-[| Show No Quarter |]-
Author's Note: Aaaaaaand, I'm back.
I didn't intend for this wait to happen, but I got floored by a kidney infection. I don't expect any future upheavals, but to make up for my random bout of experiences, here is a chapter to make up for it.
I also find it interesting to note that a few people have difficulty perceiving Barnabas having a gentle, soft tone of voice. I guess it doesn't match - he's a big bad Imperial Legionnaire, but for those who are interested; I write Barnabas' dialogue as if Rick Pasqualone was voice acting for him. I guess we can call this Interesting Fact 3.
"When you have warfare, things happen; people suffer; the noncombatants as well as the combatants."
- Emmeline Pankhurst
-[| SnQ |]-
| Part I : Legate of the Second Cohort |
| Chapter III : Deadly Strain of Professionalism |
"Eggs and beef today, who'da thunk it?" Harley says without malice as he walks towards Quintillus, a steaming mess-tin clutched in one hand and, like always, the lower limb of his bow in the other. The Legate himself is leant up against the parade ground wall, he too is clasping something steaming - but he's got hot tea, rather then food and he brings the dinted metal mug upwards, sipping it carefully, eyeing the General's son with a subtly bemused expression as he does so.
"Yeah?" he replies, half laughing and Harley's lip curls upwards.
"Oh aye."
Leaning beside the Legate, General Junior shifts so he can use his fork properly. Around them, it's similar picture - it's breakfast time for the First Cohort and where there is food, there will always be Legionnaires. The majority of them are lined up and waiting, while those who got in first are dotted around, either sat in small groups huddled around fires, or stood about for lack of anywhere else to go. Castle Dour wasn't built for this many soldiers at one time - the barracks are probably full already, if the number of men outside is any indication. As soon as the food runs out though, the majority of them will be gone. As always. It's this scene they like to watch, with neither man saying anything. For Quintillus, this is expected - for Harley, it's typical. When it comes to mealtimes, the General's son is all business, shovelling food into his mouth with a sense of rugged determination.
But the Legate isn't here to make a social call, so he half turns towards the archer, folding his arms.
"What condition is your Contubernium in?" he asks, unintentionally his tone turns out to be rather pointed but Harley doesn't seem to care.
Instead, the younger man just pauses, about to shove a fork-full of eggs into his mouth as he considers this question carefully. He seems to have a lot on his mind. "Well..." the archer grunts in his southern Cyrodilic accent, chewing idly as he looks in the vague direction of Optimi Viri Sagittarii's barracks. "We've got one man in the healer's, being treated for severe hypothermia - an' it's eight types a wonderful he 'aint dead, lemme' tell you. But, aside from him, all but the rest of the tent group is pretty much as good an' dandy as you'd expect." shrugging at this, he jerks his fork towards a certain crowd of Legionnaires. "Functional, but morale gone at a lowest point since the that bloody massacre back at Karthwasten."
The Legate frowns "What happened?"
"Remember Fort Amol? Half buried, had a courtyard an' two interior zones?" when the Legate nods hesitantly, Harley scowls at what remains of his breakfast, stabbing it as he does so. "Stormcloaks gone and took the Century stationed there by surprise a few weeks back, cut down thirty or so men before we retreated. So naturally, some moron decides to get us lot get called in, supposes we go picking off as many as we can, you know, parliamentary work. Turns out though, taking pot-shots at a buncha' heavily fortified rebels, a pre-tty bad idea in hindsight that is."
Quintillus hums under his breath. "How many men?"
"Three." the General's son shrugs, chewing forcibly. It might not seem like much, but a standard Contubernium is only eight men strong, which includes it's commanding officer. With three dead and another man in no condition to fight, Harley's unit is down to half strength. That's a situation nobody wants to be in. Especially out here. The fact that said unit happens to be a highly specialised group of marksmen only adds salt to the wounds.
The Legate glances at the younger man, before half sighing and draining the last of his cup. Tea really doesn't taste as good cold.
"So, how do you feel about the Reach?"
"It don't matter what we feel, Sir." Harley grumbles, his fork scratches against the side of his mess tin as he tries to scrape the last bits out. "How're gonna' go take out a full camp with no century?" he then murmurs.
Quintillus half smiles. "I'm not."
The archer snorts in the way of reply. Satisfied that he's got all he can out of his meal, he tosses the fork inside the tin, before wrapping it inside his cloak and shoving it under one arm.
"I've got command over Rikke's First Century." Quintillus explains, something that's quite necessary - Harley's unit; the Optimi Viri Sagittarii, a specialised tent group of marksmen working within the First Cohort's standard Sagittarii, will be under his command for the planned attack. It's not the first time, nor will it probably be the last. When it comes to the Fourth Legion's finest archers, having temporary commanders for operations that require a certain... professionalism, is quite common. This will be the fifth time that the Legate has commanded them in the past year, actually.
Understandably, it's this combination of things that makes the General very nervous.
"Uh oh, does Rikke know you're gone playing about with us?" Harley asks, eyebrow raised with that same, odd, half amused half exasperated look on his face. He looks even more like his father when he pulls that expression, if that is even possible. The Legate nods and with that confirmation, General Junior shrugs. "So, when we be moving out?"
"I've given the order - I want everyone ready by twelve hundred."
"Fun times." Harley deadpans, peeling himself from the wall with a respectful parting nod. "Me and the men will be ready and waiting for further orders then, Legate."
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
Moonlight filters weakly through the thin canopy of leaves above his head, leaving the rugged landscape around them thick in shadow as they move forwards. The rocky ground beneath them suddenly drops but he does not slow his pace, instead he drops off the edge, a bone white hand snapping upwards to grab the very edge of the cliffside, leaving him dangling a good twenty something feet upwards. The other three men stay above, looking over the edge as Decanus Harley Tullius scans the land below him. His boots slamming into the rock formation in order to steady himself, Harley jerks his head as he finds what he is looking for. Lowing himself further, he spins himself around so he is facing the cliff, before shimming towards the left. The muscles in his shoulders ache, the echoes of yesterday's wounds resurfacing and with a strangled gasp, he just manages to get far enough before he inevitably gives up, dropping.
Dust and chips of stone bounce upwards when he impacts with the shelf below, striking a rich contrast against the midnight black of the skyline. Slowly but surely, he is joined by the other three members of the Optimi Viri Sagittarii, all in the dark leathers of their uniform with their faces covered. The archer checks over his shoulder and they move across the stretch of rock that juts out from the rest of the surrounding mountainside, double bent, their bows strapped to their backs as they do so.
"Alerio, Domalen - you two stay here now and maintain this position. Come in behind the second group, give support. We'll meet up with you afterwards." Domalen, the only Redguard of the group, lanky and defined, nods at his officer's order and with that, Harley looks across the remainder of the shelf. Slowly, he and the remaining marksman, a short Breton fellow by the name Silvestre make their way across. It's treacherous at points and even slower going, but this route in particular takes them towards the other side of the encampment below - right where they are needed to be. Breath steaming through the wrap around his face as he peers down below, Harley wrenches his head upwards when something snaps beside him. Further along the shelf, the mountainside lowers into something of an opening and a Stormcloak scout moves along it ."Alone?" Harley asks quietly, prompting Silvestre the look upwards, before pushing himself up onto a higher section of mountainside.
Climbing further upwards and moving along, the Breton gives out a soft sigh. "No, two of them."
"You take right."
"On it."
Swiftly, the General's son moves behind the Stormcloak positioned along the shelf, keeping in the rebel's blindspot as he ducks near the man's left hand side. He glances up quickly enough to see Silvestre pulling back his bowstring and with that, suddenly explodes into action, jabbing the Stormcloak before him hard in the shoulder causing the man to spin around violently, Harley doesn't hesitate. Sidestepping away from the man's automatic flail, he slams his fist into the base of the rebels' throat, paralysing the vocal cords and stopping him from screaming. This is then followed by another punch to the liver, the Stormcloaks' thin tunic not doing much to stop the sheer force of Harley's uppercut and with this, the General's son kicks the man's left leg out, bringing his booted foot against the patella. Once he's on the floor, Harley coldcocks him suddenly. No noise, no resistance, no nonsense - the man's out completely and to ensure that he won't be getting up again, Harley draws his shortsword silently with a displeased frown.
Just when he beings to stand upright, there is a thunk from further towards his right and a turn of the head proves his suspicions; both of them are down.
Silvestre climbs down to the small incline towards the Stormcloak he had shot, pulling the arrow out with a small squelch. It proves unusable, so the archer just tosses it away with an underarm throw and a soft huff. "Do you think it'll be a rotational guard?" he asks, moving to stand beside Harley as the Imperial peers down at the encampment below.
"Legate said there gonna' be a good timeframe, we should have long enough - but keep watch, you hear?"
"Got it, boss."
Taking in everything laid out before him from a different angle, Harley crouches down upon his new perch, eyes taking in the marshy trails and with practiced efficiency, registering as many details as he could. Rubbing his fists, he stifles a wince by busying himself, reaching back for the composite bow slung over his shoulder. The wood is worn, well used and he shifts his hand to get a comfortable grip it rattles the shortsword at his hip and Harley hisses in quiet irritation as he draws a thin red arrow from the quiver by his waist.
Nocking it, he stilled.
The wait was on.
Slowly, over the horizon towards the south, grey clouds rolled towards them. It wasn't a cold day - far from it, the recent downpour had brought along an uncomfortable humidity. The only relief comes in the form of a slow, fat breeze and Harley finds himself rubbing against his shoulder to try and remove the wrap pressed against his mouth without having to redraw his bow. Somewhere high above, a brown-winged falcon screeches in its dive earthward, the lethal call reverberating through the rocky cliffs.
It's in this direction that the Stormcloak encampment was positioned. A superior position; nestled against the mountainside with provides a natural barrier against the cold blowing westerly winds, as well as something to keep it hidden from the nearby roads. From his position high up, Harley could make out a good two thirds of the camp itself, with the rest of it hidden behind a cluster of small trees. Flicking his eyes towards what is considered the main 'entrance' of the encampment, two makeshift wooden watchtowers are lit up by lanterns, casting the general area in a dull, flickering yellow glow. This light illuminates six men, all unshaven and haggard beneath grimy steel plate, worn leather armour and Stormcloak blues. Slumped just outside was a dozen or so warhorses, most of then resting near a large hide-top wagon.
Judging by the noise coming from the centre of the encampment, there was a lot more then the Legate first predicted - but, Harley knows how this works. He's listened the Legate and the rest of the uppers' enough times to harbour a bit of understanding, more then enough for this twenty years. As much as he hates the idea of 'orchestrating war', as his father tends to put it, he does understand. The only reason why there are more Stormcloaks here now is because the Legate has pulled his Centuries away. There is simply nothing for the Rebels to fight at the moment.
Harley grimaces when he realises that this will probably make their job easier in the long run.
Further behind him, Silvestre keeps an eye out, moving from two positions slowly, carefully. Time drags on slowly and the other archer is making his fourth trip across when Harley tilts his head, muttering back. "Where are they?"
"Still a fair distance off, almost a league away, but they're running. How's it looking?"
"There's plenty of 'em right up against the back of that sycamore, but the rest're all sleepin'." Harley shifts his shoulders as he replies. It's like this for another hour, staying completely motionless expect for the snap of his gaze as he searches the marshes below. He'd hear the first group of Legionnaires, that he defiantly knows, but Harley has lived through enough, he doesn't let his guard down in an unfamiliar place. It paid well to be wary of the world and hurt little to be overly cautious. The wind picked up briefly, catching up blades of grass, leaves and loose dirt off the cliffs above so that it fell in thin curtains twirling through the air.
The whining breeze nearly masked the first dull thuds of boots against muddied ground, but it wasn't enough. Harley's eyes snapped to the north end of the clearing below.
Silvestre must have noticed too, because he moves over towards Harley's far right, taking up position.
Shifting slowly, the General's son adjusts his position inch by inch until his bow was aimed squarely towards the Stormcloaks' encampment, then, bringing it along a particular ridge.
If what the Legate said proved true...
Carefully drawing his bow to it's full extent the Optimi Viri Sagittarius rests the taught bowstring against his left cheek, shifting his jaw so he was biting down against his inner cheek, lost in concentration. Sighting down the arrow as the noises of approaching Legionnaires grow more distinct, he exhales slowly, gaze fixed on the ridge. By the time one of the first Stormcloak scouts down below came into view, small beads of sweat started to gather on his brow. Gods. If he messed this up.
Harley doesn't release straight away. Instead he waited, following that particular rebel with the head of his readied arrow, watching the man gently amble across the ground. He's carrying a warhorn over one shoulder, despite the lack of light, Harley can see the glint of a reflection - it can't be a weapon either, because the Stormcloak clearly has a sword at his hip. Some part of him urged him on rapidly, telling him to take the shot before something goes wrong, but the archer forced himself to be patient, counting quickly. He double, triple-checked the numbers below, the distance set between the advancing Legionnaires and the encampment, the leading men, the guards sat at the entrance.
The Stormcloak is moving slower now, craning his neck and hugging a series of flimsy looking fabrics over himself. One hand is resting on the horn and just a Harley takes a breath, holding it for the briefest fraction of a moment, narrowing his eyes, the Stormcloak jerks upwards, startled.
He exhales as he releases the bowstring.
Without so much as checking to see if the arrow hit it's target, because he's not going to lie - it will, Harley slips another arrow free from his quiver. The one he just fired cuts downwards through the warm air, catching the scot squarely in the narrow space between his neck and left shoulder-blade. It tore through his lungs and windpipe, ripping through muscle and finally, the tip lodges itself in the thick arteries just above the man's heart. He died after a couple of agonised seconds, staggering backwards without a sound, just as intended. Eventually the man drops lifeless before the running Legionnaires, the body slumping into the dark marshy terrain. Unnoticed by his fellow rebels.
Silvestre muttered something, his gaze locked on the Stormcloaks standing guard, just in case. Their posture suggested that they weren't aware of anything amiss and there was no panic set in amongst them. His attention diverted, Harley looks back towards the rest of the men steaming forwards. So far, everything was going to plan. He readies his bow for a second time and shifts to stand upright, silently cursing the bruised skin beneath his armour and pulling his bowstring back a little.
And with that, he steps over the edge of the cliff.
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
The smell of damp earth wafts around them as they sprint, the air is thick with humid rainstorm and the breeze is gentle. It pushes past his helmet and through each individual strand of hair, not quite cooling but not entirely uncomfortable either, something noteworthy at any rate. The men and woman beside him quicken up the pace. There are seventy of them in total. The other fifty or so Legionnaires are dotted around in their individual Contuberniums, and somewhere, the Legate is among them them. Ready and waiting.
Hadvar doesn't completely understand why he, they, of all Centuries, are here. After all, Legate Rikke was in command of the First Cohort - not the Cyrodiilic Legate, not Quintillus. Despite the uncomfortable change in leadership though, Hadvar can't complain, because he's leading them. Taking point for the seventy strong group against a full troop of Stormcloaks is a major honour. Talos... He's not even an officer yet.
Just past the sharp cliff face, the advancing Legionnaires could see the faint glow of camp-fires and lanterns. The darkness around them is debilitating and you can't often tell what you are standing in, but they push forwards at a steady pace regardless - if they tire themselves, they will be unable to fight. One of the men slips with a startled grunt and he's pulled up violently by one of the others close to instantly as to not break formation. Hadvar glances back and once the man is up again and as he turns his head, he sees the silhouette of a Stormcloak. He's close to shouting out, especially when the rebel goes to blow into his war horn, but, rather unexpectedly, he suddenly staggers backwards and falls down a few hundred meters before them. Lifeless. The shaft of a red feathered arrow lodged in his throat.
"Archers." One of the supervising officers beside Hadvar pants. "They call him 'the Tactician' for a reason."
"For posting a few archers?" Hadvar replies, his eyebrow is cocked upwards, but he doubts the officer can see in such darkness.
"The Optimi Viri Sagittarii aren't just archers, boy." The officer snickers. "Those folks can pin the wings of a horsefly against a target over a seventy metre radius, likely blindfolded. Quintillus had them cleared in preparation - practically planned it all out around them, he knew there would be weak defences here. Routine patrol however, we best keep up the pace. There's no telling if the Optimi will be watching our backs for much longer."
"And you know all of this, how?" Hadvar asks and the Officer just laughs, offering his large green hand out to shake, very nearly crushing the Nord's hand when he takes it.
"Decanus Durgash; honorary not-quite-babysitter of his mighty Legate-ness, at your service."
Hadvar gives a deep throated pant, pushing his legs further to move on point. The seventy Legionnaires who are to initiate the main attack ford a narrow stream and it's by this point that point the Stormcloaks are well aware that they have company. The men manning the watchtowers suddenly start to shout out, barking alerts to their fellow rebels. Most of them are stumbling out of their tents and some of them are still unarmoured. By the time the first lines of Legionnaires are upon them seven are dead instantly. Flashes of cold steel, and a few more are taken down before the Stormcloaks get their bearings together. Occasionally, Stormcloaks just drop dead suddenly, so rapidly that Hadvar very nearly hesitates. The Decanus was right, those archers are affective. The rebels defend with thick handled axes and war hammers the size of small children. One Legionnaire is to slow, and his head is reduced to mere bloody chunks. At the sight of this, Hadvar moves behind a series of tents, his shield pulled up close and his sword hand clenched tight.
Further along the row of tents, he turns to find himself face to face with a large Stormcloak carrying a broadsword. Hadvar can't see that well in the glowing doom, but the shine of the broadsword and the sheer force that is given off it when it misses his head by mere inches is enough of a reference. Brining his sword spiralling upwards, the Nordic Auxiliary half ducks, half sprawls towards the left when the Stormcloaks follows up with a large swooping motion. It makes his the muscles in his arms cry out, but he manages to counter it with a sudden, wild slash, the first few cutting through the chainmail with relative ease - but then the blade is caught by the broadsword's cross-guard, bringing motion to a relative halt. Rather then getting into a battle of sheer brawn, Hadvar just adjusts his posture and sends out a hefty kick, dislodging the two.
The Stormcloak staggers backwards and Hadvar sees his chance, running forwards and sending his blade down upon the rebel, with that he sends another slash, then another, then another.
He doesn't check to see if the Stormcloak is dead, there are another three waiting for him when he turns back around.
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
When he hears the shouting, the Second Cohort's Legate slowly rises his head, bringing one arm upwards.
A pause. Six tense seconds and with a sudden, harsh movement, he signals for them to move forwards.
The Stormcloak camp they have long since targeted, filled with individuals who range from farmers to former mercenaries, was one of the more tediously placed encampments that the Legate had been trying to remove for months. It was causing problems for the troops stationed near Markarth and was making trade in the general region something of a impossibility, located close to the road as it was. From what he can see, it's long since grown, something that hasn't come up in his reports, interestingly enough.
The Legate is going to be having a long hard look at the Legion's list of contacts after this. He doesn't believe in using spies or dirty espionage work, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Someone, somewhere, is feeding him lies and Quintillus doesn't like to be misinformed.
Grimacing Quintillus looks back over towards the camp again, it's mainly circular in shape, despite the cut out where a bunch of trees provide a wall of sorts, and it was located in one of the few flat slopes of land the Reach had to offer. Like most Stormcloak camps, they do not submit to order, so tents are dotted around at random intervals, usually where there is room and it makes it all that treacherous. Despite this level of unfamiliarity however, Quintillus has good faith in the young Auxiliary Hadvar, he wasn't a leader - more of a middle man, but he was reliable. He know how to follow orders.
He's certain he'll get a grilling and a half from Rikke after this, letting an Auxiliary take command of close to a full post-first Century... but to pull this off ambush of without a hitch - the Legate needs a distraction.
That, and he can't say he wouldn't mind. After all, Rikke of all peo-
No.
Mentally slapping himself and pointedly ignoring the way his face flushes an interesting shade of pink, Quintillus replaces all other concepts with the reminder that he has seventy screaming Legionnaires throwing themselves against a heavily fortified encampment.
Hiding amongst the plant matter, dead trees and knee high cotton grass, the fifty or so remaining Legionnaires - passively nicknamed 'Surprise Party' by the Legate in good faith - slowly begin to lurch forwards. The scene before them is difficult to distinguish, the dark foggy conditions hindering their vision and despite having one of the superior positions in order to keep an eye on things, Quintillus has to pretty much stay on all fours, kneeling forwards in order to see properly. The sight of the encampment is partly blocked on the far right by a spiky feeling bush and what exposed part of his face gets relentlessly prickled every time he moves to get a better view. When it looks like the majority of the Stormcloaks have advanced to one side, the Legate makes a dull noise of idle satisfaction and he leans backwards. Moving upwards so he's on his knees, the Legate turns somewhat to get a rough estimation of how many men are within shouting distance and then nods curtly at the four Praetorians at his side.
"Antrorsus!" He half shouts, half coughs, because barking with his tenor is fairly difficult on the best days, never mind when his mouth his dry, though they seem to hear him anyway. The landscape around them seems to shuffles upwards in one smooth motion and around, there comes the shouts of the other senior officers - passing commands. As soon as the majority of them are on their feet, they are running downwards, all as one big block of Legionnaires. Chances are that any men who haven't been trained before the Great War won't know what the command actually means, but it's pretty self-explanatory.
It's pretty hard to not get the meaning, when everyone starts bolting down the decline in land screaming choruses of 'For the Empire' in varying degrees of unnecessary volume.
There is dirt on his face, his wounds ache and half of his uniform is caked in mud, but Barnabas feels alive with a certain fire that doesn't suggest stability - but feels right, at the same time. It's uncomfortable to note this, but Quintillus avoids that area of thought by concentrating on the task set before him; steaming forwards in unison with the men, his boots pressing against mangled mud as he runs. Under several inches of solid Imperial plate, his heart is thundering violently despite being forcibly calm outwardly. One tends to become accustomed to the fight after awhile, like an animal, like a beast, in some respects. It doesn't tend to phase him. Not anymore.
Those men who had managed to keep a few paces before him scale over the outer makeshift defences and one of the shorter Legionnaires can't make it high enough, slashing his leg open on the sharp points. The lad attempts to go on with it anyway, but he's off balance when he lands and his left foot sinks about three feet into the mud below him, which makes him topple over straight into Quintillus' first Praetorian. Hard. The inevitable result is the usurping of the other man's own momentum, which makes him turn at the waist and send one arm upwards, ultimately, it results in an unexpected armoured wrist slamming into Quintillus' face.
Thankfully, the Legate has three other men just waiting to act when he needs them, otherwise he highly suspects that his ass would likely object to breaking his fall. One Praetorian behind him presses his shield against the Legate's lower back, while the Praetorian at his front right just grabs. It's not that Quintillus' is incapable of getting up when wearing his armour - he is, he has to be - it's just far more difficult in the middle of a bloodbath, with dozens upon dozens of Legionnaires running over you, while you're weighed down in several pounds of mud to boot. Affective as he may be, he won't be able to get up in that scenario. Usually, this is something to call out on, but the Legate doesn't bother, in fact, he's pretty much forgotten about it when he's in the encampment properly. Panting and wiping the stinging mix of sweat, mud and Eight knows what from his eyes, the Legate grimaces. This is getting a lot harder. This was easier a few years ago, but, if there is anything he has come to learn, it's that fatigue is merely something to adapt too.
If he hesitates, he may die. If he misses, he may die. If he forgets, he may die. It's the memorized thrum of sheer battlefield chaos that sweetens any war.
The men who are armed with spears begin to throw them into the tents at odd angles, with the very last waves staying back with bows - a few of them wilding crossbows, to give supporting cover. Splitting his group of Legionnaires into two, Quintillus sends one group towards the relative north and the other, towards the east. He and his Praetorians take a different route due east, the Legate running straight on before taking a harsh left turn. He almost immediately winds up intercepting a collection of around six of them at a dead end made from as of yet intact tents. The first one is within arms reach as soon as he turns the corner and with a surprised snarl, the Legate smashes him in the face with the pommel of his sword, smashing the man's nose with the sheer force of his blow. A lot of his upper face is splattered and he has spin rapidly out the way, wrenching his eyes shut as the warm liquid runs into them. He knows from past experience that it stings, and even when he wipes his face with a gloved hand, his eyes are beginning to water. He doesn't spit however, even if it isn't his own blood. Hardly hygienic, but now is simply not the time.
The rebel he had hit seemed to realise that Quintillus is no standard Legionnaire, which is proven when his shoddy little axe practically falls apart when he tries to slam it into the Legate's chestplate. Realising his error, the Stormcloak staggers backwards with both his hands in the air, but the Legate can't be too sure if it's actually a surrender - he's still got his axe in his hand.
The Legate drives the blade into his throat, ending it quickly so he can concentrate on the others. His four Praetorians form up around him, each taking on a rebel of their choosing, leaving Barnabas with the remaining one.
She's not big, but damn, is she fast - armed with two small axes too. Her hits a quick succession of solid beats and Quintillus has to keep his shield upwards and his body tense to absorb the blows. Dislodged pieces of shield get kicked up with every frenzied hit and the most the Legate can do is merely duck his head out now and again to keep an eye on her moves, her posture, his mind powering onward with splendid thought.
It's easier then it looks for him. Fighting.
Fighting with a sword, knife or axe is nothing more then a blend of calculations, training, health and simple raw skill. To the Legate, his brain quick firing commands as if it was simple human nature, the world is slower. He can, quite literally - see everything. To a simpleton, a hand-twitch may go unnoticed, but to the Legate even the smallest of spasms means something, either be it potential injury or an increase in adrenaline. It's these signs he's come to observe, to notice and such little signs burn around him like liquid fire.
So even through the furious beating against his shield, he realises, gaze fixing on her anew.
Notable tense in right hand, naturally left handed - trained to use both, apply attack with high pivoted attack towards the right. The Stormcloak dodges, spinning towards the left and he applies a small tap towards her right shoulder - creates anger on a personal level, thus creates opportunities. Inhaling three times normal limit - exhaustion is taking it's toll, anger increases intake. Gaze is tipped to the right, apply second attack further towards the left. He moves his shield up to catch the flailing motion, sending his blade below against her left hand side. The steel connects with the fabric of her armour, cutting shallowly. Result; flash wound, next attack needs more force. He pushes forwards, his shield tucked against his body. When he gets close enough, he pushes his arm out in force, the sudden barge leaves her sprawling and him momentarily disorientated - apply overhead attack against the exposed line of neck - he does so with brute force when he gets his footing and there comes a animalistic scream as it cuts deep into muscle and bone. He wrenches his sword out, pivoting in one foot to check his six.
In summery he expects a deep muscular wound, damage to the spine, major blood loss, jugular damage - Instant death, of which the probability is high.
He nods abruptly, The rest of them are still fighting.
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
Hadvar has heard tales of the discipline of the Legion, of the strict need for order, for regimentation. It's one of the main contrasts between them and the Stormcloaks - one is far more martial in appearance, where the other is more of an uncontrollable, but nevertheless unstoppable wave of raw hate and anger. When he first enlisted, he had assumed that such a thing rang true; the battles he had seen where perfectly orchestrated, until now the only botch up had been Helgen.
The ambush wasn't botched, Hadvar only had to see the lines upon lines of the fifty remaining Legionnaires to see that, but this fight was not typical of the Legion. This was dirty tactics, cold bloody revenge at it's peak. An entire First Cohort Century, over one hundred men for an enemy which numbers little over forty.
General Tullius needs the camp wiped out yes, but this much bloodshed is simply overkill. Hadvar doesn't know what happened to Legate Quintillus' last operation, but he clearly wants to be thoroughly on top this time around.
A deadly strain of professionalism, yes - perhaps that's what it is.
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
He's not sure where it comes from, but the impact sends him spinning into a low lying ditch of sorts. One that runs around the edge of the camp. It leaves Harley gasping for a few moments, searching for something - he's not quite sure, drifting through a odd form of rapid, dull confusion. In order to reorder his thoughts, the archer just rolls onto his front and presses his forehead against the soft ground below him. A few seconds. Nine eventually and the dullness is replaced, everything seems clearer, so he cautiously glides out over the edge and snakes his way forwards, there are men running by, a lot of them Stormcloaks and Harley creeps along on all fours a bit father, keeping track of his bearings and looking around in an attempt to observe the distribution of soldiers so as to be able to find his way back.
His best bet is to move along the trench, so this is what he does. He's still afraid, very much so, but unlike the countless other times that he's lost his nerve, this seems far more intelligent in the larger scheme of things. Something of a bizarre heightened caution. A few times he finds himself pausing, freezing up stock still and completely motionless, looking for nothing.
The archer has to get out, he knows this, falteringly he continues to work his way along, eventually dropping to his scramble along on his knees when the cover begins to break up. At one point, he looks up to wonder if the sky is lighter against the nearby horizon, but it turns out to be his imagination and he shakes his head. Harley grits his teeth at this, because it's something he shouldn't be thinking about - it's not important. Right now, right here, to crawl in this direction is a chance matter of life or potential death. Swords clash nearby, a series of loud shouts - Nordic accents, armour rattles. The General's son swears and lowers himself further into the trench, which from this angle, turns out to be some form of dried up moat. There is nothing else to do at this point aside from laying low and keeping out the way. He can't look up to check, but it sounds like an interception. Lying huddled almost, Harley brings his legs up towards his chest, swearing anew.
On instinct, he sends his hand back to grab for his bow - but his hands just grasp at air and he deflates. He's lost his bow. Another check shows that his quiver is empty too. He probably lost them when he fell.
When the attacking soldiers get close enough for him to distinguish individual footsteps, Harley falls against the ground and presses his face as deep into the grass and earth as he can without suffocating himself. He doesn't know who is who up there, so he'll pretend to be dead for now. Pressing his helmet against the nape of his neck, the archer keeps his mouth just clear so that he can breathe fresh air. He he stays motionless and somewhere above him, something clanks, stamps and stumbles.
His nerves become taut and frozen and he just waits.
Nothing. They had passed, but were he should be calmed, Harley is suddenly hit with a shattering, unnerving thought. What if someone was to jump in here with him? If it's a Legionnaire, that's all well and good perhaps, but what if it's a Stormcloak? Swiftly, Harley pats himself down and relaxes the tiniest bit when his hand wraps around his dagger, drawing it, he grips it hard and buries himself into the grass again. If anyone jumps in here, Harley will go for him - this, he decides pretty suddenly. It hammers into his forehead in urgent freight; stab him clean through the throat at once, so he can't call out - that is the only way. He'll just be as freighted of Harley as Harley is him. When terror strikes they'l fall onto one another, but Harley will get there first.
This thought process makes him sick. It's all training - get in there first with your little wooden knife - but it isn't, not out here - nothing can compare out here. He's going to stab a man. Or a woman. Someone. They're not going to just spring back up again with the understanding that they're 'dead', they'll lie there in their own blood, a life-force being distinguished. They will die. Properly.
But what else can he do?
That thought makes him savage with fury for reasons he can't quite understand. Perhaps that's it. He doesn't know why he's like this. It's something you can't just ask. He curses and grinds his teeth in the mud; he's raving in frenzy, yet he's completely motionless. In the all and he can really do is just curse and prey.
If his mother was alive, she'd beat his backside for sure.
Harley swears into the mud again.
The sound if an Imperial accent bursts in his ears. If the Legionnaires are on top, if they advance through, he will be saved. He presses his head against the earth again and just listens to the muffled thunder of footsteps, then he rises again to listen to the voices, to the sounds of weapons clashing. He knows for a fact that a lot of the barricades around here are strong and almost undamaged - some of them are so solid, they've survived being blasted by Battlemages time and time again. From the sound of it, the Legionnaires aren't breaking through - they'll have to move back or attack from a different direction.
Sinking back down again, Harley huddles up to the point were he is strained to the uttermost. The banging continues, as does the clanging - but it becomes less audible as time passes. A single cry sounds louder amongst them all. Then a loud series of clattering. They've broken through it seems. How, he doesn't know, but already everything seems to have become somewhat lighter. Then steps begin to hasten over him, towards the far right and everything pulls into a hesitant pause. His eyes are wide, teeth clenched. They're close. Too close.
He's just above to shift when something heavy suddenly stumbles over the edge and into the ditch with him. With a crash, he realises it's a body and it falls over him, slips down and lies across from him. Harley stares, panic stricken, but then their hand moves, fingers clenching.
He doesn't even think about it. No sooner then he saw the movement, Harley quashes all other decisions and just rears towards the Stormcloak like an animal, striking madly, once, twice, thrice - he loses count in the end and with the feeling of a convulsing body, he stops. The man before him is limp and has collapsed. When Harley recovers himself, his hand is sticky and wet, warm too. He doesn't want to look down, but he can't help himself. A glance shows him enough. He gags.
The Stormcloak gurgles, but to Harley it sounds like he's bellowing, that every single gasping breath is like a shuddering cry. A thunder, each and every time - but, Harley realises soon afterwards that it's his heart - it's pounding in his chest, so hard that if feels like it shouldn't be there. He's still making noises though, and despite their faintness, it sends Harley into panic. He really aught to stop his mouth somehow, stuff it with dirt, or perhaps stab him again, just to make him quiet - but he can't. He couldn't.
Staring at the man before him, Harley collapses against the wall of the trench and covers his mouth with his dry hand. He's just stabbed a man. He's done it before - but this is different. How is it different, he doesn't know, but right here, right now, the archer is so suddenly feeble that he can't do anything. He can't lift his hand against him. Not again.
Silence pools over them, making the battle that pools around them like liquid fire seem a world away.
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
Decanus Durgash shields himself from a barrage of arrows by collapsing behind what's left of the Stormcloak's wooden barricades with a heavy thud. The rest of the men follow up and there comes a scrambling overhead, not wanting to get trampled by his own side, the Orsimer sends a large beefy green hand out to grab the male closest and pull him down.
It's the Primus Pilus, the commanding Centurion, he notes with some difficulty. He has to wipe down the man's chestplate in order to see the distinguishable marks of rank, for they are completely submerged in mud and blood. In the end, it's the bright red hair that gibes him away. Another wave of Imperials move back and the Decanus just has enough time to duck and shield the Centurion before there comes a shadow from up above and the inevitable sound of the Legate crashing down. He very nearly crushes them both, but the man is alert and he realise his error almost immediately. He manages to just miss them by pushing himself off the top of the barricade, landing heavily on his back further across and rolling over to get onto his knees. He impact must have been hard, because he gasps out, grimacing.
With a half nod, the Legate scrambles towards them double bent. Aside from a pair of new dents in his armour, the dark patches of dark blood crusting to his face, crimson streaking across his forearms and cheastplate - Quintillus is otherwise immaculate. He's not injured, at any rate.
"Legate, sir." Durgash greets.
The Decanus Durgash was one of the Legion rarities. He had originally come to Cyrodiil from Skyrim, from one of those isolated Orismier Strongholds dotted around the landscape. He had enlisted as a Legionnaire as a youngster - just a few years older then Quintillus and to call such a predicament strange is a bit of an understatement. Most Orcs in the Legion are solely heavy armoured troops in their own separate divisions, or, they tend to be armour outfitters and blacksmiths. An actual Legionnaire, serving among Imperials was a very odd route to take - but Durgash knows what he wants in life, he always has done and he's happy where he is. Those in his Contubernium are happier too. Soldiers love a superior who will finish what they start, and Durgash, armed with his trusty war hammer, he finishes most fights before they can even start.
Not even Quintillus messes with Durgash and for good reason - best buddies they may be, Durgash is not afraid to give the Legate a good thump. They went right back, growing up in training together back during the Great War. Quite literally, wherever Quintillus goes, it would be a safe bet to assume that Durgash wasn't far behind. Despite the somewhat alarming difference in rank, the odd pair are a prime example of Companionship in Arms.
"Where are your meatsheilds?" Durgash asks and in response the Legate gives him a flat look. The four Praetorians are actually not far behind, they are keeping an eye on their superior through a barricade to their back left. One of them is pissed off - the Legate has been a bit... enthusiastic this time around. The man's helmet is completely decked in. In response, the Orsimer gives off a toothy grin, his large teeth glowing in the semi-light as he shifts backwards and shakes the Pirmus Pilus again, who is either out cold or dead. The Legate checks his pulse, the redhead is indeed alive - which is all the better, if Quintillus had got Rikke's Commanding Centurion killed...
He doesn't want to think about it.
"How many are left?" Quintillus asks, his voice is near to shouting and he ducks behind his shield again when another arrow gets too close for comfort. Eyes narrowing as he slams himself into the barricade, he glances towards the Orc, lip curling upwards.
"A good dozen." Durgash replies, his tone is much harder, it often becomes so when they get down to business. "They are held up on the ridge there, good defence - but the back is pretty exposed."
Quintillus flies upwards, looking over the barricade and inspecting it furiously before slamming himself back against the trampled grass before his head gets shot off. The Orc is right, the renaming Stormcloaks are held up on the ridge to the far left side, mainly semi-circular in shape, rounded. The remaining barricades look strong too. "How many surplus arrows?" he grunts, peering through a breakage in the barricade with an ample amount of difficulty.
"They've been firing at anything that moves for about a minute and a half." Durgash explains, ticking his head in the direction of the Stormcloak controlled yonder. "Chances are, they have a far few."
"Brilliant." The Legate grumbles glancing behind him, the men begin to slowly advance under cover. He searches through them all, frowning. "Where in Oblivion are the Optimi?" looking towards Durgash again, the Decanus looks over towards one side of the encampment.
"Two came in behind us, another one came in beside us, but he vanished somewhere before I could get an identification."
"There are four of them, that was three... Where is the fourth?"
"On the ridge, possibly. I was only made aware of three."
Looking through the men again, Quintillus suddenly jerks upwards onto his knees. "Maintain position." he shouts back as he goes thundering further back, head ducked, shield up and the Praetorians follow behind him quickly. When he sees what he is looking for, the Legate finds cover behind a taller section of barricade and pushes two men out of the way. "Hadvar!" he barks and with shuffling bootsteps, Auxiliary Hadvar stands before the Legate, somewhat perplexed.
"Legate-"
"The Optimi Viri Sagittarii. Where are they?" the Legate cuts him clean off, frowning through the developing crowd of covering Legionnaires.
Hadvar pauses for a moment, thinking. "There are three of them further back, they're holding a tower."
"Three?" the Legate is suddenly very nervous, though outwardly he just seems downright pissed. Hadvar freezes up, glancing towards said tower.
"A Breton, an Imperial and a Redguard... I think."
The Legate looks behind him at the Stormcloak occupied ridge. "Send a man up there, tell them to find their missing man - if they can - then return towards the mountainside. We need to cut those Stormcloaks down. The rest of you move around them, surround them from the east, south and west completely. Keep the archer's further back, I want a light combined arrow barrage on my order. Standard tent group formation."
"Of course, Legate." Hadvar nods, lowering his head in a curt nod. The Legate just hums slightly under his breath, bouncing off in clanking heavy Imperial armour.
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
Admittedly, the first time Hadvar had seen the one known as Legate Barnabas Quintillus, he had scared him.
Of course such a thing was kept inside at all costs, because really, what kind of a Nord was stricken fearful by a Imperial Legionnaire, of all things? He had grown up with fear of another man being a Milkdrinker's trait. Regardless however - Hadvar feels as if his nervousness was acceptable, because the first time Hadvar had met the man in person, he had debated if it was all worth it. Being a Legionnaire. Fighting for the Empire.
Usually, Imperials - Cyrodillic born ones - tended to be a proud and often physically appealing group of folk. Well bred ones anyway. Most of them had defined faces, groomed hair and shaven jaws. In fact, Hadvar had often admired the men for it and he was very much a woman's man himself. However, the Legate on the other hand was a completely different kettle of fish. Were a lot of his fellow Imperials were on the shorter side, generally quite stocky and overall generic - the Legate stood far taller and his bones were much harder too.
He's the only Imperial Legionnaire in recent history to have been orders by his superiors to smack Civilians - rather then using any other method of force, because his punches break bones and he's known for killing people outright with just his hands.
With features to harsh to be conventional, it was apparent that age had taken the majority of softness out of his face and at forty three, the strain was starting to show. A veteran now - still serving, but he's one of the old boys, an Old Soldier. He doesn't shave like the young men and when he fights, his hair ends to fall over his forehead into the emptiest of green eyes. Over a gaze that has seen too much, too much to care anymore. He bore the scars to suggest so, like most Old Soldiers who fought in the Great War. Hadvar has only been in a handful of battles, but he has heard the stories from his Elders. He couldn't imagine what they went through, but in all honesty, scars or not - the Legate's silent rage said he'd seen much worse.
And he's got a good memory too.
Yet despite his gruff exterior, the Legate spoke calmly, he kept his voice level, remained indifferently polite. He was angry, but his mannerisms were controlled so much that it was hard to tell and when you did, it was often to late. He's a calculating bastard, if nothing else. He moved economically as possible, always stood upright in attentive perfection, the evidence of years upon years of marching, saluting and standing to attention showing when he addresses those around him.
He makes his men nervous - a lot of them hate him, but they still call him 'Sir' regardless. He commands respect without deserving it.
But none of this, none of it, was why Hadvar was scared of the Legate Quintillus. He's seen smarter men, bigger men, stronger men.
He's scared of the Legate because he's in control. Out there, on the battlefield, he's the biggest threat imaginable - and he doesn't even have to pick up a damn sword. He's scared because after a few seconds of staring, the Legate knows your worth - he can sum you up with so much as a glance, decide what to do with you and he's within the rights to do so.
He's scared, because the Legate is the type of man to win you a war, with any means necessary. He'll kill everything and everyone in the process if he has to. He won't like it, but he'll do it.
He's scared, because if the General is not careful, the entire Fourth Legion is going to be along with him.
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
He winds up crawling away into the farthest corner he can find, and he stays there, his eyes glued on him. Harley's hand is grasping the knife, ready and waiting. In his head, he's screaming to himself - that he'll spring at the Stormcloak if he stirs, but what pathetic little scrap of humanity inside him just wont do it. That, and it's pretty obvious that the Stormcloak wont. He can hear gurgling and he can see him indistinctly. He just wants to get away, he can hear the men moving to one side of the encampment and it'll be light soon to boot.
Gritting his teeth as he looks over, he can't see anyone, but arrows fling across the space. One Legionnaire darts out and he's instantly shot down. Harley just sits back down, monumentality crushed. He doesn't know who's firing, but they've got a very good position. He's not yet close enough to the Imperials to get out without being set upon, so he can't go anywhere. He could chance it perhaps, but he's not one hundred percent sure who is who out here. All he can hear is footsteps and in this mud, they all sound the same. The light increases and Harley sits there, burning, waiting for some form of attack - just to see who is where. His knuckles whiten around the handle of his dagger as he clenches them, minute after minute trickling away as he waits, looking forwards as not to turn his head and look at the dark figure collapsed a few feet away. When noises disrupt him, he makes an effort to look past the body in order to distinguish what they are. Still waiting.
At one point, he notices his bloodied hand and a sudden bout of nausea falls over him. Without so much as a second thought, he starts digging out the dirt beneath him and rubs it into the pale skin on his hand, right up until it's completely muddy, when the blood is no longer able to be seen.
The sounds do no not give him any reassurance in the slightest. Likelihood is that his fellows have given up looking for him and are considering him gone. The morning is a dull grey, clear, but very grey and the wind is starting to pick up. Again, the gurgling continues and Harley suddenly breaks, slamming his hands over his ears, but soon he removes them. He won't hear anything else if he does that.
Then the figure across him moves. Shrinking together suddenly, Harley panics, grabs his knife and involuntary looks at the Stormcloak. The image is too powerful, he finds his gaze locked onto it, eyes wide. A blonde haired, blue eyed male lies there. His head has fallen to the left and beneath it is a half bent arm, his head resting limply upon it. The other hand is pressed up against his stomach, fingers grasping at the bloody blue fabric and shattered chain-mail.
He has to be dead, Harley thinks. It's just the body making those sounds, he's dead.
No such luck, the head tries to raise itself, the neck straining and then the groaning becomes louder. The Stormcloak gives up, his forehead sinking back onto his arm and his face is consorted with a degree of physical pain that is downright crushing to have to witness. He's not dead. He's dying, but he's not dead. Not yet. Harley swears, moves onto all fours and drags himself towards the Stormcloak. Movement and he hesitates, supporting himself on his hands. Despite the distance only being a few mere yards, it's a painful, terrible journey. He waits, he creeps a bit further, then he waits again. Eventually he manages to get beside the blonde Nord and the man's eyes jerk open.
The Nord had to have heard him, or he had felt Harley nearby, because he looks at the General's son with a look of pure, no fooling terror. His body lies still, unable to move, but his eyes hold such a powerful expression of freight that for a moment, Harley thinks that the man is just going to summon up the energy to run off.
The gurgling starts to cease, but the Stormcloak continues to stare at him, fear mixing and gathering together, dreadful terror of death - of Harley and from under it the General's son nearly collapses from the weight of the rebel's gaze. Dropping onto his elbows, he raises a hand ever so slightly, looking back over his shoulder. "N-no... just..." he sighs and instantly deflates, the eyes following his every move as he tries to figure out just what the Oblivion he has to do. Then, during the mindless panic, he sees the Stormcloak's hand slip slowly away from his stomach. It's barely a fraction, just a few inches, but this movement sends Harley back into action. He bends forwards, shaking his head and gently picking the man's hand up, putting it back in place. "No... you gotta' keep that there now, you hear?" he has to show that he wants to help, so he continues to bring the hand up until he's clasping the man on the shoulder, a light touch. Eventually, the Stormcloak realises this and he drops his stare, eyelids drooping lower. The tension drops.
Adjusting the Stormcloak's position so he's lay more comfortably, Harley leans against his knees and looks him over; the man's lips are dry, so he pats himself down and grimaces when he realises that he's lost his waterskin too. Though that's not much of a problem, because he realises that he can rip off his sagum and use it in a similar way - he's done it before, and the cloak is in pretty good nick despite everything. The Legion red garment comes free after a few moments of frenzied tugging, ripping off the metal clasp against his shoulder with a snap. The fabric is saturated in lanolin, making it waterproof and after frenzied searching, Harley finds a small pool of water further along the trench. The remains of a long period of rainfall they had awhile back. Ambling down, he spreads it out into the water, pushes it under and scoops it up, the hollow of his hand held under it.
The Stormcloak gulps it down. Harley goes back to fetch some more. It happens three times in a row before the Stormcloak shakes his head, so Harley turns his gaze towards the injures. He manages to pull off the majority of the blue tunic he had draped over himself, but the thick padding underneath was more of a problem. He'll have to remove it in order to bandage him, if it's even possible. When the rebel realises what Harley is trying to do, he resists, but he's to weak to do anything and the General's son shoots him a look. The padded tunic is stuck and he can't figure out if it's fastened, or if it's just one he's pulled over his head.
He goes back for his knife.
When he turns around the Stormcloak stares at him again, that very same cry bleeding out. Harley moves back slowly, offering a hand in peace. "I'm trying to help." He says, clearly - straining to remove as many traces of his accent from his voice as he can, to make it more understandable. He doesn't know if the Nord can even hear him in his state, but he assumes he's got his point across, because he doesn't try to stop him as he cuts the padding away.
The chainmail is a little harder to remove, because it's plastered against the bloody injures. It's cheap stuff, knocked together weakly and the links break when Harley tugs as hard as he can. It must hurt, because the Stormcloak suddenly convulses.
"Sorry-" Harley puts his hand back down on the Nord's shoulder. "Please, keep still."
There are two major stab wounds and a smaller, shallower cut. It had been prevented by the chainmail, luckily, otherwise it would be far worse. He finds his field dressings inside his satchel, alongside a few other necessities and covers them. Blood runs out through and from under it and Harley presses harder, again, another convulse - a groan too this time. Leaning back on his knees, Harley's lips press into a thin line. That's all he can really do.
Now they wait.
Sitting back down, Harley breaks into his rations, but eventually thinks better of it and puts it back. The gurgling starts again some time later and it's at this point that he's starting to feel almost frantic. He never knew how slowly a man could die. He's never really been in a position to know before - he's trained to end it as quickly as possible. He knows the Stormcloak can't be saved; magic probably won't help at this point, Harley's not experienced enough to keep up a healing spell long enough for any worthwhile affect. When the hours drag on, he tries to convince himself that he might just be saved - that the dressings will somehow make him live longer.
In the later hours of the morning, at about six, he realises that this is not the case. The pretence breaks down when the Stormcloak starts groaning again. If he had his shortsword, he would end it, right here, right now. Stab him with a knife though, Harley could not. He's just somehow incapable of doing so.
There is a quiet, raspy pant and Harley jerks his head up. The Stormcloak is looking at him, mouthing words. Crawling towards him, the General's son brings his ear closer to the Nord's mouth. A question, he thinks, but it's only one word.
"Why?"
This gives him a pause. Why? Why what? It's always whys, and never just because. Harley is not too sure, at any rate. It might be that the Stormcloak is asking why Harley is even bothering to help him, or, maybe he's asking a much deeper question; why is the spineless Imperial milkdrinker risking his neck to help a Son of Skyrim?
The General's son gives him the only answer that makes any damn sense in either instance.
"Because you're hurt."
Really, either way, that's all he knows.
He could get into trouble for this. Son of his mighty General Tullius or not; it could be perceived as all sorts. Treason. Dereliction of duty. The Gods only know what he could be written up for, or what the punishment would be. Relegation to inferior service or duties is a popular one, dishonourable discharge too - but that wouldn't happen to him. Quintillus prefers to just let his Centurions beat the ever loving crap out of those who mess up, but disobeying orders? He doesn't know. That's a far worse crime in his eyes, worse then treason. Perhaps Quintillus won't have a say; Rikke might decide on the punishment.
Not that it matters now. He's done it, might as well continue on. How can it be a crime? To help a dying man? The only difference between this Nord and the rest of his tent group is that one is wearing blue and another crimson.
He gets up to fetch some water again.
Time drags on painfully. With every gasp, it feels like his being stabbed in the heart. This Stormcloak has time with him, he has an invisible knife - time and thoughts. Part of Harley wishes he would just die, but he doesn't want to wish such a thing upon him. Seems wrong somehow. It's hard to lie here and just stare at him.
"Asgier." the Nord says, faintly, eyes locking on Harley anew. There is a pause. "My name. Asgier. You?"
Harley looks at him for a long time. How should he respond? With his name, with his father's? Should he even respond at all?
"Harley."
It's the most he can do. The Stormcloak might have thirty more years of life if Harley had found his way back. If he had gone, the Stormcloak would have landed in here and he might have lived. He could have escaped and he might have made his way back to his home. Harley knows however, that he won't get anywhere if he thinks that way. If there is one thing he's come to know over the past few years, it's that is it the fate of all of them. If he and his Contubernium had moved further away from Fort Amol, if Luca's head had been six inches to the left, if Erik had managed to run away in time... there is no changing it now. It's over.
At about eight in the morning, two hours later, the Stormcloak is dead.