Baltafarian/Irileth/Reachmen

My ears perked as a stack of books was deposited on my desk.

"I've finished compiling the list of provisions that will be required for the campaign," a voice declared.

Bleary-eyed, I pulled myself out of the book my head was in and glanced up at an aide looking down at me with concern.

"Thank you, Tiberius." I croaked out. "That will be all."

The aid glanced at the books then back at me. His eyes full of pity, he saluted and left. I turned to the books, counted the amount that was on my desk, and let my head fall back on my desk again.

Marshalling an army takes time. It takes time to gather men, weapons, and supplies. Routes need to be planned, tactics have to be considered, decisions have to be taken on who gets to command this unit or that. Everything has to be considered in order for the invading army to march forward with as little difficulty as possible.

Thankfully, with most of the men of Whiterun being former legionaries, already existing logistical, political and military structures implemented via the Empire and the Nords own culture of warfare, planning the Reclamation of the Reach could be streamlined.

Divines bless the Empire for being a Rome-expy!

The planning was still difficult though. Without computers, electronics, or the internet, or all other modern conveniences I had enjoyed, stuff had to be done the old fashion way. Then, there was the meetings.

I cannot stress the amount of times we had to meet and discuss the upcoming invasion. Trying to hammer out the exact details of what had to be accomplished was difficult as all hell. Everyone and their mothers wanted their own individual parts. For one, the Jarl of Markarth insisted on a command role.

"The Reach is the land I rule, and I know it the best. I must lead," he argued.

Well, his argument had merit since he should know the damn place. Still, our confidence in his ability to lead was questionable since he fucking lost his entire hold. It's not exactly easy to trust someone again after his blunders. So far, the plan was kept simple and easy to understand.

The attack was to come in different directions. North, East, and hopefully the South.

From the North, Hrolfdir's surviving army and the mercenaries he had hired would advance from Dragonsbridge, where they had camped out. Leading it would be him and his boy Igmund. From the East which was the border between the Reach and Whiterun, our forces would strike and would be lead by my father and myself. Currently, messages were being sent to Falkreath requesting their support to invade the south of the Reach.

The idea was to pressure the Reachmen with different invasions happening at once. From the game and from information found in universe, open battle was something the Reachmen would be unable to do. They would have to resort to guerilla tactics like attacking our supply lines or attacking smaller forces to thin our ranks.

Presently, I had some concerns though. First off, the Reach was mountainous as all hell and it would be ambush heaven for the Reachmen. I wasn't exactly eager for the Reach to Swiss the shit out of us. Secondly, Whiterun's armies were a mobile cavalry based force. Cavalry does not do well in narrow mountain passes and thirdly, we were most likely to besiege Markarth. In sieges, you needed twice the number of men than the defenders in order for your breach to be successful. I wasn't exactly excited with the idea of besieging Markarth, a Dwarven city built into the mountain that had some surprises Hrolfdir shared to us with half a force in the field.

Imagine trying to besiege a city that had Dwarven ballista that could fire bolts the size of fuck you at your army and also, a pipe system that could release slags of melted dwarven metal to flood the fields below.

Fucking Hell.

There was a silver lining to all of this though. I remembered two potential entry points that could be used to breach Markarth. First was that massive drain that the city used to dump water out of and the second one was that traversable path on the right that could be used to get over the walls of Markarth. If that didn't work, we could resort to Alesia the city and make Julius Caesar proud.

Decisions, decisions, decisions.

And if that wasn't enough to stress me the fuck out, I had more personal shit to deal with.

There was Freydis who gave more than enough indication that she wanted something with me. To be perfectly honest, I hadn't touched a woman since Cyrodiil and my body was acting up in more ways than one. And Freydis was an adult that was more than willing to do horizontal tango with me. That encounter I had with her as still fresh in my mind and seeing her her everyday winking and wagging her eyebrows at me was honestly whittling at my self-control.

The only thing holding me back was that she was my brother's wife, my damn bro for life Hrongar who was more than likely kicking ass in Hammerfell. Honestly though, it was easy to see why Freydis was acting the way she was. My brother, bless his heart, was off fighting a war that he didn't have to and had left behind his wife and newborn daughter.

Then, there was Irileth who refused to speak a word to me beyond the bare essentials. Attempts to talk to her were rebuffed and honestly, it irked the shit out of me. I had no idea what I had done to get her to give me the cold shoulder and dealing with this was taxing on me.

The only one that seemed to be alright with me was Helga. Without suitors trying to get in her pants and having peace to finally raise Siddgeir personally, she had calmed down remarkably. It has left her with the problem of being bored out of her skull though.

"Give me something to do," a mature voice demanded.

I looked up from my desk and glanced up to see Helga standing before me, two handmaidens at her side.

"Don't you have a son to raise?" I questioned. Briefly, the blonde smiled before momentarily shaking herself off and adopting a stoic mask of professionalism.

"I can raise a boy and still do work. I am no simple woman." she replied deftly. I raised an eyebrow.

"And what sort of thing are you looking for?" I asked. She glanced at my desk.

"I hear that a great campaign is to be held against the Reachmen. My husband and I may have lead different lives but we both love Skyrim, the land of our forebears. I wish to help in the organizing of the army." Helga declared proudly. Beside her, the handmaidens nodded resolutely at the words of their Lady.

"That is a great sentiment but what skills can you offer?"

She smirked, her Nordic blue eyes shining. "I may not be a fighter but I am still a Nord. What Nordic woman would I be if I cannot help organize a war? Put me in logistics and I will make sure the army will not starve."

I leaned back on my chair, my fingers tapping my armrests as I considered her words. "I will have to test your first if you have what it takes. If you do, I'll bring you personally to my logistics team."

"Excellent!" she beamed, a nice and gentle smile that I couldn't help but be entranced by.

Turns out, she did have the skills for it, albeit she needed some points to be advised on. After passing the initial Legionary tests, she quickly proved herself a capable logistician. Some more prodding and she'd make a great Quartermaster. As such, I kept Helga close-by to monitor her progress myself.

Incidentally, Irileth grew even more cold to me after seeing me and Helga working on some requisitions one night.

Fucking hell. What was your problem, woman?

A knock at my door brought me out of thoughts and a familiar and sultry tone spoke aloud. "My Lord, I have brought dinner."

Speak of the Dunmer and she shall appear.

"Enter," I spoke aloud. Opening my door, my nightblade strode in carrying a tray full of food. My nose perked at the smell of hot soup and the scent of freshly baked bread. She walked towards me and deposited the tray right on my desk. As she bent over to deposit it, my nose registered the smell of sweet perfume on her.

"You've never worn perfume before," I remarked.

"I see you've finally decided to notice me," she whispered under her breath. Well, she was probably whispering to herself but she was loud enough for me to hear. Blinking, I glanced at her.

"Irileth?"

"Nothing, my lord," the Dunmer excused herself as she turned to walk out.

Oh for the love of-

"Irileth, stop," I let out.

The Dunmer halted.

"What in the Divines name is your problem?" I growled. A pair of fists tightened. Slowly, the Nightblade turned to me. Red eyes glowing with open rage and indignation.

"What's my problem? You dare ask me what's my problem?" Irileth hissed, her sultry voice barely hiding the anger that was bubbling inside her. Her cheeks were flushed and a scowl curled her lips. "You touch and play with a married woman, a woman who is the wife of your own brother! Balgruuf, do you have any idea of the scandal this would create if word got out? The shame this would bring to Whiterun and your House? The sheer and utter betrayal this would be to your own brother-in-arms?"

A lump formed in my throat and suddenly, my lips became drier. The more Irileth spoke, the more and more a pit formed in my stomach. Despite the roaring fire that was enough to keep the chill of Skyrim away, I felt cold.

"I thought you were a better man than this, Balgruuf! Where was the man that lead men into the fire?" Irileth rounded towards me. If her eyes could obliterate me, I would have been reduced to dust. "Hrongar fought with you, Hrongar bled with you, Hrongar would have died for you! And this is how you repay him!? By the Nine!"

By the time she was finished, she was now in front of me, huffing and puffing and grasping for air. Her face was flushed and the beads of sweat she dripped made her shine against the hearth-light.

"I..." I found myself lost for words. No matter what, Irileth was right. I had not entirely did the thing with Freydis but I had found myself lusting after her.

"I...almost did something stupid," I blurted. The nighblade crossed her arms and took a deep breath, her eyes closing as she did.

"You may be a big Nordic lummox but at least you aren't pig-headed. That redeems you, at least." Irileth muttered. She sighed as she opened her eyes.

"My lord, you asked what bothered me and it is that. I am loyal to you, and only you, and I will do everything I can for you. What I cannot do however is watch you commit a mistake." Irileth said softly. "My lord, please. Do not commit that mistake."

I took a breath.

"Your lord...appreciates your loyalty. I will not make that mistake. I swear in the name of Mara."

For a moment, the hearth-fire burned brighter for a few seconds. While it did, I felt a strange warmth over me. Then, it was gone.

Only the fire and Irileth remained.

"Thank you, my Lord." whispered Irileth.

Irileth's silence had stressed me out for days. To be honest, it did hurt having my closest confidant ignore me. Her reasons for doing so made sense but, it still did not excuse her behaviour.

"Irileth," I spoke firmly and on instinct, the nightblade straightened. "Next time, you will not hide what you will feel from me. I will not have my retainers and most especially you keep what needs to be said hidden. Tell me what you truly feel and I swear I will listen. Is that understood?"

"Yes...my lord." Irileth said slowly.

My instincts perked at her change in demeanor.

"Is there something you wish to say?"

Our eyes met.

"I can release what I truly feel?"

"Aye." I replied simply.

"Then I shan't hide anymore..." the nightblade whispered. She then rushed forward.

Our lips met.

Slowly, she stirred.

Opening her eyes, Irileth slowly became aware that she was tucked inside the most comfortable bed that she ever had the pleasure of sleeping in. She was warm, thick furs of the finest quality covering her. Then, her mind clicked as she registered light breathing and an incredibly warm and muscled mass at her side.

She turned and found herself staring into the sleeping form of her Lord, Balgruuf.

Her eyes widened before her mind slowly bombarded her memories of what had happened the night previously. Fully aware of what happened, the Nightblade deflated.

What had she done? What in Tamriel's name had she done? She had gone and slept with her Lord! The impudence of such an act!

"Mrm..." Balgruuf whispered sleepily under his breath. Irileth bit her lip, struggling to contain the smile that threatened to form on her lips. Who knew the big lug could be so...adorable? Just seeing his sleeping face right now made her mind think of dangerous thoughts, such as taking a finger to poke the Nord's cheeks.

As long as no one knew, her mind treacherously whispered, it was alright. Convinced of the merits of such an act, the Nightblade struck a finger out and poked Balgruuf's cheek.

"Mrmm..." he muttered.

At this, her willpower was drained. A satisfied smile broke out on her face.

Irileth did not know if this would happen again, or if Balgruuf would be interested in it, but at this moment, she allowed herself to be greedy. Now, Balgruuf was hers and hers alone.

"You're mine...my love," her mouth whispered out the deepest thought in her head.

And as if on cue, the big lug's eyes stirred and the brightest eyes that Irileth had ever seen were opened.

Irileth froze.

Balgruuf seemed to study her for a moment and Irileth felt, no she was naked under his gaze. For what seemed like an eternity, Balgruuf spoke.

"You're the most beautiful and amazing woman in the entire world," Balgruuf said softly, his voice deeper than normal.

Irileth flushed, her cheeks warmed, and her eyes widened at the sudden praise. And to make it worse, the big lug leaned forward and kissed her.

The Nightblade melted.

The kiss was not long, internally disappointing Irileth (Not that she would admit it out loud), but it was a kiss that Irileth enjoyed anyway. At the very least it wasn't an entirely chaste one, that was for sure.

"So..." Irileth dreaded as Balgruuf's tone turned into that dreaded teasing drivel that she both hated and loved. "You love me, huh?"

If her skin had the pale hue of Balgruuf's, the man would have seen how pink her cheeks were. And with him teasing her again, she'd resemble the most vibrant tomato on Nirn. Irileth considered denying what the man said but at this moment, something told her that she would have to be completely honest with him.

She had no clue if they'd have the chance again.

Mustering her courage, Irileth answered with dignity.

"I...am not opposed to you, my Lord."

"It's alright to admit you love me, you know," Balgruuf teasingly added. "Aw, don't tell me big bad Irileth is in fact a massive sweet-roll in the inside?"

Irked at his teasing, the Nighblade moved from her position and straddled the man. Under her, Balgruuf's smirked as he gazed at her toned form. Red eyes narrowed as Irileth leaned down on him.

"I love you, you massive Nordic lummox. Now, are you satisfied?" the Dunmer growled huskily.

She blinked as she felt something poke her from below.

"No..." Balgruuf rumbled, a deep rumbling sound that made something in her click. "Not yet."

The world melted in a flurry of kisses.

"How long?"

"Hm?"

Irileth lay snug at his side, letting the Nord stroke her hair as they shared the warmth of the furs over them. Irileth had been letting her head rest on his chest, the best pillow that she had ever had rested on. She wouldn't admit such a thing to Balgruuf however. It would only make the big lug twice as insufferable.

Thinking back to Balgruuf's question, Irileth sighed as she snuggled into her Lord.

"Since Cyrodiil," Irileth revealed.

"Ah," Balgruuf's voice expressed his surprise.

Irileth looked up at Balgruuf, her eyes narrowing. "What did you think was going to happen, Balgruuf? Teasing me, flustering me, being so...so..."

"Handsome, charming, and being so insanely attractive?" Balgruuf supplied teasingly.

"Insufferable, you ox-headed fool!" Irileth fumed. Balgruuf raised a bushy and blonde eyebrow.

"You love insufferable men?" he inquired.

"No. The man which I love is you," Irileth emphasized. It rankled the proud Dunmer to be so vulnerable and open. As a Nightblade, her lot was to be in the shadows and thus, necessitated a personality that did not exactly sponsor openness. But with Balgruuf, Irileth was willing to take the extra step and risk, to be open.

It was new, she had to admit, but with the man she was with now, Irileth felt that going somewhere new would be alright at least.

"Well, I'm not exactly saying no to you, Iri." Balgruuf revealed. Her heart soared, and her hopes blossomed. The next expression that Balgruuf wore threatened to stifle everything in her.

"You are aware that in my position, I cannot be public with you. I am a Lord, you are my Housecarl. While it isn't uncommon for Thanes and Housecarls to be together and even get married, I am not some minor Thane where we can get away with it. I am the son of a great Jarl and thus, I must make decisions that will benefit Whiterun and my House." Every single word that left his mouth was like a stab in her heart. Oh, what did she expect to happen? That this was some fairy tale where everything would go right for her? But where they were now, with the warmth that they shared, Irileth would not abandon it for anything.

"I am aware, my Lord." Irileth answered. Despite her feelings, she mustn't forget their positions in life.

"And knowing that, do you still want it? To be lovers?"

The Nightblade stared deep into Balgruuf. A part of her wanted to stop, the realities of the situation speaking to her rational side. Such a thing would be incredibly dangerous and risky. But then again, she was a Nightblade and a former member of the Morag Tong to boot.

Doing things secretly, and in the dark, was her specialty.

"I do," Irileth answered.

"Then let us be-"

A steady stream of knocking at the door assaulted their ears. Her eyes widened for a moment in panic before her training set in. Sparing Balgruuf one last look, the Dunmer leaned forward and delivered a passionate kiss before her mind searched up a spell. Magicka flowing through her, the Nightblade cast Inviibility and soon, she was gone from the world.

Fumbling on his bed, Balgruuf reached for a robe and hastily put it on. With his modesty in place, Balgruuf cleared his throat as he spoke, "Enter!" he commanded.

The door swung open and a guard strode in. Thankfully, the man was sensible enough to ignore the piles of clothing on the floor and the smell of their love-making in the air. The guard saluted first before speaking. "My lord, the Steward has returned from Solitude. The Jarl is going to announce something in a few minutes and thus, requests you to dress immediately and present yourself."

As the guard was speaking, Irileth had silently positioned herself and made herself as silent as possible. In the spell, she could move freely but not do much else or the spell would wear off. She glanced at Balgruuf and saw something unreadable in his eyes.

Irileth waited until Balgruuf had dressed himself and left with the guard. Sure that no one else was in the room, she released herself from the spell and collected her clothing. Dressing herself, the Nightblade made her way out of Balgruuf's room and made her way to the Great Hall.

There, she found the Hall fully packed with an audience fully enraptured as they gazed towards the dais where the Jarl and his family stood. Before the Jarl, the steward was reading something from a great scroll.

"...this be the words of our High King and Lord, Istlod! Hear ye, hear ye!" the Steward spoke loudly.

"The Rising of the Reachmen and their usurpation of the rightful authority of Jarl Hrolfdir of Markarth is in violation of our laws and customs. Not only have the Reachmen rose against their Jarl and their King, they have risen against the Empire and His Imperial Majesty. And thus, We do hereby declare the Reachmen outlaws, fugitives, and rebels. All righteous Nords have Our blessing to act as they see fit to restore order and reclaim the Reach." he finished with a breath.

For a moment, there was stillness and silence in the air.

Suddenly, Balgruuf stood from his seat and bellowed, "HERJA!"

"HERJA! HERJA! HERJA!" the crowd roared. The men stomped their feet, the women cheered. The guards crashed the butts of their spears against the floor or pounded their chestplates with mailed fists. In the Great Hall, under the shadow of the dragon Numinex, the Nords of Whiterun cheered as the cried out for Season Unending.

They cried out for Herja.

Later, Irileth learned that Herja meant one thing.

War

The scout saw them.

He spotted the birds first. An army on the march is a magnet for carrion birds to gather, their bellies growling in anticipation for a great slaughter to occur. Then, he heard the horns, the bugles, the marching of boots. Remembering his lessons that he had learned from his teachers and elders, the scout hugged the stone and kept his profile as low as possible, his face painted to help hide him amongst the overgrowth.

As he moved forward to gain a better look, he felt it. It was slow at first, a slight vibration that tickled him.

Then, it intensified slowly, the vibrations shaking him. The earth shook and trembled as a hungry and gnawing beast trampled over it. Armies no matter what banner were always beasts. They inhabit and destroy the land, taking anything and everything in its sight without a single lick of care for the devastation. The thought of the army despoiling his home infuriated the scout but he had to keep his anger in check, unless he would betray his position.

He raised his head slightly and there, he saw them. A vast and engulfing stain that violated his sacred home, slowly worming its way forwards. He could make out yellow horse banners fluttering in the breeze, the glinting of armor and spearheads held aloft by their wielders. He heard the snorting and whining of horses, the barking of what looked like ranked men towards their subordinates and the groaning of wooden wheels as oxen pulled wagons no doubt carrying supplies for the army to consume.

With this, the scout began to work.

"Twelve thousand men," a aged voiced said next to him. The scout's eyes widened and he felt his heart nearly stop, but then he recognized the voice.

"Honored Elder, please don't sneak up on me like that," the scout whimpered. The elder and more experienced Reachman snorted as he took up a position right next to the scout.

"You are good, Druadach, but you still have a lot more to learn," the elder said to him before turning his attention to the army below. "Now, show me how much you've learned and count the Nords."

Flustered, Druadach turned back to the army and counted. "I see...six-thousand horses?" he tried.

"Seven thousand. You almost had it, boy." the elder replied. Druadach flushed. "But you got it close so you get some points at least. Five thousand spearmen, and seven thousand horsemen."

At that, he preened slightly at the elder's praise. But then, he blanched as the numbers caught on to his head.

"So...so many! How are we even going to win against that number?" Druadach fumbled in a panic. The expression on his elder's face stilled him where he was.

"By clever tactics, and never giving up on our home, Druadach," the elder's eyes were old but they still burned with the fire of a man who had fought and bled for a dream, a dream of home. "We have done this before, fighting all the Empires that the world has thrown at us, yet we are still here. Despite every single invader, despite every single war, we'll be here until the end of all time, and our home shall be ours!"

Hearing the elders impassioned speech, the young scout felt his heart soar. Yes, he was speaking true. Despite everything, they were still here. They could still fight. They could do this.

"You are right, Honored Elder. I'm...I'm sorry, I was about to despair," the scout apologized, his cheeks red with shame.

The elder smiled as he laid a hand on Druadach's shoulders. "It's alright. I was in your position before. Now come, we must retu-"

The elder failed to finish his sentence as an arrow penetrated him through the throat, his blood glinting in the sun. For a moment, it seemed the old man felt the arrow, as his eyes widened like saucers. Slowly collapsing on the earth, the elder tried to scream something out, but the only thing Druadach heard were bloodied and throaty gurgling.

Before he could register anything else, he felt his throat suddenly itchy as well. It took him a moment to register an arrow had struck into him as well. His heart raced as adrenaline pumped through him. The adrenaline was enough to keep him a bit more conscious but it only delayed the inevitable. Fear took the scout as he tried to scream out, but the blood that was choking him blocked out his screams.

He collapsed on his back and before the deep darkness took him, he felt someone stand over him. The last thing he saw was that whoever it was, it was most probably a monster from the darkest hells their people believed it.

Red crimson hair, the color of flames.

And the eyes.

The eyes that seemed to glow with baleful, malevolent red.

Clanging echoed throughout the wide tent as Irileth dumped a stack of weapons on the floor. From the sides, expressions turned grim.

"Rise, and report," ordered Jarl Heorot. The aged Jarl was seated on a wooden throne that was similar to what was in Dragonsreach. Surrounding him were men important to the campaign, all clad in the armor of Whiterun.

Irileth stood tall and proud. The Nords did not do kneeling. Waiting for the order to be given, the Nightblade began. "My Jarl, we are being watched. This is the fourth scouting party that my men and I have encountered. The ones that we have managed to capture during skirmishing refused to give us any information. But, I have managed to gleam out that the Reachmen have no plans to engage us."

From behind him, his men glanced at one another. Heorot took the moment to recall what had happened so far.

Ever since the High King had authorized them to act, the Ram and Horse wasted no time and marched to reclaim the Reach for Skyrim and the Empire. The Ram, to strike out in the Northern border from Dragonsbridge, and the Horse striking from its border with the Reach.

For the first phase of its invasion, Fort Sungard was designated as their main supply dump and the fort, having been long abandoned was occupied and was fortified overnight. With their backs secure, he ordered the army to march.

Their march wasn't entirely unopposed. Scouting parties from the Reachmen shadowed them, and light skirmishing broke out in the lines where their numbers were lighter. There were casualties but nothing too heavy as to worry him. Heorot was a warrior, having fought over the course of his life in small and large battles but he had never fought Reachmen before, his adventures in his youth happening outside of Skyrim. From the conversations he had with Jarl Hrolfdir, the man insulted the Reachmen with every single insult under the sun, decrying them cowards who hid and scurried around like rats. He did not share the man's opinion however. Heorot may be a warrior, but he was a smart one.

It will take a great fool to not exploit the defensive advantage of the Reach's hills and mountains.
"It is the same as yesterday," said Unferth, his eyes set on the bone weapons lying on the tent floor. "Scouts shadow us, and small parties skirmish us."

"Cowards," spat Wiglaf.

"The Reachmen are not cowards, Wiglaf. If they were, they wouldn't have offered us a fight at each turn," came the voice of Balgruuf, his son. Heorot allowed himself to smile. Clad in his armor, his son cut a dashing figure. If anything else, Whiterun's future was secured.

"The tactics of our enemies aside," Heorot coughed. "We will have to implement a better system to protect our men. While our armies are strong, well-equipped, and well-trained, they are still men and even the strongest of warriors will fall to a single well-aimed arrow. And so, lay down your suggestions."

They debated until they ran out of ideas. As they did, there was arguing, shouting, and pleading but in the end, they were able to formulate a workable system to minimize casualties and maximize security. The meeting ended and he bid them to sleep, save for one.

"My son, join me," He called out to Balgruuf. His heir had nearly left the tent they were in before he had called him over. Balgruuf turned on his heels and approached him.

"What do you need of me, my Jarl?" Balgruuf asked. Heorot rolled his eyes as he stood from his throne and reached for a nearby table. Spotting two cups, he poured for himself and his son wine. "I'm speaking to you as your father, not as your Jarl. Come and join me for a drink, and let us talk."

"Tis late, and we are on campaign. Surely we can afford drinking after victory?" Balgruuf reasoned out.
"It is only one cup of wine, son. We aren't going to drink ourselves like a Sanguine degenerate," snorted Heorot as he took a cup and handed it over to his son. Balgruuf took it after a moment's hesitation.
"To victory," Heorot toasted as he raised his cup.

"To victory," Balgruuf mouthed as they both raised it to their lips and drank. They emptied their cups and Heorot licked his lips in appreciation. Although he like any good Nord preferred Mead, he could still appreciate good wine when presented with it.

But he was not here to discuss about the wine.

"Tell me, my son. What are your thoughts on our campaign and progress so far?" Heorot asked. Balgruuf paused a moment to think. Rubbing his now growing beard, braided in the Nordic tradition, he gave his answer.

"For our campaign, it will be a boon for Whiterun that is for sure. I can see nothing but benefits coming from having Markarth in our pocket. And with the High King's blessing, we need not fear censure or accusations of acting illegally," Balgruuf answered. Heorot nodded, remembering one of the many discussions they had before regarding the rewards that will come. It was agreed that any further talks of rewards would occur upon the reconquest of Markarth but they did agree that Markarth would be footing the bill for the campaign.

"And as for our progress?" Heorot asked.

"Acceptable, I suppose. We should move faster however. I fear the Reachmen might try to ambush us in the passes," Balgruuf spoke openly, his voice not hiding the paranoia he felt. Heorot understood his son's paranoia but unlike his first-born, Heorot wasn't going to let his fear rule him. As a force consisting heavily of cavalry, they wouldn't thrive in the mountains. The horse was the king of the plains, not the highlands. Furthermore, common military strategy all but urged commanders to pass over mountains quickly. They were moving as fast as they could but there was only so much ground they could cover.

Silence befell them as Balgruuf sighed as he set down his cup on the table and glanced at the banner of Whiterun.

"After going through a war, I never really thought I'd find myself fighting another soon," Balgruuf sighed, his face looking far-older than what he actually was. Heorot set his cup aside and approached his boy. Laying a hand on his shoulder, the elderly man gave his son a smile. "We never get to chose the times we live, son. The times choose for us. What we can do however, is to choose how to react. We can either let ourselves be swept by the storm, or fight it. So, what will it be?"

Balgruuf looked up, and met his father eye to eye. Even if he had been battle-scarred, and seen things that turned him into a man, Heorot would always see his first-born as the same young lad that got caught sneaking his fingers on the sweet-roll plate.

"I fight," Balgruuf declared. Heorot laughed as he brought Balgruuf into his arms, wrapping his boy in a hug.

"That's my boy!" Heorot bellowed proudly.

Balgruuf protested, but his protests died later as he returned the embrace. Heorot later pulled back and poured for them another cup of wine.

"Now, you promised you were going to tell me some of your war-stories. Come and entertain your old man, son."

Balgruuf spoke.

They conversed until the sun rose.

The column marched forward, and the army marched forward. There was to be no stopping anymore. If they were to stop, it was only during at night, and on defensible areas. If they had to eat, they had to do it on the march.

They kept on marching until suddenly, the entire line halted.

Jarl Heorot, his head pounding from wine drunk the night previously, saw a rider come down from the front.
"What's the blasted hold up?" groaned the Jarl. The rider saluted them.

"There are some debris ahead, my Jarl. We are already working on getting them cleared for us to pass," the rider relayed.

It was at that moment, Heorot noticed that the world was eerily silent. The sounds of faraway deer, and even the birds that had trailed them were gone.

His inner instincts screamed at him to run, and run as fast as he could.

"FATHER!" He heard Balgruuf scream.

He turned, but only found that the world was getting darker. Was there a cloud over head?

He looked up, and saw a dark shape rapidly going closer and closer to him.

A/N: After this, I will be compressing the entire Markarth arc in a single or two chapters since it was long af in the original site. This chapter was supposed to have smut in it but I'd rather not put it anywhere outside of QQ

A thousand thanks to all who have been enjoying this story!

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