Jorwen set Sevine down as gently as he could. She'd closed her eyes and her breathing was slow but strong. He'd known it would take more than this to do in the Huntress, though she refused to talk, maybe out of the shame of having to be carried from the battlefield. Even so, the way her skin grew pale- or more pale than the average Nord's- was not a good sign. The bite of a wolf could carry disease and any wound could sour if not treated properly and at the soonest chance. He kept up with the pace of Daelin and the others, though it felt like he'd breathed in glass the whole time. When they made it to camp, he'd stayed beside her, where he was still as he sharpened his large sword. He had his knives and his seax laid out before him as he ran his whetstone across the edge of his big sword. The tool was old, almost as old as him and it had probably lost at least a couple centimeter's of breadth through all the sharpening through the years. An old friend, truly, or a curse. It certainly weighed him down like one these days.

He turned his head from his resting friend at his side and coughed a rough one into the crook of his arm. He looked up to see Rothvar standing over him. The two stared at each other and Jorwen's hand was almost ready to go for one of his knives until Rothvar held out a hand, “I feel like I know you.” The Nord said.

Jorwen took the man's hand and shook it, then Rothvar helped him up. The man was as tall as his daughter, though coming from any other man it might have been a snide remark at his height, it was instead an observation of the man's excess of it. “You spent much time in the Reach with Ulfric?”

“No, I never answered his call- first one or the second. I was a Legion man in both wars. You?” He asked.

“Aye, I spent my time carrying the Red Diamond. Time came I was under the Blue Bear though.” Jorwen swallowed, his eyes narrowing at an instant, readying himself for the discovery that Rothvar had some feud with him that Jorwen had forgotten.

“Were you at Greenwall?” Rothvar asked, putting his hands on his hips, dangerously close to the carpenter's hammer.

Jorwen shook his head, “Wasn't there, too busy tangling up the Legion Boys and Hjaalmarch's Chiefs in the swamps with Black Sutt.”

“So it is you.” Jorwen's hand crept closer to his smallest knife, still sheathed at the small of his back. “Only one Chief's Name I heard running with Black Sutt those days.”

He made it look as inconspicuous as he could, but his muscles were coiled springs, ready to jam the small whittling blade into Rothvar's eye before it could blink, “We aren't exactly on speaking terms no more, me and him.”

“Nah, some hard tales about the Red-Bear, but Black Sutt is something else. Reckon there's no hard feelings? Always good people on both sides of a question, no?” Rothvar shrugged, a nervous smile on him. Probably could feel the tension as well as Jorwen could, and he felt blankets of it.

“I've always tried not to hate a man for his choice of friends. One warrior to another, whatever might have happened those years ago are gone. Faced down those spriggans well enough, eh?” Jorwen smiled, the two of them grasping each other's forearms in warrior's gesture.

“Aye, we did. Shame about your folk, though.” Rothvar nodded to Sevine and the others with a frown, “You lot seem to have a good Chief there, and that matters a lot.”

“Mm, we'll live. I'm sorry about your friends over there. I know what it is to lose friends, believe you me.” Jorwen said, solemn.

“They'll get a good burial. Wouldn't want them spitting at me in Sovngarde for giving them a shitty one.” Rothvar chuckled.

“Any burial should be a good one. I'll help when this is done, be there for when you say the words over the graves.” Jorwen smiled, slapping Rothvar on the shoulder.

The old Nord nodded, “That'd be good of you. Time for other things, though, should get back to tending our weapons and our wounded. See you soon.”

Jorwen nodded, going back to his blades with his whetstone next to Sevine. His heart had been going good, alright, and he was still breathing like he'd run a good distance. Maybe he didn't have to worry about the Nord leaving him to die if he got wounded out there or staking him through the chest in the press of battle, but there were still more of those he'd crossed long ago who weren't as forgiving as Rothvar. Black Sutt among them. His trail of thought was cut happily short by another standing over him, Daelin this time. “Aye, Chief?”

“You coming along?” The Mer asked.

“Yeah, we'll see this through. Man hurt my friends, wouldn't do for a Nord to let that go, would it?” Jorwen tried to make himself sound a little like the black bastard he once was. Of course, these days it had to be asked if he was trying to convince Daelin or himself.

Daelin only nodded and Jorwen knew that past Daelin's veneer of stoicism was a man shitting himself at the thought of leading him and the others to their deaths. Jorwen had felt that way time and time again after he took the Hird from Aelfgar after he died. “No. No it wouldn't.” Daelin turned back to other tasks, leaving Jorwen with his thoughts again.