Authors note: over 100 views already! Merci! 3 favorites and 2 followers as well? warms my heart as a writer! i'm glad that some of y'all are enjoying this. I apologize for the sporadic uploads of chapters but i've got a hectic life between trying to get published, going back to college and dealing with my day job. please! leave reviews, I want to hear your thoughts as this story grows. A few more chapters left in the Civil War before we head into Dawnguard territory.

Brand looked over at Hadvar, who was kneeling beside him in a bush. They had both been tasked with ambushing a heavily laden supply train headed from Riften. Two dozen lightly armed skirmishers from the Legion were with them but Brand had little faith in them. A Stormcloak, rather dissatisfied with the cause, had given one of Brand's old friends the information who then passed it along to the Legion. The Legion had even been kind enough to pay the Stormcloak and help him get away.

The train moved slowly down the hill, he could hear the creaking of the wheels on the poorly maintained cobble roads. Hadvar looked at him, eagerness shining in his eyes. Brand nodded and signaled for them to strike when the train of carts was halfway through their ranks. Hadvar relayed the signal across the road where the other dozen skirmishers waited.

Short spears flew, as well as the barbed steel arrows of the Legion, the moment the carts were halfway through them. Stormcloaks dropped and the carts stopped to a grinding halt. Brand drew Sunsinger as he charged from the bushes.

Unslaad Krosis

The same phrase he heard uttered by Draugr in tombs flew from his lips. Not a shout. No it was a taunt, a battlecry. Endless sorrows. A taunt to the traitors for their disloyalty, for their eagerness to betray everything they once knew. The other legionnaires charged out as well, crashing into the ranks of the Stormcloaks with zeal. His sword sang a viscous song of death as it clove through the shoddy armor of the enemy. Wounds were cauterized by the scorching fire enchantment that gave his sword its name.

He was a savage whirlwind of death and anger as he moved through the ranks of traitor guards. The cries of dying men were muffled, mixing with the myriad battlecries of either side. He spotted the commander of the caravan and drove forward, plowing through the ranks. Slamming his shoulder into the man's chest, he brought Sunsinger up in a savage arc as he staggered. Brand slammed the sword down from the arc, into the man's chest. Dragonbone met cloth and fur, then flesh and bone. And then a shower of blood spewed forth from the commander's mouth, gurgling and bubbling as he struggled with death. The dimming eyes of the traitor looked down at the sword impaling him before falling backward. Unseeing eyes stared upon the dying night sky.

With the death of the Stormcloak officer, their morale broke. Many attempted to flee, only to be greeted with the whistling death of arrows. Those who surrendered were taken prisoner. The already wounded were put out of their misery. Brand wiped his sword clean on the cloth tabard of one of the dead enemies. Ironshod footsteps broke his concentration. Looking up, he saw Hadvar, covered in blood and gore, coming up to him.

"That was a good fight, Dragonborn," he said. The men around them ran about accounting for the supplies in the carts and the prisoners. Brand nodded simply, looking around at the corpses. "How many did we lose?"

"Surprisingly only a handful – I think we counted six dead," said Hadvar. "Less than what I planned on. A lot less but then again, we had you here."

"Aye," he muttered. "I suppose I'll go report our success to Fasendil back at camp."

Hadvar simply nodded before turning his attention to the prisoners. The men were busy moving supplies around so that they could use one of the carts for their captives. Brand watched for a few short tense moments before turning from the charnel house that was the road. Stepping over severed limbs and corpses, he made his way to the overhang where the horses were.

It took him a day and a half of hard riding but he was back at camp. He had to avoid the roads due to increased Stormcloak patrols but their own patrols had clashed with them a few times already.

Most of the legionnaires watched him as he passed. Thinly veiled unease in their eyes. These weren't ones he was familiar with. The ones he fought with at Whiterun had been ordered to man the local fort in that Hold. Bitterness rose up in him, he would've preferred to serve with men he knew but he had no place to demand that.

He approached the command tent and knocked his gauntleted hand on the support pole in the center of the entrance. Fasendil looked up, relief in his eyes. "Good news?" asked the legate. He was an Altmer, a High Elf. Brand didn't fully trust him but he was a Legate. Swallowing his rising disgust, the Dragonborn nodded.

"We tracked down and ambushed the caravan. The supplies are now ours and we have prisoners. I didn't wish to presume and pass judgment so I left their fates in your hands, Legate."

Fasendil nodded. Joy lit up his features as he listened. "Amazing! Thank the Eight," he said happily. "That is the best news I've gotten all day. You'll be pleased to know that we're making our way to capturing Fort Greenwall just south of Riften. We managed to take Shors Stone and the three watchtowers between it and Riften with ease. Hopefully the General will be pleased."

"Am I needed to take Fort Greenwall?" he asked warily. He desired some rest but if he was ordered he'd take on the garrison at the fort. He sighed relieved, however, when the Legate shook his head. "No, you're not. More men just came from Falkreath and Whiterun to help our efforts here. I think you should head to our camp up in the Pale and see if –"

A messenger charged in breathing heavily, interrupting the Legate. Fasendil scowled slightly at the exhausted man. "I-Is one of you here a Brand Tyrsson?" he breathed out.

"Aye, I am," growled the Dragonborn.

"You're needed in… in Hjaalmarch, sir. The Stormcloaks have invaded it from the Pale."

Krosis

He swore loudly. He had a home, not unlike Lakeview, up there. It was where he kept a rather active fishery and farm of alchemical ingredients. His manor there, and the resulting village attached to it, had brought in much needed life and income to the dying Hold. He didn't care for the Jarl but her daughter… A smile crossed his lips. She was always rather lovely when he visited. He prayed to Kyne that she would be safe. Her and her younger brother both. Poor lad.

"Fine," he muttered. "I'll go. I need to get there as quickly as possible…" he trailed off before turning to the Legate. "Could one of your men look after Ymir for me until I can return for him?"

Fasendil nodded. "Go. Help our men in Hjaalmarch."

Brand saluted and rushed out of the camp. Once he was a good distance away – far enough so as not to startle the sentries – he looked to the skies and inhaled.

Od-ah-viing

The name of the dragon thundered across the skies. Each word followed by a great peal of thunder as he shouted it. After several minutes of waiting, a great buffeting of wind assaulted him. A great shadow fell across him as his dragon ally hovered over him.

Another need for haste, thuri?

"Aye, to Hjaalmarch this time. When we get there just put me down south of Morthal," he said, looking up at the dragon. "No need to have the Hold guards or the legionnaires to fire on you when they see a dragon."

Odahviing nodded as well as a dragon could before landing. Brand climbed on quickly and effortlessly and gripped the dragon's horns as he took off. The landscape of Skyrim, his beloved home, sped by under them as the breath of Kyne blew into his face.

Soon, Odahviing landed in the hills south of Morthal. Bidding his friend farewell, the Dragonborn ran north. Hoping that Morthal was still in one piece. Praying that it hadn't been attacked yet. As he crested the hill leading down into the marsh-town, he breathed a sigh of relief. No attack yet.

Formations of legionnaires were marching throughout the town, however. Filtering out eastward – towards their border with the Pale. A number of formations stayed behind. Ostensibly to reinforce the existing guard. He ran down the hill, hand on Sunsingers pommel.

Cries of Dragonborn and Ysmir greeted him. As much as he wasn't fond of this miserable little town, the people there loved him. Ingrod the Younger came barging out of the Jarls hall. She spotted him quickly and ran up to him, throwing her arms around him.

"Brand! By the Divines, I wasn't sure the messengers would find you…" she murmured as she nestled her head in the crook of his neck. Laughing somewhat awkwardly, he patted a hand on her back gently.

"They did and I probably would've been sent this way regardless if you had sent Legion messengers or not."

She nodded softly as she pulled away. "We have a chance now. We have a chance to keep our home… The Legion is holding them in the hills to the east. All the way to Fort Snowhawk in the south. But the lines, from what the Legate Taurinus has said, can't hold forever."

Brand nodded. He looked around over her head. The citizens were moving around, avoiding the legionnaires as best they could. Some looked downcast. Others looked eager for some excitement to come to the sleepy town.

"Any news about Windstad?" he asked calmly. She shook her head before looking up at him. "Nothing has happened to it if that's what you're asking, Brand. The guard detachment and your housecarl up there have held off the Stormcloaks that get through."

"Good," he pulled himself from their embrace. Kissing her forehead, he turned and ran up the street. He had to find the Legate in command. He was eager to help. Eager to spill more traitor blood and send them screaming to Sovngarde. He hoped those he sent to Tsun were found wanting.