Force.Balance.Push.

The Breton

The carriage rumbled on through the falling snow, the silence of the forest was pierced with the rumble of two carts and snorting horses. The carts held Nord men and women, hands bound wearing the uniform of the Stormcloaks. The cart lurched off the dirt path into a small clearing. The drivers of the carts and the men who had ridden alongside leapt out and began to set up camp. The Nords worked in deft silence, their armour glistening and clinking as a large tent was raised from the snow covered earth, the horses were taken off the cart and led away to be de-tacked feed and watered. The prisoners in the carts watched with vague interest, they had already seen the routine from the day previous when they had been captured bound and throw onto the gods forsaken carts. The rebels had their heads bent waiting in quiet patience.

One man sat gagged and bond, watching the Imperial soldiers with contempt. Again wishing for the umpteenth time he was free from his binds so he could spill their foul blood. He unlike his captive kin he didn't wear the armour of the rebellion. He was dressed in a handsome thick cloak of silver that covered his wide shoulders and cloaked his bent figure. He was a man of wealth, power and influence. Ulfric Stormcloak. The Jarl of Windhelm. The rightful High King, a murderous bastard. A terrorist, a freedom fighter. The leader of the Stormcloaks.

''Alright get them off.'' Shouted an Imperial soldier. The Stormcloaks jumped off the back of the stationary carts watched by hard eyes, those eyes dared them to disobey to defiantly throw themselves into combat, for a bit of entertainment. A break from the frozen monotonous journey both parties had endured. None of the bound Nords rose to their captures challenge, they sat upon the cold ground near the tent in silence. Defeated and broken, Sovngarde surly waiting for them. Ulfric snarled against the cloth that cut out his speech. How dare they. How dare the Imperials do this to him and his men. He again bit against the cloth in his mouth, and he again pulled at the bindings at his wrists. A few of the nearby Imperials snorted and laughed amongst themselves, a bottle of mead was passed between the two. Ulfric eye's hardened. The Imperial Legion were going to be sorry. Nothing of Titus Mede's beloved Empire would be standing when he would be done with it.

...

The brother moons were high in the sky; slumber had taken hold of all but a few of the Nords. Imperial Soldiers on look out and a blond Stormcloak, his once braided hair was mattered and disheveled. Where the only ones not in sleep's deep embrace. The Stormcloak's breath swirled in a cloud around his chest, his eyes glided over his brothers in arms all breathing deeply. A sudden sound of fast approaching footsteps caught his attention. An Imperial Guard had run back from scout duty breath heavily, he spoke in a breathless whisper to the Imperials posted at the camp. The Stormcloak could make nothing out of their quick passing of words, before the Imperial again went back the way he had came followed by two other. They set off, their clinking footsteps bouncing off the trees long after they had gone. They had been urgent and quick, the Nord tried to thick of what had started them so. The Nord was left with his thoughts as he watched the horizon for the returning men.

...

Ulfric woke with a start; he looked up at to what had woken him. The moons were still high, and through the falling snow came forward four figures. Leading was an Imperial soldier then following, a young Breton being pulled along by the two Imperials that shouldered her. He watched the girl; she was wriggling in her captors grip spitting curses at the Nords who dragged her. He heard the word spy tossed between the group, which was denied fiercely with curses from the small women. The Nords easily dwarfed her, Bretons weren't known for their height. He watched as she was dragged into the tent still thrashing and howling curses. The whole camp had been awoken; murmurings were slipping between the rebels and the Imperials alike. They all watched the tent with hungry expecting eyes.

The time passed slowly as Ulfric watched the tent. A gust of cold air flew over the clearing, Ulfric was thankful for his cloak that kept out the cold, as he cast an eye over his men he saw all were in good health. The cold was second nature to Nords; he wondered how the Breton was fairing in the harsh constant climate. There came of burst of footsteps as an Imperial dragged the Breton out into the cold air, she was thrown roughly onto the ground amongst the Stormcloaks, she grunted and rolled to a seating position. Ulfric watched her critically, she had landed nearer to him that either would have liked. The moon cast its silver light upon her and he got his first look at her. The dim light shone upon her fair skin, her dark hair was tousled and fell in front of her eyes, her eye's met his shortly before looking away, they were pale. The cloak she had original dressed in was no longer worn. Instead she wore a rough skin tunic; it was thin and short sleeved. They had sentenced her to death; she was going to die in that thin fabric. He could see her shivering and clenching her teeth, her bound hands brought up to her chest trying to conserve heat. He shook his head and looked away from her, he noticed the Stormcloaks nearest to her were whispering and throwing skeptical and sympathetic glanced towards her. He knew in the morning when they would be forced to rise to get on the carts, they would find her body stiff and cold, vacant of life. They would tut and shake their heads and leave her for the wild to take. She would not survive the night's cold harsh embrace. She was no strong Nord women.

The sky was a burning pink as the Imperials rose. The horses were tacked and were again led and attached to the carts. The tent was pulled down and packed away for good. The Stormcloaks were pulled to their feet and individually thrown into the cart. Ulfric had woken long before the Imperials had risen; he had watched them hungrily and again pulled at his bindings. He watched as his men were roughly thrown into the carts, snarling into his gag. His eyes found his way for the first time that morning to the Breton. She was bent forward, her hair obscuring her face, in the sunlight her saw she had dark brown hair, it fluttered slightly in the weak wind. Revealing her face, her eyes were closed. He had been right she hadn't survived the night. Imperial bastards. Time passed and with it more Stormcloaks loaded onto the carts. Ulfric watched as the last Stormcloak was led onto the cart. Just him and the Breton left. He watched as the Imperial stooped to grab the girl by the back of her tunic, he lifted her up with ease. Her head bobbed slightly, he watched expecting her legs to give way. His eyes widened when the girl's leg jarred into a step…..another hesitant step an incoherent grumble. The sun shone in her face making her grey eyes blaze. She was led like the others onto the carts. As he was pulled to his feet Ulfric couldn't help but smile slightly. She might not be a strong Nord women. But she wasn't weak.


So here's chapter one :) I hope you liked it. Reviews are welcome as they keep me motivated. Merry Christmas! Happy New Year! :)