The skirmish came to a close much as it began, in a swift and brutal flurry of violence. This last of the Spriggans collapsed, its form breaking apart as the forces that held it together dissipated. The old Nord spat upon the Matron’s prone form, the orange glow that sustained it subsided like a dying flame, and he took stock of the people who had rushed to his aid. A young Nord woman, the khajiit the Matron had run through, and a bloody Altmer of all things lay critically wounded, if not fatally so, and the man felt a profound guilt at the predicament he had put them in, albeit entirely unintentionally. He lived a good long life, and it didn’t do that it was extended at the expense of three others. “Gather your fallen,” he called to the other rescuers, knowing time would be of the essence. “What’s left of my camp’s not far from here. There’s a chance some supplies survived. You’re all welcome to them.”

Approaching Daelin and Rhasha’Dar, who was still breathing and had managed to take a few laboured sips of the potion, the man knelt beside the khajiit and looked the Bosmer in the eyes. “You all have my thanks. Let me help you move the cat.” He implored. Daelin didn’t speak, simply taking the feet as directed and helping the Nord man carry Rhasha’Dar to wherever it was he said his camp was. As it would have it, less than five minutes of walking later showed a clearing with the charred remains of a tent, as well as what were three other mangled bodies. The man didn’t pay them much mind, but he helped set down the khajiit on a patch of soft earth and directed the others helping the wounded do the same. Wordlessly, he carried onto charred chest, its wood and iron components blackened, and he smashed the lock thrice with his hammer, the weakened wood giving out from heavy blows. The lid opened afterwards, and inside were nicely layered and labeled potions, including for fire resistance and healing, that he gathered quickly and handed out to the survivors. 

“I ain’t a mage, but this is the best I got.” He said, as if apologetically. Pulling the blackened hide that once made up the walls of the tent, he dragged it over the dead bodies of his comrades. Taking a knee, he said a quiet prayer, too low for the others to heal as they worked on helping their comrades. After a few moments, the man returned to the group, setting himself down heavily on the ground somewhere approximately centered on them all, facing them.

“Those over there were Iver Boulder-Fist, Sven Thunder-Ram, and Harold Skyhammer. They were my brothers, bound by blood and war. We had served the Imperial Legion for three decades, longer than it looks like some of you younger ones have walked this Nirn, and we fought in more battles than I care to remember and all earned their Names, well and true.” He lamented, working his bearded jaw, wishing the mead survived. “I’d have joined them in Sovengarde had it not been for you lot, and an odd one at that, begging your pardon. These old bones is called Rothvar Tower-Shield. Earned my name by holding the keep doors at Fort Greenwall single handed by jamming my shield into a crack on the floor and holding my weight against the Stormcloaks that tried to get at me and the others until we managed to find a way out that didn’t involve going through entirely too many rebels. Others were pretty adamant that I’m the reason we got out at all, so they were more than happy to drink in my honour and all that other shit that comes with getting a Name thrown your way. I ain’t a fussy man, never sought glory or any of that shit. I just wanted to do my job and get home to my wife and three kids.

“Anyways, that’s quite enough about me. What I and my Brothers were doing here was trying to figure out what in Shor’s name was going on in the these woods, and since we are all Siege engineers, well, the Jarl of Whiterun was rather adamant that somebody find a way to keep the flames from spreading down to the city, so the fact we weren’t Ulfric’s boys didn’t factor into the decision. So for over a week now, we’d been digging ditches, cutting down trees, and all that other shit to try and stop whatever was going on from spreading, but it isn’t a natural cause, you see. Twice over, we had to start anew to get ahead of the infernos, and each time, a new one would ignite behind us, upwind, wherever made the least amount of sense and rendered our efforts to shit. Gotta say, I was pissed. Still am.” Rothvar said, rolling his eyes and stretching his neck. The man was mighty cramped and his old muscles ached.

“So, about three days ago, we first ran into the Spriggans, and we’d been real careful to avoid where their sanctuaries are, you can usually see the signs and they usually don’t bother you if you give them their due space, but they were acting weird, and one night, around supper, they attacked. So we defended ourselves, burned the piece of shit out of spite instead of using our timbers.” Rothvar grunted, frowning heavily as his eyes narrowed. “Things didn’t get better from there, as you could guess.”

“Rothvar, an honour to be sure, and I am sorry for your losses, but what do you know of these fires? Our company has been tasked with finding the source ourselves, on behalf of the Jarl of Dawnstar. The more we know, the more we can help one another, wouldn’t you agree?” Daelin interjected.

The Nord nodded agreeably. “Right. A lot of words in these here lungs, I forget my manners from time to time. As I said, the cause ain’t natural, it’s a fucking man. We’ve seen him setting the brush on fire about two days prior, a bit after the first Spriggan attack, and bloody bastard tried to roast us. Our potions kept us safe, because you don’t work around forest fires without protection, y’know? Anyways, we gave chase, not really armed for a fight and lo and behold, he slips away between the rocks on those outcroppings to the Northeast there,” he gestured in the direction vaguely. “About a league or so from here? We decided not to give chase, since we didn’t want to march into an ambush and we wanted to figure out what was there. Maps say that in that area is Cindershine Mine, some long disused mine where they probably dug up Corundum ore Moonstone or some such ore. Obviously, we don’t have a map of the place, and we had another job to take care of. We figured we’d rest on it, and come up with a plan of attack next the damned mage surfaced. He never did, and before long we were hit this very morning by the Spriggans and wolves you fought today. I owe you lot my life, and you have my thanks.”

Daelin nodded, standing up to shake hands with Rothvar. “I’m sorry we did not arrive sooner, and I hate to ask you for assistance so soon after losing your Brothers, but my own people need attention. Would I be amiss for requesting your aid?”

Rothvar shook his head with a smile. “Anything for you folks. The dead are drinking with their ancestors, lucky bastards, and I can only hope I’ll catch up before too long, but in the meantime, I’ll do what I can for your people. There’s a stream not far from here, and I think a few of the cooking supplies survived, so  I can fetch you some water, cook what’s left, and see what I can do to make you all comfortable. I’ll give you my map and anything else that might be of use if you’re planning on going after the mage.” He looked at the three prone figures. “Not sure if you want those three to be moving for a while, but it isn’t my operation.”

Daelin nodded and expressed his thanks before turning to his team, all of which looked pretty rough, even those who weren’t almost shaking hands with their afterlives. Checking on the conditions of the wounded, he said, “Okay, listen up. Two hour rest, we’ll see if we can’t get Rhasha’Dar, Sevine, and Keegan up and at least walking. I don’t know what we’re going up against, so if you three aren’t up for it, I give you permission to stay behind and recover. If not, anyone who thinks they can fight is more than welcome to finish the job. We need as many hands as possible. In the meantime, all of you, rest up, check your gear, and give Rothvar here a hand as need be. Dismissed.”