How many damned mudcrabs were there on the bank of the White River? Honestly, Hroar counted the seventh as he withdrew his sword from the chitin of another corpse.

All he wanted was to get to the river's edge, refill his water skin, and get on with his morning patrol. It wasn't enough that a horde of mudcrabs tried to murder him, but so were Imperial soldiers, bandits, and any random marauder or predatory animal he so happened upon. It was a small wonder that the Stormcloak camp in Whiterun Hold hadn't been raided again. He sheathed his sword and spat at the mudcrab, despite it not being alive to feel offended.

Hroar had always wanted to do something with his life, and he wanted to join the Stormcloaks as soon as he was old enough. He had believed in their cause. Now going on three years in the service with Skyrim's sons and daughters, his hopes were lingering. Each day there was increased word that another camp or company had been cleared by the oppressors. There was no doubt that his fellow soldiers were a stubborn lot because the war was being fought since before he was born. The question was, would he ever know peace?

He bent down and let the river water flow into his water skin that he held steady with one hand while removing his helmet with his other. Then he let it drop and splashed some water on his face. He hadn't properly bathed in a while either, mostly rain and quick moments of wiping water over the face was enough to get rid of most of the sweat and grime that had accumulated there.

Despite the brief moments of feeling refreshed, his chapped lips, unshaven, unruly facial hair, skin-scraped knuckles, and general odor always brought him back to feeling like the disgusting Nord soldier that he was. After wiping excess water from his face with his arm, he donned his helmet once more.

He capped his water skin and stood with a sigh, quiet enough it shouldn't attract any attention but still heartfelt nonetheless. He knew better than to attract attention, mostly because whatever he did attract wanted to kill him. So, he was very aware of his surroundings and had to be at any given moment. As of now the only movement was from the pines swaying in the light breeze, the rushing water from the river, and the logs that were thumping against the bank while being trapped by a protruding rock.

If he weren't fighting a losing war, and if he didn't have orders to patrol, he would have lingered to enjoy the day or even try to bathe. On second thought, he wouldn't bathe because the current in the river was particularly strong and he would have lost his head if he was swept downstream without his uniform or armor.

His sight followed downstream, just imagining his own embarrassment at having to trek back up the road in the nude if the scenario played out—but something he saw broke those thoughts and he held his breath.

A body.

A human body, laying still, on its side, with the bottom-half in the water and top-half on the land.

He had seen corpses before, of those who fought by his side, and those of his enemies. He had killed persons of various races and gender in skirmishes so he wasn't squeamish nor scared at the sight of it—just apprehensive.

Tying his water skin to his belt in one move and unsheathing his word in another, Hroar moved toward the body on light steps. Upon closer inspection, it belonged a female dressed in civilian clothing. The clothing was torn in places which made him wonder if an animal or the like had been disturbing the body.

He used the flat of his sword to roll her over in one move—seeing if she really was dead. Her body rolled to the side limply, facing him so he could see her features.

The first thing he noticed was that her hands were shackled together. The poor thing probably had drowned if not been out-right disposed of and dumped in the river. Her clothes were soaked and dark blonde strings of hair were slicked to the sides of her face.

Her body heaved suddenly, responding to the movement and coughed, vomiting a mouthful of water before dragging in a ragged breath. Hroar lifted his sword pointedly and took a quick step back before studying the lass, then he glanced around to make sure she hadn't attracted any unwanted attention with her noises.

He determined that she posed no danger in her current state, so he once again sheathed his sword and then knelt next to her. Her eyelids were still closed, but she had made a noise. She was somewhat conscious and not yet coherent.

At least he could do her a favor and get those wrist shackles off. He figured they were the usual leather straps that were commonly used and he could just cut through them but upon closer inspection, it was Elvin material. Thin chains that were crossed in a figure-eight between the wrists but too strong to break under his steel sword—at least not without sawing at it for a day or two.

This lass had just become far more interesting to him; what regular person just showed up at a river's edge, bound in Elvin chains?

He didn't know what to say to her to establish his presence—to ask her if she was all right, or how she felt would have been ludicrous because he could see she wasn't well at all—looking half-drowned and battered.

"Hello there, what's your name?" he tried.

Her eyes opened slightly in acknowledgement, taking in his appearance, and then she gave a groan of exhaustion.

"No," her voice managed to crack. She rolled to her side so he was facing her back again.

"'No' —what an odd name you have," Hroar noted out loud with a smirk and stood to give her space.

She ignored his quip, and instead made a move to sit up, propping herself on an elbow. She gave a cry of pain and held her stomach, increasing pressure underneath her ribs. However, she didn't crumple like he expected. She continued to try and raise her body without support, with her hands still bound together.

"Stop," he commanded. She was just going to injure herself further. He pulled his last healing potion from his belt. He was saving it for the inevitable moment an enemy should happen upon him but it'd do this lass wonders in her current state. Not fully heal her of course, but at least refresh her enough to soothe the harshest of pains. "Here, take my healing potion."

"I don't want anything from the likes of you!"

He was taken aback by the venom in her tone. She had twisted around to face him, glaring with hate and grimacing in pain all at once. Her fierce eyes pierced him and he felt guilty for whatever he had done to make her so angry with him.

She managed to stand and started to limp away, slightly stooped to the side where she was holding her stomach—breathing heavily with effort after every step.

"You want to die then?" he asked, throwing out his arms to indicate the wilderness they were in. There were no cities nor inns within hours of walking distance. She would succumb to her injuries before she ever reached a semblance of civilization, not to mention she could even put up a fighting chance with her hands in shackles. She kept limping away without answering him. She was either very brave or very stupid. "What a shame, since you have survived this far."

Those last words caused her to halt. She turned her neck and looked at him a long moment, seeming to try to understand if he was being sarcastic or sincere after the way she regarded him.

"I wouldn't even be in this situation if it wasn't for a Stormcloak like you," she finally said, the words were low and filled with disgust. The majority of it was emphasized on his faction alone and he realized what the reason was as to why she held so much distaste for him. She supported the Empire.

"What is your situation exactly?" he was still curious to how she ended up discarded by the river's edge in Elvin shackles. The Empire was in league with the kind that had bound her, it didn't make sense to him why she would still support them.

"It doesn't concern you."

By Akatosh, she was a stubborn one. Hroar put his healing potion back in his belt pouch since she had refused it.

"It does concern me. You see, I am on patrol and I am supposed to report suspicious activity—and since you are clearly in opposition of the Stormcloaks, and since you washed ashore with those shackles..." he nodded at her wrists, "...I'd say you are the most suspicious thing I have seen today."

He could see immediately that she realized he knew the origin of that which had bound her. She looked down at the chains as soon as he had made the indication. He had been advancing closer to her since she had stopped walking away, as well as distracting her with words and she gave a brief look of surprise before Hroar grabbed her around the waist and hauled her over his shoulder, "I'm taking you in for questioning."

She shrieked in anger or pain, or both and hit him in his back, right under his shoulder blades, even though she was far too weak to fight at the moment. He didn't feel a fraction of her intended harm.

"If you make too much noise you'll attract unsavory company," he warned. He quickly scanned the area for any possible movement from something other than the lass kicking at his waist.

"As if any other company can be more unsavory than you," she choked out.

He wasn't baited by her insult, "I doubt you'd rather have a frostbite spider for company. Or one of the hundreds of mudcrabs along the river bank. They can't even be reasoned with."

"And you can?"

He gave a shrug, which caused her to grunt since her stomach was directly on his shoulder. "I did offer to help, but you refused it."

A few moments of silence passed as he climbed a hill while carrying her. Eventually she stopped struggling and went slack against him, which was probably in both their best interests.

"What are you going to do with me?" he could hear a trace of fear in her question and it made him soften. He didn't have any ill intentions toward her, but her predicament was too strange to ignore.

"I suppose our camp's leader will want to know of your involvement in the Thalmor—"

"I said nothing of the Thalmor!"

Her body physically jerked and tensed as soon as he had suggested it. It wasn't common for Dunmer or Bosmer to go around shackling citizens in fancy bindings. Whatever she was in trouble for, it was serious.

But her reaction was proof enough that she had been involved in the Thalmor in some respect. He just shrugged again, causing her to stifle a gasp. Her stomach made a loud sound.

"As I was saying, the Head-Smasher will want to question you. He is the commander that oversees Stormcloack activity in Whiterun," he finished and felt her tense again and couldn't help but to grin, "He won't smash your head, that's just what we call him."

"How are Stormcloaks even still in the hold? I thought they were all driven back to Eastmarch?"

Hroar didn't expect her to ask such a question—the inquiry tasted of a spy trying to gather information— so he changed the subject back to what it was before and ignored her question completely. "I suppose after he's satisfied with your explanation, he'll have those shackles removed and send you on your way."

"You won't be able to get these shackles off easily, not without a blade made of orichalcum," she snapped back immediately.

"What are you talking about?"

"These bindings are made from moonstone and orichalcum is harder, has opposite properties, and the best kind of weapon to cut through it. Did you know that Orcish weapons were made to combat Elvish ones?"

Hroar hadn't known that, and he couldn't remember if any of the soldiers at the camp owned any such Orcish weapons. He was mildly impressed she had the knowledge— she must have either have been bookish or grown up around a smithy. Neither of those attributes Hroar could have used to describe his childhood.

"Well hopefully for you someone has an Orcish blade handy. Otherwise, you might have to go all the way to Windhelm to get those shackles off."

That was the last they spoke for a while. Climbing uphill while carrying another body wasn't as easy as just walking, but it wasn't impossible for Hroar. He had grown to be tall with a good set of shoulders. Living in Honorhall Orphanage, he was forced by Grelod the Kind to fetch water for the orphanage every day since he was six years old until her passing. For every inconvenience she insisted that he had been the cause of, Grelod sought to punish him by ordering him to fetch more buckets of water. More than once he brought so much water back that there was no more pans or barrels to fill, so the wretched lady took the bucket and dumped all the water out the back—right in front of him—and then demanded he fetch more.

Just thinking on those memories made his blood boil.

He figured he had a subconscious desire for abuse because the first thing he did after coming of age was join the Stormcloaks. Or perhaps he just wanted some likeness of a family. No one had adopted him, no one had wanted him. He was still coming to terms with it. He just wanted to be around those he could trust with his life; he didn't want to be alone.

The camp wasn't far, just up over the next rocky hill. He slowed his pace, suddenly having a thought that it would be best if this lass didn't know where the camp was. She had been quiet for a while and possibly had been paying close attention to her surroundings in order to report the area the camp was in to the Legion or even contemplating to escape.

"We're close now," he said, to get her attention.

She didn't respond.

"Did you hear me?" he shrugged a shoulder, suspecting the move would get her acknowledge him. She didn't even let out as much as a moan. In fact, she didn't even flinch—she was completely limp.

He set her to the ground to find she was out of consciousness once again. Her clothes were still damp but her hair seemed much dryer than before. He brushed away a few strands of hair that had fallen into her face just to check. They did swipe away easily enough, proving so. Now that her hair was pushed back, he found there was also a deep blue spread across the skin covering the left side of her forehead, extending to her temple.

He knew bruising like that was serious. Without another thought he pulled the health restoring potion from his belt and unclasped the cover. He held her chin steady and forced open her mouth, pressing the opening of the bottle to her lips and poured the liquid between them. She responded once the liquid hit her throat, gave a few coughs after swallowing. For a split second he had hope it had worked because her eyes cracked open to mere slits. Then they rolled back into her head, her head lolled to the side, and she took a strained breath.

So, the affects didn't take immediately. The best course of action was to get her to the camp, especially while she couldn't see how to get there. The camp had more healing agents as well—if not potions, possible raw materials that helped in recovery.

Hroar wasn't versed that well in what ingredients helped as remedies and he was lousy at alchemy, nor had the patience or talent for magic. He had done all that he could to help her for now. He pulled her up into his arms, carrying her properly and not as a sack of potatoes like before.

His camp consisted of six tents, three small and three large—with a fire pit and wood stump for cutting more wood.

The soldiers who were present looked at Hroar curiously as he entered camp with the young lass.

"What have you got here?"

The inquiry was posed by a particular soldier Hroar couldn't stand being around. The unsavory Stormcloak had been fighting as long as Hroar but the man had always acted as though he were more valuable to the cause. He was boisterous, rude, and had bad humor. The soldier's brows raised suggestively, "Some nice bedside company?"

"Where's the Head-Smasher?" Hroar ignored the crass insinuation and asked to anyone who would hear. He caught the eye of the Quartermaster and they approached to look over the lass.

"He was called to Windhelm to discuss new orders. He left me in charge," was the explanation given by the same soldier that had greeted him.

Hroar raised a brow and gave a look to the Quartermaster and they returned a disappointed nod that it was true. Not many enjoyed the company of that brother-at-arms. He was the living stereotype that Imperials liked to point to as example when in discussions about why they would never support the Stormcloaks. Hroar and most others knew that was not what they were—angry, uncultured drunks and rapists that would rather kill than change their ways.

He kept his sigh of disappointment to himself and found a bedroll of furs to set the lass on until she felt better and woke up.

"She's stable but I'll patch up a few cuts," the Quartermaster declared and left their spot to grab a wooden mortar to grind ingredients in.

Hroar removed his helmet and set it to the side, glad to have the breeze blowing on his face once again. All the while, the camp's temporary Charge watched over them, seeming to bristle with impatience to understand why she was there.

"Leave her be, she's got a serious blow to her head and I think she might have bruised ribs," Hroar turned and put himself between the lass and the camp's new Charge.

The brute's lips drew back in a half-snarl, apparently not liking being commanded by someone they thought inferior. "Why did you bring her here then, if not to keep for yourself?"

Hroar grit his teeth with annoyance that it was assumed he'd have any inappropriate intentions toward the lass, and explained, "Odd circumstances. I need to speak with the Head-Smasher about her."

"Whatever you have to say to the Head-Smasher you can discuss with me. I was left with charge of this camp. We don't have resources to feed an extra person until he returns."

Hroar swallowed his urge to argue and merely glowered to indicate that he didn't approve or agree with the Head-Smasher's choice. The only reason to leave this particular brute in command was because he had served the longest out of the present soldiers, so therefore knew the protocols if the camp were attacked.

Hroar nodded slightly at the temporary Charge and darted his eyes to the edge of camp, signaling he wanted to talk out of earshot of those who would listen in otherwise. The man nodded back and met Hroar at the farthest point from the middle of camp.

"I found the lass on the bank of the White River. She is, at the moment trapped in Elvin-made shackles—"

"Thalmor?"

Hroar almost scowled for being interrupted but continued as if he wasn't bothered by it, "Most likely. She didn't divulge me in much detail and outright denied it."

The Charge swung his head back to glance at her. She was still passed out and the Quartermaster was applying a demulcent to her cuts. Hroar didn't know how much longer she'd be so until her health restored enough to wake her.

Hroar continued, "I told her I was taking her to be questioned, but we can't free her from those bonds without a great effort, unless one of our soldiers happens to be carrying an Orcish blade."

"If I am not mistaken the Frost-Dodger has one, but he is on patrol to the north," he sounded a hint delighted at the fact perhaps the only means of freeing the lass was currently unavailable, "Move her to my tent so the others won't bother her, and if she wakes—notify me immediately."

That sounded like a terrible idea to Hroar, "But..."

"That's an order."

Hroar clenched his jaw with an ill feeling crawling in his gut of what potential unwanted behavior the new Charge could bestow upon the lass. Hroar would make sure to stay as long as he could at camp until she was released and keep an eye on her. They were not supposed to take civilians hostage unless they were suspected of having information of use.

He suddenly felt a surge of guilt, knowing he was the one who had brought her to the camp, and if any harm befell her it would be his fault. Though, to be fair—she'd have been dead soon enough without his aid too.

Since the Quartermaster was done with their handiwork, Hroar moved her as commanded to large tent, which was presumably the Charge would be sleeping in until the Head-Smasher returned. It wasn't much grander than where she had lain before, the only difference was a shelter. If it were to rain, at least she'd be dry. As he set her down, her stomach made a low growling sound as a sabre cat did when one got too close. He remember then, it had made the same sound earlier too. She must have been starving. He couldn't guess at how long she laid at the edge of the river—a day, perhaps?

There were small slabs of pheasant breast roasting on the spit that hung over the fire in the middle of camp. Also there hung a cooking pot with some simmering stew of some sort—it smelled delicious. Hroar had been patrolling since early in the morning and could use some food himself. He ladled himself a bowl and an extra one for the lass.

As he pushed back the flap of the tent, he could see movement—the lass had sat up from the bedroll in alarm. Her eyes were wide and suddenly much more alert than before. She gave him a blank stare. He had a slight concern that she had lost her memory as no recognition was apparent.

He held out the bowl of stew nonetheless, "I thought you'd be hungry."

After a moment she took it; still tense. She had to hold the bowl by the bottom with both hands since they were still shackled. She blew the steam away from the food to cool it and he took a seat on the ground across from her.

"I didn't recognize it was you without your helmet," she said between releasing puffs of breath, sending the steam spiraling toward him.

He didn't realize that she had never seen him without it. Suddenly he became embarrassed about his unkempt appearance and he didn't know how to respond but with, "My face has seen better days."

He didn't wait for the stew to cool, and abruptly sipped the broth. It was cabbage, and it burned his tongue somewhat.

"You look much younger than I thought you were."

He chortled, causing some of the cabbage stew to sputter out of his mouth and into his beard. He hadn't expected to laugh, he didn't know why he found her statement so humorous. He hadn't laughed since what felt forever ago.

He saw the corners of her mouth lift in amusement, "Your voice sounds so much older."

"Well," he coughed, becoming more somber, "That's what war does to a person."

The flap to the tent opened then, the camp's Charge was looking inside with a curious scowl for the bout of laughter that was heard across the camp.

"I thought I ordered you to let me know when she woke up," the Charge glared down at them, seeming to also scowl in wonder at why Hroar was lollygagging about the tent and the tone in his question seemed to imply Hroar should leave immediately.

"She's awake now," Hroar replied smartly, ignoring the subtlety of the soldier and sipped more on his stew.

"Get out, I have questions for her," the Charge ordered impatiently, finally voicing the demand.

Hroar pulled himself up and stood face to face with the soldier with a cold look before leaving them. He gave a farewell nod to the lass who seemed to grow more wary of her situation.

Some of his fellows were eating around the fire, all giving him curious glances but none asking out loud about why he had brought the lass to camp. Also none mentioning what they thought was really happening now that the camp's Charge had her alone. Hroar could tell many thought it was more than just 'questioning' but he ignored it for a moment and hoped that the soldier in there with her, for once, wasn't acting crass and being the worst of them.

He finished off his meal and set the bowl next to the other discarded ones. He was supposed to go back to patrolling in case the enemy had pushed further. It was his unlucky draw for the week that assigned him morning and evening watch.

Whiterun was the first defense to the Stormcloak stronghold that Windhelm had become. They had lost the camp before, a few times when the Legion had over-powered the hold and forced the soldiers to hide in caves until they could rally enough forces to fight back. He hadn't always been stationed in Whiterun either. He had started in the Rift when he joined but after a few months there, was sent to the front line in Whiterun. He would have liked to think it was because he was a good fighter, but knew the reason was probably more because he was young and expendable. He picked up his helmet and put it on, with one last glance back to the tent.

Nothing amiss.

It only took two steps before there came an outraged scream from behind him.

The lass dashed out of the tent but stopped abruptly at seeing the soldiers, realizing she was far outnumbered. The camp's charge followed rubbing the side of his head, claiming she was trying to escape. She had obviously gotten a blow in to him—a testament to her strength returning if she couldn't even hit and harm Hroar earlier.

Hroar doubted she was trying to escape since she could have tried anytime they were eating in the tent before. He suspected the Charge had said or done something the lass thought rightfully vile.

Hroar approached her with his hands pointed at the ground to indicate he meant no harm. She seemed to calm a bit at his gesture but in one stride and move, the Charge lunged forward and grabbed her from behind which caused her eyes to flash in anger at Hroar, thinking he had tricked her into submitting.

Hroar honestly didn't think the Charge would do that and opened his mouth to protest—but then something even more surprising happened.

Even with shackled wrists, the lass managed to pull the Charge's sword from its sheath at his hip. It slid out with nothing short of a metallic scraping. She dodged out of her hold and turned the sword on him. She didn't have proper grip of it of course—both hands were clamped desperately on the hilt—but her stance was spot on. It was clear she was used to swords and knew a thing or two on how to fight with them.

The Charge stilled, although his chest barreled out in a façade of bravery for having a sword pointed at him.

Hroar observed her angry stare—focused at the charge—then it turned and scanned the rest of them until it stopped on him. Her scowl only deepened. She kept the sword pointed outward and slowly made her way to the edge of camp. She pointed it at anyone who dared step forward at her.

"I'm leaving. Don't follow me," she ordered, as forcibly as she could muster in front of a half-dozen Stormcloak soldiers. Her orders were naive though; the Charge would likely send someone to track after her.

Or not.

A figure quietly approached, returning from patrol. All the Stormcloaks could see him, and she had no inkling he was right behind her. The Frost-Dodger was so named for never have being hit by a Frost Spider's venom. He was also known for his amusing antics. The soldiers had all been tired of his pranks months ago, but they could see his smile of anticipation at surprising her—when it happened to someone else it was always humorous. She looked at them with a mild curiosity because some of their own smiles grew in the same anticipation.

"What—" she began to inquire but it was quickly transformed into a gasp and cry of surprise as the Frost-Dodger easily seized her and restrained her. In the confusion, she dropped her hold of the sword.

"What have we here?" The Frost-Dodger asked in a laugh to her reaction, while the rest of the soldiers chuckled at the lass's bemused expression. The Charge didn't laugh at all; he still seemed sour that she had denied his advances, struck him in the head, or both.

But then the Frost-Dodger's smile fell as he turned her toward him and saw her face—his own replaced with a different expression all together. An expression that surprised Hroar the most out of anything that had happened that day.

Recognition.