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Dawnstar, the Pale, Skyrim
0730, Sun's Height 11, 4E 205
“Keegan, it's time. Ashav is waiting.”
Rubbing his sand out of his strained eyes, Keegan adjusted to the dim candle light. Someone, and in this case, Ariane Fontaine, chose to wake up from a fruitful slumber. Just as he was getting to dream, real world overtook priority. Since when did he actually woke up on his own accord?
Six days ago, Sun's Height 5...
Following a hasty retreat into Windhelm proper, and then deciding what to do with werewolf Relmyna, Keegan was exhausted out of his mind. The Dunmer hostel in the Gray Quarter was swarmed with angry Argonians in front, so the Altmer chose Candlehearth to crash instead. Except, there wasn't a room available for rent, or so the innkeeper said. Judging from her icy tone, Keegan was inclined to believe he was rejected solely on his race.
Well then, nobody's down at the boilers. Nobody would mind a prissy knife-ear taking a nap down there.
Plus, the warmth of boiling water warmed an otherwise frigid city. The steady steams and trickle masked whatever agitated folks do outside. All in all, it wasn't a terrible accommodation, all things considered. Keegan unfurled a shaggy fur pellet and went right to sleep behind a water tank. He slept so fast that he forgot what occurred earlier.
Sometime during the battle, Keegan and his companion were forced to cease hurling missiles at the Kamals. During that time, the Altmer sent down spells. One of such spell, for reason not apparent after the battle, was a tracer charm. In the heat of battle, Keegan threw down everything he could muster. While the memory charm requires complex preparation, it required low magicka expenditure. One side effect was the target becoming momentarily stunned upon contact, as the result of mental processes briefly tugged away. It was a useful distraction in combat, bearing no burden to the user should his target perish in battle. However, if the target does survive, the caster would be tethered their thoughts for a short while. Therefore, Keegan unwillingly inserted himself into the boots of a Kamal officer across the river.
The Altmer's eyes closed for an uncounted time, he opened them once again. Except, he was now gigantic, a two and a half meter tall demon clad in impenetrable shell. How did Keegan become a Kamal? He attempted to flex his limbs, but no response came. Essentially, he was watching for the snow demon's eyes, a spectator in the body.
All around, other Kamals hustled back and forth, doing camp work strangely familiar to Keegan's own in the Reach. The particular Kamal he was strolled out of a tent, coming face to face with two more of its kind clad in ornamented armor pieces. One Kamal spoke. The tongue couldn't have been more foreign, but somehow, Keegan understood every single word of it.
“Sir, this is the second-guard responsible for our failures.” One Kamal, wielding an elongated lance scolded. “I recommend we punish him for incompetence and resume attacks at once!”
“Is that so?” The other Kamal doubted. This one wore armor with elaborate trimming made from exotic fur and metal different than defensive plating. On his back were a pair of warhammers, both of which rivals the largest of an Orc's arsenal. These figures hid behind full face helmets. But if Keegan could guess, this one sounded like he's raising his eyebrows (if Kamals had eyebrows in the first place). “And tell me, first-guard Qofdgun, whose battle plan was it originally?”
“I, lord Hakkeam, I drew them myself.” The first Kamal answered. From his target's eyes, Keegan felt tension started to boil. “Everything would have gone according to plan, should second-guard Dzhuungits executed properly!” Pointing a massive armored finger, Qofdgun waved for two subordinate Kamals, while he (it?) went to grab Keegan (Dzhuungits). However, Hakkeam, the supposed superior in this case, laid one hand on Qofdgun's shoulder. Instantly, Qofdgun froze in a sheet of ice.
“Transport this one to the brig ship, record for insubordination.” Hakkeam redirected the Kamal soldiers. “I will be assuming command personally.” The hulking commander growled. He made gestures to his troops, the movement caused his warhammers to chafe against one another. Not only did metal grind against metal, so did the buzz of magic; these weapons were enchanted.
“You shall take one-quarter of our Farismea, and one-third of Nanoukut, to pacify villages in the west.” So, this was an order. What were the things spoke of in portions? Were they units or weapons? Somehow, Keegan could not understand it, which meant they're were unknown concepts to him. “And congratulations on your promotion, first-guard Dzhuungits. I hope you demonstrate greater proficiency, for your own sake.”
Keegan's Kamal trembled in fear, it bowed in respect and open its mouth (whatever the speech organ was) to speak. The scene abruptly vanished, connection severed as someone kicked Keegan firmly in the ribs. Another kick, this time, Keegan awoke feeling like his essence drifted between Oblivion and Mundus. Looking up, he was back in Candlehearth's boiler room, with an Argonian standing over him.
“We've got a live one.” Huffed the lizard. What in Auriel's name was happening? This one doesn't look like inn staff.
“Who are—augh!” Feeling adventurous, the Argonian poked at Keegan's eyes with sharp claws. He rolled back, getting on his feet as fast as he could to face this rude individual. Thankfully, the Argonian didn't have the time steal anything. “Damn it! Get away from me!” Keegan waved his empty arms, not awake enough for spells to flow.
“Sparks, brother, come up at once. Our Pakseech is beginning his address.” Another Argonian was calling outside. Prompting the current one to leave Keegan alone. With a weary sigh, the Altmer slid back against the wall. He could not sleep now, suppose he could make himself helpful for a change.
“Just can't get a break, can't I?”
Present time, Sun's Height 11...
“Just can't get a break, can't I?” These same words contain a sort of universal truth, an undeniable frustration at Keegan's current predicaments. He was following Ariane out of his private room. This time, Keegan was smart enough to rent a room the first chance he gets. Exorbitant price be damned; someone else can try sleeping on the cold hard ground.
“Nobody does, especially Ashav.” Ariane spoke blankly. “He's been busy ever since the snatch, I don't think he slept at all, in all six days.” Came another one of Ariane's non-nonchalant observations. “I never seen someone in this line of work so, what, involved?”
“What about you?” Keegan shot back. Running a hand through his messy hair, he felt like like a rotten sweetroll. On the contrary, Ariane looked like she was ready for a royal ball in her fancy robe. How did she stay above mundane concerns? “You're 'involved' in the company too?”
“I help.” Ariane shrugged. She said no more.
Sun's Height 5, elsewhere in Windhelm...
Often times, the biggest spectacle might not be the biggest problem. In the case of the riot, large mobs of disenfranchised citizens would obvious pose an eminent threat. However, in the heat of the moment, the enforcers of Windhelm lost sight of the agitator who initiated this fray.
Ashav, positioned atop of city walls, caught full sight of the Dunmer who broke the last straw by hurling his poison. Oh, it was poison alright. Daelin said he knew this was no mere water, as those splashed by its content turned on each other consistent with a frenzy poison. Therefore, Ashav made the dark elf his own priority; to capture the one responsible for initiating conflict.
As Ashav winded between a myriad of paths, he found himself constantly outmaneuvered by his target. If anything, the Dunmer always found another corner when Ashav thought the chase was over. In the course of a dozen close calls, Ashav finally closed in enough for a snatch. Though as the company leader approached, someone else dashed out between houses from the side.
Trius, the Dunmer veteran who fought on the docks earlier, struck out of nowhere. One right hook connected straight with the agitator, knocking him down on his back. Then, the bone-armored figure dove on top, dishing out three further punches. Satisfied with his bloody product, as in a broken and mangled face, Trius eyed the sword on his victim's belt.
“That's enough.” Ashav demanded. Trying to pry Trius off, Ashav was met with a backhand sweep, sending the unprepared Redguard reeling back.
“You took my sword.” Trius seethed. His left hand charged up in potent dark energy. “Why? Tell me and I will grant you a swift death.” The agitator kept silent, not unconscious, as he still squirmed in futile. “The hard way then.” Trius sneered.
Just as Trius prepared to unleash his furious destruction on his victim, someone ran up from behind and twisted his wrist the other way. It was Orakh, who finally regained enough wakefulness to trace Ashav's steps. He struggled against Trius for several turns, eventually besting Trius, forcing his spell into the a window and restraining the armored man.
“Yer deaf? The man said it's enough.” Holding Trius down, Orakh motioned for Ashav to take control of the agitator. “Take your gods damned sword and get out of my sight!” Orakh gave Trius a rough shove. The latter collected his prized blade, stalking away in foul mood. Orakh kept a firm grip on his axe the entire time; he was uncertain whether a fight would break out. Luckily for everyone, cooler heads prevailed.
“You know how to make an entrance, eh?” Ashav nodded to Orakh. The agitator was secured in two rope bindings, kind of overkill for a man beaten out of his senses. Better safe than sorry, Ashav figured.
“He is one dangerous man.” Ashav pointed to Trius in the distance. “Unpredictable too.” He added.
“So am I.” Orakh laughed. The Orc stretched his broad and well-worm shoulders. “I've fought dozens like that. Breton knights were just like him, all up in their plates and spells. Thing is, every one of them have openings, the Achilles' heel, or whatever Imperials used to say. I learned to exploit them.”
Sun's Height 11...
“So, what did you learn from the rogue?” Keegan asked.
“Basically nothing.” Ariane answered. “Someone gave him a frenzy potion the day before, and asked to throw it into the biggest crowd. He did what was told, as a clueless henchman would.”
“That's it?”
“Yes. Oh, and he thought it was a prank.”
Sun's Height 6...
For the remaining duration of the 5th, nothing exciting came about. This meant everyone got to sleep off the day, right? Fat chance. No one rested easy with stuff flung across the river non-stop. These siege weapons weren't accurate, nor do they needed to be. The city was a “target-rich environment”; sooner or later, the Kamals bound to hit something important.
Ashav visited the dwellings of Jorwen (more accurately, his wife) and Leif. He assured protection for both, but more importantly, designated the houses as fallback points in case combat breached the gates.
All throughout the day, people waited anxiously. They waited and waited, day turned to night and day again. On the morning of the 6th, everything changed.
Rain poured since last morning. Starting out as light drizzles yesterday, heaving downpour currently showered the city. The Kamals sat firm on the opposing shore. Their ships and tents puffed smokes. Scouts on the battlements witnessed Tamrielic captives hoarded onto ships, then sailed off into the distance. Reciprocal exchanges would happen, bringing with them additional Kamal troops. Multiple accounts also confirmed sighting war mounts. The eight-legged slug-bears and ice wraith-carried chariots both amassed in snow demon ranks. Yet with enormous amount of force to bear, the Kamals made no move forward beside executing prisoners.
Out of the blue came one disheveled Nord. This one was a Brave militiaman captured in Morvunskar. He carried in his hands a scroll sealed with exotic symbols. This poor lad ran across the bridge unhindered, as the Kamals paused the bombardment to allow passage. The morning's watch caught the scroll. A small slip attached on it was, surprisingly, written in common Tamrielic. It was a challenge, single combat issued to the jarl.
“We have no choice.” Jarl Lodvemar would say. “I cannot let our citizens starve while we wait for rescue. Their leader promised to withdraw if I win; it would be worth a try.” He reassured his advisers. “Whatever the case, do not open our gates, do not charge at the snow demons.”
“Father, let me go in your stead.” The jarl's son squeaked. It seemed like every single adviser face-palmed synchronously.
“My sweet boy, your time has not come.” Lodvemar said patiently. No one other than he could stand the young man's blunders. But for Lodvemar, naive talks just made him love his son more.
And here we are, center of the giant bridge as precipitation soaked the combatants. On one end stood the jarl, fully decked out in the city's finest equipments and stood valiantly like his Stormcloak days. Now, Lodvemar would be impressive if he fought another human. As fate would have it, his opponent was an unusual Kamal dual-wielding warhammers.
“Hakkeam.” Keegan gasped from the walls.
The resulting fight was exceptionally lopsided. Lodvemar attacked first, his axe swung and shield bashed. His attacks were parried by Hakkeam, whose dual warhammers provided ample coverage. In retaliation, one blunt head readily connected, it simply smashed the shield into pieces and found its mark right in the jarl's torso. The man’s ribcage broke and the organs contained inside burst. Lodvemar fell to the ground, clutching his ribs and coughing up blood. When he looked back up, another blow dropped.
“No!” he cried out in desperation. The hefty warhammer made contact with steel armor, at that instant, all three elements danced. First, the jarl was frozen solid in ice. Second, an orange explosion tore his frozen body to bits. At last, electricity weaved through, disintegrating whatever remained into fine dust.
Everything stopped at that moment. Gazing out from Windhelm's walls, the lone Kamal chief walked casually back behind shield lines guarding the bridge. A loud shrill broke Windhelm's silence. The jarl's son wasted no time screaming his head off. “Avenge my father!” “One last charge to Sovngarde!” The lad would shout out his lungs. Some guards refrained from rash orders, but it was obvious many were enraged at the spectacular demise of their leader. Therefore, a hundred or so fanatical warriors took control of the gate, opened it, and charged right onto the bridge.
“Do not follow them unless you want to throw your lives away.” Ashav cautioned everyone.
“Close the gate!” “Get inside!” “Quit hiding!” “Attack!” A cacophony ringed out between everyone. Kamals started vocalize as well. To Windhelm, it sounded like cheerful battle cries.
Indeed, the Kamals had a lot to cheer for. Ice barrages resume flying once the bulk of loyal guardsmen made it outside. The first barrage aimed for the gate rather than Nordic soldiers, paralyzing exposed gate controls and killing many trying to operate the gate. Massive levers and chains froze and broke, those that did not pooled in blood. The following barrages marked flesh targets. En route across the bridge, one in three warriors perished in icy shots. Those that didn't ran dead into Kamal shield formations. This was no glorious last stand, it was a horrific slaughter. Within minutes, a hundred-some men and women were cut down. The shock of bloodbath prompted some to question their loyalty. But retreat proved futile as ice missiles once again made mincemeat of human flesh.
As soon as the chargers met their gruesome death, the Kamals mounted their own assault. Shock troops akin to the first dock wave stormed across the bridge. Defenders perched atop countered using a spray of arrows; that slightly delayed Kamal's advances. However, a phalanx formed in addition to adjusted ice blasts. The gate still stood ajar, refusing to budge without functional mechanisms. By this point, fate sealed on Windhelm.
Ashav commanded everyone to scatter, find their way back and regroup at Halla's or Leif's homestead. Once there, no one was certain what to do next. Kamals soldiers cut through most defenders with ease. In the course of another hour, another few hundreds died inside city walls. By the time most mercenaries arrived in a safehouse, the guard lieutenant (the captain died following Lodvemar's son) had quit resisting. Strange thing was, the Kamals accepted surrender. Translators were even present among enemy ranks, shouting in broken Tamrielic for everyone to lay down their arms.
Last in Leif's home was a slender Nord. Farid instantly recognized him as Ander, the thief. Yesterday, Ander passed his documents to Ashav in exchange for a a hot meal. Now, he's ready to repay the favor, big time.
“There are tunnels leading to the outside.” Ander explained, much to everyone's disbelief. In which case, why didn't no one know of it earlier? For it could greatly aid fleeing refugees. “The Thieves Guild wanted to revitalize cavern networks dating to ancient times, however, insufficient fund and dangerous working conditions caused it to be abandoned.” Ander told everyone.
Believe it or not, this was the only chance right now. Quickly, words spread between Ashav and other commanders (the EEC, Dawnguard and White River Braves). By late afternoon, when the rain most stopped and many citizens cramped into the Gray Quarter, by Kamals, approximately fifty people sneaked down various manholes and wells. Thoughts were given to civilians, but the agreement was getting the message out before getting the crowd out. Ander headed the group through the maze-like sewer to a giant cavern, the middle of which lays a bottomless chasm. The only way across were several unstable planks. The mercenaries were first to cross, and as they did so, rocks started dropping from the ceiling. More crossed, more fragile the entire setting felt. The plank gave out after most made it across, those halfway in between plunged down a deep grave.
The subterranean network surfaced from a well east of Windhelm. This place was Anga's Mill, occupied by snow demons, tons of snow demons. Kamals outnumbered Tamrielic beings by a large margin, and to further the survivor's woes, the cavalry came to play. Several armored eight-legged bears, with slug-like faces patrolled with riders. Several ice shard launchers similar to their ship-mounted counterparts were carried on top ice sheets, generated by ice wraiths bound together. Taking them on was suicide, so sneaking past was the only way. The company waited until sunset, quietly scurrying by under darkness' cover. Well, in situation like this, someone bound to slip up. In short, stealth was broken before everyone could get away.
“Run! Into the woods!”
Frenzy ensured. Kamal war-beasts bellowed, ice crackled through the air, boots scrambled across vegetation and the occasional scream of death. Keegan ran till his lungs burned, then ran some extra. He vaulted logs, jumped over streams and whacked through bushes, all the while tripping and scraping himself numerous times. Eventually, the fast ones (or lucky ones) lost the Kamals in treacherous terrains.
“That's the last batch.” Orakh reported in his headcount. Utu-ja didn't make it, neither were a number of the Braves and Dawnguards. For the EEC, Cilo was their sole survivor.
Walking more or less continuous, the group hit Nightgate Inn one day later. It was the night of the 7th. The Inn ground was utilized as a camping ground for refugees. Nordic soldiers and Braves outside of Windhelm stood watch, planning a counter-attack on Windhelm. None of these warriors expected people from the city itself. Hearing the terror of Kamal war machines, the counter-attack was postponed indefinitely. Khajiit caravanners bartered on-site, among them were Rhasha'dar's siblings. Beware trading with Khajiits, for if you are not one of their own, every deal was a scam.
On the next day, the company set out for Dawnstar. A Cathay Khajiit known as S'riracha, who spoke with an accent untypical of Skyrim, Cyrodiil or Elsweyr decided to tag along. Dawnstar would come after two long days, during which the group had plenty of time to reflect beside uneventful roads and flickering campfires. The moons continued to bleed each night.
Ashav checked into the Windpeak Inn late on the 10th. There were less rooms than guests, implying doubling up, sleeping on chairs or other alternatives. On the bright side, it couldn't be worse than the warehouse, right?
