her knives and she slowly shifted herself behind more of the table.

“And you fret so much about war and here we are, me trying to get you away from it and you clinging to the thing like a baby to a tit.” She said and tried her best to calm herself.

“I’ve been fighting long before Ulfric asked me and every Nord foolish enough to follow him. Held a blade longer than I’ve held a needle and thread. I did my best to go back to it, mark me on that, but no one would let me.” He shook his head and drew out a long sigh. She still remembered having to move away from their shop. How sad he looked then, a lot like how he looked now. “Always thought I’d go back to it, but… no one would let me.”

“Maybe you’re not letting yourself.” Solveig said as she crossed her arms. Her father kept quiet for a bit and they sat at the table studying its grain and thinking. Solveig thought about what her father might be thinking, she thought about her old mentor, how different he was to her father. She remembered Sevine saying her father was troubled by war. She couldn’t understand why, then, he didn’t turn away from it. “Why can’t you stay, you old fool-”

Jorwen sent his cup sailing through the air to smash against the far wall, all while he stood fast enough to send his chair clattering to the ground in the same instant. Solveig found herself holding her breath and overcome with more than a little fear. “You do not understand, and I never want you to.”

Liar, she wanted to say, another part of her wanted to hug him. The way he looked, everything, she felt her chest seize up as she looked at him and her eyes began to water. She stood up slowly, holding her father’s eyes with her own, sharp and fierce, trying to make herself feel more angry than scared and sad. It pained her to feel that way about her father but, well, she felt fear. She felt like he was looking at her not like a daughter, not like his own blood, not even that he was looking at her like another person. Or at her at all. She swallowed, “You’re a fucking liar, old man.” She turned away and slammed the door behind her as she went to the Candlehearth for a room.

* * *

Jorwen sat alone at the table, his mind choking with guilt and disgust for acting like that in front of his daughter. He ran his hand over his face and growled because he didn’t know what else to do. It was no lie that it’d be hard to be her father, but he didn’t know the first thing about being a father in the first place. He’d never had one, he’d only had shield-brothers and it made him into a man he never wanted to be again. Perhaps he’d failed Solveig from the start. Perhaps she’d just have to wait until age slowed her down like it did him, but it was only ever luck to blame for him making it this far, and he dreaded to think of the possibility of luck failing Solveig. “You’re going to have to open up to her one day.”

His wife’s hand gently placed itself on his shoulder while her other arm snaked around him to hold him in a loose embrace. She still smelled like flowers after all these years. He’d never tired of that smell, missed it on every campaign and odd job he’d been on. “I can’t. She’s not ready.”

“Maybe you’re not ready. But you have to talk to her once you are. You know her more than you think, because she damn well may be you.” She said, “It’s not my place to tell you to stay here, with me. Whether you’re home or not, I know I’m still your wife and you still love me. I’ve come to terms with the man I married but she hasn’t. She’ll need help to.”

“I wanted more for her. Something better.” Jorwen said as he placed a hand on Halla’s.

“It’s not your place anymore. She chose her path and she’s a woman now, you can guide her but you can’t change her. Be there for her, that’s all she needs.” Halla said. She drew her arms back from around him and he found himself missing them already. “Just stand beside her, you’ll both know what to do. Go.”

Jorwen rose from his seat and went over to the door. Before he opened it, he took one last look at his wife. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ve always loved you, even when you were gone and it was hard, but I’ve always loved you. So, don't be.” She said, before disappearing back into their bedroom. Jorwen closed the door behind him as he made his way back to the warehouse.