[center] [img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/5794f1d4-9782-428a-860a-54cf6f51fb33.png[/img] [img]https://i.imgur.com/pt2TwmJ.png[/img] [/center] [right][sub][h3][color=gray][s]Neckbreak Hill,[/s][/color] [b]The Reach[/b], [color=gray][s]Skyrim[/s][/color][/h3][/sub] [sub][h3][color=gray][s]2245,[/s][/color] [b]Mid Year[/b] [color=gray][s]26, 4E 205[/s][/color][/h3][/sub] [/right] [sup][sup][sup][hr][/sup][/sup][/sup] "Listen up, you pitiful bunch of skeever shits!" Dumhuvud Cat-Kicker shouted. His voice boomed across the clearing. The Nordic man stood on a wooden crate, clad head to toe in steel armor and an axe draped off his belt. He was an intimidating sight, though also not a likable one. Fifty mercenaries gathered in the camp's center, where tents surrounded them in a semi circle and several dying campfires still blinked their last embers. These people hated Dumhuvud, and getting called by him this late in midnight was not particularly helping. When Dumhuvud began speaking, not many listened. "Shut up! Hear out Ashav out!." Dumhuvud bellowed. At the mention of their leader, more and more stopped their chatters. They turned their heads to the front, where an Redguard man now replaced Dumhuvud from the crate. "As you all have known," Ashav announced. He struggled to make his speech loud, but it simply could not. His throat was tense, and the damaged vocal cords inside could not manage more than a raspy growl. Fortunately, a good sum of his audience halted their noises. Their faces anxious and worried as their ears carefully took in each word. A moment of gathering such as this was rare, actually, there was only one instance where the entire camps assembled in one place. "The enemy entrenched themselves across the valley to the north." He pointed behind him. Immediately rear of Ashav was the command tent, its large red fabric wide enough to house several bulls. And much further beyond lies the valley, where the muddy waters of a shallow creek snaked through a mile and half of dense brush. "Now, despite our efforts to patrol the roads, the Forsworns could still harass the convoys." "We are going put an end to that." Quickly as order came, it broke down again. Murmurs spread across the crowd. They knew what Ashav meant. The Forsworns had to be cleared out of their redoubt, sooner or later. There were those who hoped that they could wait long enough for the Dragonborn's army to do their dirty work. That moment couldn't come soon enough. "Silence!" Came Dumhuvud's bark. His eyebrows formed into a "V" and forehead caked with frustrated wrinkles. His right hand balled into a fist, which was brought in front of his reddening face. "Every one of you will be up in the frontline." Ashav continued, seemingly nonchalant to his enraged battlemaster. "So if you haven't got any weapon or armor, now is the time to get some." He nodded to Edith, and she nodded back. Bright-Wings worked all day for this moment. While they do not have a forge in this camp, Edith scavenged used equipment from passing soldiers, with whatever tools she had, made most of them usable. Their stockpile was mostly iron and raw hide, mismatched blades and armor pieces not exactly fit for an army. For many though, it would be better than nothing. "Before," Ashav rubbed his throat. Talking loud bothered him like it had for many years, but he blinked it away as he always had. He could not, and would not show discomfort in front of these men and women; it would be bad for morale, no one took orders from someone incapable of giving them. "-before we get to the formations. Daelin needs three extra scouts, any volunteers?" The crowd fell eerily silent. Couple of mercenaries looked at each other, shaking their heads in knowing that volunteering meant testing the Forsworns defense with their lives. After a few seconds passed, one hand shot up above the rest; it was the golden skin of an Altmer. "Me." Keegan gulped. [hr] [i]Three hours ago...[/i] Even separated by a tent, Keegan could hear the Dunmer journalist scribbling away. Maduras had a habit of pressing his quill too hard, and wrote rather, audibly. Considering how rough Maduras' parchments were, writing with force seemed somewhat necessary. Those who were forced to sleep near Maduras were not very impressed. The journalist would write well into the night, and the noise consisted not only of quill scratching paper, but also shuffling bags, clunking mugs and other audio cues best not to be mentioned. Downtime was difficult for the mercenaries, and not exactly easy for Keegan either. Some mercenaries occupied themselves by hunting, organizing supplies, sparing with each other and generally stayed usefull. Others, the more introvert types, would favor isolation. Keegan himself was both to some extents, and he was a bit jealous of Maduras; the journalist had plenty of tasks to keep himself busy, and also no anxiety for upcoming patrols. Actually, Maduras did accompany several patrols. "Taking field notes", the Dunmer said, no one was sure what notes he took. When Keegan emerged from his tent, Maduras was sitting beside a campfire. Magnus, from which light and magicka descended upon Mundus, was at its last perch before setting for the night. Campfire and torches were now essential for vision, and the face of Madura's interviewee reflected orange fire-hue. Words that Maduras recorded was spoken by Daelin, who had a dagger in one hand and a sharpening stone in another. Akin to Daelin's bow and armor, his dagger was of the same make. The basis was common Nordic materials; leather and steel. But it had an unmistakable Bosmer motif to it. Minor decorations in animal bones attached to wherever they do not hinder function, they were nondescript but no keen eyes could pass them. "So you have heard of the rebellion," Maduras said. He flipped through pages of his notes. "I have, but it was no concern to me." Daelin responded. What rebellion were they talking about? Keegan was curious, so he stood just out of their sight, where he could hear but not see. "You are a Bosmer, does the plight of your homeland not trouble you?" "I was raised in Skyrim, Valenwood is no more my home than Morrowind is yours." "But your ancestors call-" "I don't see how that is relevant," Daelin clearly wanted no more questions, he could be heard moving from his place and sheathing his dagger. "If you'll excuse me, this interview is over." Daelin was coming this way. Quickly, Keegan opened his satchel and pretended to dig through it. Keegan could feel Daelin walking by and casting a suspicious glance his way. He really shouldn't have eavesdropped, but the news of conflict in Valenwood peaked his interest. It meant that the Dominion was at war again, their own oppressive governorship backfired just as it did in Elsweyr. Thoughts of the Dominion were far away, and Keegan had be grounded on what's at hand. The night was starless, another cloudy day so typical for the Reach. A thick fog had blanketed the valley that separated them and the enemy. The camp was bustling, and the last patrol had just finished their two mile trek from the road. It wasn't certain whether they engaged the enemy or not. The valley remained a great unknown to him, but it was obviously the Forsworn's home turf. Just this morning, Keegan participated in the first of five outings. He saw a pair of Forsworn fighters, but just as they appeared in a moment's notice, they were gone the next. Point was, not many were certain of what await them out there. Plus, visual clues from the returning parties weren't reliable. Since the mercenaries had few opportunities to clean their equipment, yesterday's blood would layer on the blood before that. For some barbarous folks, displaying the enemy's remains stroked their egos like no other. Keegan could never get used to that; he liked his outfit pristine. "Did you see anything?" Keegan asked the red-haired Nord man as he passed. His name was Jorwen, someone remarkable for his heavy red hair. There were a couple of others with them; Sadri, Tennant and Lucex. That should be the last party out this day, and Keegan suppose they'll be out early tomorrow to ensure the Forsworn did not place any traps. After hearing Jorwen's reply, Keegan nodded and continued to the command tent. Inside, Ashav was standing before a map, with Edith and Dumhuvud discussing something. Clearly, matters of importance were being considered. For one, Keegan always wanted to keep himself informed, however, after the run-in with Daelin, he wasn't sure whether listening in secret was a good idea. So the Altmer settled with parking himself directly outside of the tents entrance. That way, if they didn't want any onlookers, they would have shooed him away. "That convoy yesterday was the third." Dumhuvud said. Why was this Nordic man always frowning? "They should have posted extra guards." Edith replied. "No guards can prevent the witchmen's tricks!" "Then they need to take a different route, at different times." "No, Dumhuvud is right." Ashav's low growl finally came over the rest. He picked up a letter and placed it over the map. It bore the seal of the Dragonborn. "They want us to act." "Act? You can't possibly think about attacking the redoubt." Edith exclaimed. She swiped up the letter and dropped it with shock after reading it. She paced several steps back and forth, before finally pointing to the map. "It'll be suicide, they know this, you know this." "There are risks," Ashav started. He drew a couple of lines on the map, and placed his hand on one of them. "But if you flank this portion, we can encircle their position. Now, we need-" A loud crash sounded outside their tent. Someone carrying a box full of provisions collided straight with Keegan, bowls smashed against the ground and hot soup burned through Keegan's trousers. It was embarrassing; not only was a fine leg-wear soiled with beef broth, Keegan also produced a rather loud and rather sharp scream for many to hear. After all, he's pretty sure nobody enjoyed being splashed by soup. "We will finish this later," Ashav waved Edith and Dumhuvud away. Edith made sure to help the provision carrier with his wares, while mumbling about how foolish their plan was. Edith, Keegan noted, always helping when she could and perhaps valued mercenary lives more than she should. Dumhuvud also made sure to do something on his way out, that is to intentionally bump into Keegan. Dumhuvud, Keegan fumed, doesn't his name mean "idiot" in Atmoran? "Keegan Vasque." Ashav called. He stood with his hands on his hips, his expressions clearly not amused. Normally, his tent flap would be open. Those wanting to address him rarely needed applying. The Redguard man was a straightforward one. In this case, his remark was disdainful sarcasm. "Do you feel the need to get in people's way?" "No, sorry." Came Keegan's dumbfound apology. He really needed to stop meeting people like this. "I have something to ask, if you don't mind." "What is it?" Ashav said. Ashav was not in a patient mood, nor that he was ever too patient to start with. "I want to forward my, uh." Keegan wasn't sure how to phrase this. He had to get it out of his mind, one way or another. Just say it clean, he told himself. "Forward my will if I don't survive." "Well, never knew you had one." Ashav was partially surprised. "To who? Where?" "It's here on the back; Auridon, Summerset Isles." Keegan flipped open the satchel and produced an envelope. He hesitated a moment before passing it to Ashav, still questioning whether or not this was the right choice. It had been far too long, despite what his parents forced him to do long ago, they deserve some kind of closure if he falls. Even if they no longer cared, or remembered, or even still existed, Keegan had to do it for his own closure. "Summerset, you're a long way from home." Ashav mused. He pocketed the letter and massaged his throat. "Further than you can imagine."