A collab between myself and @Leidenschaft. It's not a big ol' fuck-off wall of text this time, just a wall of text!
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Sagax woke up a few hours later into the night to the same conditions he went to sleep to: Frigid, icy cold. His clothes and armor didn't do much to stave off the chill, and he got to his feet shivering, deciding that he wouldn't be getting any more sleep. "Some cosmic joke, this is...this company risked life and limb to fight off those bastard Forsworn and we get a dinky warehouse to sleep in..." Rubbing his eyes and trying to get over his grumpy morning mood, Sagax checked his main bag to find that everything was still in order. He looked around and saw that several others were still sleeping. Not surprising, Sagax supposed. It was still an hour or two until morning.

Flipping open his pack, he rolled up his "pillow" and stuck it back in its usual spot while taking out his canteen. The cold night air left his throat almost painfully dry, and he only put the water back after he had taken a few good gulps from the vessel. He felt a sudden freezing draft, and decided it would be a good idea to take out his hood while he was still rummaging through everything. It would deflect some of the gales of Windhelm if nothing else. Thankfully the cold air hadn't infested the leather hood too much, and Sagax was able to put it on without needing to bother with warming it up.

With everything packed up and in order, the Imperial began stretching his legs and made his way outside to one of the big lit sconces near the warehouse door. He didn't mind the cold, but Windhelm was an entirely different beast, and it would serve him best to warm up a little bit.

Jorwen had put himself near the door of the warehouse, his cloak wrapped around him. His breath smoked on the air, but he wanted to be the first one his daughter saw when she came. The first face he saw today was that of a young Imperial, one he thought he recognized. They stood in silence for a bit before Jorwen spoke up, "Morning." It was a lame start, but he didn't know how else to greet the boy, "Can't say we've spoken, yet. My name's Jorwen."

Looking over, Sagax met eyes with Jorwen and smiled an inviting smile. "Good morning, sir Red-Bear. We haven't spoken yet, no, but I know of you. I'm Sagax Speculatus." He held out his hand to greet Jorwen, something Sagax has been doing a lot of lately. It made Sagax happy that he has been given the chance to meet so many people in the last few weeks. "I saw you fight in the redoubt. I was on the wall, if you recall. Very nice work. Perhaps one day I'll talk to someone from the Bards College and commission a ballad, eh?" Geeze, look who's pathetic now, eh, Sagax?

Jorwen chuckled a bit awkwardly and scratched gently at a cheek, "Can't say I've ever been told that. Never thought I'd done anything worthy enough for anything other than drunken songs around the fire." He shrugged, "And, please, lad. Just Jorwen, I don't know how they call others down south but I prefer Jorwen." He took Sagax's hand in a firm shake and returned it to its place inside his cloak. "First time with a company, yeah?"

Sagax laughed sheepishly. "Sorry about that, Jorwen. Just a small habit of mine that I've been trying to kick. We have a lot of knights in Cyrodil, and they are usually addressed as 'sir' by the common folk. I see people up here don't much care for fancy titles outside of songs." The small man shook strongly and continued to hover his hands over the fire of the sconce. "Ah, yes, this is my first time in this sort of business. First time fighting, actually. The redoubt was my first taste of real open combat."

"And even though, if only by your own words, you haven't done anything worthy of reknowned song, I still found witnessing you and Sevine fight during the assault quite inspiring. It's a level of skill and grace I can only hope to achieve,"

Jorwen had to stop himself from wincing. Nowadays, he didn't usually take pleasure in revisiting the battlefield after the fight was over if he had any say about it, but the smaller man was young. It's a universal thing, Jorwen was worse at his age, "Mm. I only did what needed doing, lad. Anyone'd do the same. What brings you all the way to Skyrim to get into the bloody business? You like every other young'n wanting a name?"

"Oh, of course, Jorwen. It wouldn't be respectful of me to assume that you revel in the bloodshed. You just don't strike me as that kind of man." He began to wring his hands over the fire. "Me personally, I want to try to...limit my killing. My father, thank the Divines for letting me be born of his loins, taught me a lot of techniques, including nonlethal takedowns. Mara willing, I'm going to be sticking to those."

"And...me?" He said in a quiet and thoughtful tone. "Well...yes, I want a name. I want glory, but...it isn't for me. I won't be using my deeds or stories of my adventures to my own gain. Not intrinsically. It's a part of a plan I've got going...a big dumb convoluted plan, but it's MY big dumb convoluted plan, yeah?" His hand crept to the hilt of his shortsword as he stared into the flames. The sword that will cut the chains of his father and reunite his family. If more blood must wet the blade, then so be it, but Sagax was determined to stick to his principles.

"Well, I'll admit that's not the usual reason I hear. Sounds like an important plan of yours. As long as it doesn't see any of us dead, I hope it'll succeed, for what it's worth." Jorwen watched Sagax's hand brush his shortsword and for a second, the lad's eyes got distant, "I'd hate to say it but you don't get many opportunities to be anything other than lethal in this line of work. I'll be the first to buy you a drink if you find a way." He chuckled and cleared his throat. "Who was your father? A legionnaire?"

"That's where he started, yes. He was a Praefect before he left with my mother to go to the Imperial City. He eventually became the Captain of the City Watch. He was...well, he still is, the kind of man to sit and listen to you. He wouldn't just send a squad of guards to kick down your door. He was a firm believer in due process, and any man under his command that went against the protocols he set was disciplined severely." Strangely, talking about his father soothed Sagax's nerves. It hit him just how greatly he missed Caius. All the more reason to get his ass moving. "I'm doing this for him. He was...unfairly tried. It's a long story, but to make it short, the Elder Council saw an opportunity for a political move that would put them in a good light and took it like wolves would take chunks out of an elk. Now I'm going to get him out of those accursed dungeons." He looked up at the towering Red-Bear and smiled. "It's good to know that you have my back, even if just in spirit if things get too rough." It felt even better to Sagax for him to know that Jorwen believed in his success. It's always the little things, spoken or otherwise, that keep people going.

He smiled and nodded to Sagax, "My father's been long in the grave now, but he always had it that you shouldn't ask the Gods for an easier time of it, but instead ask them for the strength to keep going through the rought times. Reckon times'll only get rougher from here." He took a moment to study Sagax in the firelight. Usually lads were full of piss and vigor, talking of things they'd only gotten half-notions about, but Sagax struck him as the good few with a good head on his neck. "It's a noble sounding thing you're doing. You already know it's not going to be easy, but don't lose yourself. Harder than it sounds. Your father sounds like a good man, do him proud." Jorwen rubbed at his eyes and groaned, looking out at the night one more time and hoping he'd see Solveig walking out of the darkness, but no luck. "Well, I'll see you in the morn, Sagax."

Sagax nodded respectfully. "Indeed. I'm glad we could talk. I'm always looking to meet new people, and I'm certainly glad I've met you." As Jorwen went his own way, Sagax decided that prayer may be a good idea. If nothing else, it would give him peace of mind. He looked to the night sky, the fire casting an odd gloom over his surroundings, and spoke a prayer to Lady Mara quietly to himself.

Roze considered Leif with an amused air about her, trying not to chuckle at his lavish words.
"A sovereign queen?" She thought to herself, wondering how on earth anyone would fall for this play. There was no doubt that Leif was a charming - and definitely handsome - fellow; but his admiration of her beauty gave way to a plenty obvious intention - taking her to bed.
It wasn't the first, nor would it be the last time this happened - at the very least he was poetic in his speech.
As he likened her to her namesake, she did chuckle at his last words, and how immensely correct they were. She didn't usually look like much of a threat to people; but she knew how to defend herself from wandering hands or potential consorts who didn't know the definition of 'no'.
"Finally - you say something sensible." Roze replied with a chuckle, then turning back to her steaming stew. Flirting could wait - this rabbit wouldn't stay warm forever.

---

---

While the invitation was extended to herself and Sagax, she let them go ahead while she finished up her meal and drink. Roze had never been one for waste - and despite Leif's somewhat bard-like behaviour, the offer of a warm bed and bacon tempted her to no end. Screw the "exquisite foods" he had stated she deserved - a slice of pig was more than enough to keep her happy.
Although somewhat disappointed Sagax didn't choose to come with her - he looked like he could use the room and food - she inclined her head as he bowed before her, and bid him goodbye as he left the inn.
She wasn't too long after him - eventually buying one extra bottle of mead in case her insomnia kicked in again - Roze left, wrapping her cloak around her tightly as she stepped out of the inn; only to look up to the sky and gape in wonder.
It was as if the beautiful aura usually painted across the sky had been tainted with blood - the smaller moon an intimidating hue of crimson.

---

---

Rhasha'Dar had eventually excused himself from Sylvanis' company for a few moments - he needed a breath of fresh air, and ironically enough, a puff of his pipe. He always preferred smoking outside, for some reason.
However, upon leaving the inn, he was met with a most disturbing sight. Masser and Secunda, the sacred twin moons - bleeding in the night sky.
Chewing on the edge of his pipe thoughtfully as he peered up, he heard a light gasp from the door to the inn. Glancing over, there stood a young Breton girl - probably around the same age as his youngest sister, M'Vrasha.
"Well... that's a new one." She eventually murmured, feeling his gaze on her. He nodded in agreement, eyes turning back to the sky.
"Hm... not a good sign for our future, Rhasha thinks." He pondered aloud; the caravan was probably feeling rather antsy about the moons as well.
"'Our' future?"
"Part of the same group, are we not?"
"Oh! So you're our first Khajiit!" She said in understanding, offering a smile as she slowly made her way down the steps. "Well - I'm not one for believing in fate. Just because the sky looks bloody doesn't mean we have to as well. I'm Roze, by the way." She continued, and Rhasha'Dar inclined his head in her direction, somewhat amused at her comment on the moon. The Khajiit were very much followers of the lunar cycle - to disregard it would be foolish, especially at times like these. Not that he expected a young Breton girl to know such things about his species.
"Rhasha'Dar; your first Khajiit." He introduced himself, smiling slightly.
As Roze began leaving, she darted a sly grin over her shoulder.
"Uh... I'd avoid Dumhuvud, if I were you. He's not a fan of cats." She added mischievously, and at that, left. Rhasha'Dar sighed quietly, finished his last puff of tobacco before heading back inside.
"Who isn't these days?" He asked himself silently, a small roll of the eyes accompanying the wry thought.

---

---

It didn't take long for her to reach Leif's house - in the Gray Quarter, surprisingly enough. Not that she had anything against the Dunmer forced to live in the area, but as a general rule, Nords avoiding the place; unless it was to shout abuse at the various elves.

She pondered outside the door for a moment, pushing it open upon deciding that an invitation to stay the night didn't necessitate freezing her arse off, while waiting to be let in.

"Leif, I'm disappointed. I was expecting far more gold, jewels and silk." Announcing herself with a grin, Roze shut the door behind her, making her way to Sevine and Leif. "Anyhow, thanks for the invite. Sagax couldn't make it, so it'll be bacon for three. I do hope you didn't eat it without me." Roze quipped, unbuckling her cloak as the warmth from the hearth chased away the chill. She'd dropped her armour in at the local blacksmiths, so he could repair the damage from the previous battle, and other various damages that she'd put off having done for ages now. As such, she was wearing her more casual clothes - white corseted blouse, trousers, and boots. The bandage on her shoulder just peeked out from beneath the white shirt - although thank the Gods she'd gotten rid of the bloody sling.

The next morning...

Dumhuvud woke first the next morning. Unlike other mercenaries who drowned their sorrows or commemorated their survival with mead, the Cat-Kicker stayed amazingly sober. The warehouse was semi-hospitable after a lighting a fire. Dumhuvud didn't both to chew out the shivering men on fire hazards, because gods knew he himself needed warmth as well.

He strolled carefully between the haystacks, stepping over still sleeping men and occasionally not-so-accidentally stepping on one of them. Farid was snoring close to the locked door, with a mug of something beside him. Dumhuvud grinned and kicked it over, splattering some on Farid's face. Like Jonimir, Farid stirred but otherwise remained asleep. It felt like a repeat of Jonimir. Dumhuvud would have been more satisfied should the Redguard opened his eyes in shock. Maybe it was some innate Redguard ability to sleep through disturbances; Dumhuvud would try it on an elf or one of the new cats next time.

Anyhow, the Cat-Kicker opened the door and stepped outside. This morning was clear and beside the typical ocean fog drifting in from north-east, Windhelm docks were sunny. However, he had to adjust to seeing with only one eye. The left of his face was a mangled mess of scar tissues and burn marks, with the left eye covered behind an eye patch. Therefore, he had no idea when a hysterical sailor raced off the boat and collided straight on with Dumhuvud.

“Watch your steps.” The Cat-Kicker growled, he seized the sailor's collar and hoisted him in the air. Maybe a morning dip in the water will clear the man's head.

“Please, put me down.” The sailor began, words flew out his mouth faster than ever. “They-are-coming-two-boats-sunk-need-to-warn-attack!”

“Spit the crap out of your mouth.” Dumhuvud dropped the man.

“I'm sorry, but this is real danger.” The sailor pressed on. He took deep breaths to calm himself and spoke with slightly slower rhythm. “I went out with captain Ragna's fishing party early, three boats, Sea of Ghosts, right before sunrise.”

“What?” Dumhuvud groaned.

“There were strange vessels out there, ships with hulls made completely from metal, and there were more than fifty of them.” The sailor gasped. “They came from the east, but they were not Morrowind ships. We tried to avoid them but they attacked us, with ice shards shooting out of holes on their hulls. Captain Ragna and hauler Gjord's ships were torn apart, our decks are leaking but most of my men were lucky to survive.”

“This is a waste of my time...” Dumhuvud fumed, his typical frown returning.

“Listen to me, you vapid dolt! Look at what's left of my ship!” The sailor dragged Dumhuvud's head to where a beat-up fishing vessel docked. The ship had major breaches in its hull, and sabrecat sized ice shards still impaled on it; how it still floats was a miracle. “Their warships are nothing like I seen on the seas of Tamriel and they are hellbent on wrecking everything in their way! The delta, I bet they're crossing it as we speak. We need to warn the jarl, warn the entire city about an attack.”

A small band of mercenaries emerged from the warehouse at that moment. At the same instance, the sailor's mates scurried around the dock shouting to everyone in sight. “We are under attack!” “Hide the elders and children!” “To arms!”

A serene morning was just the calm before the storm, calamity was at the horizon.

---

Dough-Boy caught words of what happened first. He passed it on to Ashav, who dozed off in a corner of the tavern last night. The company commander, recognizing an urgency from years of fighting, immediately felt Yokudan adrenaline clearing his mind of the hangover. He rushed into Edith's room, where the second bed was given to Ariane instead of Sevine. Ariane still had her weariness but Edith leaped out of her bed and donned her armor in minutes. When the three of them met with up with Daelin outside, they were joined by a black-haired Nord teenager. This person was the buddy to the jarl's son, not exactly an authoritative office but someone in position know things. She told Ashav the jarl was notified, and with the knowledge of a mercenary group in town, Ashav and his men were contracted for defense.

Then Dough-Boy ran again. This time, he was given a checklist of persons scattered around town. Keegan was the first to be found. After the awkward introduction to Ariane last night, he excused himself to rent a room. However, Candlehearth's rooms were full, so he bunked in a Dunmer hostel instead. His sleep was restless, Keegan laid awake half of the night, and when the shriek that was Dough-Boy assaulted his eardrums, Keegan felt like a cold bucket of water dumped on a pre-soaked man.

For his next stops, Dough-Boy raced to where Leif, the newcomer, lived. He banged door several times, and without waiting long for a reply, sprinted for the following destination. "Arise! Behold glorious battle!" Dough-Boy beamed, seeing the opportunity to take part in his first fight, he was unseemly cheerful to the point where ancient war poem were quoted. These recited lines became so superfluous by the time Dough-Boy reached Halla's residence, he was mixing up Ysgramor with The Lusty Argonian Maid.

In short of an hour since he started, Ashav roused awake his subordinates from the inn, and the last of the city dwellers were just arriving behind an gleeful Dough-Boy. Most of them lacked enthusiasm. After all, those sane enough to survive combat rarely left jovial. They met in front of Candlehearth, on a busy street where guards were scrambling left and right. Dumhuvud also brought his lackeys with him, since the time was between nine and ten hours past midnight, most in the warehouse were no longer slumbering. They could not even if they wanted to, as guards and local citizens ringed bells and blew signal horns; early morning was uncharacteristically loud, a sight unseen since the rebellion days.

Ashav directed Dumhuvud and several others to liaison with the jarl. His reason, or at least the plain one, was that the Cat-Kicker not yet recovered from his injury. The rest followed Ashav to the docks, who jogged with blank concentration masking his wrinkled feature; outwardly concentrated on the events to come. In reality, scant were the ways of preparation. Ashav had exchanged information briefly with a guard lieutenant, and then consulted with Daelin, Edith and Ariane. They decided to aid the guards on the docks, to protect it against the harm-doers. Some men spent the night in the warehouse, so that was where they headed to rally everyone.

The plan lasted till they descended from the gates onto the docks. The fog was no more, and across the unobstructed waters flowing into sea, a dozen ships encased in gray metal plates cruised toward Windhelm. There were no time to prepare; the enemies have arrived.

A collab by @Dervish and the Schaft
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Dawn had an interesting way of pretending it was on the way in the North, but the absence of the sun in the high climates of Skyrim was certainly something worth nothing. It was black as pitch, indistinguishable from midnight, but people went about their business as if any moment the sun would crest the horizon and begin to warm their frozen, aching bodies.

The khajiit leaned against the wall of the warehouse, staring out into the bay looking for signs that the land would come alive, or if the sun had gone from the world. The days here were short, bitterly so, and it was no wonder that the Nords who called Skyrim home held their liquor almost as sacrosanct as a khajiit would find his moon sugar. Not for the first time, Do'Karth wondered what compelled him to see the North. The mountains, perhaps? The fleeting prospect of seeing a dragon crest the valleys, an impossible creature of unbound power? There were numerous things that the stories and bards said of this land, and the boisterous, offensive attitudes of the Nords were alluring. He had to investigate, to at least say he had been in Skyrim, and make yet another name for himself.

And to do that, he had the brilliant idea of enlisting in a mercenary company, the first one he had seen, really, mostly for a steady supply of food and to see Skyrim from relative safety and comfort. Sure, he had a contract of service, but only a fool thought that was binding. It was the next big thing to come along, and perhaps something bigger would draw Do'Karth away. It wasn't that he was in the business of betraying others or letting them down, but he did not consider himself the belonging of any man or people, but was instead a citizen of non-specific origin who was whatever he decided to be that day. It was liberating, in a way. Besides, he knew how to march and hold a formation. He'd fight for them, serve them well, but even this lot would not have him claim a life for them.

Besides, one could learn so much more from surviving a beating than simply dying. There wasn't anything after death, unless the Big Cat had plans for you.

The workers scurried along the docks, mostly argonians who seemed like they had been doing the same daily grind for far too long, and Do'Karth didn't envy them one bit. He tried to imagine his world being restricted to the frozen planks of wood underfoot, and he came up short. There were planes of Oblivion that seemed far more appealing than the prospect of having this squallorish heap be called home.

At last, the horizon to the East took on a warm glow as the darkness began to retreat against the rising sun. Captivated, Do'Karth watched, shivering under his cloak, as a new day began and the cold, dead world around him came alive. There were all kinds of magic in this world, and this was certainly one of them. He almost didn't hear the warehouse door creek open, another one of the mercenaries emerging from his or her slumber as the company prepared for... something. The brief orientation from the rather dour officers kind of passed as a blur, and the details were admittedly lost on the khajiit who had travelled for some time with a group of merchants bringing their Black Briar Mead to fulfill an order in Windhelm. By the time he had left the temperate, comfortable Reach and discovered the frozen nightmare that was Eastmarch, it was too late to turn back.

Besides, Do'Karth did not turn down from a challenge, even if that challenge was simply not freezing to death.

Jorwen hissed out a breath, smoking on the cold air of the morning. He waited, almost began to get impatient before he grunted and a stream of piss hit the cobbles. Once he was done, he hiked up his trousers and re-did his chausses. He stood for a minute, appreciating the cold on his skin and he slapped at his cheek to wake himself up. Drinking and sleeping late into an early morning like this one was something not foreign to him, but things tend to get stubborn as one ages. He turned around to find another shape swaddled in shivering robes and almost flinched. "I didn't notice you. You should step inside, cold plays hell with your fingers and you'll be needing quick hands around this lot." He held the door open and waved the Khajiit inside.

In his experience, the newcomers to the company were in one of two camps: those who were quiet and just wanting steady pay, and those who were rude and needed a boot to the face. They wanted names and glory. He was busy figuring out what this one would be and hoping to the Gods that he'd be able to carry on a decent conversation.

Do'Karth grinned in response, nodding to the growing dawn. "This one had heard tales, most wonderous tales, of the sunrise over the sea in Skyrim. Do'Karth had simply decided that a momentary discomfort was worth the spectacle. It pleases him that the words that had led him here had truth." he said, deciding to heed the Nord's advice regardless. He stepped instead as the towering man held the door, and immediately the warmth, and stetch, of the warehouse became quite aparent. Do'Karth's leg was throbbing, a section below the knee colder than the rest of him like the blade had entered him again. He ignored this and turned to his chaparone, his features warmer than he felt. "This one does not believe we have had a chance to meet one another's acquaintance. It pleases Do'Karth to be at your service." he said with a bow of the head.

He frowned at the Khajiit's back as he edged past him through the door. He took one last look out at the waters and the sun beyond and all he saw was a sunrise. It was a good one, but then he'd seen forty-eight years of them all around Skyrim and Cyrodiil with scant time to sit and ponder the beauties of nature. He turned back and let the door close behind him as he followed the Khajiit. He smiled and nodded as Do'Karth bowed. He'd never talked to a Khajiit before that wasn't trying to kill him or get away from him, so their mannerisms outside of blood-freezing warcries and brandishing curved weapons were lost on him. Of course, he'd shared tea around a fire with Keegan the altmer, so things change. "No, reckon there's a lot of new faces around that I've yet to talk to. Between you and me though, some of them are insufferable." He shook his head at a group of newbeards, propped up on elbows and their blankets around their shoulders before he stuck a hand out to Do'Karth, "Jorwen. I mend clothing, blankets and leaky tents. Good to meet you, Do'Karth."

He led the Khajiit to a couple others that were still sleeping, White-Eye and Cleftjaw. He gestured to an empty space for him to sit and sat himself down after. He picked up a half of a sausage, white pearls of fat in the pink-red meat of it, and he cut a nice slice off and popped it in his mouth. He chewed for a bit before he spoke again, "What brings a Khajiit so far up north? It's always something to see with the few caravans we get up here, we never see you cat-folk alone." With how they're liable to be treated, Jorwen guessed it wasn't surprising they stuck together and their own.

The khajiit took the extended hand, careful to make sure his claws were retracted. The first time he had encountered a man who wished to shake hands had ended with no small amount of shouting and a shallow cut that simply did not want to close. Following Jorwen to the seating area, he sat effortlessly cross-legged without using his arms for support. He eyed the saugage with no small amount of trepidation before returning his full attention to the conversation at hand. "Do'Karth is an intrepid wanderer, one who simply tired of all the seriousness of wars and conspiracies and wished to see what Tamriel had to offer. Elsweyr is a land of sands and jungles, a wonderous place, but it is not all there is to see, and as colourful as this one's people are... well, there simply were too many things he was not seeing." his face curled into an approximation of a smile, something he had learned made men and mer more comfortable.

"The caravans are not truly representitives of my people, they follow their own selfish aims and are largely exiles from our homeland. If you were to speak with them, you would hear a meloncholy for the warm sands of Elsweyr that they may never see again. But do not mourn them; they made their own choices. It is why this one is allowed into the cities but they are not; Do'Karth is a traveller, not a potential fence for the Thieves Guild or a skoomer pusher." he explained, finally losing out to his peckishness and producing honey nut treats from one of his pouches, chewing on it thoughtfully. "This one takes it you are an old hand with this company?" he asked.

"If only because I was one of the only ones left." Jorwen muttered around a mouthful of sausage before nodding to Do'Karth, "Aye, I do anything needed of me, same as anyone else here. I try not to do much of the bloody work if I have a say in it." Jorwen shrugged, "It pays though, that you'll find soon enough. 'Course, if you went off to get away from blood and conspiracies, you're looking in an odd place, friend."

He held out a slice of sausage to the Khajiit and couldn't help but to study the man. He'd looked simple enough, it wasn't odd to see those like him, swaddled in robes and clutching onto walking sticks. He was odd, but what did he know? He'd barely stepped foot outside of Skyrim for anything other than fighting a war, so Do'Karth might be as common as Khajiit come. "You traveled far, then?"

"Ah." Taking the offered slice of meat and enjoying the warm juices and spices, Do'Karth finished chewing and swallowing before continuing on. "You sound like a natural khajiit; do not do more work than one must, especially if there are others to carry the burden." he chuckled. "Mercenary work is different than living in a land that was overly fond of Thalmor occupation and tensions between the two Kingdoms, this... is much less personal. Put in time, receive compensation, enjoy the perks of being a soldier with none of the suffocating restrictions. While Do'Karth has a curiosity of the civil war that swallowed this land, perhaps it will give him a perspective of what has happened in his own homeland." he explained.

The khajiit grinned, shifting his position as he contemplated the question. "Do'Karth has been far, seen many things. Cyrodiil, Valenwood, Hammerfell, Skyrim... all manner of places and people have crossed this one's eyes and he has heard all of their voices and done his best to become one of their people for a time. Some people simply look at what is different and are afraid; this one embraces it and makes it a part of himself." he paused, a feigned pained expression crossing his features. "Although, the Redguard love of hot foods does not agree with this one's digestion. He feels he can sympathize with the Red Mountain after attending one of the Sultan of Hegathe's feasts."

Jorwen chuckled and slipped another slice of sausage into his mouth, "I think I'm alright not being a worldly man if that's what it means to experience other lands. I'll be waiting with open arms if they want to come here, but I can't be traveling too far in this age." Jorwen finished chewing and swallowed the morsel down just in time for Dough-Boy's voice to echo loud enough in the warehouse to make Jorwen cringe. White-Eye and Cleftjaw stirred from their sleep with less than happy looks on their faces. Cleftjaw's went probing around in his blankets for his knife as his eyes scanned for the offender.

"What the fuck are you saying, pudgy lad?" One of the younger, newer voices of the company carried over from a far corner.

"Battle! To battle! Ships on the horizon!" Dough-Boy repeated. Jorwen looked around at the faces before him and wrapped the sausage back into its packaging, licking his fingers clean after. He grasped up his arming coat and mail, throwing them on and standing as he grasped up his big sword.

"What was that about finding peace in your travels or somesuch?" Jorwen asked.

The commotion certainly led the khajiit to believing his day was not going to be a dull one. "Oh, you misunderstand this one; Do'Karth loves a good fight, good for the muscles, women enjoy his scars. Trouble seems to find this one, but that is fine. At least it is different than what he traded it all for." he replied, standing spryly, quarterstaff held like a walking stick. "This seems like quite the unpleasant city to try to assault by sea, this one thinks. Maybe the ships will be landing ashore elsewhere?"

"They'll be landing, you can be sure of that." Jorwen said, checking the strap of his helmet as he replaced his cap with it. He went about testing the sharpness of his weapon and he clucked his tongue at a tiny spot of rust on the edge, "I've been in the black business long enough to have been on both sides of this. They'll either hop off their boats and try to kill us now or wait until half of us are starving and the other half are sick and dying. Then they'll try killing us. Makes it easier."

No matter how many times he'd donned his armor and checked over his weapons, there was always the familiar mixture of fear and excitement flushing his veins cold with ice and making his heart beat like a joiner's hammer. Of course, his mind was weighed down with thoughts of his wife and daughter this time around. Part of him wanted to abandon the mercenaries and take his family away, but the other part told him running would be no good. He needed to stay, see the battle through, do his part for his family.

Jorwen held a hand out once more, "Let's hope to come out of this alive, eh?"

"Of course. This one also hopes they do not make us wait. After all, is there a worse fate than the prospect of an empty plate?" Do'Karth said, stepping outside to form up with the others. He wasn't nervous, not in the typical way a soldier or warrior is before a fight. He simply accepted things were going to happen as they were, and it was his responsibility to try to stop the less preferable things from occuring. Still, there was always a knot that sat at the pit of his stomach, no matter how at ease his mind wise, and his leg seemed to throb in rhythm with his heart. He had no cause to fight for, save for whatever these mercenaries would pay him, but he decided that this Jorwin was a worthy enough cause to take up arms for. After all, friends were rather hard to come by in a land as harsh and cold as this.

The khajiit's eyes glanced up at the rising sun, and he clucked his tongue in disapproval. The beautiful wonder of just a few minutes earlier was gone. A new day had begun, and it was decidedly not one anyone here had hoped for.

She rubbed her hands together and held them out to the flame of the sconce. The only company she had was the cold wind drying out her skin with the lightening sky. It was a slow morning that followed her long night. She sighed, the mist coming from her mouth and floating up towards the sky. Already, the drunken, the hungover, and the tired had begun their migration to their homes where they'd fall dead asleep or drink more. Some, she recognised, others she didn't, a lot of them were talking of the high deeds they'd be doing in the company and she couldn't help but smirk knowingly at their passing. Once the tavern had been emptied of most of the newbeards and greyheads, she found herself inside again, taking a seat at a table across the room from the corner Ashav was sitting and quietly snoring in. It was quiet now, no din of conversations, and it was colder than it was last night. The bodies all huddled together in the tavern making warmth were all gone now, and it just left her and a sleeping Ashav. Not even the tavern maids were awake at this hour, she reckoned, so she sat at her empty table without food or drink and wondered what the day would bring now she was with the company. Perhaps she should make her way to the warehouse, but pressing in amongst bodies smelling of dirt and sweat held no appeal at this early an hour. Besides, the commander wasn't in any rush to the warehouse himself.

‘’Damn, I’m late.’’

Sadri had a tendency to forget just how quickly time passed. Maybe it was because of his Mer nature, or maybe it was because of his preference to be relaxed as much as possible. Or maybe the moon sugar was finally getting to his brain. He didn’t know (he could say that about so many more things). While writing a letter to his parents, he had only smoked just a bit – and lo and behold, he had spent so much time up there – all for nothing, too, for the letter was plain amateurish by Sadri’s standards – now the damn tavern was empty. It was also cold as all hell, perhaps doubly so for someone who was raised in a damned desert. ‘’Should’ve worn the coat,’’ he huffed to himself as he went up the stairs. ‘’Should’ve worn the goddamned coat.’’

Upstairs, the hall was mostly empty. His good eye could pick out the silhouette of his superior, Ashav, dozing off on his chair. He was too late. The bard was nowhere to be found, and if she wasn’t up, there was no way Idesa was up. That woman was looking after a child, after all. ‘’Damn boy’s like seventeen, why the fuck is she still a nanny?’’ Sadri thought to himself as he looked around. He wasn’t going to wake up his superior just to complain – not that he was the sort of guy who would wake up his subordinates to complain – so he was just alone, it seemed.

And as always, Sadri was wrong. As he looked around the Hall in frustration, his eyes stumbled upon some fellow – no, that was no fellow, and she were, that meant Sadri’s preferences had stooped far too low. From the way of the lass’ clothing, Sadri assumed that she was probably a warrior, perhaps even a newcomer for his company. He liked women who could handle themselves.

‘’So, what’s keeping you up?’’ Sadri asked as he walked over to the lady’s table, mindfully sitting on a chair that wasn’t next to hers.

"All the men who've made it their quest to either discount me or fuck me." She said, picking at a splinter standing alone on the edge of the table. She looked up from it to look at who she was talking to. "Which one are you?" She asked, though he wasn't entirely an unpleasant sight. After a long time in Skyrim, Dunmer were still a rare sight. In her time in Whiterun, she'd only seen the one, carousing with the Companions in their hall and through town after a successful romp through the wilderness of Skyrim doing whatever paid. It seemed Windhelm held a monopoly on Dunmer, which was odd seeing how they treated them. Of course, this one didn't have the trappings of a beggar and his accent was too... different to be a Dunmer Windhelm-born or recently stepped off the boat from Solstheim. Maybe he'd be interesting, after all, a man with as many scars has just as many stories, and she noticed his lack of a hand. That might just be an interesting tale, then. "Either you're a ponce made to look grizzled by a good beating or you have a fair amount of good tales behind you."

Sadri did not expect such a response from the woman, although he had to admit it was an intriguing one. He appreciated brevity, and it seemed that this appreciation was mutual. Though as she continued, Sadri could not help but feel the stereotypical Skyrim woman behind the masculine façade. One looking for a man of stories. Sadri hoped he could provide. ''I suppose you could say both. I probably was a ponce decades ago, but I guess you shed it after the things that life bring.'' Sadri scratched his beard as he eyed the girl's face. She was most definitely a Nord - a superstitious one could attribute the cold weather to her frown, such a Nord she was. For a moment Sadri feared for the future of their conversation, as these types could be real picky to talk to, but so far things were going good. He hoped. Orc women were still worse, but she was definitely a contender.

''As for your question, I hadn't planned that far ahead,'' Sadri quipped. ''For now, I was just looking for some conversation.''

She smiled, one corner of her mouth raising a bit higher than the other in a crooked but sincere thing. Looking from left to right, she settled her eyes on him again and shrugged, "I guess I'm the only one here could provide a man with it." She scratched at the side of her face, "Isn't that the truth about life. Wasn't long ago that taking up the spear and signing on to a mercenary company seemed beyond me, but look at me now." She held both arms out as if to give substance to her words. If he could even see it in the half-light of the room, there were scars on her, though the number of hers was dwarfed by his. It was true that Nords wore scars like a Cyrodiilic dandy would show off new trousers or a big, stupid hat. "And I find you should never plan too far ahead, you'll just be disappointed that way. Pick a course and stick to it, my father used to say. Maybe he still does. The bastard's only now taken somewhat of a liking to staying with me and ma. Even then, it's only because we chased his old arse here." She said, she wanted a drink about now, though not because Sadri was an overbearing presence. He was no Leif, but it wasn't hard to be better at conversation than that man. This Dunmer hadn't offered to pollinate her flower yet, so it was already a better one.

She shifted in her seat and sniffled, "You might have seen him about town, big bastard of a man, hair red like mine- or mine like his, more like. He's with the company newly arrived in town." She smiled again, "Seem to be getting all the more popular here up north, what with all that half-head on the throne's talk about making the biggest army Tamriel's ever seen." Her eyebrows went up as if she forgot her coinpurse, "Ah, my name's Solveig, by the way. Figure you deserve a name to the face. Haven't insulted me or tried to get me out of my clothes yet, and you're the only one awake here, so I guess that makes us, what? Acquaintances?"

Sadri had a faint smile on his face as he listened to Solveig's musings. He appreciated the small things, the demeanor, the scars, the faint echo of a backstory. She hadn't planned to be a warrior. She hadn't planned much, more like - from what she spoke of his father, it appeared that this was a family thing. Sadri appreciated that too, just the way he appreciated the girl's teasers into her life and outlook - granted, at Sadri's age it was easier to appreciate things. He could sympathize with the words of the girl's father, as Sadri's experience showed that people with plans were always too stuck-up. Like waiting for an ambush through life. Though it appeared that the girl wasn't all that happy with how her father acted, despite regarding his words on plans positively before.

Sadri's bad eye slightly dozed off at the girl's mention of a big, red-headed brute. ''With the company newly arrived in town.'' Wait a second, he knew that guy. He was that tailor-guy. Iorwund? Well hell. Small world. Then again, there weren't many settlements in Skyrim, and the guy was also obviously a Nord. Sadri shouldn't have been surprised at meeting someone's relative.

''I suppose that makes us acquintances, yes,'' Sadri said after tasting the name Solveig in his mouth quietly. Odd name, but hey, who was he to pick which name was odd and which was not? ''I'm Sadri. Sadri Beleth. With that company you mentioned, actually,'' Sadri said in a warmer tone. He could feel kinship already. Maybe because he had worked with the girl's father. ''I think I know your father. Jorwund? Haven't spoken to him yet, but I guess he and I are also acquintances.'' He did not know why but he enjoyed putting that word again. It was like poetry, of a significantly shitty sort. ''Small world, isn't it?''

"It is when you live in Skyrim, no doubt. Everyone knows everybody and you find it weird how the menfolk turn their noses up at a woman anywhere near a battle these days. They sit and gibber by their campfires about this big name and that big name like old maids around the cook-fire, so it isn't really odd if you know the name Orren Piss-Drinker from Riften even though you're from Markarth Side." She wove her fingers together in front of her on the table, "And it's Jorwen, actually. Jorwen Red-Bear, sticking to the whole thing about names. Now that I've signed on, I guess war'll be the family business and you and I'll be right acquaintances now. How long has the man over there-" and she nodded toward the sleeping Ashav,"-been paying for your drinks?"

''I used to live in a pretty isolated place, so I can't really say I can relate to that, but I understand people talking about names a lot. From what I've seen, if you don't partake in rumors, you often end up as the subject. Maybe that's why people prefer to keep some names up. The more talked about them, the less talked about themselves.'' Sadri slowly massaged the right part of his forehead with his left eye as he continued. ''Actions speak louder and more honest than words, in my book. Can't say I'm a man of names, though that might just be because of all the people I've met.''

Sadri turned his head to face the direction Solveig's nod pointed to, and turned back after seeing that she was referring to none other than Ashav, the now-slumbering man with the vocal cord parasites. He then proceeded to chuckle weakly after thinking of the surname Red-Bear. ''Red-Bear, eh? Fitting, for both you and your father. As for that guy... I guess it's been about a month, give or take. Not sure, really. We only recently saw any action, so I can't say that I can remember anything else aside from that. Damned Forsworn know how to make things memorable.''

"So I've heard." She nodded, thinking back to her own fighting band in the Reach where her mentor was killed. "Aye, Red-Bear. Imaginative, ain't it? Can't say I've got a famous name or any deeds worth singing about behind me." Solveig tipped the chair up on its hind legs as she put her boots on the table. With no one to object, and she couldn't see why Sadri would, she guessed she'd relax a bit. If only to clip her contentedness short, the door of the tavern slammed open as a soft-looking lad younger than some of the youngest who'd signed on last night came huffing and puffing up the stairs. Red in the face, he stopped to catch his breath.

When he finally did, he cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, "Ships spotted, Ashav, sir! We're expecting an assault from the sea!"

With the sound of spluttering and a chair clattering to the ground, Ashav awoke and got to his feet, brushing his shirt and trousers off before rubbing at his eyes. The gravelly whisper of the man's voice was heard finally, "Sadri, Solveig, let's get to it."

"Aye." Solveig nodded. She looked at Sadri and raised her brows. "Figure we come out the other side of these worst expectations, we'll go from acquaintance to shield-siblings, eh?" She stood and they made their way to the door. Once they were on the steps out of, or into, the Candlehearth- relative to if you were looking to get drunk or looking to get home- Solveig nodded. "I need to get my things from my home. I'll meet you at the muster again, Sadri. Should the Gods be willing, or at least should we both be lucky, more like, we'll meet again after."

''Can't a Mer earn a day's worth of rest? For Padhome's sake,'' Sadri thought to himself as the softie-boy suddenly roused everyone and the Redguard suddenly woke from his slumber, surprisingly aware for a man that Sadri thought was dozing off. Things were just warming up... Damn it. Just damn it. As Sadri walked all the way to the tavern's door and started thinking of the implications that an invasion by sea meant, he was suddenly faced with the brunt of the cold of Windhelm as the doors opened. ''We shall see what we'll go to, just pray it won't be an early grave,'' Sadri replied to Solveig. All he wanted from Windhelm was the warm embrace of a woman, some conversation, and some warm food. But of course, whatever it was that pulled the strings had decided to fuck Sadri over once more by sending, what, an invasion? For Anu's sake.

''Yeah, we'll meet again, one way or another.'' Sadri mused as Solveig left. ''Now I just need to arm up.'' Was that a pun? If it were so, had he intended? He wasn't entirely sure, but he knew that he had to cover himself up, both against the cold and the incoming battle. Rushing downstairs, Sadri immediately threw himself into his room, and after brushing off the thought of locking himself in and filling his lungs with moon sugar vapor, he started frantically putting on his armor, barely buttoning the brigandine vest and the buffcoat before slipping into his chainmail coat. After putting on his coif to complement the coat of mail, Sadri entered his padded coat and wrapped the blanket of his bed around it as a makeshift sash. Fitting his head into the padded helmet, adjusting the nasal bar and grabbing his sword, Sadri rushed out of his room just the same way he entered, this time prepared for both the cold and whatever those ships were going to send.

NOT A COLLAB

The night had been a long one. Finding replacements for the arrows he used up at Rorikstead wasn't hard. But, making the healing potions proved far harder. Still, after half the night was gone, Utu-ja finally found an apothacary with the equipment he needed and the disposition to let the warped argonian use it, even at night. Though the man went back to bed immediately and wouldn't consider helping to improve the quality when Utu asked. The brewing itself wasn't complicated though the final product was a little weaker than normal store quality. It should still pack a wollop though. So long as it kept some people breathing who wouldn't otherwise then that was good enough. The whole ordeal had taken all night though. The sun was already rising when he stepped back outside to head back. He meant to find Edith and give her the potions to distribute as needed. That plan didn't work out.

It was when he was heading back toward the Candlehearth that he heard the alarm. Ships attacking from the sea? Dough-boy was working hard getting the word out but he wouldn't have more details or time to chat. Utu didn't stop him as he sped past. He cursed under his breath and started to run instead, as fast as he could and with no thought to dignity or anything else with the one exception being the rattling of a dozen potions in his pack. His fingertips brushed the cobbles and his tail extended out behind him as he bolted for the inn and his room.

Flashing through the door like a newlywed soldier on his first weekend's leave, he was little but a shadowy blur and a rapid set of soft footsteps as his tail disappeared upstairs. His room hadn't been disturbed yet and he rushed to grab his gear. His other pouch and his elven bow, his full quiver of steel arrows, and a hearty curse for whatever daedra was spitting on Ashav enough to call this kind of trouble. For not being an educated individual, Utu knew exactly what parts of which animals most resembled the targets of his curses by looks, odor, texture and likely function. He also knew that the delay in his return would not make him look great to the boss. He was still running full tilt when he managed to meet up with the rest of the company.

Instead of moving directly to his place with the rest of the company, Utu first spotted Edith and Daelin. The two of them were exactly who he needed to see. This was no time for bonuses but it was the perfect time for a lucky windfall of valuable supplies. He ran up to them, shouldered his bow, and quickly held out six healing potions toward each of them, thanking the gods for the long fingers that let him hold so much in each hand. He intended to simply drop them off and then rush to a more suitable place for him, preferably one that was out of the way with a good view and clear lines of fire. Then he looked out to sea and saw the ships.

He froze from his fingertips to the tip of his tail, though just for an instant. Armored ships meant heavily armored warriors. He would need to use that poison for his own arrows instead of spreading it around. His eyes snapped back to Edith and Daelin and he spoke quickly and quietly. They didn't need the whole story now. They could ask for that later, if everyone involved survived the battle that was coming.

"Healing potions, almost store strength. Couldn't get the alchemist to make them so I did it." Then, his message delivered along with the packages, his head snapped to look at Ashav. He looked like he had no plan or briefing to give. That left Utu with one question to ask though he pitched his voice so that most of the company wouldn't hear him. "Ashav." He raised his bow an inch or two as he pulled out one of the Frostbite Venom vials . "Bows to heights, or on the ground?"@gcold@Leidenschaft

After leaving the warehouse, Sagax wandered the streets of Windhelm alone for a while. Walking around the empty alleys of the city, he took in everything he saw. The ancient stonework of the walls were deceptive in their appearance, as what looked to be aging and chipped blocks of carved rock were in all actuality still incredibly sturdy, and the strolling Imperial wondered just how much of the beating it all could take. He didn't see any doors leading into any parts of the city's towering walls, so he assumed that they were completely solid structures, and must have been constructed out of incredibly large blocks of stone. Sturdy indeed. It wasn't long, though, before Sagax's walk was interrupted by a reasonably cautious guard; after all, the man was decked out in fairly standard thief's leather, and with a concealing hood to boot.

A tall figure, illuminated by torchlight, approached Sagax with swift steps, meeting him face-to-face. Sagax could feel the eyes of the guardsman studying him carefully. "Hold! What in Talos' name are you doing wandering the city at this hour? The only people that ought to be out now are guards, and lawbreakers that need to be taken to the dungeons! I don't know which you are, but you sure don't look like a guard, little Imperial." His voice was stern, but Sagax didn't know about his face, which was covered entirely by his helmet. He responded by raising his hands to about his shoulder height, far away from the handle of his sword. "I am no guard, but neither am I a lawbreaker, sir." Moving his hands upwards more, Sagax removed his hood. He hoped that by showing he was willing to show his face fully the guard would realize that he was no troublemaker. "I'm just...well, I guess I'm doing a little sight-seeing. I've never been to Windhelm before, and so I thought I'd tour the city." He paused, and saw that the guardsman was no less tense, but at least he wasn't about to go and draw his blade. "We don't have architecture like this in Cyrodiil. The closest we have is Bruma, but there are still heavy Imperial influences in the city's make. It's all new to me, so every step is something to potentially write about." The man snorted in response, but didn't make any advances. "Yeah, yeah, sure. Sight-see all you want. But if your hands find their way to anything that doesn't belong to you, I'll cut them off myself! I'll be watching for you, sneak-thief..." Turning around and continuing his patrol, the man left behind a relieved Imperial. The last thing Sagax wanted was a night in the Windhelm dungeons, especially for something he didn't even do.

The rest of the night was uneventful. None of the other guards gave Sagax more than a watchful glance, and there didn't seem to be any rowdy drunks to deal with. He continued his tour until the morning came, and after no more than what seemed to be just an few minutes of sunlight did Sagax hear Dough-Boy screaming his head off about something. Looking over to the shrieking man, he also saw guards running around shouting about defensive positions. Ashav darted out of Candlehearth, and several people followed him. Sagax caught up quickly, and almost reeled back when the sight at the docks met his eyes. Massive warships, coated in metal, and over to the side he saw a beat-up vessel with gigantic shards of ice embedded in its hull.

Bells rung, guards shouted, people panicked. Yeah, this was gonna be one hell of a morning, and one thing was for sure: If these invaders didn't kill Sagax, a certain fiery woman was going to march to Skyrim and do it herself for the danger he put himself in.

Looking around at the other mercenaries that gathered, Sagax offered up a coy smile. "Uh...is it too late to say that they're just a well protected trading company...?"

“...a fool's folly.”

“What choice...”

The first sight greeting the mercenaries was two captains arguing on the docks. One of them was recognizable by some as the one warning Dumhuvud earlier. The other captain, a more prominent sailor, was armed and ready for battle. The armed captain was backed by bustling men undocking ships from the piers. Three of the seven ships were sleek, decked with shields and rams on their figurehead; clearly warships. Four more were broader and deeper-hulled, these ships were designed for cargo and limited capacity for self-defense. All sails were rigged and oars are set, many of the sailor wore various grades of armor.

“Don't do this, they'll rip you to threads.” The first captain pleaded. “Take you goods back inside and hunker down, the army will soon come for us.”

“Thur and his troops are far in the Reach, you know it would take more than a week to get around.” The second captain dismissed. “You never tried talking them down, and if that fails, my men will at least have the first hit. When all else fails, we should try to run through them and warn Solitude.”

“Ealdor went for that an hour ago, his boats never returned!” The first captain spat, he was frustrated enough to grab the second captain's jerkin. However, his hands froze when silhouettes appeared on the horizon. “It cannot be...”

“Get your hands off me, you cowardly excuse of a Nord!” The second captain shove the first away. His ships are all untied and making their way into the river. The captain hopped on deck of the last ship. “You, leave the fire salts! We haven't much time.”

---

Time after time, human's stupid bravery never ceased to amaze Keegan. Predictable result of their foolish endeavor was right there, in the form of a half-sunk ship, with numerous giant ice spikes impaled in it. Ashav was making another one of his doom and gloom speech, no doubt he was lecturing everyone on the gravity of this situation. Keegan, however, stood on the edge of the docks and watched as two batch of ships met halfway.

Without observation apparatuses, Keegan could not discern fine details of the encounter. What he did see was clear enough. Seven Nordic ships, warships on point and transports rounding up the rear, slowed down as twelve metal-hulled vessels approached. Within minutes, sounds of magical ice reverberated faintly to the docks. Two Nordic warships were the targets of three leading invaders, projectiles were briefly exchanged and the Nordic ships vanished beneath water. The final warship somehow sailed through the exchange, it managed to speed by a series of invaders and left the horizon. Keegan silently prayed for the ship's well-being, for it to warn another port instead of shattered by more of these odd metal-boats.

Four cargo ships became easy preys. Having little in ways of durability, maneuverability and offensive capability, they were cut down like knife through warm butter. One invading ship never decelerated when plowing into a cargo ship. From afar, the unfortunate vessel was rammed into several pieces and tiny shapes that could only be its crew, leaped off in desperation. Another cargo ship was caught between two metal-boats, the sound of arcane shards most likely meant it went down with intense hull punctures. Two transport ships got their lucky break. One was rammed head-on by an invader, they collided at an angle and the metal ship lodged itself inside, failing to plunge through. Seeing one enemy slowed down, the other cargo ship latched onto it. From Keegan's position, he could observe forms to and fro. The Nordic ship wrestled the invader, it pressed its bulky frame until the metal-boat veered to side. In the end, the amalgamation of three ships moored on shore.

Sometimes, Keegan admitted, these foolish charges do pay off. It was eleven, not twelve hostile vessels, thanks to certain headstrong sailors.

---

While Keegan and several others watched boats in astonishment, Ashav tried to herd the company into the warehouse for a quick briefing. His plan did not work, because the sheer chaos on the dock and an urgency with the incoming attack. He led whoever still followed him near the warehouse, and quickly told them to steel themselves for a rough struggle. He should have forty-some mercenaries, doubling their depleted stock overnight. However, the folks gathered here were less than expected strength. As the morning came and liquid courage no longer sustained by mead, some went back on their contracts and failed to report in. Still, he had a couple over thirty to work with; not too bad.

Hearing Utu-ja asking about positioning, Ashav waved Daelin over. “Get the archers set up.” He told the Bosmer.

“Let us stay close to the others, but stay behind them.” Daelin suggested. He quickly surveyed the dock, it was flat save for stairs leading up to city gates. The guards had erected makeshift barricades in haste, it was mostly improvised materials such as crates, barrels, logs and rocks. “We have a decent shot on whoever lands on the piers, and if they break through, we could pull back up the steps.” Daelin looked over to Ashav for confirmation.

“Very well.” The Redguard nodded.

---

Farid tapped his foot at Ashav's speech. Someone bumped his shoulders from behind, he gave a frown to the man; a Windhelm guardsman. “Busy, busy.” He mocked.

“Very childish.” The guard shot back, he purposefully stepped on Farid's toes. “Get out of the way, sand rat.”

“Woah, someone's constipated.” Farid held up his hands and walked somewhere else. To be honest, you either like Farid or you don't. Some were instantly annoyed by his brash and unrestrained humor, while others praised his quick wit and confidence in the face of the direst danger. Now, Farid gets to find out which category Sagax falls into.

“If that's the case, I don't want anything they're selling.” He returned Sagax's smile. “Though you look like you could buy a sword lesson from them.”

“These Nords, I tell you.” He thought out loud beside Sagax. “First that troublesome Cat-Kicker splashed my piss on my face, now this brainless guard prick shoves everyone around like he's your emperor or something.” The ships were just minutes from the docks, but Farid's worry was somehow the trivial things.

While Farid conversed with Sagax, the “brainless guard prick” approached Ashav. Turns out, the man was a lieutenant, responsible for northern half of the docks. He said piers three and four were undermanned, and the mercenaries were ordered to reinforce these areas. The piers extended into the river, they were long and narrow, perfect for tying down large watercrafts but inadequate for the passage of large crowds. The guards barricaded themselves behind the shoreline; only around twenty men stationed at the third and fourth piers.

The mercenaries settled into position as four ships came within range. On the opposing shoreline, four more metal-boats could be seen spewing ice shards into farmhouses. Each boat had six portholes containing giant blue crystals, but because of their placement on the sides, only three were able to shoot in one direction. Still, with four landing vessels and two ships bombarding from distance, the invaders made quick work of Hollyfrost and Hlaalu farms.

On the side of the docks, the invaders shot nothing. When the crystals first emitted ice shards size of pine logs, many men cowered behind barricades and some even ran for the city. However, four ships crept in without commotion. These ships, approximately what Bretons called sloops, or Corvettes, per Dominion designation, had two masts and a chimney on deck. Dull gray metals overlay much of of the hull, though the masts and parts of the decks were made from blackened wood. Their shapes were elongated ovals, with bulges in front and back the height of double-floored buildings serving as upper deck.

One of these boats hit pier three with thump, it stopped as several giants over two meters tall climbed onto the upper decks. These giants stood on two feet, and wore brown leather-like suits with the same ship-metal acting as cuirasses and guards; no skin or fur or whatever they had left uncovered. Their armor was sharp and filled with spikes, as if they were modeled after the dremoras of Oblivion. Two more ships came into pier one and five. Pier one landing happened with grace, the ship there merely feathered the surface. But pier five was loud and destructive, it was smashed apart and its ship stopped at pier six. A harbor away, the final landing craft drew near pier eight, where it was close to the bridge.

“Release!” The guard lieutenant shouted out of nowhere. On his command, every guard archer within earshot sent out their missiles. This was a panic reaction, as the giants on deck ducked behind the gunwales and most arrows bounced harmlessly off the hulls.

“Stop, stop!” Daelin exclaimed above the chaos. “You're wasting ammunition, let them disembark first.”

Disembark they did, the first wave came when the giants glowed. They were atronachs, to be precise, frost atronachs. Five atronachs warped in at the feet of each pier. They stomped forward in a jagged formation, coming in at speeds comparable to a jog. The archers reloaded and let lose another volley at the leading daedra, the foremost atronachs at both piers disintegrated. Pier three was blessed to have the second atronach destroyed also.

At pier four, one atronach cracked two sets of obstacles before vanishing in a flash. Ariane dispelled it. Another one immediately took its place, destroying more barricades before it was killed by arrows. At this point, most of pier four was cleared. The remaining duo of deadra menaced ever closer to the defenders. One of them brought down a massive ice limb, sending heavy shock waves into stone and sending several men, including Orakh, flying back.

Orakh landed unmoving, if someone went to check him, they would find him unconscious but breathing. Meanwhile, Edith stepped up and rallied the troops to hold fast. She instructed everyone to keep the wharfs as choke points.

On pier three, only one atronach reached the end of it. It did caused damage by stepping on two men, one of them was Bjorn the Bald, formerly Felix's companion and now a mangled mess of crimson.

All in all, the atronachs wasn't too much trouble to take down. Few were killed. The real loss were the barricades, as the defenders could no longer rely on makeshift wood for protection. Then, when the dusts and frost settled did the enemies truly arrive. Ramps were dropped on the piers, and soon after the atronachs were defeated, the giants came charging in.

A dozen clustered on each pier, they were in similar stature to their conjurer brethren, with the exception of even greater metal coverage. In fact, their armor was so strong and so well-placed that most arrows simply fell at their feet. They rushed, with lengthy strides suited for two and a half meter of, whatever. Every single one of them wielded two handed weapons; either warhammers or axes size of pine trees. Only one or two fell in the charge. Amusingly, one the invaders tumbled and writhed in pain after kicking in a box of fire salt. The rest annihilated the first row of defenders effortlessly, dropping guards left and right like flies. Their weapons tore steel easily, and steel in return had trouble piercing their defense. Their strength, brute force, were inhuman to say the least. Each missing swing could cause a miniature crater on the ground.

Helmi the Hammer, another of Felix's companion swung his hammer at an invader. It was stopped by the shaft of an axe, and in return, Helmi was separated torso from legs. Upon witnessing both of his friends perish, Felix collapsed right behind pier three. Somehow, the carnage around left him perfectly unscathed. But if none intervened, the bard would surely meet a gruesome demise.

Pier Four...

“Metal ships.” White-Eye spoke with a face screwed up with hate and spat, “Devil-make.”

Jorwen said nothing, only watched. The ships that went out to meet the invaders were quick work for them and he had a hard time feeling anything for them. There was a fine line between heroism and stupidity and the sailors may have crossed it. They’d have done better to not bother with the ships at all and sailed west with haste. Of course, Jorwen wasn’t their captain, so any strategy was lost on them. They all stood in a mass of loosely defined formation on the docks, thirty-some of Ashav’s men. Him and White-Eye among them. He cast a glance to the gates and curled his lips in a heavy frown that he wasn’t inside with Solveig and Cleftjaw, protecting his wife with them. When the ships made port in varying degrees of splintered wood and grinding metal-on-stone, his wishes were doubled and his veins grew cold. His knuckles were white and his skin creaked across the leather as his grip tightened on his sword.

For a few minutes, made hours by the tension in the air as thick as the smell of sweat and fear, the ships did nothing. It was quiet, save for the smacking of waves on the piers and the beaches. The wind came and tickled at Jorwen’s hair and he closed his eyes. For a few moments, Jorwen was a man of peace. And then he heard them, the pounding footsteps of moving glaciers. Arrows came down and killed one in a cloud of mist and stinging ice shards. The other one was brought down by swords and axes, seeing only one man dead. There was another lull too short for Jorwen to enjoy as the guardsmen loosed arrows that either stuck in wood or pinged off metal. When the bastards finally disembarked, it seemed they were fighting giants. It was a feat to baffle Jorwen with the size of another, but they did it. They came on, silent save for their beating feet. “We’ll be giant-slayers today if you hold with me, you bloody killers!” Jorwen hadn’t even meant to say it, but the men around him all let loose their warcries at the words, high keening, ghostly screams mingled with deep, guttural yells as they beat their shields.

They came on like rogue waves. Three men were put on their backs as one charged straight into their line and blades glanced off metal. Jorwen’s section was the next, his line smashed apart with a terrifying swing of a maul. The giant butted him and he was sent stumbling back, whooping. Without thinking, he sprang off of his lead foot and felt the air and the pleasure of an arc of a weapon that had missed its mark. The battle seemed to have stopped around them, Jorwen’s ears deaf to it. The lads at his back clung to each other and had their shields raised more like children behind their blankets than warriors behind their shields. He looked around, and it was just him and the giant. He swallowed sand, it felt like, and he stretched his mind’s hands down as far as it would go to the bottom of his barrel, searching for that mad fucker from years ago. The dagger-eyed prick that would bleed Skyrim dry for a hard name and do the blackest deeds for two pieces of gold to rub together. That would kill a man for a wrong word or a hard stare.

But the searching was cut short by the giant’s arm, coming at him and hitting him like a log. It lifted him off his feet and sent him tumbling against shields and it was the damnedest thing that he was pushed back. So it was the circle all over again, a duel, and to the death. No time to list his pedigree though, as the giant came on again, this time with his huge-headed maul. He stepped to the side and swung his sword with a grunt and it thudded against the giant’s armor on his midsection. To his credit, it gave the giant pause and he thought he heard a grunt of its own. He’d no time to dance a merry jig as the giant smashed the haft of his maul into his forehead. He saw a burst of white and suddenly was too heavy for his legs to carry as he stumbled sideways into another. He shook his head to see another man come screaming out of the mass of terror-gripped cowards’ shields and swing his axe with a wild-eyed and throaty roar. The axe found its mark at the crook of the giant’s leg and put it on its knee, still able to see almost eye-to-eye with the man. It took longer than he expected, but Jorwen recognized the man as White-Eye.

It almost seemed as if White-Eye was going to kill the thing. He ducked under a boulder of a fist and his axe panged off the thing’s helmet hard enough to send it reeling. It sat on all fours and White-Eye raised his axe and let loose a roar and brought it down. The giant simply reached up and grabbed it by the haft like a thing foreseen, halting its advance. It stood and wrenched the axe from White-Eye’s hands but the old man was having none of it. Quick as an eel through water, he ducked and planted his hands behind its knees and tackled it to the ground, bringing out a knife in a white-knuckle fist as he clambered to mount the giant’s chest but the thing palmed him in the gut hard enough to send him to the ground a few feet away. Jorwen got himself on his freshly-steady legs and hefted his sword, but not quick enough to stop the giant from bringing down a fist like a god’s anger. When the giant’s arm was lifted again, there was red beneath in White-Eye’s mail and cloth. White-Eye yelled and lanced out an arm with a knife in his hand but it only glanced off the giant’s helmet. Another boulder of a fist made a dull thud and White-Eye’s one good eye went glassy.

And Jorwen cold all over.

He let loose an ear-shattering roar and charged forward as soon as the thing stood. The giant had enough time to turn to look at him, but it wasn’t enough to stop the big blade from pounding into his leg like a mammoth’s trunk. He heard something pop and the giant faltered, turned and roared as he swung his tree-trunk arm over Jorwen’s head as he ducked. Quick as lightning and with the sound of thunder following, Jorwen reared back and hard as he could, brought his big blade down on the giant’s helmet. The giant faltered again, letting go a groan. Jorwen saw his chance. He planted his shoulder in the giant’s gut as he sprang, sending them both toppling to the ground. Jorwen unsheathed his big knife and shoved it into the slit of the giant’s helmet, but it still rose after as if the knife was a splinter. Jorwen moved to the side and the giant’s arm scraped along his mail’d shoulder. Jorwen rolled away and grabbed the closest thing to him, a hammer. He hid it behind his back as the giant came on, screaming its warcry. Once it got close, Jorwen swung and the beak of the hammer opened the slit of its helmet with the scraping of metal and the giant toppled over like an old oak to the ground.

Jorwen left the hammer in the giant’s helmet and ripped out his knife to put it back in its sheath. He grasped up his big sword as the lines were reforming. There was still work to be done, always more work. He’d killed only one of those things and he felt like he’d fought ten men. He stood with the men at his shoulder and they looked at him with resolve or awe. He looked to one of the men and his eyes shot away from Jorwen. It shamed him to say he enjoyed that, seeing the same fear and respect. By the time another of the giants came, the men met it with a little more bravery now that they knew it could be killed. It seemed the old battle-lust was snaking its fingers over his and making his heart beat like a smith’s hammer on the anvil. Maybe he didn’t have to search far for that mad fucker, he’d bleed these giants dry and they’d whisper of him around their fires by days end.

{A Collab between @MiddleEarthRoze and @MacabreFox }

The arrival of Roze, with the absence of Sagax, prompted a curious raise of the brow from Sevine. She had expected to see him with Roze, but understood that he had chosen to stay at the warehouse instead. Shrugging it off, Sevine greeted her friend with a warm smile as did Leif.

“Hello Roze, what a pleasant sight to see you joining us. I’ll go and ready the spare bed upstairs.” He excused himself from the company of the women, and headed upstairs to go prepare the spare room he had. Despite being in the Grey Quarter, his home was rather cozy, and better kept than the other homes in the quarter. In truth, Leif's home, though inherited through his parent's deaths, it was one of the older houses in the district. With that, he left Sevine, and Roze to their own privacy as he disappeared up the flight of stairs to the floor above. A quiet creak of the floorboards signified Leif doing just as he said he would do.

“So Sagax stayed behind huh? That’s a shame for him. Leif, has an extra room for him too. I did promise to kick his ass, Leif that is, if he doesn’t have enough bacon.” Sevine chuckled to herself, and patted the seat Leif once occupied. She was happy to see Roze, she hadn't forgotten Cat-Kicker's unfriendly confrontation to when the young Breton woman first arrived at the company.

"Well that's good to hear - I'm not a morning person the best of times; taking away my bacon on top of that would truly make me a terror." Roze chuckled as she sat beside Sevine with a relieved sigh. The cushions were comfortable, especially in front of the warm hearth.
-----------

Morning came much quicker than a sleepy Sevine would’ve liked to acknowledge as she lay deeply snuggled underneath the warm, wool blankets. She reckoned that by the glow of the morning light, dawn was just breaking. Her body’s sleeping schedule echoed that of the rising sun, and when it rose, no matter if she were indoors, or outdoors, she always awoke near daybreak. Able to sleep in Leif’s guest bed, she found the mattress far more comforting than the beds at Candlehearth would’ve provided, as the mattress consisted of two layers sewn together. The first layer, being the bottom layer, held straw, and the second layer, the top layer, held a mixture of tundra cotton, and feather down. Her eyes flickered open as she took in her surroundings, recalling where she had fallen asleep. Sevine had taken her pack with her on the walk over to Leif’s, and she began to dress herself in her armor. She was fully unaware of the what Ashav had in mind for the mercenaries today, whether they were leaving the city, or if the company would stick around longer to collect more recruits. The death toll from the redoubt was significant as their forces had depleted from the attack, forcing the company to recover its losses with fresh blood.

Pulling on one boot at a time, Sevine slipped her tunic over her head, followed by her chainmail, and her leather armor. Tying on her leather pauldrons, and fitting her gorget around her neck, Sevine made damned sure she was prepared for the day. She slipped her belt around her waist, and made certain she had her axe at her hip, as well as her dagger. Then, strapping her wooden targe to her back, Sevine secured her bow and quiver over the targe, and headed downstairs. Halfway down the flight of wooden stairs, the sweet smell of hickory bacon floated up to greet her. She grinned, knowing that Leif had risen perhaps only an hour earlier than her, and had begun to prepare a sumptuous breakfast for her, and Roze. She appreciated his attempts to make up for his atrocious behaviour last night, trying to woo all those women in front of her, yet she found it to be amusing as each woman turned him down. Still even then, Solveig's words echoed in her ears as Leif had uttered words of pollinating her flower.

“Good morning, Leif.” Sevine said as she entered the kitchen, she set her pack down by the door, and took a seat at the table. Leif stood near an oven, with an iron pan in his hand, the sizzling of the bacon filled the room. He looked up in surprise, as if he hadn't expected his companion to wake so early, nonetheless, he offered her a friendly smile in return.

“Well good morning to you, Sevine. I hope you slept well.”

“Aye, that I did. Thank you. That was probably the best sleep I’ve had in a long while.”

“Good, I’m glad to hear. Say, why are you wearing your armor? Are you expecting a battle?”

Sevine shrugged haplessly, “You could say that. I’m not sure what Ashav has planned for us, we could leave, or we could be here for another day or so. I’d like to be ready in case anything happens. Besides, if we're not doing anything today, I can always take it off later. You know how I feel about such things, Leif."

“That is a wise idea, my friend. If I recall correctly, I do remember a much younger you, falling asleep in your armor every night we were in battle."

“Well, you don't say me lying dead in a ditch without my head, now do you? Has Roze woken?”

“That I can’t say.”

At a glance, one could see Roze was more comfortable than a fox in its den - curled up under the warm blankets, nothing bar a mess of curls and a small sliver of face being visible from underneath the covers. However, it was enough for that small sliver to be caught by the sharp dawning sun to awaken the young Breton, and with a few tosses and turns, Roze eventually sat upright in the bed, yawning.

Hearing Sevine and Leif talking downstairs, she came to the - unfortunate - conclusion that it was in fact, time to get her arse out of bed.

Groaning quietly as the morning chill hit her upon uncovering her blankets, Roze put on her laced trousers sluggishly, then attempting to put her boots on. After a few missed attempts, she simply grabbed them, deciding that going downstairs and waking up properly would be the best bet to getting dressed.

"Gods above - there doesn't seem to be a difference in me between being sleepy and drunk." She grumbled silently in her head as she staggered down the stairs. "Other than drunk me being much happier, that is."

"Leif, which nobleman did you brutally murder in order to get a bed like that? Or did you just sell your soul to a Daedra?" Roze announced herself with a tired joke uttered through yet another yawn, stretching before slumping into a chair beside Sevine.

There was no doubt she looked somewhat childish - she looked young at the best of times, but with her messy hair, bedraggled clothes, and - still - attempting to put on her boots, one would assume she'd never even hurt a fly.

Now, Roze couldn't really account for any flies, but she knew quite a few souls in the afterlife cursed her name to this day.

"Oh - and good morning, I suppose." She added in afterthought, sighing contently as she inhaled the sweet, sweet smell of bacon; and finally pulling on her boots over her trousers.

Ah, the pig. Truly the most glorious animal; spending it's life eating and rolling around in it's own shit, and giving forth the greatest of meats. It was so ironic it could almost be a work of Sheogorath.

Hearing gentle footsteps descend the stairs, Sevine turned in the seat of her chair to see a barefooted Roze, with her boots tucked under one arm. A friendly smile blossomed across her face as she spotted her companion, who appeared rather sleepy still, much like herself. Perhaps it was just the way her tired eyes peered out from under her mess of black curls, and the wrinkled clothes that Sevine presumed she fell asleep in.

“Good morning, Roze.” Leif, and Sevine said in unison, “Ah the bed? My mother insisted that my father give us all proper beds, bless her heart, the cold here affected her joints in the later years of her life. It’s a simple, dual-layer mattress, if you’re asking for technicalities.”

He came away from the oven, bearing two plates, and set them down before each woman at the table. Each plate bore a pile of bacon, along with scrambled eggs, and a freshly baked roll of bread, along with two pieces of fruit, blackberries, and an apple.

“Can I get you something to drink? Milk, water, mead, wine, juice?” Leif offered as he returned to the oven to finish preparing his plate.

“Ah, I would go for wine, but it’s too early in the day for me.” She chuckled, “Water will be fine, Leif. Thank you.”

He wandered away from the oven, and fetched a water pitcher off a wooden shelf next to him, and grabbed three, metal tin cups, and set them gingerly on the table. If anyone knew of his loquacious behavior, they would note how his lack of licentious, unrestrained of flirtatious comments, had seemingly disappeared. That behavior, while apart of his personality, was not always present, and he could prove to be a most courteous man. On a day like today, with the hearth of the house chasing away the frigid morning temperatures, Leif dressed smartly, with his sandy-brown hair pulled back at the temples in two braids, as he sported a sky-blue tunic, with evergreen coloured embroidery, and a pair of black, leather trousers, and boots to match.

Looking at her friend beside her, Sevine nodded with her head, as if to indicate they should start their meals. She dug her fork into the plateful of eggs with a rapturous hunger, her appetite was bigger than her stomach. Finishing the last bite of her eggs, Sevine groaned aloud ecstatically as she dove into her bacon-pile with a wolfish attitude. When Leif finally joined the two women at his breakfast table, he looked at Sevine in shock, and then to Roze with a smile.

“I hope this breakfast suits your tastes, Roze.”

Through a mouthful of food, Sevine attempted to thank him, but all that came out was a mix of pleased grunts, as she tried to force words from her mouthful of bacon.

As Leif retrieved some drinks, Roze regarded him somewhat curiously. His demeanour was much different from last night - no cheesy flirtatious attiude; perhaps because they were now under his roof? Whatever the reason, it was refreshing.

As was the food, on that matter - not only was there bacon, but there was eggs and bacon on the side, and the aroma was something akin of Heaven. Chuckling quietly at Sevine as she all but inhaled her food, Roze ate a wee bit slower then her friend, still halfway through her bacon when Leif inquired about her meal.

"Undoubtedly - you make the home life look appealing with food and beds this good." She replied with a grin, pushing a hand through her hair in an attempt to tame it somewhat.
"So Sevine - when you're finished obliterating your breakfast, do you know what the plan is for today? Ashav wasn't all that clear on where we're headed to next." Brow furrowing ever so slightly - he had recrutied far more people, so they must be going somewhere as dangerous - or perhaps moreso - than the Forsworn Camp.

A slap-silly grin grew on his face as he watched his friend eat, his eyes glancing at her ravenous behavior before looking up at Roze.

“Why thank you. My mother taught me that a good host, always provide exceptional care to his guests, no matter who they are, or how poor you are. Not that I am, but I see no problem in fixing breakfast for you two ladies.” His eyes turned to look upon Roze, and offered her a playful, non-suggestive, wink.

Sevine lifted her plate from the table, and licked it clean, her hunger had got the best of her. It always did when she woke in the mornings, her appetite was so strong, that if she didn’t eat right away, she would be left feeling weak, and light-headed until she ate. She turned her attention to Roze, as she addressed her, inquiring about their business with the company. In truth, she knew not of Ashav’s plans for the company, and it requited a simple shrug from her.

“Hard to say. I haven’t spoken to him much since first signing on. Though, after this last battle at the redoubt, I’m surprised he’s rounded up so many new recruits. If anything-“

Her words were cut short as the sound of someone pounding on Leif’s front door filled the house. Leif, and Sevine exchanged curious glances as they heard a young man’s words shout.

”Arise! Behold glorious battle!”

Leif’s chair slid back across the floor, and tipped over with a bang, as he leapt to his feet, and raced to the front door. He flung the door open with the ferocity of a wild-man being woken from his sleep, only to reveal no one, save for a pudgy young-man, perhaps in his early twenties, speeding away down the cobblestone path. Sevine glanced at Roze, with furrowed brows, as if she looked mad, or rather concerned.

“Battle? Shit. You’ve got to be kidding me.” She grumbled as Leif rushed back into the kitchen to the women.

“That’s what the lad said. Didn’t even have a chance to ask him what happened.”

“Well, let’s get the fuck out of here, and get down to the warehouse. If anything, everyone will be there, and ready to go. Get your gear on Roze.” Sevine said as she gave her friend a half-hearted smile, as if to say, well, here we go again!. “Leif you too.”

“Ain’t gotta tell me twice.” Leif muttered as he darted up the stairs, grabbing what gear he could.


"Goddammit!" Well, there went Roze's good mood - shoveling the remainder of her bacon into her motuh - wasting bacon was worth an execution, no matter how dire the situation - and swiftly tied her hair up and out of the way.

"Sevine, my armour is still at the blacksmiths. I'll meet you at the warehouse - don't even think of starting without me!" Roze told her friend with a grin on her face; still joking, even in this situation. Before either Leif or Sevine could say anything she was out of the house, sprinting down the snow-covered streets of the Grey Quarter to get to the blacksmiths.

"Who in Oblivion is attacking Windhelm? The city is a damned fortress..." She thought to herself as she ran, arms and legs pumping in her hurry to get her things and back to the waterfront as soon as possible. Considering how early it was the morning, chances were that it was still closed - but locked doors had never been an issue for her.

As Roze reached the dark marketplace, empty bar a single beggar, she calmed her breathing and knelt by the door of the blacksmiths, taking out a lockpick.

As she worked on the lock, a small symbol was noticed by the right side of the door - a small engraving of a circle, within which was box and three lines - the Thieves Guild shadowmark for loot. Grinning as the lock clicked into place, she slipped inside, quiet as a shadow.

"Well, as it's not protected - it could hardly hurt if I restocked my arrow supply..."

In no time at all, Roze was fully armoured and re-stocked, heading towards the warehouse; she'd found her armour in no time at all, and as he had done such a good job - even reinforcing the leather in some places - she'd left behind some gold coins as payment, and not taken as much loot as she had been sorely tempted to do.

Upon leaving, however, she'd given the lone beggar ten septims - beggars saw and heard everything, so it was always good to pay them off if you did something illegal in front of them.

Rather than joining the group on the docks, Roze had taken her stance atop the walls along with what had been summoned of the city archers, and even a handful of the mercenaries from her group.

The breath seemed to leave her body as she saw the armoured boats approaching - coming forth from the ghostly mists like something out of a nightmare.

"By the Gods... what the Hell is inside those monsters?" She muttered under her breath, readying her bow.

Sevine watched her friend leave as she disappeared out the door, as Leif had just descended the stairs, wearing his suit of leather armor, which simply consisted of a leather armor breastplate, and a set of leather bracers, along with his steel helm planted firmly on his head. At his hips, hung two steel daggers, and across his back he bore a steel longsword. Unlike Sevine, with her chainmail armor, steel helm, leather pauldrons, leather gorget, Leif was left more exposed. Though, that was a personal preference, as he liked wearing less armor. If he ever got struck down in battle, it was better than having a limb mangled, better to have it cleaved right off. Besides, when he got carried away in the frays of conflict, he favoured the full maneuverability, as it granted him with wider swings of his longsword.

“Roze went for her armor, let’s go and meet her down at the warehouse if we can.” Sevine said with a voice that elicited much command, to which Leif nodded knowingly. He wasn't going to balk at her words, time spent in the war had made the two of them familiar with the circumstances at hand.

The two departed from Raven-Stone House, and headed for the city gate that led out to the docks. As the two raced through the streets of Windhelm, they could hear the din of noise from the conflict just on the other side of the walls, and she could hear the cries of men, attempting to intimidate the foes they faced. Finally, they approached the massive city gate to the docks. There, amongst all of the commotion, she could see guardsmen, and soldiers rushing about. Grabbing Leif by the elbow, Sevine forced his gaze upon her. She didn’t recognize any members from the company on the inside of the gate, and her to knowledge, they could be locked out on the other side of the docks.

“I’m going up on the walls, see if I can get a better view. Come with me if you want.” Sevine said, her green eyes yielded no emotions, as she gazed fiercely into his sky-blue ones. A look that Leif knew all too well, in the midst of battle, Sevine became more like a Dwemer machine, and less like a human.

“It’s like the old days again, eh? Me keeping you alive, and you keeping me alive.” He knew he couldn’t be of much use if there were archers on the wall, as he was lacking in that department. However, he could act as a medic if anyone was taken down. An arrow to the eye, or to the knee, his skills in restorative magick would allow him to heal those with mild to moderate injuries. Anything severe, sure he could try, yet it would prove to be exhaustive for him if held for long periods of time.

“Aye.” She flashed him a daring smile before darting up the stone steps that led to the top of the wall. As the two emerged from under the stone stairwell, and into the morning sunshine, Sevine held a clear view of the bay, and to her dismay, she immediately spotted the armored ships that had filled the icy waters. Her mouth fell agape in astonishment, dammit! Who were these people?

Scores of archers now lined the walls at the top, overlooking the docks. Sevine tried to find a place where she could notch her bow, and string up an arrow, when her eyes discovered Roze along the ramparts.

“Roze!” Sevine shouted, and hurried over to her fellow companion with Leif in tow.

Standing alongside her friends in disbelief, she watched as giants disembark from the ships as they docked in the harbor, one of the ships destroyed one of the piers in their attempt to dock. Giants? Where the hell did they manage to find giants to fight for them? Just who in Oblivion are these people? Sevine thought warily. The oddities of the unfolding battle confused her. Then again, war was never meant to be clear. From her position, she could also see the remains of a now sinking ship in the bay, impaled with ice bolts, the source of the sinking or so it appeared.

“This can’t be good.” She grunted as she pulled an arrow from her quiver, and raised her bow up, notching the steel arrow upon the corded string, and waited patiently, with her right eye closed. Leif simply squatted down beside Sevine, his head level with her hip as he peered over the wall, only the top of his helm could be seen. He viewed the ongoing battle below and shook his head. Never before in his days of battle had he seen any encounters with those in the bay, not even on the Sea of Ghosts had he seen armored hulls on ships. The plated metal that protected the ships were new to him, and couldn't help but to wonder if the added weight was worth it.

“Talos guide us all. How in Oblivion are we supposed to defeat those bastards? Who are they anyways?” Leif wondered aloud, more than asking anyone in particular. He drew out his daggers, one clenched tightly in each fist, and remained ready in case any of the attackers dared to breach the walls. Part of him felt relieved that he wasn't mixed up in the fray down in the docks. He even wondered how long the citadel could hold off the attack, maybe several days, but that would be a stretch. Sure, Windhelm was known as an impenetrable fortress, but as Sanja always told him, "If there's a will, there's a way.". He hoped that that wouldn't be applied in this situation at hand.

Down below, Sevine watched the on-going fight between the men, and the giants. It was hard for her to watch, as the level of carnage wrought made her sick to her stomach. She could feel her mouth water, threatening to lose her very breakfast. Taking a deep slow breath, Sevine scouted the scene below, with her arrow notched, and picked out an unmistakable person. Jorwen Red-Bear. He led a section of men against the giants, and to her trained eye, though no expert in military strageties, it seemed as though those men were hesitant in greeting the giants, hiding behind their shields like frightened babes. Sevine let her breath relax, and her heart beat slow as she aimed for one of the giant's threatening Jorwen, and his men. Loosing the arrow, it sang a quiet whistle as it struck the giant in the throat, finding a gap between the uniquely designed armor. Whether it did any damage, that she could not say. Her encounters with giants were far and few between, perhaps they had thicker skin?

The arrow impacted the invader's neck, where heavy metal gapped to reveal leather-like underarmor. It nestled in shallow. The giant flinched but still stood, the shot wasn't leathal but it distracted the enemy enough for its target, a fortunate guard, to escape an otherwise fatal blow.

As the horror unfolded before her, Roze did not release any of her arrows - she was too busy taking it all in, and trying to find a decent strategy in her head while the guards of Windhelm panicked around her, firing at will towards these alien giants.

Their armour was striking - unique; nothing like she'd ever seen before. It was almost similar to stahlrim - the ice crafted by the Skaal on Solstheim that her mother had told her about - but the workings were jagged and had an air of savagery about it. Not only that, but it covered all of these mysterious invader's bodies and faces - thus making their species unknown.

"Can't be giants... they barely have enough smarts to create loincloths, let alone armour and boats like these..." She muttered under her breath, eyes narrowing as she watched - and then her face blanching as she watched one man be cleaved in two as easily as cutting bread, just in one swipe of the monster's blade.

"If they're not giants, what are they then?" Sevine replied to Roze, though she mumbled the question more to herself.

Finally notching an arrow in her bow, she inhaled as she drew the string - shoulder crying in protest from the pulling, but more than anything, the familiar tensing of muscles was pleasant - the healed and raw scar tissue was under pressure, but if anything, it gave her more focus than distracting her. The grip of the bow and the roughness of her string gave a sense of belonging in a place like this.

"We can't let these things get into the city. Pick off any you see approaching the stairs." She announced loudly, attracting the attention of some of the guards. Many looked ready to piss themselves in fear - chances were that they would just panic and waste arrows. An order from a small Breton woman keeping her head would either anger them or embarass them enough to snap out of it, and then start aiming properly.

That was the idea, anyhow.

Finally letting her arrow go, she allowed herself a miniscule smile as it made it's mark in a gap of armour on one of the foes. It had raised both arms, heavy weapon in hand, to smash some poor fellow's skull in - leaving the unarmoured area of the armpit free to shoot at. It faltered in it's aim as her arrow struck true, and the man rolled away as the enemy roared in pain... then ripping out the arrow from it's body and flinging it away like a mere splinter.

Roze's smile disappeared.

"Gods above... I hope they don't have any archers with them..." She thought to herself grimly while drawing another arrow.

"By the Nine! I'll be damned!" Leif whistled as he watched the arrow strike the behemoth. The carnage below painted the cobblestone paths of the dockways crimson, and splattered with gore of brain matter, and other bodily mattered that lay mashed to bloodied pieces underfoot.

"How the fuck are we suppose to kill these bastards?" Sevine swore loudly, she didn't want to loose another arrow, without knowing it would strike true, and so she sat ready, with an arrow notched on her bowstring, patiently waiting for an opportunity to strike. She only had thirteen arrows left, she would have to punch some poor bloke in the face if she ran out, and confiscate his.

"Damn it all. If there was some way to pour boiling tar, or oil on them, and set that on fire, that might help. But I can't tell if their armor is enchanted." She added quietly, gazing down the shaft of her arrow.

Utu-ja received his orders and ran to a place farther back than the other bowmen, crouching on a large barrel that was farther toward the left flank of the defense line. Longshots were his specialty and he'd have more time to aim from farther back. He was also more visible from the walls than most and was in an exposed position if the enemy had archers. But that was a risk he'd have to take to get clean shots into the chaos that was going to erupt when the enemy landed.

Most of the ships seemed to have competent pilots and docked reasonably well. One of them, though, was clumsy enough that he apparently used one pier to slow down before docking at the next. The argonian hoped that they would be equally clumsy in battle. This situation didn't feel right. It didn't help that the garrison was panicking and stupid, no matter how brave. They wasted an entire volley of arrows before they had a single good shot. But Utu got a glimpse of the armor worn by the enemy just before they ducked behind cover.

He used the first vial of frostbite venom to soak his first arrowhead and the first few inches and set the other three beside his lead foot. He actually left the arrow inside the vial, braced against his leg during the assault by the atronarchs. Poison wouldn't do anything to them and he didn't want to show off while the enemy was watching. He only had 18 steel arrows and then he'd be down to his iron heads. Those arrows had to count. He didn't have a Jarl footing the bill for his gear.

Then the atronarchs fell and the real attack started. He heard horrified whispers of giants but these things were no giants. A giant could kick one of them well into the river. Still, they were built like trolls and much bigger. Even without the armor he would have to use poison to bring something like that down. Now, he had to find weak points.

He waited and watched, his jaw tightening at the power and the carnage. There were people he respected over there. He didn't want them to die. He didn't know Jorwen personally but he had never seen anything contemptable from him. Now, he saw something to admire. The man was a beast himself. Still, he looked like he was shaken and tired and he'd only killed one. But, for an archer with a good view, he had done far more.

Jorwen had forced that beast to show numerous weak points in its armor where the metal didn't help it. The leather beneath looked thick but Utu wasn't using a common bow. He drew back that poisoned arrow as far as he could with his long arms and lined up a shot with one that was in the lead by only a short distance with two of its cursed kind behind it. They were running, charging, and focused on the area where Jorwen was rallying the other mercenaries. There was a gap in the metal plate just at the root of the hamstring. It was small but Utu was used to hitting the gaps in a stag's ribs from two hundred paces.

He loosed the shot and it flew true. With the added power of his elven bow and his overdraw the poisoned arrow penetrated the thick leather farther than others. Still, it wasn't at the right angle to cut the tendon. The beast was startled and stumbled, tried to correct its balance and suddenly found that its right ankle wouldn't respond as it wished. The venom worked quickly, especially where it first struck. The beast fell and the two behind it had the misfortune to catch their feet on their fellow. One of them went down with a second massive crash, its armored head cracking the stones where it struck. The other managed to keep on coming but its balance was gone and its first swing went wild, missing everyone and turning its torso to the side.

Utu quickly readied an unpoisoned arrow and concentrated on the ones on the ground. The one that had tripped was already rising, shaking its head only a little. It would be the first back into the fray and might break Jorwen's position. Utu fired a second arrow, also overdrawn. He was going to exhaust himself before he ran out of arrows if he had to pull so far back to make a difference with each shot. This arrow was not so well fated. It hit the base of the helmet and glanced downward inside the armored collar of the beast. Part of the arrowhead had snapped off and the jagged remains weren't likely to penetrate far.

It turned to look his way and ripped a stone the size of the argonian's head from the dock before hurling it. Utu jumped to one side and the stone smashed through the top of the barrel. He landed hard but rolling and managed to escape serious injury. Well that was the end of his advantageous position. Now he had the brute's attention, no cover, no height, and only one vial of frostbite venom left. The others lay smashed on the stones. This didn't look good. It was reaching for another stone.

This great read was brought to by @Peik and the Schaft.

''Huh?''

There was nothing but a gray blur. Sadri felt cold all over - he did not know why, but he was cold. Though he couldn't help but feel a warmth dripping from his right eye. His right hand searched for the source of the warmth on his face, but couldn't find anything. He decided to get up, - was he on the ground? He did not know - leaning on his right arm, and fell. Where had his arm gone? Sadri looked for his arm, but it looked like a fabric of grey was pressed onto his face. He couldn't make out much. He did not see his arm. He could feel it, though. One of his senses was wrong.

He wiped his face with his left hand, and brought his fingers to his mouth. The rusty, warm liquid was familiar. He couldn't make out its name, though. Where was he?

''Get a grip. Gotta get a grip.''

Sadri blinked over and over until his vision cleared some more, and as the blur went away, memories started to take its place. He was in Skyrim. His arm had been lost for a few years. He was bleeding from the eye, and it hurt all over. He was smashed into a wall by a giant.

Wait, that last part didn't make much sense. He still had some trouble piecing it together. He looked around. He was sure there was a commotion. Bells ringing. People shouting. Bones cracking. His whole body felt like a wasp nest. It was horrible. He had to get up. He crawled some, and finally managed to get up, supporting his body with his left arm. Raising his head, he checked his surroundings. He felt out of his element.

The father of the girl -what girl?- was there. There was a lump of humanoid-looking iron in front of him. It was bleeding. -can iron bleed?- The man didn't look so good himself. Obviously, there was something going on.

''Oh. Hey.''

"Sleeping, eh?" Jorwen had the crook of a smile on his split lip. He used his sleeve to wipe blood from a gash in his forehead, "Ain't that ten lashes for doing that on duty?"

He reached down and took hold of the Dunmer's arm, hauling him up and slapping dust off his shoulder. He pointed over the ragged and weary shieldwall they were behind towards the group of metal-clad giants on the other side. They were bearing down on them like mountains and to some of the men, he was sure, facing them with their twig-weapons seemed much akin to fighting a mountain. It was no secret in their eyes that they were on the verge of breaking, but it was all Jorwen could do to try to keep them together. If only for a bit, just as long as he could and maybe his family would be safe, maybe they'd break the giants' resolve. But praying now was wasted, leaves on the water. Another giant clambered over the barricade blocking the pier and took a man's shield from him before beating him to death with it. The men around him all edged back from the carnage, jabbing half-heartedly at the big thing. Just like the others, it continued, unperturbed. It smashed the man's head open with all the care of a brick-layer. Jorwen held with the men, nothing they could do for the lad now. Just think about holding the damned line, that's it. "You feel healthy enough to kill something, Dunmer?"

That's a joke. Yeah, that's a joke. Or is it? Sadri wasn't all too sure. I mean, in front of him was an ironclad troll-thing. Sadri wasn't all too sure. Definitely he wasn't. He didn't want to get lashed. That hurt like fucking hell, y'know? It just... Sadri was getting dragged off. He was going to get something worse than a lashing if he didn't get his mind back on track soon.

The Nord pulled him up to a more stable position. The sudden tension on his arm and the rest of his muscles as he was hoisted up to a better composure sent a pain through all his muscles that burnt through Sadri's mind, cleansing it from all the confusion caused by the trauma. He could feel the gears in his brain turn the correct way now (whether he had gears in his brain or not, he didn't want to find out). Right. There was a job that needed to be done. ''Hold the line.'' He had been through much worse before. Sizzling muscles and some bleeding wasn't jack shit. His hand still worked. His other arm wasn't broken. That meant he had no excuse not to wield his sword. And Sadri wasn't a man who would slack off from work anyway. Especially not this sort of work.

''You feel healthy enough to kill something, Dunmer?''

Sadri chuckled softly. It felt like his eye was going to burst out of his socket when he did. ''Never better, captain. What do we do now?'' He said, somewhat weakly, while unsheathing his sword from his sash.

"We kill." Jorwen said through a heavy frown, "Follow me. I'll take his attention, go for the groin or the armpits. Back of the knee."

Fighting well-armored opponents wasn't foreign to Jorwen. He'd bested mercenaries coming after their reward on the road, puffed up with suits of armor from Cyrodiil or High Rock. It was a constant thing, and a lesson he taught more times than he could count- when he knocked, men opened. He hoped these giants would too, of course, he kept that doubt to himself. Last thing the men needed was his doubt to weigh them all down. Say one thing about Jorwen, and you can say he hits damn hard. With a loud roar, meant to grab the big bastard's attention and give Sadri the giant's broad backside to work with, he smashed his blade straight into the helmet of the thing. He swung so hard, the impact near took the sword right out of his hand, but the giant faltered, stumbled a bit on unsteady legs. The giant, foreboding axe in his fists dropped from one hand and the head clattered to the ground. If any time was the best time for Sadri to get to work, it was now.

Considering what the Nord had just asked him, Sadri's question felt somewhat stupid, and the man's answer all too obvious in retrospect. Sadri felt dumb for asking it, but now was not the time for feeling - it was time for action.

Sadri followed Jorwen with his sword in hand. Jorwen gave the impression of a trap waiting to be sprung with his tensed muscles, and Sadri found that normal considering just how much strength would be needed to even stun one of the foes they faced right now. Charging a giant clad in iron was not something Sadri had done before. He had fought a fully armored Orc that could count as a giant decades ago, but this was something else. An Orc couldn't just backhand you into a wall. Not Sadri, at least. But these things could. It was like fighting Imga all over again, except this time they were huge, well armed, and armored.

Jorwen's arms sprung just when Sadri expected them to, right as the man's thunderous roar concluded. Right as the sword in the Nord's hand smashed against the metal helmet of the creature, Sadri threw himself diagonally to the beast's side, hoping to make a backswing that would hit a good spot. Still disoriented thanks to Jorwen's blow, the creature fell on one knee and dropped its weapon with a clang. Eyes locked on the bent knee of the beast, Sadri sprung himself from his spot, his left hand grasping the ricasso of the blade. With Sadri's weight, energy and frustration behind it, the blade pierced through flesh, hide and bone, stopping only when coming into contact with the back of the creature's poleyn, denting it outward with a clang. Sadri pulled the blade out quickly, leaving a spring of blood behind it. He knew the thrust wouldn't be immediately fatal, but Sadri also knew that the creature wouldn't be able to stand on its two feet ever again. Hopefully the creature wouldn't need another hit.

The thing's leg buckled from under it, as if he'd lost all life in it. It sprawled out on all fours and looked up at Jorwen in time for him to boot it in the face hard enough to crunch its neck into itself and it fell limp. Dead or unconscious, Jorwen didn't know, but he didn't want to be disappointed. He stomped down on the giant's neck as hard as he could once, two, three times, hearing cracks on the second and third. He stood panting over the fallen giant but raised his sword in time to parry a swing of an axe, its edge taking coiled shavings from Jorwen's own sword. It wasn't the first wound the blade had taken and it wouldn't be the last. The thing barreled into him with all the force and ferocity of a bull. Jorwen fell back to be surrounded by the shields of the others. Another terrible swing cleaved one man's shield and took him off his feet, blood spattering Jorwen's face and getting in his mouth. He spat, rose, and shoved one of the lads out of the way. He kicked out and caught the beast in the knee, snapping something and the giant stepped back. It raised a hand as Jorwen's sword came down and split it down the middle, bloody to the wrist. It was a short feeling of victory as it wildly swung its axe in a wild arc over Jorwen's head and lifting two lads into the air and onto the ground, limp. It went for a backswing, but Jorwen made a big, wide, heavy swing for its exposed other leg but it shifted and ran straight into him. It barreled through him and two other men behind him. It was in amongst the men now and flailing its tree-trunk arm and heavy axe in all directions, making sure they stayed well away from him. It was bad, and Jorwen was angry, but the lads seemed ready to break. The thing was frenzied and clouded by panic, and he looked to Sadri, hoping he could work the same tricks again.

Sadri couldn't feel help but feel bad for the creature for a moment. Getting curb-stomped by an angry Nord certainly wasn't a very nice way to go, whether you be man, mer, beast, or whatever the fuck like these things. But he could understand Jorwen's anger. Getting shoved around like a fucking towel had pissed Sadri off too, and despite his swollen eye hurting like hell, the frustration, adrenaline and anger that sourced from these beasts' interruption of their well-earned rest had easily pushed him over the edge. Sure, it was a horrible way, but these fucks had it coming. A mercenary is most dangerous when he or she is frustrated. ''Could've just-''

Sadri immediately threw himself back as another beast swung an axe in their direction, missing him by a few inches. Jorwen seemed to barely parry the hit with his large sword, unable to dodge the hit. This one seemed hell-bent on getting Jorwen, perhaps to avenge his comrade's rather unsettling demise. It threw itself forwards, ramming Jorwen like a bull, sending him flying amongst the rest of the warriors. Sadri started following the fight, albeit cautiously - these things had a lot of reach, and he didn't want to get chopped in half by a missed swing.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it), these fierce swings missed Sadri and Jorwen, instead chopping up others who were in the way. But the creature's assault was momentarily repelled by Jorwen, who caved in the beast's knee with a strong kick and then lodged his sword in its hand via a strong overhead swing. This, however, seemed to only enrage the armored ape further. In a berserk rage, the creature dashed right into the formation and began swinging its wide-bladed axe wildly, spilling body parts and blood everywhere.

Realizing his position between a rock and a hard place, Sadri decided to go with the easier route - take out the single beast and then retreat alongside the allies. Considering that the other option was to face the rest of these beasts alone, this one was much more sensible - yet still suicidal in itself. Deciding to wait no further, Sadri took off with a mad dash for the armored creature, springing his sword arm backwards for a strong swing. The moment he got in reach, Sadri immediately struck his sword overhead and onto the back of the ape's head. Miraculously, the metal of the helmet caved in, dented deep but not opened, under the weight of Sadri's blade, and a small amount of blood burst forward from the visor of the beast, overwhelmed with pressure. The beast slumped forwards and fell like a drunkard after the strike, twitching and seeping blood from the front of the helm still, leaving Sadri face to face with the survivors of the group and Jorwen.

''Holy shit.'' Sadri muttered to himself. He was certainly upping the ante.

"Fuck." Jorwen muttered, his mouth hanging open as he pushed his helmet out of his eyes at the sight. The strap had come loose, so he ripped it from his head and discarded it. He'd get a new one if he survived this. He might even buy Sadri a drink if they both did. Gods knew they earned it, or he knew, anyway. There were still a few pushing their way through the splintered barricades and his lads were fixing to run. He shook his head and spat, so much blood for so little of the giants'. Growling, he turned back to his men, "Fall back to the other pier and fucking hold this time! You want to live another day and woo some farmer's daughter to fuck you, you'll hold, you dogs!"

A half-hearted yell rose up from the men as they beat their shields. It wasn't as enthusiastic as he may have wanted it to be, but any kind of response was better than the one that ended with him standing alone with his ass to these giants. He didn't want to die on these docks, really wasn't fixed on dying at all if he could help it. But the beasts had made it past the barricade looking set on giving him their opinions on that. He backed away, facing them, making sure he had his front to them. They moved up as a group this time, not having to play at who could climb over the barrier first to get picked off. These last few had been smart. One of them came at him, screaming his lungs out with his big maul over his head and took another swing. Jorwen managed to move in time but it caught a lad in his shield's boss and sent him twirling away. It'd have been a funny sight if he didn't have a mountain of iron and muscle trying to kill him. The giant took another wide swing and left himself exposed on his side. Jorwen brought his sword over his head and down onto the thing's shoulder-plate, hopefully breaking something. He dodged right and the thing's maul smashed open a crate of wheat. Another swing didn't manage to cave in Jorwen's chest, but it caught him on the side. He could hear his chainmail links snapping as he clutched his aching stomach and plowed straight into another crate, the added pain of breaking it open making him howl. The giant came on, hefted his maul in the air and let out a loud warcry. Terrifying, sure, but stupid too. Jorwen grasped up what had spilled from the crate and threw it in the giant's face. Fire salts, he saw as he looked at his hand, stained orange and red with it, and a little warmer. He looked back to see the giant clutching at his face and flailing about before falling off the pier, taking another with him. They didn't even float, he saw, just sank straight down. The salts, he gawped down at the black water of the pier where no view of the big beasts could be seen. "The salts." He muttered, quieter than anyone could hear, especially over the ruckus of battle. "The salts!"

Some of them men looked at him and he pointed to the crates of fire salts, one of them broken open already by him. "Get those to the gates and I'll buy you all drinks if we get out of this."

They seemed to have perked up at that and nodded to each other before nodding at him, "Aye, Chief."

Jorwen waved his hand to signal Sadri and the pair hefted some of the crates as they made their way to the rear, grunting and swearing with the work of it. "Battle," Jorwen chuckled, more than a little relieved to be going to the rear, he looked at Sadri next to him, "Fucking younger man's game, eh?"

''Couldn't agree more.''

Sagax stood in awe, mouth agape as the invaders disembarked in all of their armored glory. Covered head to toe in hulking metal, he knew that the the Frost Giants that came before them were no threat in comparison. The monstrosities barreled through barricades and bodies alike, sending people flying and cutting any unlucky ones in two. One hit a crate and stumbled around. "Clumsy...good." the Imperial muttered to himself, "Perhaps they can be tripped up?" Sagax was relieved to know that the monsters had some weakness, no matter how small. They could be beaten, and that's what counts. He didn't even bother drawing his sword, as the armor of the invaders seemed to take even the heaviest weapons of his companions with unnerving ease. What would his dinky little shortsword do? Well, apparently quite a bit, Sagax learned, as he watched a Dunmer dig into a gap in the armor of one of the creatures. Precise thrusts and strikes were needed. His skills with a blade weren't exactly top-notch, but he could at the very least do that. The invaders weren't exactly graceful, leaving themselves wide open with each swing, which he delighted in watching Jorwen and Sadri take advantage of.

Unfortunately Sagax couldn't deliver any assistance of his own, as he glanced behind himself to see someone cowering at the back wall of the pier. Was he there before? Didn't matter, Sagax supposed. From the general feel of the assault, the defenders on the pier were about to pull back behind the walls of Windhelm. Something told him that no one was going to bother with a random nobody hiding in a corner when they retreated, if they even noticed the man at all. "Sagax Speculatus: Cheerleader and savior of cowards...can't say it's got a very nice ring to it." He thought with a half smile. He wasn't about to let a comrade get left behind to be turned into a mince pie though, so he dashed over and took the man by the shoulder. "Up, friend! We're going to be getting out of his soon, I'd take it, and I'd hate to see you left behind!" Shaking the man to hopefully get him to come to his senses, Sagax got back to his feet and turned to see another volley of almost entirely harmless arrows sail above him from the top of the walls and into a grouping of invaders.

The massive attackers were showing no sign of stopping, continuing to march across the pier, smashing the shield walls to bits with their mighty weapons. The situation was certainly dire. Sagax dragged Felix up by their collar roughly. "Seriously, Felix, get up!" He didn't want to sound cross, but it was a very tense situation and they didn't have time to sit in one spot. "You should make your way into the city, help prepare the inner defenses. We'll be in to meet you soon, I'd guess." Slapping Felix on the shoulder, Sagax ran back to the action, staying behind the meatier of his compatriots, ready to sprint in for a quick distraction if needed, in case the ones carrying off crates were targetted.

The arrows, fired from the top of the walls by a motley collection of mercenaries and city guards, had little effect on the armored giants. Niernen slowly climbed the last of the stairs and positioned herself between some of the archers. Garm followed, making small noises, swinging its pincered head from side to side. It could smell the death stench that cloyed the air. Some of the archers glanced aside to give Niernen a weird look and one of them was about to say something. "Focus! I'm friendly," she hissed, and they turned their attention back to the scene in front of them. The Dunmer woman took a second to familiarize herself with the battlefield, eyes widening at the amount of blood and gore already scattered on the docks. Scenes flashed before her eyes momentarily but she steeled herself and pushed those thoughts out of her mind.

She had signed up with the mercenary company just last night. The Redguard commander, whose name already escaped her, had seemed a little skeptical of Niernen at first but allowed her to sign on after she demonstrated some of her fire magic. The whole bunch had seemed extraordinary to her. As far as warriors went she'd only ever been familiar with the Redoran army and their Argonian opponents three years ago. These men and women were all sorts, from all over Tamriel, and seemed to have little cohesion. While they caroused and celebrated something (possibly their survival?), Niernen had retreated to her room and rested. Such frivolous expenditure of energy was beyond her these days.

Several of them were down there now, up close with the armored monsters, taking them down one by one. Niernen had to admit she was impressed by their daring and bravado. She saw a big Nord and another Dunmer, now carrying crates back to the gate; she had no idea why but presumed it was useful. Closer to her where several others, waiting to assist, including a thin-looking Imperial. The remaining armored giants had banded together, it seemed, and started moving forward.

Niernen was almost tempted to convince the defenders on the wall to spare their arrows, but she supposed that a lucky strike between the armored plating of the giants might help.

Fire, however, might be a different story. "Make room!" she said and lifted her left hand, a purple vortex of magical energy forming around her fingers. Alarmed, the defenders made space on the wall, and Niernen released her spell. The barrier between Nirn and Oblivion tore open for a moment and a Flame Atronach coalesced, floating several inches above the ground, heating up the air around it and melting the snow beneath it. Niernen heard a few curses but paid the other defenders no mind. Just you wait, she thought to herself. Using her right hand to cast, the Dunmer and the Atronach started lobbing Fireball spells at the giants. The spells exploded where they struck, scattering flames over the armored shapes, who reeled in confusion. The detonations weren't powerful enough to knock them down but it gave them pause, and the magical fire ate away at the armor before sizzling out.

The flames didn't last long enough to do any serious damage, but the giants seemed to be rather afraid of it regardless. They backed away a little bit and raised their arms over their heads. Much to Niernen's satisfaction, the advance of the giants was thus slowed, buying more time for the defenders down there to collect the crates. I wonder what's in them? she thought to herself while she readied another Fireball spell. With her free hand she felt at her waist, counting three filled magicka potion vials. Enough to last a while, but not forever. She would run out of magicka eventually.

The whole thing seemed rather confusing. Niernen had no idea who they were fighting or why they were attacking Windhelm. Hell, she wasn't even sure if defending the city was something they were being paid for, though it was undoubtedly the right thing to do. "Someone better have a good explanation for this," she muttered under her breath, and a guard standing next to her grunted his assent.

Inspired by Niernen's display, the archers on the wall resumed their volleys, and a spectacularly lucky strike hit one of the giants in the neck. The arrow embedded itself deep into the creature's flesh and it howled in pain. "The first one to do that three more times gets a drink," Niernen said with a smile, and the archers chuckled. Niernen glanced at the people carrying crates again and frowned. Hurry up and do something else so I can try to deduce what your plan is.

Tsleeixth groaned a he felt a commotion inside the warehouse, shifting as he heard a voice -that he quickly recognized to belong Dough-Boy, Ashav’s sort of unofficial messenger- shouted about an upcoming battle, Instincts kicking in, he quickly began to get dressed and out on his armor as he tried to recollect what had occurred the previous night while mercenaries all around him Rose from their slumber and either began to prepare themselves or curse Dough-Boy from waking them up.

He remembered going to Candleheart hall, his mood rather foul when he had arrived to the inn, and ordering a bottle of mead, wincing as he felt a headache due to a hangover Guessing I drank too much last night He thought as he remembered making the trip back to the warehouse inebriated. He fumbled slightly as he put his belt on but as soon as he stepped out of the Warehouse, the Argonian felt the cold wind of Skyrim clearing his thoughts as he followed Dough-Boy towards Candleheart and Ashav. He listened intently as the redguard mercenary leader spoke, more in the hopes to shake off the last of his hangover -by focusing on the task at hand- rather than any genuine interest in the orders, having guessed that it was impossible for Ashav to have made any sort of plan with so little time.

In spite of that fact, the Argonian spellsword managed to get the focus of their plan. Dumhuvud's and his group would go and speak to the Jarl, probably due to the injuries sustained by the Cat-Kicker during the attack on the Forsworn Redoubt although -hopefully, thought Tsleeixth- that meant that, in case they were forced to retreat further into the city, Dumhuvud and his group would have managed to set up a half-decent barricade at least.

Shaking those thoughts off, Tsleeixth followed Ashav towards the docks but stopped in his tracks when he saw the enemy’s ships “By the Hist” He muttered incredulous as he took in the sight of the advancing metal ships, his jaw hanging open when he saw them shouting ice spikes “Amazing, unbelievable” He muttered, suddenly feeling once more like an apprentice in the College of Winterhold that had seen something wonderful instead of seeing them for the dangerous weapons they were. He was shook out of his stupor when a man shaked him “Stupid lizard, those things are probably going to kill us so stop gawking at them like a child seeing a new toy” Said one of the Windhelm guard’s that had accompanied them to the docks.

However, the guards action -in hindsight- had been unnecessary, as the sight of the armor-clad giants firmly brought Tsleeixth back into the present situation as he realized that they had to fight and, somehow, kill the heavily armored invaders. The Argonian looked as Windhelm’s guard forces -in a moment of panic, most likely- sent a volley of arrows that had little to no effect, causing the spellsword to frown slightly at the sight but let out a sigh and shook his head. Sithis take them all He thought when he looked at the atronach’s that appeared on the docks, but at the very least those fell easily enough under the mercenaries combined force of arms.

He followed Jorwen to the docks and, like many others of the group, didn't have the courage to press an attack when he saw the armored giants. Or he didn't had it until he saw Jorwen taking one of them down, his confidence boosted even more when Red-Bear repeated the feat once more with the help of a Dunmer -whose name eluded Tsleeixth at the moment- from their group. Letting out a roar he summoned a skeleton guardian, using the creature to distract one of the giants -mimicking the tactic used by Jorwen and the Dunmer man- while he drove his sword through one of the creature’s knee before giving another thrust, this time at the creature’s throat, once it fell under it's own weight.

His victory was short lived however, for soon enough the skeleton that he had summoned was crushed by another of the armored creatures, splinters of bone hitting Tsleeixth in the face before the creature had time to wind another attack with the warhammer it was carrying and giving Tsleeixth enough time to move to a safer position. Panic seeping into his mind, Tsleeixth sent a lightning bolt against the creature which -against all odds- seemed to paralyze it for a few seconds, either from the attack itself or by the shock of being hit by the spell. Without much time, and remembering the weak spot around the neck in the creature’s armor, the Argonian tackled the creature, or tried to since he only managed to momentarily destabilize the creature but that small opening gave Tsleeixth the chance he needed as he tried to stab the giant’s throat.

In spite of the brief window of opportunity the Argonian hadn't been nearly as quick as he would have liked. And as the creature grabbed him by one arm, squeezing it until Tsleeixth was sure he heard a small crack, and began pummeling his ribcage with the other, the spellsword couldn't help but drop his sword and emit a loud cry. Attracted by the cry, one of the other mercenaries within their group took notice of Tsleeixth’s precarious situation approached the giant as it was distracted and thrusted his sword into the creature’s armpit.

Howling in pain, the armored monstrosity dropped Tsleeixth to the ground of the docks and turned to face his new companion and -blinded by rage- tried to do the same thing it was doing to the Argonian to the mercenary who had joined the fight. Weakly taking his sword, Tsleeixth tried once more to thrust it into the creature’s knees but was too weak to repeat his previous feat. In spite of this, it gave the man a chance buy distracting the creature who turned towards Tsleeixth, with the man taking advantage of the creatures distraction to drive his sword through it's ok knee for good before finishing it off by driving his sword thought the creature's throat. For a few seconds, the Argonian spellsword remained on the ground, panting tiredly as he felt the pain course through his body with his thoughts slipping away along his consciousness.

In that moment, his new companion -whom he now recognized as a Nord, and whom the Argonian seemed to vaguely remember from the battle at the redoubt- helped him stand by throwing his, probably broken, arm over his shoulder “Now there, don't you go falling unconscious” He heard the man say as he tried to drag the Argonian to the gates, taking the distraction created by the appearance of a flame atronach conjured by a Mage on the walls along with the volley of fire spells that the Mage was throwing at the giants. to try and get the Argonian to relative safety.

Vurwe awoke several times during the night to the sound of Solveig and Jorwen having an episode. Their savage barks and horselike whines filled her dreams. Then she would realize she was awake and curse them, loudly, though they hadn't seemed to hear it. In the morning her eyes were dark and saggy. She took the usual two hours she spent on her appearance, thinking of several hurtful barbs to throw at Jorwen. She liked the one about his inbred daughter.

It was chilly mornings such as this that reminded her of home by the sheer virtue of how it was completely inferior to it. In Summerset, the air was warm and you tripped on bottles of Alinor vintage like they were pebbles in the street. You could find accommodations and you wouldn't have to break into a place to acquire them, because you had a room filled with coin in the deeper recesses of your home. There were no Men, No Beasts, just Mer. Even that Dunmer noblewoman, whose name Vurwe forgot, was better company. The pillows were made of silk and filled with soft furs. It was immeasurably superior to Skyrim.

She left Jorwens home to ask if anyone had seen a hairy giant of a man and his hairy hagraven of a daughter. They gave her a look. She said their names, Jorwen and Solveig, and they seemed to understand with quick nods and they pointed in the direction of the docks. Vurwe gave the closest thing she had to a thank you, saying that she needed the help. She did not say she appreciated it.

Traveling to the docks, she saw what seemed to be several metal vessels. She briefly thought they must be Dwemer vessels, but they hadn't been around for years and the metalwork was much different. She decided using her infinite wisdom that it was easier to abandon what were ostensibly her allies when she several yards away from them. She saw the vessels knock apart several farmhouses, which she decided shrewdly that those were still, not her problem. Vurwe ran back to a local bank, then to the Candlehearth, and gave a large sack of gold to the massive, vein-muscled Dunmer man named "Gordo". He followed her along.

He boomed in a slow, deliberate voice, "Where going? Gordo is best Bard, Gordo play tune for lady?"

Vurwe shook her head, "To the docks. There's some sort of invasion going on."

Then some of the vessels came forward, unloading several invaders which at first were easily repelled. Then what seemed to be the veteran guard came in and completely destroyed several defenders.

Gordo shook his head, "Gordo concerned. Gordo thinks we should leave dock, also Windhelm."

"Not until I find Jorwen and call his daughter a..." she pulled out a slip of paper from her sleeve and unfolded it. "A jowly trollop who's reputation precedes her as the town door."

Gordo chewed on a strip of jerky. "Why a door?"

Vurwe sighed, "Because all the men go in and out of it."

"Oh."

Vurwe and Gordo huddled in a dark corner near the dock. They both eventually gave conspiratorial looks to a Nordic crossbowman, whom Vurwe directed Gordo to with a gesture. He lifted the crossbow from the mans hand then chucked him into the ocean water and passed Vurwe the crossbow.

They managed to avoid most of the fighting through the intense use of hiding back behind the actual warriors, until Vurwe finally found the unmistakable figure of Jorwen. She started running towards him when one of the many giants jumped in front of her with a growl. She stepped back to Gordo and let off a crossbow bolt, which bounced off the figure with a twang.

Collab between @Haeo and @gcold

A life of mining and hunting did not help when suddenly placed in a game of dodge the rock with an armored cousin of a frost troll who happens to carry a grudge. Utu-ja tried to reach the relative safety of the shield wall so that he could bring his bow to bear again. But, he failed. Again and again he was forced to run or jump the other way to avoid hurled rocks that broke into pieces from the impact when they hit the stone of the docks. He was too busy dodging to notice how close to the water he was being forced. He did notice the sound of gutteral laughter coming from the nearest of the enemy ships. It seemed that throwing rocks at an lizard was considered good fun where these daedra-lickers came from.

That was not something that he liked. He could not afford to be a source of shame for the company, not right now. Not with moral so low and casualties so high. He took note of the distance between him and the water at last. Ten feet or so. His thoughts were interrupted by the pressing need to dodge. But, he made sure to dodge toward the water. These things seemed unable to swim so he might have a chance. That rock throwing hulk of meat and metal was bleeding steadily, the blood flowing in a thin trickle out the bottom of his armor and onto the stones before running slowly into the water. On his next dodge Utu made a step that seemed ill chosen, half on the stone and half in the air over the water. He made as if he slipped and splashed into the ice cold dark.

A burst of bubbles broke the surface and then nothing. The beast rose unsteadily and turned to face the shield wall that opposed his brutal comrades. Then he raised the great axe that he had carried and brandished it above his head with a loud cry.

It was terribly cold. The lakes of the Reach were nothing like this. It bit and stole his breath. But, this was still water. He twitched and wriggled, hooking his bow over his shoulder so as to not lose it, and drew his dagger. Its long blade would have work soon. Turning over, he looked through the swimming light that touched the surface of the water and picked out a silouette. It rippled with movement and he heard a resonant roar, though dimly through the water. The rancid skeever was cheering already. He swam smoothly up to the surface, pausing just beneath it, and braced himself against the stone of the dock. He didnt have long before the cold would rob him of feeling. He had to hurry without being seen. Maybe, just maybe, he would be able to turn the attention of the beasts back toward the water and give the other mercenaries a chance to turn the tide.

The beast wasnt going to sit there for long. It would be joining the attack soon. Utu slowly raised his eyes above the water, then his shoulders. Not a drop fell to reveal his presence but time was running short. The beast shifted its balance to its right leg, then the other. As it shifted back to its right and began to lift its left foot to advance away from the water, Utu sprang up and grabbed ahold of the beasts waist with one hand. His dagger bit deep through the leather at the back of the knee and then he withdrew it and struck again, driving the tip between the helmet and the collar and levering himself up onto the beasts back. He was only there for a moment but his eyes flicked out over the battlefield to spot the one person who probably wouldnt care for his plan, Daelin and Utu saw each other, in a brief moment of mutual recognition.

Then he swept his tail powerfully from one side to the other and smacked it into the wounded knee of his enemy as he leaned and pulled backward with all his strength. The knee buckled and the beast turned and fell into the freezing water with a dismayed howl that carried as far as its cheer had, but cut off much sooner. Utu wrenched his dagger free as soon as they were below the surface and narrowly escaped the beasts lashing arms as it tried to drag him down with it. It faded into the dark below as Utu began to realize that he could barely feel the tip of his tail. His fingers were going numb along with his toes too. And his chest hurt. It felt like his blood was freezing in his lungs. Heh, maybe it was.

He smiled mirthlessly into the dark and swam away, using the pier and then the enemy ship for cover he sought to reach the gap between two battles. He was hoping to get back on land before he froze. The last thing he wanted was for Daelin to think that he, an argonian, had drowned. For some reason that thought was abhorrent suddenly.

That was when the water exploded around him, the water sang, and everything went black.

The enemies on the ship had spotted him as he swam out from beneath them and mages on deck shot out large ice lances at Utu-ja. Several of the lances of ice collided under water, shattering with great force and causing a large fountain that cast spray across a good part of the docks. The lances had missed their intended target but the blast had not.

Utu came to his senses a few moments later in the shadow of pier two. There was a small ledge there and he mustered enough control over his numb arms and legs to haul himself onto it. There he lay for a long moment with tiny shards of ice sticking out of his skin like needles while his hearing and vision tried to decide whether to stay or go. His lungs felt wrong. He tried to cough but only managed to turn his head and make a weak sound. He managed to fumble one of the vials he carried to his lips and swallow its contents, or most of it, before coughing hard. It seared and bit and he tasted copper and cold. He couldnt feel his lips but blood and healing potion intermingled in a thin trickle from the corner of his mouth. It truly was luck that it was a healing potion and not poison. The empty vial fell next to him as his senses finally made up their cursed minds. They left him alone in the shivering, silent dark.

Prior to a large rock flying their way, Daelin thought his position was secure, at least relative to everyone on the docks. But when the armored brutes came charging in at him and Utu-ja, it quickly became apparent that nowhere on this battlefield was safe. He saw the Argonian archer dodging and running, out of his sight not for long as the Bosmer went his own way to prevent a painful death. Pier four had fallen, they were a dozen corpses sprayed about, many with half connected limbs and smashed it heads. Daelin was not much of a frontline warrior, quite the opposite, small stature and weaker blade swings contributed little to the Red-Bear's tattered line. So he took off quick, sliding underneath one of the massive invaders and found him between piers three and two. Somewhere along the waterfront, a shape appeared behind one enemy and it fell back into the water. There was no struggle or repeated splatters. With metal plates of this weight, keeping their snouts above water is futile struggle.

The kill, if it could called as such, was quiet and nearly unnoticed. But what happened next was absolutely not. The ships that were inactive thus far decides to eject its munitions. Wait, it felt different then the bombardments across; it was closer to when the atronachs were conjured. Whatever the case, the resulting blast brought out a beaten shape at dock two. It had a tail, the scaled tail of an Argonian. Utu-ja, the last of his favored scouts beside Farid, survived an insane ideal. He didn't know how but wasn't entirelly surprised given the shear toughness Utu exhibited before. His position was close enough to Utu fumbling with a potion bottle, then splayed on the cold stones, shivering and drained of strength.

Daelin took off after him, but between the piers, Ashav was directing panicked folks around. Daelin grabbed his superior's shoulder, shaking him out of his business and turned his attention at Utu-ja. "He's still alive, we can't leave him there!" Daelin said.

"Him? Who?" Ashav perplexed. There was other unmoving bodies around the second pier. Though most of the fighting north-side were centered around the first pier. "No time for one man, our line is barely holding."

"It's Utu-ja, my scout, and he just drowned one of these, things." Daelin argued. "He found an opening and dying will make it all for moot."

"Fine, fine." Ashav conceded. He shifted his greatsword and followed after the scout. "Get him back to where the Orc is." He pointed to the scrap-barricaded section near the large stairway, where Orakh lies unconscious.

Together, the two of them and a newly enlisted mercenary managed to reach Utu-ja. Ashav slung the Argonian over his shoulder, slightly heavy for his old age but Utu-ja's malnourished frames made it bearable. Almost immediately after, one of the invading berserkers slammed through. The fresh faced recruit took most of the first hit, his shield smashed to bits by the gigantic axe and his forearm half dangling off a partially severed elbow. Sheer impact knocked the man on his back, then the monster stepped on his head, leaving behind a puddle of red in it's next step.

Daelin quickly shot off three arrows one after another. They all met metal plating and turned aside harmlessly. Fortunately, he bought time for three more fighters to creep up from behind. They engaged the giant in combat, whatever happened, Daelin couldn't be bothered to know. All he did was run, and crouch beside Utu-ja when he reached the barricades at last. Ashav already left, probably going back to the front. Thankfully, the Argonian was still breathing, but damn, the shards lodged in his scales looked bad, real bad.

"You crazy son of a snake." Daelin mumbled. He poked at one of the wounds, it was treatable, but not something he could do here. "We're going to get you aid, don't go dying on me now."

A collab between @Mortarion and @gcold

The Nord man, who's name Tsleeixth did not have the oppertunity to know, went as fast he came. Almost immediately after he picked up the Argonian's arm, a rather large spike of ice flew into his back. The bolt had so much momentum that it went through his torso and came out the other side. What was left of chest and midsection was a gapping hole, with leftover bones and organ-bits spilling onto the person beside him. While his legs gave out with the rest of his body, his fall forward dragged down Tsleeixth with him. The Nordic man was heavyset, and wearing heavy armor to compound the problem. They tumbled fast. In a flash second, Tsleeixth's scaled face met stone, ejecting blood and teeth.

Tsleeixth didn't register much of the events that led him to fall to the ground, but the pain of his face against stone brought his consciousness back slightly. Spitting a pair of bloody teeth, the Argonian tried to stand up using his arms but he ended up falling again as pain flared through the broken bones of his arm. He crawled on the stone ground towards a group of crates to try and use them to stand up straight managing to do so after a few seconds. He looked around and winced as he saw the remains of the Nord man that had been carrying him, or what was left of him, but the Argonian didn't had much time to dwell on the fate of his companion or from where the killing blow had come as he noticed one of the giants roaring in his direction, forcing the spellsword to begin making his way to the relative security of the gates, throwing a lightning rune in the path of the giant to gain a few seconds.

Coming to Tsleeixth's aid were Keegan and Ariane. The rune exploded when the attacker stepped into it, but being drained and all, Tsleeixth's spell only managed to stumble the giant. Keegan, however, saw this oppertunity and added in a paralysis spell. With the giant already off balanced, the second spell put it firm, flat against the ground. Ariane called upon her feather spell, she dispatched it towards Tsleeixth.

"Go drag him?" Ariane suggested, she however, stayed firm behind the wall of warriors.

"Are you out of your mind?" Keegan gawked, his eyes nearly popped out just at the sound of that. As if armored giants descending from armored giant ships wasn't shocking enough, a certain Breton just had try her dangerous stunt. "That just made him lighter, which means he gets flinged around easier!"

"Or he gets dragged back easier," Ariane countered. "Are we getting him back or not?"

"Not me...."

Out of nowhere came Farid, he dashed through the line and returned with a beaten Argonian dragged behind him. "You're welcome." He smirked, before running off to join another fight somewhere else. Returning Tsleeixth wasn't ideal, as his tail was scrapped against the ground. Small pieces of scale were flaking off.

"Now we can move him." Keegan stated. He and Ariane both took one of the Argonian's arms, supporting him while they moved him behind makeshift barricades, where Orakh and several badly injured fighters were.

"Slisht? Tsileeth?" Keegan guessed. Damn Argonians and their funny names. "Tsleeixth! You alright? Can you hear me?"

Tsleeixth was slightly more lucid by the time that Keegan and Ariane had dragged him behind the barricades, only remembering snippets of how he had ended up there and of feeling a slight pain as scales flaked off his tail as it was dragged against the stone. He tried to focus with some difficulty on the voice that was speaking to him at the moment "Hmmm, I recognize you" He muttered slightly, trying to stand with the help of the nearby wall, as he focused on Keegan.

"Keegan, right? Yeah, I can hear you" He asked the Altmer before he focused on the face that he didn't recognize "What's your name?" He asked to Ariane "But, I am guessing I have to thank you two for bringing me here, is that correct?" He asked, wincing as pain flared up in the area near his ribs as he leaned against one of the walls, panting slightly, shaking his head slightly to try and clear it.

"How goes the battle?" He asked after a few seconds "Have we lost any more men?" He said, wincing as he remembered the remains of the Nord man that had tried to bring him behind the gates and who now lay dead on the docks.

Keegan felt slight relief knowing his comrade, someone from the Reach, nonetheless, was still kicking. But Ariane remained unimpressed. She blinked when the Argonian asked her name, responding a second after. "Oh, I'm Ariane Fontaine, Ashav's new magic advisor - anyways." She stopped when Keegan shot her a glance.

"No need to thank us," Keegan said. He was about to mention Farid, but then again, they don't get along well enough to warrant gratitude. "We can't just leave you in the open, us mages cannot survive an onslaught like that." He pointed to the carnage not far from them, concidentally, someone just had their legs chopped off.

"Case in point." Ariane agreed. She shifted around the scaled man, lizard to take a look at his head. "Are you feeling any lighter? I had to give you a feather dose, it might have side effects."

"Lighter?" Keegan raised his eyebrow. "What kind of question is that? His nose is bleeding, for the divines' sake!"

It's true, maybe Tsleeixth got used to it, or maybe he lost the feeling to his nose. Whatever the case, there was still slow but steady trickle coming out. Keegan took out a piece of lined from his bag, ripping it to smaller size for the lizard's nose, snout, or whatever.

"Here, I'll give you some ice." Without notice, cold air flowed from Ariane's fingers. She moved her hand to Tsleeixth's nose but Keegan took it away.

"Stop the bleeding first, then ice." Keegan corrected her. After giving out the makeshift bandage and Tsleeixth applied properly on himself, Ariane started touching up with light frost spell. That was how a nosebleed should be stopped, right? None of them were experts on medicine, so it was basically roll the dice with lizard nose.

"You would not believe it." Keegan started. "The guards at pier four are all killed. At least a dozen from our company are dead or dying. I've never seen anything like it."

"I saw you kill one of these things, impressive." Ariane piped in, her tone flat.

Tsleeixth nodded when the Breton woman introduced herself "Ah, good to meet you, although I wish we had met under better circumstances" Said Tsleeixth, chuckling slightly despite the situation but fell silent when he saw Keegan shooting a glance at Ariane.

"Hmm, yes, you are right, I should have been more careful" He said, letting out a soft sigh and shook his head as he thought on the man who had given his life saving his own while Keegan pointed to the carnage going on the docks below.

He chuckled softly when Ariane asked him if he was feeling any lighter, but was surprised to hear that he was having a nosebleed. He took a hand to his snout, touching it slightly and frowned when he felt warm blood in it.

He was surprised when he saw Ariane moving her fingers closer to his snout, feeling the cold emanating from them "I think Keegan is right, but thanks nonetheless" He said as Keegan stopped Ariane, taking the makeshift bandage that the Altmer man offered and applied it to his snout and then waited for Ariane to apply the frost spell.

He looked down when Keegan mentioned that all he guards at pier four were dead and that a dozen or so from their company were dead or dying "Damn" He muttered letting out a soft sigh "How are we supposed to stop those things if it takes more than one of us to take one of them down" He said, punching the nearby wall with his healthy hand.

He shifted slightly when Ariane mentioned that she had seen him kill one of the armored creatures, letting out a soft chuckle "Impressive perhaps, but it was a foolish thing" He said "Because of me, we lost one of our own, maybe if I had tried to coordinate with one of the others in our group that wouldn't have happened" He said as he turned to look at the dock and the carnage that was unfolding on it.

"I'm not certain, but we'll find a way." Keegan told the Argonian, he tried to sound certain, trying to resettle the experince from the Reach here. It failed to make him certain, and his quivering voice spoke nothing of certainty. "Or else..." He whispered to himself.

Ariane simply nodded, she did not laugh or comfort Tsleeixth. She stood back further when the spell cooled the snout, crossing her arms when she spoke again. "Nothing you could do. I've read about another invasion of Windhelm, long ago. And if this is anything like the last, we are fortunate to take out so many already."

"Look as if the bleeding has subsided." Keegan said. "Now if we can just get a healer..."

"What is that?" Ariane looked behind her. On the giant steps leading from the gates to docks, a great many footfalls came. Armed inviduals, over a hundred, poured down the steps. "Reinforcements."

Upon re-entering the warm building of the inn, Rhasha'Dar did not do much but drink and feast with his refound friend of Sylvanis. Just like the night before, she drank too much, and he was soon coaxing her away from brawls with the native Nords, finally able to get some sleep himself after she passed out in her own bed.

"I do hope tomorrow brings peace." Rhasha muttered to himself as he collapsed into the straw bed.

However, just as the moons predicted - there was no peace to be found during dawn.

Surprisingly, it was Sylvanis who burst into Rhasha's room to awake him - even despite her hangovers, she was a lighter sleeper than he.

"Wake up, you damned furball! Battle awaits us outside!" She yelled, throwing clothes at her very startled Khajiiti friend, as he struggled from his bed. Cries and bells tolling could be heard from outdoors, and Rhasha swiftly dressed himself, hurrying outside with Sylva.

"What foolish warriors would attack here?" Rhasha wondered aloud as he and Sylva followed the crowd of mercenaries and soldiers along the streets.

"Obviously suicidal ones who wish to meet their Gods!" Sylvanis growled, hefting her immense hammer over her shoulder.

However, as they ran, Rhasha jarred to a halt, ears suddenly pricked back in a fleeting moment of horror.

Azurah have mercy... The caravan is still outside the gates! He suddenly thought. And yet, the crowds were flocking towards the docks, not the bridge. That meant landing parties... Surely whomever these attackers were, wouldn't be so idiotic as to land by the bridge, where the caravan lay? It was far too well protected...

Sylvanis looked at him expectantly, the crowd of people rushing around them like water over rocks.

"Rhasha, the caravan can look after itself - knowing your superstitious elders, they up and left as soon as they saw those bloody moons last night." She said, an impatient tone to her words; and yet, she was correct.

Right now, he had to worry about aiding his comrades on the dock.

"Let us continue, then. My spear hasn't tasted blood in too long." He said grimly, and the pair continued on, hoping to find more of their group; both for information, and the liklihood of strength in numbers.

~~~

Meanwhile at the docks

Of all the experiences Do'Karth could claim to have notched on his belt over his years, standing in battle formations waiting for an unknown invading force to make landfall fell short of the realm of things he could claim to be knowledgeable of. Duels against aggravated former suitors of various women, yes. Fending off the machinations of ill-reputable highway men, who hadn't? Multiple foes hardly phased the khajiit, and he was more than confident in his ability to make short of any man.

When the warships began to crash upon the docks, turning the aged, waterlogged wood into splinters against the irresistible force of the reinforced vessels and disembark their passengers, Do’Karth’s confidence faltered somewhat. Behind routine frost atronachs came large beasts garbed in heavy armour that was as ugly, heavy and practical as those that adorned their ships, looking like living towers more than anything that could be considered people. Their stature was impressive enough to put the Cathay-Raht to shame, and they towered over all others in Tamriel. The khajiit frowned from behind rows of other mercenaries as the battle was joined, wondering if perhaps signing that contract had been a mistake.

It didn’t take long for the lines to break, along with many of the bodies that manned them. Where the docks had only moments before been crowded and comforting in the face of these Daedric-looking invaders, they now were a chaotic mess of death and fear, the sharp coppery scent of several men’s blood filling the air as Do-Karth waited for the attackers to reach him. He was in no hurry to meet them; their brutal onslaught had gone through men and women alike with such brutal efficiency that even if he could reach them safely, there simply wasn’t a body to save. The devastation on the defenders’ bodies was absolute and repugnant. However, there wasn’t much of a choice of avoiding the fight, even if he wasn’t one of the vanguard fighters who paid the ultimate cost against a foe they could not resist; lumbering towards him like a glacier come to life was one of the hulking frost atronachs that had broken the lines. Having room to move, Do’Karth began to put his body into motion, rotating his quarterstaff to build momentum for when he had an opening to strike as he studied his opponent.

Atronachs were simple things, really; simple Daedric constructs summoned to Mundus via conjuration that had never demonstrated anything in the way of creativity or even thought; they simply were as artificial as they appeared, an instrument to fight and little more. As a heavy club-like arm swung to crash into Do’Karth, he flipped into a handless cartwheel to avoid the certainly fatal blow and paid little mind to the loud crack of the wood stressing under the blow as he righted himself and brought his staff into a wide arc, bringing the hardwood shaft into what was equivalent to the back of the creature’s knee, rewarding the khajiit with a glittering shower of ice shards that had broken free from the impact, much to his satisfaction. It was far too thick to break outright, it was true, but with several more precise strikes, a crack would form and possibly cripple the artonach.

Maybe.

Ducking under a skewering limb, Do’Karth responded in kind by driving the end of his staff into the spot he had begun to work on, and bringing it back and around his back struck again with a heavy strike, breaking free a large enough fragment to give credence to Do’Karth’s efforts. Much to his relief, a few of the other mercenaries near his position moved in, overwhelming the atronach’s efforts with a concentrated attack. It was a burly Imperial with a well-pitted warhammer that delivered the blow that brought the construct down, the concentrated metal breaking into the weakened ice like a pickaxe striking iron free of a deposit and it collapsed, the leg shattered, into the icy waters where it sunk into the depths, behaving rather unlike something one would expect to be constructed of ice to behave as it disappeared from sight.

Victory was short-lived, however, and even before the water had settled, the invaders proper joined the fray. Do’Karth stared upwards towards what the others had begun to call a giant and he tried to look upon the face of the brute, but it was concealed behind an alloy of unknown composition.

“By the Twin Moons, you are hideous.” He said, spinning his staff around as skillfully and quickly as he could to buy himself some room, which was almost hilariously reduced by the sure size of his adversary, whose reach along with the mace that remained clutched in a club-like hand was nearly that off the quarterstaff. It did not seem deterred by the prospect of getting struck what amounted to a glorified piece of lumber. When the giant raised its horrible flanged mace to strike, the khajiit proved quicker to the draw and managed a strike against its helm, letting loose a loud clang. The giant recoiled before recomposing itself and glaring down at Do’Karth with a guttural growl quite unlike anything he had ever heard before, but the intent was unmistakably familiar.

“This one is sorry, Do’Karth swears that wasn’t what it looked like!” He said, jumping back to avoid retribution. The heavy metal footfalls that followed seemed rather determined to even the score.

~~~

The Dock Gates

"I'm telling you to open the fucking gates!" She screamed into the guardsman's helmet. His eyes behind the visor of his helm stared obstinately ahead and only served to feed the fire in her breast. He hadn't answered her the past few times she'd asked and it left her and the man who introduced himself as Cleftjaw standing outside of the battle like a couple of fools who were late to muster. She'd made sure her mother was safe and now was trying to get out there and make sure her father was safe. As safe as one could be in the middle of a battle.

"You asked him politely and he didn't do it." Cleftjaw stood well behind her, examining his fingernails and picked a bit of dirt out of one, "Yelling at him isn't going to help you."

"I will break you, little man." She turned her ire from the guard to Cleftjaw, who she didn't get along with earlier and their relationship had not been getting any better in the half-hour they'd known each other, especially with that arrogant fucking smirk of his. Like he'd heard a joke she just hadn't got. From behind, she saw a little Bosmer clad in armor that looked too big for her, almost comically so, and a Khajiit with her. She was always uncomfortable around those Bosmer. Shifty-eyed and apt to disappear on a whim. The big hammer over her shoulder and the armor told her all she needed to know about that one though, no disappearing acts. And she'd only ever met one Khajiit. Tried to take her knife because she left it on the tavern table for more than five seconds. "You! Are you trying to get to the other side of this gate? Good fucking luck to you. I'm going to find another way."

~~~

"Oh, perfect. This is the last thing I needed." Sylvanis muttered under her breath as she and Rhasha approached the gates to the Dock. All that stood before them were two fellow mercenaries, one guard, and... closed gates. The clashing of metal upon metal and the screams of the dying could be heard from the other side, yet the guard made no haste to open the gates.

Despite Sylva's energetic exterior, she still had a thumping headache and a mouth drier than a Redguard's sandal from the night before. As such, her mood was a foul one, and her expression showed that. It appeared to be fiercer than the Nord woman's before them - as such, Rhasha stepped in before someone met a nasty end at the bottom of Sylva's hammer.

"Why are the gates remaining closed? Do you not hear them out there? They need aid." Rhasha directed his attention almost immediately towards the guard. He watched on silently, but Rhasha was quick to notice the eyes hidden within the helmet had narrowed - either in scorn or anger, he didn't know. But it was likely due to his race. It usually was. He still did not answer.

"A stubborn Nord, yes? This one is not surprised."

"Rhasha, just shove him out of the way!"

"Try it, furball. I'll skin you and hang you on my wall." The Guard finally broke his silence and hissed out the threat - which was unsurprisingly a racist and not that inventive one. Drawing his blade, he glared at the four of them there, ready to fight them if he had to.

Sighing, Rhasha'Dar twirled his spear almost casually, with the head now pointing towards the ground.

"Sylva - talking will get us nowhere, nor will killing." He said, his tone obviously making it an order to stand down, and not a casual suggestion.

Looking back to his Nordic companions, he inclined his head in greeting.

"This one is Rhasha'Dar - perhaps we can find a way over together, yes?"

Solveig glared into the eyes of the guard and he glared back. "Jarl's orders."

"Shit on it, then." Solveig spat dangerously close to the guardsman's boots and stalked off towards the other two warriors, Cleftjaw in tow, humming some song. "Come."

They traipsed all around the empty streets of Windhelm, looking for something to help them get on the other side of the wall. Solveig hadn't given them her name and Cleftjaw stayed silent between his quiet humming or whistling of some tune. She found the Bosmer one even more unlikable than Vurwe, what with her constant scowling and eye-narrowing whenever she caught her eye. Heavy armor, big hammer, oh she'd be slow. Too slow. It might have been this morning's events, but she had an urge to split her arrogant face with her spear. They settled for climbing the steps up to the battlements, where archers fired down mostly ineffective arrows. Solveig looked down at the battle, dead and dying men were strewn about while the shrinking lines inched back and forth like waves on the beach, but never making it far enough forward to gain ground. What was more, looking at the enemies they were facing gave her more than a bit of apprehension. She could see now why the guardsmen had orders to keep the gate closed. She would've too. "What are those, overgrown trolls?" Solveig muttered to herself.

"I'm not sure I'll be much use at the front." Cleftjaw said, his shield on his back and his spear leaning on his shoulder, head still in its oil-cloth. "There." He pointed, and there was a cart still attached to a dead mule, the cart filled to spilling with hay.

"Reckon we could jump down into that." Solveig turned to the Khajiit beside her and shrugged, then to the Bosmer. Maybe she'd hit her head so hard she'd shit herself. Give her a reason to scowl all the time. "You're welcome to follow."

She made her way over and she and Cleftjaw peered down. It looked like a long fall, but she shook her head, her whole damn life was just one long fall she survived only because she'd caught a few scraggly roots or slick handholds. This shouldn't be any different, a sort of baptism. Her first open battle. All she needed to do was jump. "All you need to do is jump, you know." Came Cleftjaw's voice.

She grabbed the man by his cloak with bared teeth and fierce eyes before hauling him over, whooping. Thankfully, he landed in the cart, scrambling out and dusting himself off. She threw his spear down for him to catch and then followed, getting out of the cart in much the same manner. "I'll fucking kill you, you mad bitch."

"After the battle." She said, waving down the Khajiit and the Bosmer.

Sylvanis had two very good reasons to be scowling throughout their short trek in the city - one; being that Nordic brat darting bitter looks towards her, for no reason whatsoever. Two; The gates were all shut. Her mood only worsened as the four silently made their way towards the battlements.

"Of course - we have to climb up the fucking walls." She thought to herself, glowering ahead, gaze only becoming more intense as the Nord girl sent yet another dark look towards her. Had she been more childish, she would have stuck out her tongue at the woman; but as such, her temper flared at every look, and the girl's face was just looking more and more welcome to an introduction with Sylvanis' hammer.

As for Rhasha'Dar, his expression remained mainly neutral throughout the short journey. He was unperturbed by the lack of names from the Nords, nor by the silence that followed. In fact, he was most interested to find that the both of them carried spears - from what he'd seen, it wasn't a very common, nor favoured, weapon in Skyrim. From what he'd seen, Nords usually preferred to get truly down and dirty with a fight - getting as close to the carnage as possible. Therefore, the reach a spear gave could almost seem an annoyance in some people's eyes.

"Rhasha, I'm not fucking jumping down there." Sylvanis breathed furiously into his ear - she hadn't even approached the edge of the battlements, and already, she was shivering from the height at which she stood. The Khajiit sighed quietly, glancing down to see the Nord woman looking up at them expectantly.

"Come now Sylva - you've never backed down from a fight yet. Will you really let yourself be shown up now?"

"Not by that milk-drinker." She muttered in reply, slowly inching towards the edge of the battlement, peeking over, and then blanching immediately upon backing away. "Should still be sucking on her mother's teat." She added in a mutter, fear and fury mingling on her face as she closed her eyes.

Sighing once again, Rhasha'Dar swiftly realized that she wouldn't be able to jump on her own.

"Shurh. Don't kill me for this, yes?" Rhasha uttered quietly, and then pushed her from the ramparts. Thankfully, she was far too shocked to yell out as she fell, instead landing quite safely in the hay with a silent look of hatred at Rhasha.

Shrugging innocently, he followed her down, the two now on their feet alongside their Nordic companions - and about to enter the fray.

"Sticking together seems wise. This one is not so keen in approaching the ice-giants single-handedly." He suggested, measuring his companions reactions carefully. As for Sylva - now that the fear of her heights was gone, she was itching to enter the fight as her bloodlust kicked in, hammer already in her hands.

The sound of rustling hay from behind Do'Karth barely registered with the khajiit as he was otherwise quite occupied with one of the many towering bastards that were harvesting through men like a scythe through wheat. He counted his fortunes that he was quite a nimble fighter with considerable stamina; it was something he'd been blessed with since birth, along with a hardy constitution that wasn't likely to do him many favours if the mace connected, other than perhaps brutally prolonging his life when death would be much preferable. The other mercenaries that had helped bring down the atronach were thinned out, including the Imperial who had dealt the killing blow. He simply was decapitated with an almost casual back swing of the ugly weapon, rendering his concerns no longer valid.

The khajiit felt guilty, knowing that the further be backed towards the wall, the more of his comrades would perish as the giant reached them, but what choice did he have? Many of the giants had arrows sticking out of what should have been vital targets and the only thing that seemed to be working to any degree of effectiveness were the handful of mages that showered fire down upon them. He needed to get out of the battle and do something he could actually help with, tending the wounded. He frowned, ducking under another savage swing and landing strikes whenever an opening presented itself. Were these things alive, or were they simply Daedric abominations without minds and souls? Stopping them seemed like an impossible order, and he was all too aware of the mounting casualties. What had seemed like such a formidable company the night before now seemed like little more than a handful of desperate survivors hoping to survive.

"We need to get off of the docks, we cannot meet them on their terms!" he called out to no one in particular, jabbing the end of his staff towards the eye slit of his adversary and being rewarded with an angered grunt as it rang off steel.

That doesn't seemed to have worked, Cat, she thought as her brow rose at the sight of what, a monk? A monk poking and prodding and dancing around these metal-wearing troll-men. She herself leapt back from a wild swing of the thing's weapon and barely dodged it as it tried to barrel over her. She felt the air from it rush past her as if she was standing next to a prized horse at full gallop. Cleftjaw's eyes went wide before he sidestepped and his spear shot out only to glance off the thing's cuirass. He swore loudly and ducked a massive limb. Solveig stepped forward and thrust her spear into the gap between its cuirass and its leg plate. It bit deep but the giant grunted as if it was a bee sting before turning to her. It roared and tried to smash her head to pulp with its mace, but she sidestepped it easily, whipping her spear about to smash it against the thing's helmet. Not hard enough to hurt it, as it whipped around quick enough and she almost tripped over her own feet at the surprising speed it swung its mace. It glanced her shield and the rim hit her in the face, split her top lip and only made her angrier.

She looked to the Bosmer with the big hammer and nodded to the big beast, "Be useful!"

In any other situation, Sylvanis would have shot back a sharp comment at the Nord girl - but already, she was gripped by the battle. The stench of sweat and blood filled her nose, screams and strange, unfamiliar roars from the creatures filling her head. Barely hearing her words, she let out a bellow of a war cry, hefting her hammer and letting the sheer momentum of it swing loose. Had it not been for her enchanted gauntlets, she wouldn't have even been able to keep a grip on her behemoth of a hammer.

However, her swing carried through, hitting the side of the enemy's knee with a dull 'clunk' sound. However, her hammer bounced back so harshly, it knocked her from her feet, and Sylvanis looked on in a horrified amazement as the giant simply roared in anger... the leg was still intact.

"Fuck me. That swing would have taken out a mammoth." She thought to herself, still sat upon the floor as the giant raised its mace. Speed was not one of her better attributes. In fact, she valued strength so much, her speed definitely took a harsh hit.

However, she was not reduced to jelly by the giant's mace, as her saviour came in the form of a whirlwind of fur and metal - Rhasha.

"Stupid cat."

Having just risked her life by pushing her from a rather tall battlement, Rhasha had no intention to allow Sylva be crushed to death after having just one swing of her hammer. Unfortunately, she was known to under-estimate her foes; a foolish task, considering the mystery behind these invaders.

Thankfully, Rhasha was one to think things through - following the Nord woman's example, he launched himself at the enemy, hacking away at any jointed area that was left uncovered by armour with his axes; he was far too up close and personal to use his spear at the moment.

Being far faster than the giant, Rhasha was able to avoid most attacks from it - however, as always, luck does eventually run out. Rather than attempt to use it's weapon or go for a punch, it simply swatted at him as if he were a fly - and fly he did, backwards into the city walls with an unfortunate amount of force.

Looking on the bright side, it had been a light blow, compared to what he'd seen of the other injuries down here. Still, he was left with a semi-deep cut to his head from falling, just above his left eye - and likely some broken ribs.

Darting back to his feet, Rhasha winced as he raised one arm to cast a healing spell on himself, sides screaming in protest at every simple breath he took.

"Yes... definitely broken."

"Sylva - hit the same leg again! I can see it limping." He hissed at his Bosmer friend, watching the giant's movements carefully. Despite the disappointing outcome of Sylvanis' first blow, it had indeed hurt the giant. Not only was the armour cracked around the right knee, but their foe was indeed favouring it's other leg as it rounded on the five of them.

"You'd better be correct, my furry friend." Sylvanis muttered dubiously, now on her feet and keeping a safe distance from the giant.

As Sylvanis went in for another attack, Rhasha joined her, hoping to distract the giant from what Sylvanis planned to do - if they got it to the floor, they could attack the weakest point of the neck with far more ease, killing it faster, and perhaps with less injuries

He only hoped the others followed suit...

The Khajiit with the spear was quick while her expectations of the Bosmer weren't too far from the truth of it. While the Bosmer went low, the Khajiit went high. Though, the Khajiit's attack fell flat as the giant moved its head to the side, the Khajiit's spear finding only open air. Before he could bring it back for another thrust, the giant grasped the haft of the spear in one huge fist and roared. Taken off guard by the Bosmer, her hammer dented in the giant's thigh plate and for a second the giant buckled under its own weight. Off balance, Solveig charged in and punched out with the rim of her shield, catching the giant in the back of the knee on the same buckling leg, making it fall to one knee. Before they could all charge in, it sprung forward surprisingly fast for all its bulk, gaining distance. It rolled, albeit a bit clumsily away and brought out a knife the size of Solveig's biggest at her hip, a shortsword in its own right. They stood opposite each other, the five of them. Solveig had Cleftjaw at her side, both their shields raised and spears sticking outwards. "Damn fucking thing." Solveig breathed, breath almost catching in her throat at all the excitement. She'd won 13 duels against some of the hardest men in Skyrim, but this was different, this was life or death. No yielding, no first blood. "How fares the monk?" She said to the robed Khajiit holding a staff, while she kept her eyes forward.

"A monk! If this one sees such a thing, he will tell you." Do'Karth exclaimed with forced enthusiasm, chancing a glance at the woman who had come to his aid. "Do'Karth remains unharmed, our friend is big, but slow." he paused, gesturing towards the giant's damaged leg with the end of his staff. "More so now. Friends, if you could keep him busy for a few moments, this one has an idea. A stupid idea, but nothing about today seems to be particularly smart. Do'Karth simply needs our friend to not pay attention while he get behind him. Could you manage this safely?" he asked.

"We can manage, but perhaps not safely." Rhasha'Dar replied to Do'Karth - surprised at seeing him, first of all. He had assumed that he would be the only Khajiit to join; not only that, but this fellow cat was a Suthay-Raht, like his twin siblings. A rarity, in Skyrim.

Keeping his distance from the giant, Rhasha began jabbing towards the joint of the other leg, hoping to weaken both so as to get it to the ground once and for all. As for Sylvanis, she bode her time before swinging her hammer upward towards the giant's head, clipping it under the jaw hard enough to hear something crack - whether it be bone, armour, or teeth, Sylvanis did not know - but it was a satisfying noise, nonetheless.

"Whatever you plan to do, hurry up - this one thinks the beast is losing it's temper with us." Rhasha'Dar added, ducking to avoid the knife as it swung towards him - uncomfortably close, as the wind whistled over his head, and the weapon ever so slightly brushed over his ears. Too close.

The giant's swing went wide as Solveig feinted to the left, her spear lancing out but not quick enough, only skidding across the stone and spitting sparks instead burying itself in the thing's foot. The Khajiit danced around it nimble enough and the little Bosmer was keeping it back well enough. The five of them were pushing it further back against the wall like hunters cornering a bear in its cave, Solveig slowly making her way to its back. Solveig darted forward with Cleftjaw at her shoulder, just as quick as her. The thing reared its ugly head their way and gave Solveig pause, her breath catching in her throat. It caught the two off-guard and punched Cleftaw's raised shield hard enough to send him skidding on his back a few meters away, mouth opening and closing like a landed fish, eyes just as wide.

Do'Karth gritted his teeth as Cleftaw was knocked back, although he had no time to discern if his fellow fighter was grievously injured.The giant was distracted, and skirting as wide and fast around it as the dock would allow, the nimble khajiit ran past the creature before suddenly skidding to a halt and running towards its back, planting the base of his staff into one of the crooks between the dock's planks and propelling himself upwards onto the giant's back, where the gaudy armour gave him plenty of purchase, but made his leg throb on impact. Wasting no time, lest he find the mace or an oversized hand reaching out to him, Do'Karth quickly wrapped his staff around the giant's neck where the opening allowed it to move its neck and slid it behind its right shoulder. Weapon secure, he grabbed the end left of the neck and planted his foot firmly on the other where the shoulder was and began to pull, yelling with the exertion and excitement of the battle as he tried to choke the creature out, or at the very least become enough of a concern that the giant left Masser-sized openings for Do'Karth's companions to exploit. "Down, you bastard! This one does not have time for your stubbornness!" He snarled.

Solveig's spear struck as quick as a snake and she managed to stick it into the beast's side. The thing roared so loud it felt like it was going to break her ears and it grasped onto the haft of her spear with one hand and with a forearm the thickness of her waist, broke the haft as if it was a twig. She stood, staring dumbly before she regained herself in time to catch the blade of the thing's big knife, the point shoving through her shield dangerously close to her face. She jumped back towards Cleftjaw in time for someone to shout something about reinforcements. She turned her head to see men surging out of the gate and she would've added her own reinvigorated warcry to their own, but her vision exploded with a burst of white and she felt like she was flying.

Vigilantes, militiamen, prizefighters, vampire hunters, angry farmers with farming tools and even angrier citizens with broomsticks; meet your saviors.

The situation must be very dire to push an old man into battle with his dustpan, clothed in nothing but his housecoat. There is strength in numbers, as the old saying goes. Indeed, the one favorable condition was number. The people of Skyrim were a feisty bunch, even when supposedly unbeatable opponents came knocking, many in Windhelm went to knock right back. Though their job now was primarily support. Many citizens took over carrying salt crates Jorwen and Sadri brought back, and many more tended to the injured.

Like the scene on the docks, many new fighters were guards. However, they did not make up the majority of the fresh faces. About eight people were strikingly peculiar. They wore dull-colored plated coats, adorned with emblems of a flaming shield. These were Dawnguard warriors. Led by a middle-aged Nordic woman, they supplied valuable crossbow wielders to the fray. Initially, they were hesitant to take part in the battle. Their original mission was to investigate a lead related to the most recent raid against their headquarters. But talks of conjurers, and a few well-placed whispers of vampires on the docks prompted them to take part in the reinforcement effort. Bolts shot from Dawnguard crossbows were much effective than Vurwe's. The giant at her front was turned back by a small hailstorm of projectiles.

Accompanying the Dawnguards was a familiar face. Tennant Ibnazh returned to his familiar bouts of prizefighting. He had put down his name in the recently finished fight pit. Veteran mercenaries might recognize him from the Reach, but he now bears the tabard of the Paladins; the foremost gladiatorial team of Windhelm. Through a night of fierce brawls, the Imperial wrestler proved himself a worthy Paladin. As such, he was content to find bigger, badder foes, with newfangled comrades at his sides.

The majority were the White River Braves. Vigilantes, militiamen and road watchers, all wearing distinguishable white armbands. There were almost a hundred of them, a testament to their popularity. In fact, many of those were retired, expelled or disgruntled ex-guardsmen. It was hard to say what they did or why they did it. But the Braves had been around since the dragon crisis. Their members supported hold guards in Eastmarch and Whiterun, just like now, they put in muscle where the jarl's men could not.

In fact, six of the Braves wasted no time charging into battle near pier three. They replaced five people (two Nords, two Khajiits and one Bosmer) against the impaired invader. Six sets of steel cracked simultaneously. Even the giants heavy armor could not stop such brute force. It stopped moving within a minute.

All across the docks, similar scenes played. The tide was turned, and the giants gradually withdrew to their armored ships. One pair of ships docked to the opposing shore, where sprawling farms now laid in ice-covered ruins. The guard detachment at the farms were presumable defeated, as the only shapes moving about were these dreaded giants. Two more iron-ships went downstream to where three more formed a blockade.

A small victory steeped in blood. Reality hit home like a cold bucket of water. Number lied not; judging by casualty, what transpired on the docks was not a fair fight, it was a massacre.

Seven dead for every invader fallen. Bodies alone could overflow the Hall of the Dead.

The end? Impossible. None of the eleven ships left, and three more sailed in from the horizon.

A pause then. At least the foes were gone for now, the gate was open and those hurt in the battle could say they have a chance to live on.

---

Ashav.

He was no young warrior anymore. His strength could not bring about a killing blow against the giants. Nevertheless, he survived without serious injuries, though his sword was lost in the harbor when it parried an axe.

A guard messenger made his way to Ashav shortly after the calm. As the company's leader, he was called alongside other commanders to meet with jarl Lodvemar in the Palace of the Kings. There was where he went, bringing Dumhuvud and Edith with him.

---

Daelin.

The Bosmer insisted treatment for Utu-ja immediately. The Nords of Windhelm were less than enthusiastic to help an elf and his lizard friend. It was an Argonian healer that finally tended Utu. Surviving dockworkers were more than happy to see a marsh-friend fighting and living to tell about it. Several dockworkers helped Utu-ja inside a warehouse, where they applied the best medicines and practices at hand.

The shards in his scales were generally picked out. Warm and soft healing hands mended places cold and broken. Utu-ja was by no means healthy again, but his strength came back soon enough.

Before Utu-ja stood up, one dockworker inquired; “Why? Why risk your life for the Nords?”

---

Felix.

Thankfully, Sagax shook the man back to his senses. Felix followed closely behind Sagax, and was able to reach safety. He spent remainder of the battle buried in his knees, closely behind where the wounded lies. Felix was too shocked to notice; Relmyna was cowering behind the same barrels he sat against.

When the reinforcements came and the invaders were driven back, the former bard stood up shakily and staggered towards the city gate. While on his way, Felix came by Sagax again. He opened his mouth to thank his countryman for saving his life, but shock and the dryness of his throat strangled words tight. Nothing could come out of him, instead, he merely nodded to Sagax.

---

Farid.

Nowhere to be seen. Not dead though, his body wasn't in the pile.

---

Ariane and Keegan.

Two mages with no armor or blades, unlikely to survive the scuffle, but did. In fact, they were pretty much the least hurt of everyone. Both of them suffered not a scratch. The two of them avoided each other through the night but somehow found enough cohesion to fight successfully side by side. That was not to say they never disagreed. Quite the opposite, they bickered from Tsleeixth's treatments to deployment of reinforcements to methods of casting. Once the urgency of combat died down, Ariane and Keegan could no longer find reason to be around each other.

---

The ramparts.

Archers cheered. Overall, the mood was celebratory on the city walls. The ranged fighters never tasted the slaughter down below. Perhaps celebration was unfit, and the better word was relief. Indeed, their hope matched their physical elevation. Of course, being high up means good vantage points. The metal-ships across the river was loud and clear; enemies did not retreat.

Several guardsmen came by and praised Sevine's diligent marksmanship. A section of guards walked pass the Huntress and thanked her for her role. Despite doing practically nothing, Leif received some good words as well. Roze and Niernen, two foreigners looking suspicious in the guards' eyes, were now received with much warmer eyes.

Though the battle winded down, troops continued to transport munitions and fortifications to the walls.

---

The talks.

Silence. Surprised. What just went down?

As if a needle was ran through a bag brimmed with water, talk spilled out like compressed liquid. People were talking alright, they were chattering, blabbering, prattling, jabbering. Loud noises soon drowned the docks, the city streets and everywhere folks could converse in Windhelm.

One topic was the Nordic army.

"You heard of the Dragonborn's new tactics? They call it the discipline line; a pack of vicious hounds behind their own warriors, so that anyone attempting to retreat will be mauled by their own dogs. Not exactly common on the fields, certainly unpopular with the troops. But it gets results, didn't take long for the soldiers to fear their dog handlers more than their enemies, and that tend to make suicide charges the appealing alternative."

Of course, most discussions centered on the invaders, or the situations they were currently in. According to the White River Braves, a battle was fought around the bridgehead when they pulled back to the inner city. The ships and ice on the opposite shore made it difficult to see clearly. But the conclusion was generally forbidding, which is, the southern banks were under enemy control. A few on the ramparts had the right observational equipment, and sure enough, figures roaming across the bridge were the frost giants.

“The bridgehead was no burg.” A Braves fighter commented. “No way they could held it for long, we either booked for Windhelm, Morvunskar or Kynesgrove.”

“Windhelm, how stupid.” Some guard provided the ever helpful advice. “We're cut off, friend. You should of went south.”

Not many cared about a dark elf darting across the city, arms flailing about. Some recognized his face, including Keegan and Ariane. This man was a shop owner in the Gray Quarters. His goods were generally sub-par and outdated compared to Nordic dealers. Outdated had one advantage, that was he attracted many antique collectors. The said shop owners beseeched folks to heed his words.

“Kamals! They are the snow demons!” He screamed on top of his lungs.

“Quit daydreaming, you mad fool!” Someone spat at him.

“Daydream, no. A nightmare!” The shop owner continued. “Come to my shop, the snow demons match exactly the book's.”

The shop owner was suddenly between piers three and four, he tugged the sleeves, arm guards and bare arms of many mercenaries. “Please, see for yourself the terrifying Kamals.” Some curious ones, including Madura, followed the raving shopkeeper to his store. But for many, examining ancient tomes was no match to evidence placed at their feet.

Two of the Braves that assisted five wall-jumping warriors went to loot their foe. “Snow demons or fire demons,” He boasted. “We've killed one and let's take it apart.” So he knelt down beside the fallen enemy and traced its massive metallic outfit. It was cold to the touch.

“Dolf, give me a hand.” He beckoned a comrade. “And you sellswords, stay back. This one's ours.” Four Braves excluded from looting action formed a circle around the fallen giant. They were adamant to keep the mercenaries out, and it was ultimately to the mercenaries' benefit.

Metal platting on the giant hesitated to give way. Dolf took out daggers to snake their way beneath the straps. Finally, one piece loosened. Dolf cheered and his comrade inserted his fingers under. As soon as his fingers made contract with the substance below armored surface, the entirety of the giant began to glow. It was first a mild azure gleam, then brighter purple shine, and finally, a ball of orange magic that exploded with the might of Sentinel's cannons. The two looters were disintegrated to nothingness. Four Braves standing around the giant corpses sustained various rates of injury, one of them became a pincushion of ice shards. Another found his calves separate entities from his knees.

Beside pier eight, a near identical scene played out a minute later. Not long after the two incidents, the guard captain personally issued prohibitions on looting.

Looting was not on everyone's plates. With adrenaline dying down and the energy of battle fading away, the bloody stench of death permeated in everyone's nostrils. Not all had the stomach to look at corpses, sights of vomiting definitely happened here and there. But clearing out the deceased was still a task to be done. Not a single culture on Tamriel left their dead in the open, and Nords were no exceptions to that. The problem was how to properly bury them. Transporting every dead body to the Hall of the Dead would take many hours, if not days. Even if the bodies could be moved in time, there was no telling if the Hall had space for everyone. Some proposed cremation, beside risks of setting wooden structures on fire, it was not a bad idea. Actually, the priest of Arkay gave his endorsement between busy blessings.

Unlike the Reach, the mercenaries would have to care for their own casualties this time. There would be no army to pick up after them. Maybe it was for the best, because rumors of bone pits were circulating when whispers spoke of the Reach campaigns. What other choices do they have? This rate of fatality was unheard of since the Great War.

At least the enemy were not necromancers, or were they?