[i][b][center]Nightgate Inn, the Pale... (insert long title here) by D and L.[/center][/b][/i] The rudimentary defenses put up almost overnight had made the Nightgate Inn somewhat of a workable strategic position. He admired what the Braves could do after watching them come out of the forest like ghosts and immediately set to work digging the trenches and the barriers. Their leader had remained a mystery and Jorwen had no intention of wading into their working area and yelling for their leader to name himself. Him and his own would stay cozy in their beds until the Braves decided they wanted to talk. Even so, Jorwen sat in the creaky rocking chair with his cloak wrapped tight around him, his shield and his seax kept close at hand. It was somewhat relaxing watching them work, rocking himself softly in the little chair. It reminded him of his days as a guerilla in the Great Forest, hunting Thalmor and their Khajiiti irregulars. One of the men flanked by two others, his Second and his Housecarl most likely, broke off from the men in the camp and started making their way towards him. He stood, raising a hand in peace, “The Chief shows himself to the other.” Jorwen spoke, a friendly smile on his face. The man did not return the gesture, instead standing a head taller than even Jorwen and the lower half of his face covered by some kind of black muffler. His brown eyes never seemed to blink, and he was far more tanned than most Nords would ever be in their lives. Over a brigandine he wore a brown longcoat with a fur-lined interior with the front buttons unfastened, giving him access to a bastard sword and a secondary dagger. The man was completely bald, almost obsessively so, with no hair upon his head save for a pair of bushy eyebrows that almost matched his eyes. “If one buys too hard into the tribalism of chiefdom, then they cannot become the leader necessary to run the most successful mercenary company in the Northern hemisphere.” The man replied, gazing down unerringly at Jorwen. “You are the commander of your men, I presume?” Jorwen’s smirk fell quickly and he once again donned his squinting demeanor in the face of what this man was. His accent was not Nordic, some sort of a deep, sing-song, posh Brettic, and a closer look showed that he spent time in sunnier places. He nodded, more business-like now, “Aye.” He nodded to the encampment from which the sounds of digging and hammering and work songs could be heard, “Your men seem oddly keen to readying themselves for a battle. The Kamal are moving west?” He knew that Bharzak could’ve brought Kamal to them. For that, this man could very well kill her for any sort of supposed treachery or treason. Jorwen wasn’t in the business of letting his own be killed, no matter how short a time they were part of his band. It was best to feign ignorance to anything past the Siege of Windhelm. “One does not take unnecessary chances in a time of war. Windhelm will forever serve as an example of the cost of complacency. That noted, I have had reports, not fully substantiated, about Kamal scouting formations moving uncomfortably South for anyone’s liking. There is word from some reliable sources the Snow Demons are operating in this region. I intend to be prepared.” The Braves’ commader said, looking at his men and women doing final touches on fortifications. “At the very least, this keeps my men preoccupied and their skills sharp. A drink should be earned, do you agree?” “Tastes sweeter that way.” Jorwen nodded, though no sign of good humor. This man didn’t even talk like a Nord, but he figured time could be far better spent sussing out the lay of the land and plans of attack rather than sussing out wherever this man was from. “Is there a name your men call you?” “Dorrance.” The man replied with a nod. “I’ve heard you addressed by name, Jorwen. Any relation to the fabled Red-Bear I’ve heard stories about during the Great War or the rebellion?” Jorwen’s bones grew cold. Did he know this man? Had he killed his father or a brother? He swallowed, though his eyes did not show it, his hand very much had a mind to rest on the small knife at his back. Should he be honest or should he not? He remembered Karth’s words, that no matter how much running, his shadow would be at his heels. His chin rose, “The Red-Bear was not a rebel, he was a sworn Housecarl in Aelfgar Ruddy-Mane’s Stormcloaks.” He shrugged, “He stands before you now.” And he gripped the knife at the small of his back, even so. If Dorrance recognized the danger, he didn’t show it, his gaze was unwavering. “Call yourself what you will, a soldier can still be a rebel, and you speak as if it is such a putrid word. I rather admire a man of conviction who is willing to stand for his beliefs, even if I do not necessarily share them. Politics have never been much interest to me, and I have had men from both the Legion and Stormcloaks find their way to the the White River Braves’ ranks over the past couple of years. Ideology does not interest me as results do. You, Red-Bear, are a man who gets results. You have my respect. Several of my warriors speak highly of you.” He said, returning his gaze to the fortifications. “Your Imperial friend seems to be quite in his element amongst the fortifications.” he noted. “Aye, Tower-Shield’s useful with a joiner’s hammer and the axe. He was at Greenwall when Yellowtooth’s Stormcloaks sieged it. I’m glad I was in Hjaalmarch, if we’d met we wouldn’t be friends now, I reckon.” He nodded, “My men are resting, but should you need some handy folk, we’ll be at hand. Sevine the Huntress is my Second, you might not have met her.” “I have not. Perhaps there will be time in the morrow.” He said, suddenly turning to look towards a voice calling for the commander. Through the door burst a young and slight Imperial man, if he could be called that thanks to his youthful appearance and soft features, his brow caked in dirt and sweat. “Commander, the enemy has been spotted in the Southwest, moving North.” he managed between breaths. He took a few moments to inhale and slow his breathing before continuing. “We were unable to get close enough for an accurate headcount, but we make at least 40-60 Kamal along with some mounts, and a expeditionary force of Tamrielic nature of about 100 or so. A small vanguard force, it looks like.” “I see. How long?” Dorrance asked, looking upon the young man with curiosity. “Within the next two hours. They were well past the blight, sir.” “Good work. Get some water and rest, I will send word for the company to prepare.” Dorrance said, gazing towards Jorwen when the runner took off again. “It appears your men will not enjoy much of a rest this night. I look forward to seeing what you are capable of, Red-Bear.” he said, following out the door the runner departed from, leaving Jorwen standing on his own. Jorwen looked to his room and sighed. He made his way in, grasping up the huge, old blade and admiring it for the hundredth-hundredth time in his life. He nodded, solemn, “Always more work.” [center]* * *[/center] Dzuungits traced the pale white of the scar that ran down his forearm. It was equal parts trophy and reminder. He remembered the Raiding Season long past when the Tang Mo had almost cleaved straight through his arm. It seemed almost sad now that another Sleeping Season had passed and in those long years, that Tang Mo’s life did not stretch as far, so he would not find him again and meet him. It would be a bloody reunion, if it had happened. He shook himself from his reminiscing, slipping the heavy gauntlet back over his hand and sniffed at the air. This Raiding Season was promised to be the most glorious, and it had been. They had returned to the West for the first time since his father’s father told tales of marauding through Morrowind. But it was confusing now that Morrowind and the ash-skinned long-ears were their allies. It seemed wrong, but it was not for Dzuungits to wonder why. It was for Dzuungits to go west and make corpses. The collar-slaves were useful against the Fire Mage, though one was missing, and before they could find the green-skin long-ear, she’d disappeared from their shamans’ Long-Eye. “Dzuungits does not like how you move. He can not hear it.” He said to the presence of the Cat-Man at his side. “All the better. It has kept Ji’Vesrai from being squashed by those even bigger than he.” The Khajiit said, his tail flicking from side to side. Garbed in entirely black leather armour with covered steel plating upon his shoulders and forearms, the Khajiit was certainly one that someone who was not acquainted with the Dark Brotherhood could mistake as being one of their ranks. Instead, Ji’Vesrai was now the commander of the Tamrielic scouting regiment that had formed under the Kamal. The entirety of the unit, as far as he knew, were comprised of men and women who were upset with the status quo, or felt that life under the Kamal would be more comfortable if they proved themselves in service to the Akaviiri invaders rather than live as cowering subjects. For Ji’Vesrai, the Kamal were his best chance at seeing the Aldmeri Dominion pay for the deaths of his family and subjugation of his homeland. The Empire and damned Stormcloaks weren’t going to do it, so this unstoppable force of foreign invaders seemed like the ticket. It would be a long wait before the Kamal reached Dominion lands, if ever, but what choice did the Khajiit have? “This one is pleased to report that the way appears to be clear, save for a single inn that is fairly-well fortified and have a respectable number that rival our own, save for a lack of cavalry, and certainly not the weapons we bring with us. It should be a much more straight-forward scenario than the invasion of Windhelm, this one suspects.” Ji’Vesrai said, running a finger across the scars on his white-furred nose. “Good.” Dzuungits nodded, tugging the reins on his mount and the huge steed growled before turning and rejoining the march west. It had been two days and no sign of anything to pillage. The young raiders were growing restless and two had already sought to find glory at each others’ throats. This would be good to steady the nerves of his men. Within three hours, he’d brought his men to a full halt and crested a ridge with the Cat-Man at his side. It was a formidable field. The trenches would make it hard for them to advance, much less their cavalry. If they did not deal with this, they would be taken at their backs, or while they slept. There was no doubt that his hundred riders were being tracked. Some would die here or they would all die later. He would not be the cause of the deaths of his men while they were sent to raid westward. “Ready your men within the hour, we will send them first. We will test the defenders.” Ji’Vesrai rolled his jaw irritably. [I]Sword fodder, that’s all we are to you.[/I] he thought bitterly, but dared not speak. The Kamal weren’t very fond of conflicting dialog; they tended to prefer to solve their conflicts with a heavy-handed and very final show of force. “Very well. This one will send the skirmishers in first to subdue their sentries and attempt to breach their first line without announcing our presence. The line infantry will follow once the foothold is secure.” he replied, looking back on the train of men behind him. There was very much so a distinction between the Tamriel unit and their Kamal retainers. They’d never be seen as equals. “This one requests that the Kamal cavalry be prepared to flank. Ji’Vesrai’s troops are good, but it would be best if we did not take unnecessary risks. This one wants to see as many warriors live to see the next battle, and the one after, until there is something truly glorious that bards and scholars will sing our names for an eternity afterwards.” he said, feeling that he knew Dzuungits well enough by now to know the Kamal was honour bound and a warrior to his core. He absolutely bought into the romanticism of war. “I will place my men.” Dzuungits nodded. With that, they disappeared behind the ridge once more, to where the skirmishers and the cavalry parted ways and took position. [center]* * *[/center] A sentry was perched atop a small hill, dozing off and holding his spear with the head towards the sky. It was slapped out of his limp hands and he choked on his own blood as a knife thudded into the side of his neck. His limp form rolled down the small hill out of sight, the Bosmer wrapping himself in his cloak and grasping up his spear in the same skyward position, flashing a cheeky grin at the archers that took position next to him. A group of three faces around a pipe were illuminated by a match somewhere away from the camp. The first arrow buried itself in a burly Nord chest just as the match’s flame touched the bowl of tobacco and the fates of the other two were decided by Bomser arrows whistling in the dark. A Khajiit’s eyes over the shoulder of a young Nord as he pissed into the ditch at the edge of camp. Quiet feet bringing death through the first of the tents at the edges of the camp. There was blood in the moonlight and it was too late and useless a warning as the first man to open his eyes before the knife slipped across his neck could scream. Of a sudden, there were groggy warriors stumbling from tents and cursing, eyes struggling against the darkness and swinging weapons wildly. Questions of where or what were only answered by grunts and cries before the first torches and lanterns were lit. A Bosmer watched as his Khajiiti companion threw aside a tent flap only to be palmed in the face so hard he heard his head break. The biggest, reddest Nord he’d seen emerged like a bear out of a cave with mad eyes and snarling teeth. The Nord took his shirt in a big fist and their was a white light, and his head was numb of a sudden. “Weapons! Weapons, you bastards! We’ve Knife-Ears to trim and fur cloaks to make!” Jorwen bellowed as loud as he could, looking left and right and all around for the Dominion soldiers. He was looking for golden skin and pointed ears or glowing eyes at the edges of a lantern’s glow before his tired mind caught back up with him. He was in the Pale, at the Nightgate Inn with the White River Braves, “A raid! Gather towards the inn!” A man was running at him with his sword raised, giving Jorwen pause before he jumped back at the last second. “Are you fucking mad?” Jorwen yelled at the deranged Nord. He realized after the man swung again that he was very convicted in his actions. So there was man-folk among the raiders too. Was it bandits? Jorwen jumped back again, and again. Finally the young man grew frustrated and roared, a fierce swing if it had landed hissed through the air in front of his face, leaving the lad’s whole right side open. Jorwen roared, springing forward onto the young Nord and putting him on his back, breathless. He picked him up by his gambeson and flung him into the tent he was sleeping in minutes before this whole thing. He ripped his knife from his sheath as the young man struggled to his feet, putting a hand out, “Wait!” Jorwen shook his head and kept walking forward.