Vigilantes, militiamen, prizefighters, vampire hunters, angry farmers with farming tools and even angrier citizens with broomsticks; meet your saviors. The situation must be very dire to push an old man into battle with his dustpan, clothed in nothing but his housecoat. There is strength in numbers, as the old saying goes. Indeed, the one favorable condition was number. The people of Skyrim were a feisty bunch, even when supposedly unbeatable opponents came knocking, many in Windhelm went to knock right back. Though their job now was primarily support. Many citizens took over carrying salt crates Jorwen and Sadri brought back, and many more tended to the injured. Like the scene on the docks, many new fighters were guards. However, they did not make up the majority of the fresh faces. About eight people were strikingly peculiar. They wore dull-colored plated coats, adorned with emblems of a flaming shield. These were Dawnguard warriors. Led by a middle-aged Nordic woman, they supplied valuable crossbow wielders to the fray. Initially, they were hesitant to take part in the battle. Their original mission was to investigate a lead related to the most recent raid against their headquarters. But talks of conjurers, and a few well-placed whispers of vampires on the docks prompted them to take part in the reinforcement effort. Bolts shot from Dawnguard crossbows were much effective than Vurwe's. The giant at her front was turned back by a small hailstorm of projectiles. Accompanying the Dawnguards was a familiar face. Tennant Ibnazh returned to his familiar bouts of prizefighting. He had put down his name in the recently finished fight pit. Veteran mercenaries might recognize him from the Reach, but he now bears the tabard of the Paladins; the foremost gladiatorial team of Windhelm. Through a night of fierce brawls, the Imperial wrestler proved himself a worthy Paladin. As such, he was content to find bigger, badder foes, with newfangled comrades at his sides. The majority were the White River Braves. Vigilantes, militiamen and road watchers, all wearing distinguishable white armbands. There were almost a hundred of them, a testament to their popularity. In fact, many of those were retired, expelled or disgruntled ex-guardsmen. It was hard to say what they did or why they did it. But the Braves had been around since the dragon crisis. Their members supported hold guards in Eastmarch and Whiterun, just like now, they put in muscle where the jarl's men could not. In fact, six of the Braves wasted no time charging into battle near pier three. They replaced five people (two Nords, two Khajiits and one Bosmer) against the impaired invader. Six sets of steel cracked simultaneously. Even the giants heavy armor could not stop such brute force. It stopped moving within a minute. All across the docks, similar scenes played. The tide was turned, and the giants gradually withdrew to their armored ships. One pair of ships docked to the opposing shore, where sprawling farms now laid in ice-covered ruins. The guard detachment at the farms were presumable defeated, as the only shapes moving about were these dreaded giants. Two more iron-ships went downstream to where three more formed a blockade. A small victory steeped in blood. Reality hit home like a cold bucket of water. Number lied not; judging by casualty, what transpired on the docks was not a fair fight, it was a massacre. Seven dead for every invader fallen. Bodies alone could overflow the Hall of the Dead. The end? Impossible. None of the eleven ships left, and three more sailed in from the horizon. A pause then. At least the foes were gone for now, the gate was open and those hurt in the battle could say they have a chance to live on. [hr] Ashav. He was no young warrior anymore. His strength could not bring about a killing blow against the giants. Nevertheless, he survived without serious injuries, though his sword was lost in the harbor when it parried an axe. A guard messenger made his way to Ashav shortly after the calm. As the company's leader, he was called alongside other commanders to meet with jarl Lodvemar in the Palace of the Kings. There was where he went, bringing Dumhuvud and Edith with him. [hr] Daelin. The Bosmer insisted treatment for Utu-ja immediately. The Nords of Windhelm were less than enthusiastic to help an elf and his lizard friend. It was an Argonian healer that finally tended Utu. Surviving dockworkers were more than happy to see a marsh-friend fighting and living to tell about it. Several dockworkers helped Utu-ja inside a warehouse, where they applied the best medicines and practices at hand. The shards in his scales were generally picked out. Warm and soft healing hands mended places cold and broken. Utu-ja was by no means healthy again, but his strength came back soon enough. Before Utu-ja stood up, one dockworker inquired; “Why? Why risk your life for the Nords?” [hr] Felix. Thankfully, Sagax shook the man back to his senses. Felix followed closely behind Sagax, and was able to reach safety. He spent remainder of the battle buried in his knees, closely behind where the wounded lies. Felix was too shocked to notice; Relmyna was cowering behind the same barrels he sat against. When the reinforcements came and the invaders were driven back, the former bard stood up shakily and staggered towards the city gate. While on his way, Felix came by Sagax again. He opened his mouth to thank his countryman for saving his life, but shock and the dryness of his throat strangled words tight. Nothing could come out of him, instead, he merely nodded to Sagax. [hr] Farid. Nowhere to be seen. Not dead though, his body wasn't in the pile. [hr] Ariane and Keegan. Two mages with no armor or blades, unlikely to survive the scuffle, but did. In fact, they were pretty much the least hurt of everyone. Both of them suffered not a scratch. The two of them avoided each other through the night but somehow found enough cohesion to fight successfully side by side. That was not to say they never disagreed. Quite the opposite, they bickered from Tsleeixth's treatments to deployment of reinforcements to methods of casting. Once the urgency of combat died down, Ariane and Keegan could no longer find reason to be around each other. [hr] The ramparts. Archers cheered. Overall, the mood was celebratory on the city walls. The ranged fighters never tasted the slaughter down below. Perhaps celebration was unfit, and the better word was relief. Indeed, their hope matched their physical elevation. Of course, being high up means good vantage points. The metal-ships across the river was loud and clear; enemies did not retreat. Several guardsmen came by and praised Sevine's diligent marksmanship. A section of guards walked pass the Huntress and thanked her for her role. Despite doing practically nothing, Leif received some good words as well. Roze and Niernen, two foreigners looking suspicious in the guards' eyes, were now received with much warmer eyes. Though the battle winded down, troops continued to transport munitions and fortifications to the walls. [hr] The talks. Silence. Surprised. What just went down? As if a needle was ran through a bag brimmed with water, talk spilled out like compressed liquid. People were talking alright, they were chattering, blabbering, prattling, jabbering. Loud noises soon drowned the docks, the city streets and everywhere folks could converse in Windhelm. One topic was the Nordic army. [i]"You heard of the Dragonborn's new tactics? They call it the discipline line; a pack of vicious hounds behind their own warriors, so that anyone attempting to retreat will be mauled by their own dogs. Not exactly common on the fields, certainly unpopular with the troops. But it gets results, didn't take long for the soldiers to fear their dog handlers more than their enemies, and that tend to make suicide charges the appealing alternative."[/i] Of course, most discussions centered on the invaders, or the situations they were currently in. According to the White River Braves, a battle was fought around the bridgehead when they pulled back to the inner city. The ships and ice on the opposite shore made it difficult to see clearly. But the conclusion was generally forbidding, which is, the southern banks were under enemy control. A few on the ramparts had the right observational equipment, and sure enough, figures roaming across the bridge were the frost giants. “The bridgehead was no burg.” A Braves fighter commented. “No way they could held it for long, we either booked for Windhelm, Morvunskar or Kynesgrove.” “Windhelm, how stupid.” Some guard provided the ever helpful advice. “We're cut off, friend. You should of went south.” Not many cared about a dark elf darting across the city, arms flailing about. Some recognized his face, including Keegan and Ariane. This man was a shop owner in the Gray Quarters. His goods were generally sub-par and outdated compared to Nordic dealers. Outdated had one advantage, that was he attracted many antique collectors. The said shop owners beseeched folks to heed his words. “Kamals! They are the snow demons!” He screamed on top of his lungs. “Quit daydreaming, you mad fool!” Someone spat at him. “Daydream, no. A nightmare!” The shop owner continued. “Come to my shop, the snow demons match exactly the book's.” The shop owner was suddenly between piers three and four, he tugged the sleeves, arm guards and bare arms of many mercenaries. “Please, see for yourself the terrifying Kamals.” Some curious ones, including Madura, followed the raving shopkeeper to his store. But for many, examining ancient tomes was no match to evidence placed at their feet. Two of the Braves that assisted five wall-jumping warriors went to loot their foe. “Snow demons or fire demons,” He boasted. “We've killed one and let's take it apart.” So he knelt down beside the fallen enemy and traced its massive metallic outfit. It was cold to the touch. “Dolf, give me a hand.” He beckoned a comrade. “And you sellswords, stay back. This one's ours.” Four Braves excluded from looting action formed a circle around the fallen giant. They were adamant to keep the mercenaries out, and it was ultimately to the mercenaries' benefit. Metal platting on the giant hesitated to give way. Dolf took out daggers to snake their way beneath the straps. Finally, one piece loosened. Dolf cheered and his comrade inserted his fingers under. As soon as his fingers made contract with the substance below armored surface, the entirety of the giant began to glow. It was first a mild azure gleam, then brighter purple shine, and finally, a ball of orange magic that exploded with the might of Sentinel's cannons. The two looters were disintegrated to nothingness. Four Braves standing around the giant corpses sustained various rates of injury, one of them became a pincushion of ice shards. Another found his calves separate entities from his knees. Beside pier eight, a near identical scene played out a minute later. Not long after the two incidents, the guard captain personally issued prohibitions on looting. Looting was not on everyone's plates. With adrenaline dying down and the energy of battle fading away, the bloody stench of death permeated in everyone's nostrils. Not all had the stomach to look at corpses, sights of vomiting definitely happened here and there. But clearing out the deceased was still a task to be done. Not a single culture on Tamriel left their dead in the open, and Nords were no exceptions to that. The problem was how to properly bury them. Transporting every dead body to the Hall of the Dead would take many hours, if not days. Even if the bodies could be moved in time, there was no telling if the Hall had space for everyone. Some proposed cremation, beside risks of setting wooden structures on fire, it was not a bad idea. Actually, the priest of Arkay gave his endorsement between busy blessings. Unlike the Reach, the mercenaries would have to care for their own casualties this time. There would be no army to pick up after them. Maybe it was for the best, because rumors of bone pits were circulating when whispers spoke of the Reach campaigns. What other choices do they have? This rate of fatality was unheard of since the Great War. At least the enemy were not necromancers, or were they?