---

A voice echoed through the large hallways of the Hoffburgt. “Terryn Hoffmann!” it rang, echoing through the hallways until an old man with an iron, spiked Monarchists' cross got up. The man had evidently seen better days but still marched with a steady and self secured tread. He seemed confident, but that was only a façade. The man knew that his head was on the line - literally. It was possible the king was so insulted with the loss of not one but two regiments that he'd have the head of one of the few survivors.

The large and dark oaken doors opened before him, allowing Terryn access into the Hoffburgts main hall - the hall where the king resided. There was a long walk ahead of him. He'd pass fifteen rows of benches before reaching the 'Kings Steps.' These steps were the granite hewn steps which you were only allowed to step on and climb if the king offered you permission. Naturally, few people got permission. A few meters after the kings steps sat the king Gregar Balin Grochain, and his wife, queen Anne Frederica Iochlan-Grochain.

Terryns steps did not fade, but rather took an even more self secured and confident pace. It was his way to show the king he was not afraid - even if he was. As he reached the Kings' Steps he took a deep bow and sat before the king. Eerie silence filled the hall as people waited for the king to speak up. There was a large crowd - every nobleman and marcher-lord, and even some rich traders, had arrived days prior to this event to hear what Terryn had to say. After a minute of silence, the king finally spoke. “Terryn Hoffmann, survivor of the slaughter at Murkran, former Hoffburgt castle guard and Servant of the Monarch. I shouldn't have to ask if you know why you are here. You know.”

As Terryn sat there, he bowed his head. Yes. He knew. But he did not answer. The king made a gesture with his hands and rose to his feet, his imposing, wide body and tall frame being more than enough reason to fear the man. And he put it on showcase as he walked side to side. Terryn slowly rose having seen the gesture. “My king.” he started, raising his voice loud enough for the others to hear too. “I am sorry.” The king looked surprised and turned on his heels towards Terryn, looking at him with a face of confusion and, perhaps, some anger. “I know you wish me to tell you of glorious defeat. That we went down fighting. That, even if we lost two regiments of veterans, that the Cherwinians lost equal amounts of even stronger veterans.”

Terryn shook his head and bowed down again, as a sign of inferiority to the king. It was the only way to save his head, he knew. While he bowed down he continued his report on what had happened. His voice rang even louder as he told the true tale of what happened at the border near Murkran. “But that is not the case! We were sent to investigate bandits, and were met with Cherwinian knights doing the same thing. We decided to hunt together, and pinpointed the bandit hideout near a grove of trees. We camped in two different camps, but at night...” The tents that were on fire came to mind and the screams of those who were caught by surprise. He wished he could tell the king that, atleast, so that the king might realize the graveness of this Cherwinian betrayal. But he knew he could not. It was too soon.

“At night, they set upon us by surprise and with them were the bandits. My guess is they hired the bandits to help them. Many were slaughtered. We finally managed to organise a front and fight back, but it was too late. Just as we were beginning to beat back the Cherwinian infantry, on the horizon we could see a regiment of Cherwinian heavy knights. It was too much. Our troops started routing, and were cut down as they fled. Those that were smart enough to hide, forced themselves under the Murkran swamp waters and waited for some time before making their escape.”

The king was shocked. He walked back, and sat in his throne again. The throne was adorned with stag antlers on the top of it, which matched the crown with stag antlers on it quite well. It was the reason he'd earned his nickname. “Good man. Thank you for telling me the truth. You are right, I expected a tale of heroic defeat. But it seemed that is not the case. But at least now.. now I can understand what happened. This was not a dispute. This was betrayal.” The king looked at his wife for a moment, whom nodded at him and gave him her blessing.

“Terryn Hoffmann, you will organise a new regiment. Let it be known from today on that you are the master at arms of the Black Shields, the next regiment we will create. All veterans of the lost regiments at Murkran are to be sent into your service and you will be given recruitment permissions throughout all of Broacien.”

Terryn nodded slightly from his awkward position on his knees. This was.. quite the honour. Not what he expected. “Rise, Terryn Hoffmann!” And so the king commanded, so Terryn did. He rose to his feet and looked at the king, a sense of pride on his face but at the same time, remorse that he had to go back out there to fight again. The next day, letters remarking on the recruitment would be spread to all villages and corners of Broacien, and recruiters were sent out far into the north to recruit Northernlings.

---

After recruitment at Rot Donar had been completed, approximately hundred soldiers had been recruited, and a small fifty men and women were recruited as cooks, camp followers and ladies of pleasure. The Black Shields were certainly not a large regiment, but they had a good size of veterans in their midst who could quickly tutor the others in the arts of surviving in a battle. And the noblemen would soon find out that life on the road, and more over, actual battle.. was much less pleasant than they'd been taught as a squire or from their lessons in swordfighting.

They had been given merely a days' rest, but after that the real work began. Since Terryn was not a nobleman, he was only the master at arms, and thus had only so much control. The rest of the control laid in a noblemans hand, a young marcher-lord who was keen to prove himself. However, since his inexperience, and Terryns' large knowledge on armies, most of the control was left with Terryn. They were put on forced march, and marched for two days and two nights. At the break of dawn, they finally arrived at a clearing in the dense forests that lead up to Murkran. Terryn ordered everyone to set up camp, and so it happened.

The experienced veterans headed into the forest to collect firewood, and chop some branches for future needs. Deep in the forests, some talk could be heard from two rugged veterans. “Any idea what we're doin' so far into Murkran territory? Figured that we'd not be looking fer' trouble so soon again..” one voice said. The other spat onto the ground and then answered. “Ah' cannae tell ya' what we be' doin' here. But one things' fer'shor. Those Monarch-damn-'em Cherwinians are sure to pay fer' what they did to us..” Both voices had a thick accent, so thick that one from another country or even province might have a hard time understanding them.

While the veterans did that, the rest of the recruits would set up camp. Besides that, they were free to spend their evening as they wanted to. Already small communities of people huddling around a fire appeared, as was normal in these type of armies. Their tents were often placed close to each other, too. That's how strong bonds were formed with your brothers in arms.

It had been quite a long journey for Eira from the cold Northern wastes to the recruitment centre at Rot Donar. She had found the name quite funny in fact. In her language it meant 'Tending to the Roots'. As if a person was taking care of the roots of a plant or a tree. She had not been able to keep her laughter to herself once the recruiters had directed her there. In a sense it was quite the fitting name, they are tending to the roots. Hammering out bad old habits, getting into better shape, becoming a fighter, a soldier.

Eira felt it had been good for her as well, it had given her plenty of time to think about her life, and to train with her spear. While she could outshoot most, outlast most in a running contest, sneak up on most, her close quarters were close to abysmal. She had not won many fistfights and wrestle contests where the strength of the individual was quite important. When it came to her spear she had won more, but more due to cunning and just avoiding to fight until her opponent became tired.

She smiled as she was in another bout. She had been given a specific condition to future ones. If she was not able to win within one hourglass of time, she would automatically lose and receive punishments. When the condition had been put into effect after another long bout she had just chuckled and said 'thank you' to the instructor. Eira knew why that condition had been placed on her, in a pitched battle there was never a single opponent which she could tire out. Sure, if the fight dragged on for ages between the two sides she would still have stamina for it, but she would not survive to see it if she had to fight it. She smiled towards the instructor and charged her opponent.

It had been a resounding loss for her. She had been outmatched and outfought quite handily. Eira had grown too cocky since no one part from veterans had won against her in the bouts before because of her way of fighting. Now the tables had been turned and she was losing almost all of them. It was a pitiful showing really, she went in, and she went down almost as quickly, but at least she could stand up for a little longer with every fight.

Once the order to move out finally came she had been relieved. Finally they were back to something she was good at. Her orders were to scout ahead along with the other scouts and bring back food once the campaign started. Scouting was her thing, not fighting, not killing.

A boy, charging towards her with an axe in hand. The blade shone in the light, blood running down the haft. Behind the boy, a girl, cut in the chest, lifeless. The girl, a friend from a nearby village, now dead. The boy, from a rival tribe, no more than 14 years old. Her entire body shivering, instinct taking over, notching an arrow, letting it loose. Arrow struck him in the throat, blood spraying and flowing down his chest. He paused for just a moment before charging again. She had held her spear out, he had run into it. His face just a few away from hers, blood dripping down onto her snow covered face. He was crying, and so was she.

The flashback ended and she shivered up in her tree. Night was closing in on them close to a great forest. In some ways the woods had calmed her, a lot of places to hide. Ever since recruitment she had kept her eyes on the others. Looking for others from the wastes. There had been a few, but no one she recognized neither any tribal markings she knew to look out for. "So far so good" she thought and closed her eyes for a moment.

She prefered the trees to the ground. They had all been told about the; dýr or The Beasts in this tongue, that roamed this land. Stories about them feeding on the blóð of any mær they came across. While she was not a maiden any longer, she did not want to take any chances, she wanted her blood to stay within her.

Besides, it was better to sleep up here rather than with these suðr-maðr bikkja. She knew what they had done to her people over the years, trying to force their trú on her people. She resented them, but also admired them. Living like they do, instead of living like she did. It was weird and odd to her, most of the traders she had traded with before had been mostly like herself. Her first time in a city though.....

Eira shivered at the memory and looked down at the camp. She wondered if there was anyone there she would one day call bróðir or systir, someone she would be ready to give her life for, she highly doubted it. Eira shifted her positioning to be more comfortable while observing the movements within the camp.

'Get yourself to some good use!'
The slam of an iron kettle pulled Ellinor out of her trance. It was almost like her mother had joined them this evening.

'May I help you?' she said, wiping the flour off on her apron as she turned around. She was met by the face of what appeared to be a bear dressing up as a human.

'You can get to the job! Soups!' he smacked his hands on the side of the kettle.

'Oh dear,' she said, running to pick up the kettle as if it were a newborn, 'You are quite right, although I can't make this soup without a special ingredient,' she looked down into it solemnly.

His drunken anger seemed to subside for a moment, 'I can go and the find it, Miss,' he stood up straight and fixed his jacket as if he were a proper man.

'Oh no-no-no, it's a complicated task. Even the plant itself is dangerous if not handled correctly...'

'None sense! I help maiden!' he turned at once and headed out the door. Well, to the wall and then to the door.

Ellinor breathed a sigh of relief as she continued to work the dough. She liked baking, she could focus on the methods and wonder at the science behind it as she worked. How could a simple starter cause the rest of the four to swell and give off that starchy scent of fresh dough? She could only guess. Either way, there were a lot of warriors waiting on 'Soups' after their long day setting up camp. Although today it was less soup and more tunnbröd with whatever meat the others had put together. It seemed like an interesting mix between waterfowl and a few mackerel.

---

'Such a shame, about that girl. Never even got to have kids,'
'She's much too young to be a widow,'
'I wonder who ol' Igor got mad this time,'
'He was always such a nice boy,'
'May The Good God help her,'

Ellinor stood in silence with downcast eyes. She wasn't sure which perspective should make her angrier. She didn't dare let their words, their feelings, or their gazes touch her.

His mother lay with her eyes on her palms, looking out at him tearfully. The preacher finally closed the large, oaken box and he was soon lowered into a square in the ground. She felt something rub against her leg.

---

'Oh, hey there you,'

The silver eyes looked up at her in silence. She slipped a few pieces of fish to her and jostled around the bread. One more minute perhaps.

The drunken man returns with a fistful of rose thorns and tosses them into the pot. Ellinor is quite beside herself and just gives him a nod, 'Thank you,' she said flatly.

And it was quiet again.

---

Although Ellinor could not read, one could learn anything they wished by listening to the whispers long enough. After the service she informed Igor's mother that she would return to her family. Although she offered her house, Ellinor said it was where she belonged and wished her well.

She never had an intent of returning home. She, instead, flowed into the step of those gathering for a sort of battle. Something for a very important rich man in a very distant place. She did not care. He was prepared to take her in and use her skills, which was all she ever really wanted. The man had fifty people to organize, the guy with the odd facial hair had fifty people to train, and she had fifty to feed. She looked to her side and ran her hand down the plush fur. Make that fifty-one.

Genseric had finally arrived. He had come here on horseback, the fastest way. However, he had come to realize that these horses were not in fact meant for extended journey. For his journey Genseric had requested the finest of horses, and it had seemed that his wish had been granted. It was a great steed to beheld, a white horse groomed so that its white hair seemed to gleam a type of perfection, and its speed was matched by none. However, it in fact had been a horse meant for leisurely purpose. Nobles would be glad to take it in the trips into the King’s forest, where they would go on pleasurable trips to hunt stag. This steed, however, had tired out quite too fast, and as a result Genseric had been required to allow to take lengthy rests in order for it to recover its strength.

Even accounting for that, Genseric had arrive on time. The journey was quite a distance, yet it would have been a small one in comparison to the journey in which others had undertaken. He had at least only needed to travel from within Grosswick, while others must have traveled from the more remote parts of the kingdom.

He was not alone, as he had a small entourage who had travelled along with him. It had been unacceptable to some of those back at Genseric’s home at Weylen Keep for him to travel alone, so he had travelled with a small group of knights, who numbered only in total four, and that included his younger brother Johannes, who was very much not a knight. Slated to be a priest when he had turned twenty-five, Johannes had proven ill-suited for the journey, and in fact had fallen rather ill, although he had soldiered on. The only reason why he had agreed to accompany Genseric was due to their younger sister Ana. She demanded that she herself go along, and did a great deal of whining and complaining, but of course the girl was not able to. Yet she forced Johannes to keep an eye on Genseric in her stead. It had been endearing, if nothing else, although she should learn better to control herself. He would soon be in greater danger, and neither of them would keep an eye on them.

Upon his horse, he inched closer to the camp at Rot Donar. His companions no longer would be able to follow him.

“So, do you suppose that this is it?” Johannes said.

“Yes,” Genseric said.

“Still a man of few words then?” Johannes said. “You’ll hardly make any friends that way.”

“I’m not going there to make friends,” Genseric said.

“I suppose your right,” Johannes said. “So I suppose this is goodbye then. Funny…who knows when you’ll be back, and yet I can’t think of anything to say.”

“Then I suppose you’re like me, then,” Genseric said.

“Are you trying to be witty?” Johannes said.

“Yes,” Genseric said.

After a long pause Johannes said, “Listen, Genseric, I know things haven’t been exactly perfect, but-”

“Promise me you’ll take care of Ana when I’m gone,” Genseric said.

“Of course,” Johannes said. “But in a year’s time she’ll probably be off, married to some nobleman.”

Then Genseric said goodbye to his brother. He would not see him for a long time, or any of his family. It was not until he had walked up to the ensign that he had realized he had never contemplated on whether or not he would die. However, it mattered not, as Genseric did not fear death, and had never feared it. He would do what he knew he had been called to do, and fulfill his obligations, even if that meant facing death in a match and losing.

He stood in front of the ensign, who to Genseric’s surprise stood alone, with an expression bored enough to tell him how successful this recruiting campaign was not. He was not even slightly deterred, and stood tall, tall as he could anyway, in front of the ensign. Genseric held an expression as hard as iron.

“Here to sign up, eh,” the ensign said.

“Yes,” Genseric said. “I am Genseric Cerdicson, son of Aeldric, the Count of Rossex.”

“My apologies, sire, I had no idea,” the ensign said. “Yet, my lord, even the nobility needs to sign.”

“I had assumed so,” Genseric said.

---

Genseric stood alone. Johannes had indeed been right that his attitude would not win him friends, but Genseric cared more about ensuring he had no enemies than gaining any friends. In the past, however, Genseric had learned that simply being alive was enough to gain enemies. He wondered if it was the same way in the army.

He for now overlooked the camp, surveying the men from the distance. There were about one-hundred soldiers and about fifty men and women in supporting role, including those women whose very profession was dedicated to the venereal pleasures. Such profound immorality did exist in the army, and Genseric did not doubt you could find thieves, murders, atheists, and other various malcontents among the denizens of the army. He would not speak out against it, as it was not his place to comment on it. It was Terryn Hoffmann who was the commander here, and it would be foolish of him to try and exert his authority over him, as he greatly outranked him.

He had been given a lieutenant’s rank, which was about what Genseric had expected. Those who were highborn were given precedent over all others. It was less power than Genseric had wielded before, but he was satisfied. He still mused over whether he was truly ambitious. He at times thought he wasn’t, yet his heart seemed not to burn as it should.

Whatever the case, Genseric was now dedicated to the Black Shields. Whatever came would come. Overlooking the men, most older than himself, he intended to serve as the officer he had been expected to be.

You want to learn to fight? First rule, learn to fight dirty. Honor gets you killed, and is worth nothing to the dead. You need to be underhanded, ruthless. A handful of dirt in their eyes, a kick in the groin - do whatever you need to do to stay alive. You understand? In a real war nothing there are no rules. I've seen how the nobility fight, the so-called knights with their code of chivalry. They may try to fool you with their fancy armor and meaningless titles, but in the end they die just like any other man.

His father had once told him that when they used to speak - a time so long ago it seemed like a whole other life. Jahan supposed it was a whole other life, in some ways. A performer and a soldier would be regarded as completely different professions to the masses; the purpose of one being to frivolously entertain whilst the other risked their life on a daily basis. It seemed almost impossible to imagine one of the carefree travelling folk taking up arms for a cause, but that is what Jahan had done, regardless.

He had long sought a purpose in life, his desire to make a true difference was what had led him to join up with the Black Shields in the first place, and whilst some may long for the freedom of the open road, Jahan had only ever really wanted some kind of order in his chaotic life. So he joined an army, hoping that it would give him everything he had wanted in life. He wasn't stupid - he knew that it would be damn near impossible for a lowborn man to get enough recognition to join gain a commission of his own - but he also knew that he was more than up for the challenge. He had people skills, something that came naturally to someone of his birthright. He also had a considerable knack for combat, and whilst he didn't fight in the honorable style of a classically trained warrior you couldn't deny that he got results. After all, the point of combat was to walk away alive, surely? As long as you walked away and the other man didn't, that was all that mattered.

He had joined the regiment a few days ago now, and had set up a tent in a rough circle of other tents. Whilst he knew the importance of bonding with his fellow soldiers however, he hadn't made much of a concerted effort to get to know anybody. His particular religious beliefs were a bit of a sore topic in this part of the world, and so he had kept to himself as much as possible in an attempt to keep his secret. It wasn't that he was stupid enough to outright tell anybody that he didn't believe in their god, but he knew that it would only be a matter of time before somebody found out. People always did. So he spent a lot of his time alone, training the acrobatic skills that he had known since birth. It was unconventional, and it definitely turned a few heads, but it was the best way he could think of keeping in shape. And of course, at war, fitness was vital.

---

A man walked through the muddy field leading up to the encampment - several wooden stakes had been put up as a makeshift wall, to make it at least somewhat harder to cross from the field into the camp. It'd keep out unwanted visitors at least, but it wouldn't hold long against any type of war band that wished to cross blades.

The man approached a knight of sorts - he looked to be one, by any rate of the word. To Haesteinn, personally, the man seemed like he should have stayed at home, scribing away and writing a book or something. Unknown to Haesteinn was however that this man was the son of Aedric, count of Rossex and famed war hero. If Haesteinn had known that, he would perhaps have chosen to approach him differently - or perhaps not, Haesteinn had always been rather cold in his approach to anyone, remnants of the North, Lord Jachsen had told him. “Hail, knight,” Haesteinn said as he raised a hand at the man. “It seems that I am to be sent out to gather some supplies for the cooks,” he continued, standing in position in front of the lower-ranked knight. It was amusing, to say the least, that a man who'd never lead any retinue before was now in control over a noble knight. No doubt a privilege that Haesteinn owed to his many years of service, and Terryn's view for practicality rather than noble prestige. “You seem to be unlucky enough to be the first to catch my eye, so come with me.”

Haesteinn then continued his march through the camp - looking for a specific area of the camp that he'd been given precedence over. According to the ensign that had explained to him briefly who he was commanding, there was a woman of sorts - tribal, a scout, archer, whatever you called them. Furthermore there was also a former acrobat, who had served as a caravan guard? A strange combination, and Haesteinn was willing to bet this man would bite the dust sooner rather than later. Asides them, there were several other unimportant figures that were described by the ensign as 'peasants and militia's.' To take care of his little corner of the camp there had been a cook, and healer. She was named Ellinor, according to her signage in the book.

All in all, it sounded like it was going to be a great warparty - the scout, the knight and the acrobat, as well as a healer. And all four would die in the mud. A grimace appeared on Haesteinns face as he finally approached the corner of the camp. His voice raised the moment he arrived, shouting at the people in the area. “Had you thought to go to sleep so early?!” his voice rang, turning heads on a few other sides of the camp. There was no doubt that Jachsen and Eira would be brought to attention to face the man in battle ornate.

Ellinor, too, would likely be alerted by the voice, and if she knew what was good for her, she'd come to pay attention to the sergeant who came here to deliver a sort of talk. It seemed to be a talk, anyway.

Haesteinn's neck was covered in tribal marks - none reaching above his jaws or chin - and his hair had been slicked back. His beard had been freshly comb, as to look presentable for his troops. On his forehead were the three dots - indicating that Haesteinn had been a Servant, a warrior of the Monarch. His stature would perhaps be impressive to those who hadn't spent much time in a military camp yet. And if his stature didn't do the job, his deep and masculine voice might do the trick. “Nay, we have work yet to do,” he continued, lowering his voice slightly. “The quartermaster instructed me to forage for supplies, and whether that means we pick berries, hunt an animal or order a village nearby to give up some food, I do not care. But we will get supplies.” His voice was harsh, deep and yet, at the same time, it was warm and full of a strange sense of familiarity. It was almost like his voice was the embodiment of a cold night in the winter, being forced to camp out in the bitterly cold snow - and yet, you had a fire and a companion, and it provided a strange sense of fear and comfort.

Not wishing to wait for midday to go out, he immediately pointed at Jachsen - unaware that this man was the acrobat he'd been told about by the ensign - and Eira. “You two will come with me,” he ordered with a stern and strict voice. He then glanced at Ellinor, and adressed her too. “I've little knowledge of plants in Murkran. You'll have to come with to see which plants and berries we can and can't take.” Finishing his little spiel in front of his troops, he glanced at Genseric. “Knight, I do not expect you to toil in the mud picking roots, but you shall have to come. It never hurts to have an extra sword, and we don't know where the Cherwinian knights went after they destroyed our regiments in the swamps. They might have moved closer to the capital to plunder villages - and so they might be nearby. Understood?”

He didn't wait for an answer, and Genseric wasn't expected to answer, in fact, he was expected to not give an answer and simply accept what was said. But Haesteinn wasn't aware of any of these people's personalities, and so he simply asserted himself as the leader and that was that. Whether they'd accept him or not, well, that was up to them.

As soon as everybody had gotten ready, for which Haesteinn would wait maximally 10 minutes, they would move out and head through the forest. The ground quickly became more muddy, and some parts were even under water completely. It was a sign that they were indeed in Murkran, the characteristic swamps being evaded carefully by Haesteinn as he led the party of five, as to cut down on travel time. As they went along, they should try to forage as much as they could - Ellinor being the one to explain what could be taken if needed.

However, as quickly as they'd left, Haesteinn would suddenly stop dead still in his tracks and look to the front. If the others paid attention to what was ahead, they would quickly note the column of black smoke ahead of them. “Knights.. so close?” Haesteinn mumbled to himself. They had barely walked for half an hour. If they were this close, then it was inevitable foragers and scouts would find the other party quickly. Slowly he inched closer, moving through a bush and kneeling in it, taking a careful look ahead.

In front of the party of five was a clearing in the forest, more muddy than their own clearing. In the middle of it was a small palisade - it wasn't professionally built by a carpenter, and it seemed like a man could probably bring down sections of the wall with a few good pushes. There was a singular watch tower on one corner of the palisade, and a man seemed to be on it. There was a bow nearby him, but the man was sitting still in a chair. Perhaps sleeping. “Not knights..” Haesteinn mumbled again, to nobody in particular. “Brigans and cutthroats.” He looked back at his party of four, and urged them to come closer. “Careful.” he added, insisting that they be silent as to not get spotted. “What shall we do?” he asked them, looking at the small encampment again. He couldn't be sure how many were inside. An attack could provide them with the supplies they might need, or otherwise, an attack might endanger them all and possibly get them killed.

After his trial, Keys was imprisoned for three days. On the third day he was released, given back his equipment and horse, and was bound to the Black Shields for seven years. It was a merciful sentence considering many others would have simply been beheaded, and that was not lost on Keys.

In some way, small and hidden away deep in Keys’ boot, he was excited. His first battle he’d fought against Cherwinian scum at Witches’ Crest. After a Broacien victory he’d watched the Cherwin king cut down King Tristan in single combat, in what the Northerners would call ‘holmgang’. Keys never forgave King Tristan for dying, and he never forgave Cherwin for killing him.

As he plodded through the murky forests of his home, avoiding the bogs more by instinct than wisdom, his thin, rose-gray gelding bobbed it’s head to and fro. Occasionally the horse would pause, bending down to nibble at a particularly delicious looking patch of moss. While not the best habit for a horse to have, Keys didn’t mind. The horse was bound to have some hard days coming up.

Atop the horse, Keys yawned. He was a big man, dressed in brown breeches and a dull red doublet. A dinged breastplate glinted from underneath a weathered honey-yellow cloak. He shifted in the saddle, desperately searching for a more comfortable position. The knight had been alone on the road for two days, and while many in Murkran would call that suicide, Keys preferred it that way. Murkran was home, and he was familiar with terrain. He kept an eye out for bandits of course, but no Cherwin dog could make a stealthy approach in these swamps without alerting Keys. It was something about the way they walked. And the way they smelled. And the way they breathed.

The meandering horse huffed as it sloshed though a murky puddle and Keys returned the huff, jerking his head up and scanning the trees. He knew he would be at the encampment by dusk, and considering his pace, maybe even later. So seeing a thin line of smoke ahead of him piqued his interest.

“Whoa, Frisco.” He whispered, pulling up on the reins. Frisco halted and blinked, turning his pale head to Keys. The knight dismounted, quietly splashing into the soft mud below. He tossed the reins over a low branch and pulled his heavy gray sword from the bedroll strapped to his saddle. This sword wasn’t a showy blade that many of the city folk flaunted. This was a tool. A dull gray bastard sword with modest crossguard, leather hilt, and rounded pommel, it was meant for killing, not showing. He dipped past Frisco, pausing to pat the young horse’s head.

“Keep an eye out.”

The horse shook his hand away and gnawed on some hanging moss. Keys picked his way through the marsh slowly, nestling himself against a tree as the woodline cleared ahead. Peeking from behind the tree he saw a wooden palisade that stood in the clearing, and the fortification looked manned. These weren’t the King’s men, certainly, though he knew they must be close. And they couldn't be Cherwinian, Keys would have smelled them.

Outlaws, mostlike. Poor bastards picked a bad spot to squat.

It was only a matter of time until the Black Shields found the bandits. Then they’d either kill them or force them into service, like he had been. He rolled his back to the tree and gave a slight shrug. He’d have to report this activity once he reached the camp. Pushing off the tree, he sneakily began his hike back to his horse.

Eira saw a few figures rustling about in the camp. People were making normal conversations, walking about, setting up camp. They seemed to be getting comfortable. She wondered how these suðrœn could be so comfortable on the ground in their little tents. Were they not worried about the dýr that stalked these lands? Beasts carried like a man, but true feral at heart. "Fascinating," she said to herself, "perhaps they only attack us from the north? Would be typical of these suðrœn, only targeting us." While she knew this not to be true, old resentment still stayed strong. "They fight each other just as much as they fight us, just as much as we fight each other."

She looked further into the camp and saw a figure walking out towards their encampment with a sure stride. Looked like he was on a mission. She mused as to what it could be. Empty the latrines? Tell that supper was served? Eira chuckled as she thought about the possibilities as he strode up to another man and then briskly walked off again.

As his voice resounded in the camp she recognised the voice. "Stein?" she peeled her eyes and saw a figure she remembered. She had not seen him for a number of years though. Eira nimbly made her way down from the tree and walked over to where he was standing. She smiled, a true smile, for the first time in a very long time. It was her bróðir, or at least the closest she would ever come to having one.

She chuckled quietly as he gave his speech, always been straight to the point that man. After been given the command she put her fist into her palm and bowed slightly. She had accepted him as the commander, but only because she knew him from before, mostly because she knew his father. Eira more than likely owed her life to Sigurd, so she would do what she could to take care of Stein.

Eira started following after Stein, looking for an opportunity to talk to him. She wanted to talk to him about his father, give her his condolences. She had not been given the opportunity though.

As they made their way through the woods, Eira groaned, they were making way too much noise. Just as she was about to point it out she saw that Stein had stopped. She tracked his gaze, readying her bow and noticed the smoke in the distance.

Her instincts started taking over and she fell almost flat against the ground and stalked closer, making as little noise as possible. Eira avoided any tree trunks and instead stuck to bushes and fallen branches to not stand out from the terrain. When the question came Eira had been observing the camp for a little while.

"From the size of the camp there should at least be six, and up to twelve," she said with a thick northern accent and started drawing a crude map in the dirt. "There should at least be two which rotate the watch," she pointed towards the watchtower. "And a building and palisade of that size can house up to twelve, possibly more." She looked at Stein for confirmation before continuing. "If they keep single bunks, six, double, twelve, if they sleep on the floor as well, count even more."

Eira gave off a slightly nervous feeling. "My suggestion is that we either avoid them, or go back for help."

She looked at Stein's face and spoke in the language of the north. "Without knowing more, death awaits us all. It's suicide if we attack them without knowing their numbers. While I'm confident that I can take out the watch without them noticing, but it's a fool's quest to attack."

Genseric was doing nothing in particular when he was approached by a man whose appearance was quite unusual, and Genseric could say with confidence never had he seen anything quite like it. A man of somewhat rough appearance, he had both the marks of a tribal man and of a man who had seen service among the Servants. The rarity of such an event was enough to raise a brief surprise in Genseric, which dissipated near instantly. Genseric’s expression had not broken.

He addressed him the way a superior addresses his subordinates, so Genseric assumed that he was so. Genseric guessed him to be a captain. He offered a small nod to the officer that he would follow him, although he had erroneously recognized him as a knight. Genseric, however, did not go to correct him.

They walked among the camps, Genseric quietly walking beside the officer. Then he, the officer, yelled, clearly grabbing the attention of all who were there. He was gathering a force for something, surely for something involving Cherwin. Once again he called Genseric a knight.

As the group of them walked through the forest, Genseric ahead of them smoke rising to the sky. A young woman who appeared to be of an age similar to that of Genseric spoke up. She warned them of the dangers that they might encounter.

“So it seems,” Genseric said.

Haesteinn laid still in the shrubbery, paying attention closely to the small encampment and the treeline behind it. For a moment, he thought he saw movement among the trees. A man? Was his mind fooling him? If Eira didn't notice then perhaps his mind was fooling him indeed. Eira noted that there'd be many inside - perhaps true. But these were brigands. Haesteinn doubted that they got by on staying in that little palisade. He didn't pay mind to Eira, more occupied with the fortress ahead of him. 'Fortress.' The place seemed to be falling apart. Why hadn't the lord of Murkran cleaned this bunch up? “Perhaps.” he simply added, looking carefully at the guard on the tower.

He could die - quietly. Eira could shoot him and then they could approach the palisade without raising alarm. It made sense in his head, that much was sure. Genseric added his own little comment - it wasn't worth much. For a nobleman, he was silent. Haesteinn had expected him to raise his voice and immediately betray their position. Noblemen had little tact, that much he had learned from lord Jachsen in the Barren Hall. “These are brigands - outlaws and cowards. They'll likely run at first sight of a real sword. And their status means that they likely are out right now, holding up peasants or something of the sort.”

While Eira had made a good estimation of the camp, she was new to the south. Haesteinn, however, was not. In fact he knew little of the North apart from the few trips he'd made there. It was for that reason that, even though he understood Eira, he was unable to answer her using the correct norse words. The language was little more than a dialect - exchanging a few words for more old words, but it was a tricky language. It was therefore for the best interest of the others that Haesteinn had little to no talent in his own vocabulary of the dialect. But because Eira was new to the south she didn't seem to understand that these men in the camp were likely not even present. They'd return at nightfall, most likely. All that was left behind would be a skeleton crew. At least.. that was Haesteinn's estimation.

“I would suggest we try and get closer. You want to impress me, and by extent Terryn?” he said as he gestured towards the fortifications. “A chance has presented itself. My only concern..” His eyes would focus on Ellinor, the midwife. She would be in danger, and would barely be armed. “My only concern is that we lose our cook and healer.” He could tell her to wait here while they did their business - and that'd be the safest approach to it all. Perhaps for the best.

“So Ellinor, you must stay here. Eira, Jahan and ser knight shall come with me. As soon as Eira can take down the guard, we will creep up to the wall and we shall help eachother climb over it. Eira, you'll be last in. Move low, and stay close to eachother.” His words sounded final, and it seemed that he was intent on going in, either with his party or without them. As soon as the rest had gotten ready he'd inch forwards, moving low to the ground through the tall swamp-grass that reached nearly up to his waist. The ground made some wet noises as he stepped in it, clearly muddy, but at least they weren't chest-deep into the waters. As soon as Eira had taken the shot on the guard, the party would speed up and reach the palisade walls.

Haesteinn's hushed voice spoke again. “Knight, Jahan, offer me your hands. I'll climb onto the wall and take a quick look. Then I'll get you guys in. Hurry.” The words used made it sound like a question, but the tone sounded like an order. Haesteinn softly wondered if the knight was used to it - more than likely he wasn't. And now that they had reached the wall, he wondered if they could really climb the wall.. Jahan and Eira were light - especially Eira. But the knight was clad in armor.. they'd have to see. If push came to shove, Haesteinn could go look for another entrance. And if that couldn't happen, then he'd simply clamber out again and they'd go away.

Meanwhile over at Ellinor, soft footsteps would approach from behind her. They made soft squishing noises as they came through the mud. Slowly the metal sound of a knife being drawn was heard, a possible warning to Ellinor as to what was approaching her.

Ellinor had been watching the fire slowly roast for much too long and had become drunk off of its allure. She was brought out of her trance by a voice shouting - not much unlike a spoiled child. The log she used as a stool clumped down into the dirt as she stood and joined the chattering bunch. They were soon silenced by a booming voice. She listened in to his commands before being picked out to gather supplies. It was to be expected, all these clangy-armoured broads probably couldn't tell a crumble berry from a dirt berry. She kept these remarks to herself.

The closest thing she had seen to any sort of royalty were the guards who broke up fights about overpriced chickens at Barren Flats during the market. She wasn't used to seeing any sort of leadership or power, the rulers of the land she lived upon were more like ghosts who sometimes ordered you to give them things, but usually didn't stir you. Those around him seemed to flock like ducklings to a fat mama, the children holding on to every word as without question. In a way, this man was like a mother - an ugly one who lacked any womanly charm.

She agreed to trample in the mud with them, she hadn't had time to see how fruitful this area was. As they walked Ellinor had to remember not to hum a foraging tune, not only would it likely be difficult to convince them of its luck, but it could put them in danger. Instead, she picked up a rather thick walking stick, both to turn over the sticky moss that flourished here and to help her pull her boots out of the mud. It was nearly winter so her findings were limited to a few mushrooms that were flat and yellow like the sun. It was slightly too dark and much too loud to poke around in many bushes, so she decided to leave that for another time.

Ellinor would not have noticed the camp herself, but thankfully the others could make it out through the trees. She decided that she should scramble around her brain to make fertile findings a second priority and encampments her first.

Before she knew it, the scrawny Northerning slithered ahead and took count as if they were livestock. They decided to make quick of the people, although Ellinor knew to not question their authority.

'Very well then,' she gave a quick nod and glanced down into her old barley sack, mumbling to herself, 'Perhaps I could begin cleaning these green fluff-covered things,'

At once, they were gone. She had watched many animals hunt before, humans even, but this felt more like a wolf pack hunting. Peculiar, I would have expected more trumpeting and prancing around. Instead, they are like dogs, surrounding their prey and growling like- her thoughts were cut short by a squelch in the ground behind her. She had been stalked by a wolf before, they are much more careful.

It was best not to freeze up. At least, that's what she told herself. She eyed her stick, laying by her feet and the mushroom in her hand. Only now did she realize this was a foolish decision.

Another muddy footstep, just over a meter behind. Pouncing distance. In one motion she turned and slung the mushroom in the general direction of the sound as she adjusted her vision to see where the shadow stood. The coward was pressed up against a tree and ducked from the flying fungus. She crouched herself, quickly picking up her stick and holding it out in front of her horizontally as she had been taught.

Eira cursed under her breath, saying quite harsh things about how fubar the situation is. She was not used to being ignored when it came to scouting, especially in a situation where they all could lose their lives, and they had no way of knowing if there were more around. However, she would do as she was told, she had to keep this foolish bróðir of her's alive. "I'll do as you ask," she said grumpily and moved off to the side to get a clean shot against the watchtower.

She sighed and cursed quietly as she moved off, making sure that no one else could hear her speak. Eira slowly made her way so that she could see the entrance of the barracks while still being within range of the watchtower. She saw one man sitting on a chair with cards in his hands. "That makes at least two," she figured before looking at the tower and the palisade around it.

"If I dash up there I can climb onto it and up into the tower; risky, leaves me exposed. Sitting here and taking potshots; safer but can't support the other side. Bait, I'll be the bloody bait." After her internal monologue she sighed and readied her bow. She took a few deep breaths and aimed at the one in the tower. There was a slow wind eastwards and she compensated for it and took one final look around to make sure she was not sneaked up upon. She didn't see anyone, and the one playing cards were still playing.

"Here we go," she said quietly and let the first arrow loose. She tracked the arrow for a few moments before notching another arrow and aimed at the visible one in the barracks. She glanced towards the tower as the arrow struck him in the side of the head, slumping together.

"No, no, no, no," she said and cursed and let the arrow loose towards the one inside. The guard that she had shot had staggered from the force of the impact started falling down from the tower and struck the ground with a heavy thud.

Her second arrow struck the man in the chest as he turned to see where the noise came from, killing him as well. After she saw the arrow hit true she let loose a third arrow which struck the wall before dashing slightly further into the woods to stay out of sight. She hoped that they would take the bait and follow after her, and if the others followed the plan, they could hopefully ambush the remaining troops.

Genseric did not like the way which the word impress came out. It was not the way in which the captain had said it, but the word itself. It seemed to always grate against his ear, something seeming deeply insincere about it. Yet at the time that was what he had set out to do, to impress, to make his mark here, wasn’t it? Genseric didn’t express this in any way, as any change in expression, no matter how little, could be detected, and Genseric did not wish to make the wrong expression.

Genseric uttered a farewell to their healer and cook. He should have learned her name by name, considering the companionship they had shared. On the other hand, hadn’t Genseric said to his brother that he was not here to make friends? He turned his head after saying a brief farewell to her and looked back to the others. Was it really wise to leave her defenseless?

These thoughts soon made way for new ones as they marched towards the camp, and came up to its wall. The woman from the north unleashed a volley of her arrows, but unfortunately it seemed their bodies had made a conspicuous sound. Genseric held one hand firmly on the handle of his sword now, and prepared the beginning of combat at any moment.

However, it was not yet the time. He would follow the captain’s lead, and accept his judgement. As for his own views, he thought that the northerner was making the right decision. As she shot her arrow and then retreated further into the forest, creating a diversion, Genseric and the captain ran towards the wall.

When they arrived at it, it was clear that someone would need support to get over. The captain ask for his hands in this. Genseric, however, was thin and with an unimpressive stature, and was wearing a suit of armor.

“My hands are yours, sir,” Genseric said. “But this is impossible.”

---

The party reached the walls, which were ramshackle at best. Haesteinn pressed his back against the palisade and saw only then that Eira had vanished. From Haesteinns left came several yells, which were saying that there was an attacker. It seemed hat they hadn't noticed anyone other than Eira at that point, for which Haesteinn was happy. Perhaps that was why she had so suddenly vanished. Genseric raised his voice causing Haesteinn to pay attention to him again. It was only then that the man was actually quite thin. Perhaps the man was right about this being impossible. “It seems our scout has distracted them, so we shouldn't have to go over the wall. Let's scurry around to the front of the little camp and see if they leave the doors open for us.”

Brigands were a careless bunch, and it wouldn't surprise Haesteinn if they left the gates open. He led the others to the front of the camp, where the palisade curved slightly down and came together to form a gate. The gate was about a man and a half tall, but didn't seem overly heavy. The yelling was getting louder and Haesteinn could hear inside the trampling of feet - two, three men, possibly. Going to give chase it would appear from their yells. However there must be more inside. As they reached the gate they violently shoved it open, swinging the doors outwards. They ran across a trail cut through the chest-high grass towards the forest, where Eira had disappeared from view completely.

They would have noticed Haesteinn if it were not for the fact that he'd ducked down quickly as soon as he heard them approaching. Their carelessness and his hiding provided opportunity for him to remain unnoticed. As soon as the brigands, who turned out to be only two, had also disappeared from view, Haesteinn urged the rest forwards. Slowly he approached the gate and took a quick look inside. All he could see was a dead man with an arrow in his head laying below the tower, and a man with an arrow in his chest somewhere nearby. There was a table near the man - overturned, when he fell over it.

As he was about to look away he noticed movement. Two men with morningstars were approaching the man below the tower. “Fuckin' 'ell that was a right shot wosent it?” he spoke with a thick Murkran accent. The other man answered with a slightly more central accent. “'tseems so. Whoever took that down musta been a ... hunter, or somethin. I'm sure the lads will get 'im.” The two of them bent over then and grabbed the body by the arm. It seemed that they had no real concern for the man - and they also seemed to be under the impression that they were under attack by a lone hunter or something and not a small party of soldiers.

Haesteinn turned to the others and spoke to them, no longer watching his tone. “Right, since they already know that there's something going on, I imagine they won't just lay idly in their bed or twiddle their thumbs. I propose we simply go in and give them a taste of their own medicine - cut their arm or something and they'll run, I'm sure.” The mans eyes were serious, as they were about to enter combat. At least if the brigands didn't run at the sight of people who actually looked like they were worth a coin or two in a battle.

As soon as he was done speaking to them, he stood up straight from his slightly bent over position in the grass and stepped onto the cleared path, walking into the camp. He didn't draw a weapon yet, as there was perhaps a chance of talking these guys into submission. He'd seen two, and he didn't know how many were actually there. Jahar, frankly, seemed like the type who had been around a bunch of half-criminals. Perhaps he'd know how to speak to these people. If not, perhaps Genseric's noble words could sway them.

As Haesteinn walked into the camp, no doubt followed by his fellow Black Shields, he entered what seemed to be a sort of camp center. The area was clear and there was a burned out fire, with several tree stumps around it. Empty cups and burned meat laid around, indicating that these men had been here for at least a day. These things caught Haesteinn's eye, but what escaped him temporarily was the bald headed, brute of a man that walked out into the open from a large tent. The man looked strong, twice Genseric's size most likely. He was slightly larger than Haesteinn too.

Haesteinn only noticed the man when he raised his voice at the intruders. “Wot 'av we 'ere? Lad's, c'mere and take a look at these runts!” His voice was like thunder - heavy and rolling. A few second later the two fellows with the morningstars that had carried away the body came out of a tent, as well as a man clad in a gambeson with a kettle hat. He wielded a cleaver - dry blood was on it.

Haesteinn froze for a moment as he looked up at the four men. His hand moved to his blades hilt swiftly, holding onto it for now. “We're soldiers in the name of the royal king Gregar. You'd do best to lay down your weapons, as we have this camp surrounded. Surrender now and you'll be pressed into service - resist us and die.” Haesteinn delivered the words with power but was met only with laughter. “Surrounded? 'ave seen no such thing. Yer' full of it, ya twat.” the man with the kettle hat answered as he gripped the cleaver more tightly.

A silence fell. A silence for Genseric or Jahar to fill. Damn. Now would be a good time for Eira to return, Haesteinn caught himself thinking.

Jahan was wary. Walking straight into a camp of brigands wouldn't have been his first choice of plan, but apparently that was the angle they were going for. Personally he would have gone for a stealthier approach, sneak in and take as many of them out as possible before anybody noticed and scare the rest into submission. He was, however, quite skilled at improvising - so he went along with it anyway.

“Surrounded? 'ave seen no such thing. Yer' full of it, ya twat.”

Jahan's hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword, resting lightly on his hip. Combat - whilst probably the most fun option - was definitely inadvisable seeing as they were outnumbered by the opposing force. Diplomacy was the obvious choice, so he thought he might as well make an attempt of it.

"Please, gentlemen. Surely we don't need to resort to fighting?" He said, taking a few steps forward. He took his hand off the hilt of his weapon and raised them both in front of him, in a gesture of peace.

"You need to think logically here. If you reject our offer, it'll result in a fight which will in turn result in unwanted casualties on both sides. If, however, you accept our offer, you get a paying job in the service of the king himself. It's essentially what you're doing now, but with royal authority." He took another step forward, grinning slightly.

"Think about it. Which would you prefer, a small haul now - alongside injuries and potential deaths - or a job in an army, giving you free reign to kill and loot whilst getting paid for it?"

He cast a quick, anxious look at Haesteinn. He knew full well that he had oversold the freedom of their profession to these criminals, but it was the only way he could think of avoiding violence. After all, once they were pressed into service they would have to do as they were told, surely?

Seemingly the only one unfit for warfare was having her own little tussle. The man lunged at her with his arm straight out and she forced it down with a blow to the wrist. She then lost her balance on a glob of moss, seeing him slide his hand from under the stick and slither around her.

She felt the weight of a sack of shit on her back as she was kneed into the ground. She swung the stick out to the side and traded positions. He was on his hands and knees on the ground and she held the stick in both hands - the thinner end pointed right at his stomach. She should have ran.

He scrambled to his feet and smacked the stick to the side, knife ready to pin to her throat before she could even push him back. He was backing her up with the blade shining in the soft light, his creepily delighted expression made her grimace.

'Stupid bitch. I oughtta learn you to act better,' he spat at her.

She could barely stumble backwards fast enough to avoid the blade. She shuffled to the side and felt a thorn prick the back of her arm. She paused just long enough for her to smell his breath.

In one motion she dropped the stick, put that arm on his opposite side and spun around using all of her strength to shove him into the bush that pricked her. She toppled on top of him as the thorns swallowed him. The red-faced man was desperately trying to free the arm that held dearly to the knife as she laid on it, her eyes never moving from the blade.

There was a half of a moment of stillness as the bastard struggled to get his arm free and she heard shouts in the distance. She couldn't hold him and it was likely that her comrades were being slaughtered at this very moment.

That was what the with the kettle hat had said. Genseric held a tight grip on the hilt of his sword, and was ready to draw it when the first sign of them walking forward had begun. He kept his eyes on them. They outnumbered them, but only four to three. They were only brigands, and they were skilled fighters. At least, that was what Genseric had hoped was the case. Genseric was not afraid of them, and had been prepared for this.

Then Jahan began talking, coercing them into abandoning their hostile position and joining them. Genseric glanced at him as he began talking, and then put his eyes back on to those hostile forces wielding cleavers and morning stars. Genseric was hesitant to think that this would really work. As brigands, they couldn’t be trusted to behave as honest men do. To steal or cheat was simply a part of the life that they lived.

He wondered if these men would really would lay down their arms with simply some arguing. Jahan was speaking to them, and it seemed that they listened, yet would they find it agreeable? Genseric wasn’t so sure, yet he wanted to believe that it was so. His arguments seemed like they must have been agreeable. If they believed him, wouldn’t they have to agree to go along with him? Genseric hoped so.

Yet Genseric never loosened his grip on the handle of his sword or took his eyes off of the hostile forces. Hostility could break out at any moment, and Genseric had to ensure he would be ready when that moment came. His eyes stayed active, looking for any sign of change that would note that they were beginning to engage in hostilities, and he would be ready.

Even though she could read and write, Fall had just signed with an X at the recruiting station. Autumn could read, as was right for the daughter of a merchant. It was just something else to distance this quiet but cheerful girl from the one that had walked away from that bloody battle. She'd come in during the middle of the recruiting and gotten into the camp much easier than expected and without crossing any of her old comrades.

Now she smiled as she worked, a bone needle and catgut thread closing up a still bleeding gash in a mans face. Her long gauntlets were tossed over her left shoulder and her fingers appeared to be hesitant as they made crooked stitches along his jawline. It was going to leave a very ugly scar. The clumsiness was an act. A simple cut like this was something she could take care of in just a minute with stitches so neat as to look almost artistic.

"It would really be better if you had gone to a proper healer, even if you would have gotten into shit for fighting. I told you I could, not that I was good at it."

The fellow grimaced as she jabbed him once before the needle found it's mark.

"I would have gone to that cook but she's disappeared with that northern sergeant."

He'd gotten onto the wrong side of some other recruits and come off a little the worse for wear with a cut face and bruised pride. Fall had been in the scuffle and come off with no more than bruises. This one was the only person to need actual medical attention. She treated him as an equal, another new recruit. Making friends to keep her distant from the veterans would be a smart move going forward.

After one last knot she cut the thread and dropped the needle back into a small leather belt pouch. She patted him on the shoulder.

"Now try not to make a fool of yourself again."

The brigands inched closer from their tents, looking warily at those in front of them. They must've seen the soldiers as intruders into their own little section of Murkran. Luckily for Haesteinn Jahan stepped in quickly, and actually did a rather nice job of persuading the brigands. They looked at each other, seeming to be thinking about what Jahan said. “Aye, lad's got a point innit?” one with a morningstar said. The other added quickly, “'an ave always wanted to be a soldiering boy meself, I tell ya. C'mon, we 'ave not had good food in a monf'. Atleast we be fed with them soldiering lads.”

The man with the kettlehat seemed less impressed. He stepped forwards, only a step or three away from Haestein and the rest. He raised his cleaver in the air slightly. “We be free men, ser Black Shield. Ah'll have no such thing as a soldierin life' fer me an' my boys.” It was about to escalate when one of the men with the morningstar came up behind the man and grabbed his shoulder roughly. “Oi', you don't speak for us mate! Keep to yer'self!” It was met with an agreeing grunt from behind, as the big brute seemed to agree that the man with the kettlehat was nowhere near the position to speak for all of them. It was only met with rage and anger. “What did yew' say!? I built this place fer' us ya dumb runt! 'ere, take this!”

He swung widely with his cleaver and hit the man in the neck. His neck was cut open from right to left, and blood spewed forth from the wound. “Johnny!” the other man with the morningstar yelled. It seemed as if they were about to erupt in a big fight. Haesteinn looked side to side, first facing Genseric and then Jahan. He was.. very confused as to what to do. He wasn't used to trying to press brigands into service, much less them ripping eachothers throat out. “Nice work Jahan.” he whispered to Jahan, impressed with the mans ability to set these guys up to fight each other.

The man with the morningstar attempted to step forwards, but was stopped by the large brute who had originally spotted the Black Shields. “No mor' blood! No mor' blood!” he said with a loud voice. The guy almost sounded like a weak brained child. The brute was met with a morningstar being raised into the air, which was promptly smacked down on the brute's skull. A loud crack was heard by all involved in the situation, and the brute promptly fell backwards. His head hit the ground and was firmly placed into the mud. Now that he was laying still, you could see the blood that came from his head in large amounts. The morningstar was a brutal weapon, if used effectively.

However the little scuffle had given the man with the cleaver time to act. With a few steps he was already at the other man, and attempted to punch him with his free hand. “Ya' killed 'im! That's me brother, you killed 'im right, and now you'll pay for it ya bastard!” he yelled. The punch connected and the other man fell backwards, stumbling slightly. It seemed like he was going to be able to stand straight however, but then his feet hit the dead brute and he stumbled over backwards, falling onto the ground. Within seconds the man with the cleaver was upon him and started chopping at his former-friends' neck. He seemed overcome with a fit of rage.

Haesteinn decided that they should act now, while he was occupied with the brutal assault on his friend. Haesteinn stepped forwards and put an arm on the man's shoulder, trying to grab him and drag him off the man, who was attempting to defend himself by holding up his arms. He only ended up causing himself more pain as the cleaver chopped at his arm for a while.

When Haesteinn grabbed him the man violently swung his body around and sent the cleaver in Haesteinn's direction. The unpredictable attack caught Haesteinn by surprise and the cleaver caught his arm, cutting deep but not nearly deep enough to cause any severe damage. However the biting pain did cause Haesteinn to pull his arm back and take a few steps back, holding onto his arm. “Fuck!” he yelled in surprise before looking at Jahan and Genseric. “Don't stand there, subdue him!” The plan would be to take the man alive if they could, but if he started resisting they'd have no other option than to put him down.

As soon as Genseric and Jahan had succeeded with the subduing of the rather wild man, Haesteinn would've finished looking at the wound and realized it wasn't too bad. It still stung like a bitch. But that was a problem for later. “Right, great work lads.. I hope Eira is okay. Where is she anyway, she should've been here. Fuck.. well that's a problem for later. For now, search those bodies, except those two,” He pointed at the two men with arrows in their head and chest, who were clearly killed by Eira. “They're her kills so she has the right to take their stuff. Sorry lads' - rules of war. After yer' done with the bodies you can search the tents too. As sergeant, I'll take a small share of whatever you find.”

It wasn't as much a rule of war as it was common courtesy, and in a giant battlefield it was unlikely that you could remember who you'd killed. But the arrows sticking out were clearly indicators of her work - and so she deserved their spoils of war. It would be all too common for there to be arguments over who killed who and who deserved what loot, so Haesteinn knew to cut those arguments short and immediately set people straight. It seemed unfair that Haesteinn also demanded a small share, but Haesteinn didn't care. He didn't want to go through the trouble of searching through the bodies and tents right now, what with his wounded arm and the knocked out brigand. Someone had to watch over him and Eira wasn't here to do it. Another time he'd do it himself, he simply figured.

“After we're done here we're heading back. Take the guy with the morningstar with us as well, if we can. I think he's still breathing. Ellinor might be able to patch him up.”

As soon as the bodies and tents were looted, and Eira had shown up again, they'd pick up the body of the man with the morningstar - he was alive, barely breathing, but alive - and in case Genseric and Jahan had managed to subdue the brigand, his unconscious body, and then they'd head back to the treeline where Ellinor would be waiting.

However, upon arrival, Haesteinn would not be able to see Ellinor on the spot where they left her. He would place his hands near his mouth, flinching slightly from the fresh wound, and then yell. “ELLINOR!”

The muscles in her side ached as she pulled her arm behind her head, warm blood seeping down her forearm. She punched his nose upward as hard as she could, his teeth could be heard scraping against each other with the force.

There, he ought to have a hard time seeing for a week, she thought.

Her weight had shifted in the encounter so as she raised her arm up to strike again, his hand gripped around her neck. She hit at him furiously with her free arm, the other stuck behind his. She dug her nails into his arm, to no avail.

'I usually like em with a heartbeat, but I'll have to make an exception,'

She felt guilt and disappointment wash over her as her eyes glazed over. Her actions became primal and defensive, her body flopping about. Her first chance to impress Freja with the gifts she provided was shot down and beat to a pulp. Not only would she die in a lost battle but to a disgusting lunatic with a knife.

And she'd never eat those mushrooms.

She moved her hands to his eyes and pulled and scratched at them. This only made him squeeze harder, her eyes fluttered and she heard her mother call out her name.

'ELLINOR!'

She closed her eyes and went limp.