A TALE OF CROSSED BLADES, PART ONE: PROLOUGE
"What in the name of the emperor?" muttered Quentin Cipius, legate of Whiterun imperial camp, when he saw the rider approaching from the south. It was a cold and grim morning, the sky as grey as the mountains. The camp stood on the never ending tundra, nearby an old pillar which the Nordic recruits called "Gjukar's monument". It was a day like any other, the camp bustling with activity. The camp was more of a large village, to be honest, but it consisted of tents located in perfect formation, just like his men during training. Quentin cracked a smile as he watched the rider approach, thinking of how disciplined his men where. Even the Nords showed promise. But his thoughts where wandering. The legate turned his attention back to the approaching rider. If this rider was a Stormcloak messenger demanding their surrender, he would personally slit the fools throat, as he did to all enemy couriers coming his way. If it was a woman he would let his men entertain themselves with her before. That was the way of war, simply enough. The horseman was now only fifty yards away from the large camp. As he came closer it became obvious that he was wearing red, and the imperial dragon was easily identified on his breastplate. This disappointed the old legate more then he cared to admit. There had been months since the last time his blade was bloodied. But he greeted the messenger with a smile, and the messenger returned it with courtesy. "Ave Cipius, legate of whiterun!" the messenger, a comely young Redguard whit a large scar ravaging his face, said. "We should go inside your tent, m'lord. These news are of a... troubling sort." the young man said. "Whatever you can say to me you can say to them, lad." Quentin said, pleased by the soldiers courtesy. Apparently these foreign recruits where not dimwits after all.
"The general was very specific on this subject, and..." the soldier begun, but he found himself interrupted. "General Tullius is not here, and I would have told my men anyway." He ordered. Perhaps it was not a good idea to refuse instructions from Tullius, but the auxiliary's refusal to obey Quentin frustrated him to no end. The young soldier gazed down into the ground, gathering his courage. Finally he looked the legate dead in the eye and spoke. "Jarl Ulfric has escaped us". Quentin felt a sudden cold in his stomach, and for a moment the world ceased to be.
Hjornskar Head-Smasher danced around the Ice-Vein, swinging the wooden club high above his head. He struck the younger warrior right in the ankle, and then, in quick succession, his back. He laughed as the younger man attempted to slash him with the dull and wooden blade he swung., missing at every attempt. Stormblade Hjornskar was merely entertaining himself. His sparring partner would have been dead fifty times over, had they wielded steel and iron. But they where not, and the battling kept his men fit and alert. Half an hour passed. Ive-Vein Regnor was laying on the ground, inhaling more air then a full-grown mammoth. Hjornskar's face was a hard mask, he knew. Many things he shared with his men, but the luxury of rest was not one of them. He helped the soldier up, and then proceeded to walk through the camp. The camp was quite large, and the tents where spread out randomly across the ground. Fur tents they where, perfect for the Nordic winter. Of course, they where functional enough during autumn as well. Everywhere you looked, things where happening. A skinny little boy, beardless he was, was taking care of the fires in the middle of the large camp. Two soldiers where sparring on the top of a small hill. Inside a tent a shieldmaiden and a Ice-Vein where entertaining each other in bed, and in another some old crone was cooking soup. Hjornskar noticed some less pleasant details, as well. Inside one tent, a woman was screaming and kicking as his men raped and ravaged her. "She ought not to have stolen from our army, this was her own doing" Hjornskar muttered to himself. Some outlaws seem to think that the Stormcloak food supplies where easy prey, sneaking into the camp at night, when his warriors where to drunk or to sleepy to notice. But most of them where caught, and they paid dearly for their folly. The women was lucky she was, well... a woman, for most lost their lives at once. Hjornskar finally reached his tent, a large thing standing in the northernmost part of the camp, in the shadow of the throat of the world. He shock his head as he sat down in his chair. With Ulfric captured, who knew what would happen to their cause? Just as he reached for his goblet a young Snow-Hammer almost ran into the tent, almost knocking the command-table over in the process. "I bring good tidings, Stormblade!" he shouted. "What is this then?" came Hjornskars answer. "Jarl Ulfric is a free man once more, by the grace of Talos!" the young warrior said. Hjornskar cracked a smile. The rebellion would continue.