Yes, this is a repost from about 2 years ago. However It was intended as a prelude to an RP in the same Universe that never came to pass. This time the RP will be posted within the next month.

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Chapter 1: A walk through the Wormwood

The long column of pikemen labored onward, trudging through the fog and snow that coated the mountains south of Whiterun. The men and mer looked more like a wandering army of beggars than the vaunted legion. Most of them wore blankets as improvised coats, the lucky ones had clothes cut from local furs, while most trod on with their feet wrapped in cloth. Their faded red and black doublets hung in rags from their emaciated bodies. Pikemen dragged their cumbersome spears lazily behind them. The musketeers hugged their weapons close, protecting the precious powder from the damp snow. Two twelve pounder cannons were pulled along by teams of soldiers, who had to take over for the oxen and pack guars that had been killed for food.

Littered along the sides of the road were the dead frozen bodies of legionnaires who just gave up, and opted to die amongst the wormwood that grew wild on either side of the small track. Most of their bodies were covered in snow, making them hard to distinguish from rocks or other debris. Only frozen hands, or half covered faces jutting out from the white showed the true horror underneath.

The blizzard was starting to whip itself into a fury, obscuring any sight of the relentless, pursuing cavalry. By the nine but this is a mess. Centurion Galerius Caepio thought to himself as he huddled deeper into his rough woolen cloak.

The armies of Cyrodiil had advanced, bravely and successfully deep into Skyrim just that last spring. Things had gone so well. The scattered Nordic patrols had been driven back as the Legions plunged into enemy country. The skirmishes had been hard fought, brief but violent struggles in the high mountains north of Pale pass. It was outside Laintar Dale that things began to go wrong.

The battle had been desperate. Hrolf Dragon-bane, the Nordic warlord had caught the legions off guard. He had split them, and he had crushed them in turn. Blood turned the white snow into a slush that day. The crippled legion staggered back, retreating for the first time in over fifty years, back to it’s base in Riverwood. It had lost most of it’s high command, it’s baggage, and it’s moral.

Riverwood was a long way off… Galerius thought sadly as he marched on.

“Halt! About turn!”

The pike block rolled on down the road, leaving Caepio and his small company of musketeers to fend off the horseman once again. They were the last in the long tail of the army, they were the rearguard. The musketeers were the elite in the new legion. Their long barreled and heavy matchlock arquebuses spat a round lead ball almost three quarters of an inch across and twelve balls to the pound. To them though, they didn’t feel like the elite. They felt like black sheep, sacrificed to the Nordic pursuers to save the rest of the army. Shadows flickered in and out of the fog just at the edge of vision. The oppressive white gloom turned the enemy into more of a pack of ghosts than a vanguard.

“Check your matches boys.” the centurion said wearily as he paced behind his perilously thin line. It was an unnecessary order, they knew what to do. The cold breaths of a hundred and fifty men made the small red embers of match cords glow in the fading evening light. Greasy rags were torn away from the lock plates and pans that protected the powder from the damp. The scavenged corks were plucked from the end of the barrels. Long, smoldering cords that snaked around the forearms of his men were snapped into the serpentines. His legionnaires stuck the wooden ramrods into the ground in front of them, it would save them a few seconds during the cumbersome reloading process.

The horseman that pursued them were no Nords, they were redguards, mercenaries from all across hammerfell that flocked at the chance to kill Imperials. The desire for gold and glory lured them into the ranks of the Dragon-Bane. The raga had adapted startlingly well to the harsh cold of Skyrim, and their hit and run tactics was slowly picking the legion to pieces like vultures to a corpse.

“Ground pikes!” the centurion behind him shouted. The long ashen shafts appeared on either side of Galerius as the small detachment of pikemen moved up to protect the musketeers. They would stand and fire volleys from under the bristling forest of spear heads that warded away the cavalry.

“Here they come lads! Here they come!”

The shadows began to materialize as a line of armored and cloaked horseman emerged from the gloom two hundred yards in front of Galerius. For a moment the young centurion hoped that the men might turn away, intimidated by the small block of pike and shot that barred the road. He should have known better. The sound of hooves echoed like thunder as they approached. Swords scraqed from scabbards and flashed red in the evening sun, looking for all the world like the blades were made of pure fire.

“Make ready!”

A hundred yards. The redguards touched spurs to flanks and began to canter. The imperial musketeers opened their pans and pulled back the serpentines. The sound was crisp and hollow as the springs engaged.

“Present!”

Fifty yards. He could see their faces now. The rebels gave a shout, a terrible ululating war cry that sounded like the yapping of wild dogs. A hundred and fifty musket butts went into a hundred and fifty shoulders as the long guns were leaned into the forks that helped support their weight.

“Steady. Aim low, aim for the horses!”

Twenty yards. He could hear the ragged terrified breath of the man next to him. The man was repeating a prayer to Arkay over and over again. Galerius’ heart beat in his throat. The redguards spurred into the final charge.

“Fire!”

The staccato of musket shots rang out filling the pass. Dirty grey white smoke obscured the attackers from view. He could hear the terrible screaming of the horses through the haze. Galerius was already fumbling for one of the many wooden flasks that hung from a bandoleer across his chest.

Open the priming flask, tip it into the pan. Close the pan. Drop the musket. Open the wooden flask, pour the flask into the barrel. Take a musket ball from the pouch, drop it down the barrel. Draw ramrod. Ram the charge home. Stick the ramrod back in the ground. Blow on the match, open the pan. C.ock the serpentine. Shoulder the musket.

The shots rippled and coughed again into the haze. This volley was more ragged and uneven as some of the faster soldiers outpaced the slower one. He could hear the balls strike home through the sulfurous cloud. The impacts sounded like a handful of rocks thrown hard against a wooden door. He could hear screams now, human screams, Curses in yoku, cries for help.

The enemy had muskets too.

The short barreled cavalry carbines cracked and snapped in the fading light. They were not as accurate as the long infantry muskets, but at this range, they didn’t need to be. Galerius could hear what sound like bumble bees fly by his head. A dull thump sounded next to him and suddenly his face was covered in hot blood. Titus Graccus, the youngest man in the company at seventeen shuddered and then fell into Galerius. His blue eyes were wild and unbelieving. Blood gurgled from the hole in the boy’s throat in a steady pace that kept time with his slowing heartbeat. The crackle of gunfire was getting stronger and taking on the sound of a burning thorn bush.

A volley hammered from behind the thin line of Legionnaires that blocked the pass. Another company of shot had been pulled away from the ponderous fat column to support the rearguard. Their balls flew dangerously close overhead, to slap hard into the few rebels who had stayed upright after the first deadly fusillade. This is growing to be a real fight now…

“Pull back boys! We’ve got you covered!” Came the distant shout from the other company. Galerius didn’t have to be told twice. He waited until everyone had a loaded weapon before ordering the whole line to make the dangerous jog for safety. Fear stabbed sharp in his chest as he imagined a scimitar biting into his back, or a ball digging into his legs. Arkay keep me safe, just for a few more feet.

A deep wailing horn sounded in the pass like a giant dying animal. The nords were here. His men broke into a sprint, hurried along by the enemy carbines that thumped into the backs and legs of several unfortunates.

“Down! On your bellies!” the order was instantly obeyed. The two hundred odd legionnaires dropped to allow their comrades to fire over their heads, into the heavily armed black haired devils that were now hot on their heels. The lead balls buzzed like angry bees over the centurions head before tearing into the new enemy.

A mounted yokudan appeared to Caepio’s right, slashing down hard with his scimitar. Galerius ducked, and the blade passed no more than four inches away from his face. He turned his musket in his hands and used it like a club. The butt end struck the rebel horse in the jaw with a dull crack and it collapsed like a rag doll dropped by a child.

The poor beast’s eyes flashed white in fear and pain as it fell to the ground, pinning the mans leg under it’s weight. Galerius drew his pointed spike of a dagger and plunged it deep into the redguard’s exposed armpit, one of the few unarmored placed on his body. He could feel it skip off the mans rib and meet resistance against the strongly muscled heart. The rebel pawed at Caepio’s face, trying to hook fingers into his eyes, but the grip was weak and was easily pushed aside. Like a candle fading in the wind, he watched the life go out of the redguard's eyes.

A cannon boomed in the distance, sending it’s twelve pound iron ball rocketing in amongst the mix of bodies that brawled in the road. Galarius watched in horror as a horse and rider were practically eviscerated in red cloud of entrails an bone. The next shot was aimed better. With a sound like distant thunder it landed ten feet away from the fight and skipped along the ground like a stone in a pond, separating legs and arms. Imperial, Redguard and Nord alike died.

Then there was another cry. This one deeper, more controlled. Imperial cavalry. The heavily armored knights roared in, lances lowered. Dragon-bane’s men didn’t even want to contest the heavily armored foe, they simply turned fled.

As suddenly as the fight began it was over.

Bodies filled the road like a twitching and moving carpet of flesh. Galarius wanted to find young Titus, but it was too difficult to tell one pile of gore from the other in the growing darkness. The small battlefield was like a charnal house. The sight would be terrible if it wasn’t so commonplace.

“Light company, fall in…” He said, his voice dripping with exhaustion.

In five minutes the musketeers and pikemen were back on the road, marching on. Behind them the dead were sleeping under a dusting of snow. Within ten minutes the whole battlefield had disappeared, and the long line of the army marched on. Some men were dead, many more wounded, but nothing was accomplished.

Amazing.. Amazingly written. I read all eight chapters at once, this stuff is great.

Beat you, Darkom.. Unless you posted for this story when it was out before.. Then you win. oh well

I remember these still. Awesome pieces with your trademark incredible realism. I can't wait for this RP, too; if it'll be half as good as the fanfic it should be awesome. Maybe the Timeline dies down a bit by then and I have some time for a smaller role.

I don't have the kind of time Holy Walrus does to read this all at once, but I will read it all eventually. I would advise you cut it into blocks, only posting at max two chapters at a time for ease of use. I'll try my hand at the intro, and it seems I won't be disappointed

Well, I was correct in my assumption that this is very well written. Few complaints here, I know when I'm outclassed. I see that you have set it in the considerable future, given the aspect of guns. There have been many discussions on this, and I for one doubt that guns would become prevelant due to magic. Or at least not the guns we know. I for one would say that magic would be simplified and taught to more and more people.

All that aside, I hope to finish this someday. As it is, the wall of text is intimidating. I highly reccomend breaking it down and waiting for people to read the first chapter before posting the second. It might take a week before your RP starts, but hey, just take the time to finalize all plans for the RP. And to catch up on all the people here that came and went in your absence.

Thanks for writing, it looks very good. I'll try to give a more detailed critique soon.

EDIT: Yes, much better. Thanks.

PS No Holy, I have only been on the Fan Fiction section since March, and only joined the Forum in December. So there is no way I would have read this already

Thats an excellent point actually, and one that had eluded me at the time when I posted it. I'll go the route of releasing chapters at a time for the ease of reading and also to drum up a prolonged interest. I do hate walls of text...dont really know what I was thinking.

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Chapter 2: Bella detesta matribus
"God-damnit all!" Shouted Galerius Caepio. Through the dirt crusted window of the small farmhouse he could see horseman on the far ridge. The enemy had caught up again. Caepio's company, whittled down now to seventy men was bivouacked in the walled farm complex. He and thirty men were in the farmhouse, sprawled across three floors. Another thirty men were lounging in the hayfilled barn, while the remainder took the stables. It was as blessedly comfortable a place as they could expect all things considered.

The sound of metal on stone rang out in the clear, and sharply cold morning air. The snow had died away leaving only the iced earth to glitter like a field of diamonds in the dawns early light. The men had drawn their stubby rapiers and schianovas to hack loopholes in the plaster and stone walls that surrounded the farmyard and warned off the marauding bandits that plauged southern skyrim.

"Enemy horse sir! Looks like dragoons! They're approaching from the western woods!" Daenlin shouted from inside the attic. Several holes had been knocked in the roof as well, turning the once peacefull farmhouse into a fortress. The bosmer was the Optio of the rapidly shrinking company, acting as second in command to Centurion Caepio. The title of Optio was well deserved as well, the bosmer, true to his blood was the best shot in the company.

Caepio took the stairs two at a time until he peered his head out of Daenlin's awkwardly short loophole. It was true, there was a group of fur clad Redguards sneaking through the woods. They all wore the Cliff racer plumed green berets that denoted a dragoon. The brass badges that held the three feathers sat over their left ears and showed a flaming wolfs head. The men were slinking through the trees a good fifty yards away.

"Go ahead you carnivorous mer bastard..." Caepio smiled and slapped his short friend on the back. The bosmer blew on the match, opened the pan and breathed out slowly, squeezing the trigger. The musket snapped angrily and shot acrid smoke into the morning air. Through the hole Galerius watched a red sashed officer crumple at the base of a tree. Then the whole line of men disappeared in powder smoke. Bullets tore wildly through the thin roof, releasing fingers of light that pierced the dusty black of the attic.

"More from the east!" Came the shout from the farmhouse. The crackle of musketry was beginning to whip into a torrent, reflecting the desperation of the fight. As Caepio ran back down the stairs just in time to see a ball smack into the cheek of one of his loyal nords. The half ounce of lead tore at the mans skin to reveal the teeth and tongue underneath. He let out a gutteral cry in his barbaric language before leaning in and returning the fire.Bullets pattered and smacked into the thick stone wall of the farmhouse, but few, thankfully few actually entered. The dragoon's short carbines would have to get closer to actually do damage.

"They're at the door! Get to the door!" Came a frantic and terrified cry. The fur clad enemy had indeed crossed the road and reached the outer fence of the farm. With a shout and a rush of men, they succeeded in reaching the heavy oak door. Swords thumped and hammered into the outside as the men tried to hack it apart. Gallerius grabbed whatever legionnaires he could find and pulled them into the narrow hall facing the door.

A piece of the door splintered inward and soon a scarred face appeared, only to be plucked back by three musket balls. The bitter scent of burnt powder hung oppressive in the hall. Another face appeared to be shot down. Then a carbine barrel was shoved through the hole to belch fire, sparks and lead into the passageway. The bullet wasn't aimed, but it skipped off a painting hung on the wall and bounced into the shoulder of Antoine Velaine, dropping him to the ground with a shout of pain and fear. More shots tore through the door to embed themselves in the legionnaires.

With a crash and a shout the redguards burst through. The legionnaires poured what they had into the front rank, dropping three before the men of Cyrodiil counter charged with their wide bladed rapiers. This wasn't the neat orderly fight of line on line, volleying into each other, or ships trading fire in the clean sea. This was a gutter fight: bloody, terrible and close. Caepio thought of the fight later, but the adrenaline and fear hazed his memory. He only remembered hacking tearing and kicking at the enemy...that and the joy, the guilt ridden joy of being released from all the normal rules of morality and polite society.

The redguards ran back, shocked by the ferocity of the legionnaires. They sprinting back down the well manicured path, to cross the road and reenter the woods. Bullets flicked like rain all around them, and dropped more than a few to die, gurgling in the snow.

Gallerius burst through the back door and into the enclosed courtyard to find more of his men firing away through the newly opened holes in the walls. The farmhouse was showing smoke that seeped thick and black through the roof tiles. The greased wadding that held the bullet in the barrel usually burned and smoldered after being fired. It must have caught the hay in the barn. Panic stricken legionnaires poured out of the barn, their faces black from the powder.

Things were getting desperate, the powder was already running low. The crackle of enemy musketry echoed weirdly in the enclosed courtyard, sounding almost like popcorn on a fire. Gallerius took a quick look out a loophole. They were hurting the enemy badly.

Outside the farmhouse were nothing but fallow fields, and the dragoons lay littered across the snow. Lines of bodies marked the high tide of the enemy advance before the fiery lead death cut them down. The redguards were withdrawing back to the ridge line north of the farm, over a half mile away. Slowly the crackle of gunfire died away. Centurion Caepio smiled when he saw the number of riderless horses held by the mounted dragoons. They had done well this morning.

"Alright boys, get back out on the road, we need to get out of here before they decide to come back and burn the rest of the farm." He shouted at the top of his voice. Walking back through he could see the elderly Nord couple hugging and crying in a corner of the kitchen. Bodies lay scattered about, tables were overturned and pottery lay smashed across the floor. And then there was the blood. It painted the walls, and dripped from the ceiling.

The old woman was sobbing and shouting something over and over in nordic. Caepio didn't need to speak the language to know what was going on. This small fight in the morning sun and destroyed their life...the poor peasants would be hard pressed to salvage the farmhouse after both the legion and the dragoons passed thorugh. Bella detesta matribus.

"Sorry..." Gallerius said lamely before stepping outside and back onto the long road.

GRR, i was on Chapter 4 before i went to bed, now i need to wait a while before i can even continue reading.
I love it though, no one can put so much realism into such a topic.

sorry about that Wootz... :/

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Chapter 3: Just before the battle, Mother
A freakishly early thaw had sapped the mountains around Riverview and Pale Pass of it’s snow. Scattered pools of dirty white remained but for the most part the land surrounding the town of Riverwood was a grass covered morass. The fallow fields and dead groves of corn were the worst. The marching of armies had turned the mud into waist deep pools of grime that pulled at the boots and invaded every pore of exposed skin and cloth. Most of the legions stood shivering in the evening’s red sun, covered up to their waists in muck, and splashed from head to toe in the same stuff.

Centurion Caepio’s company of shot were the last down the Whiterun side of the bowl shaped valley. The fifty remaining men and mer splashed through the bitterly cold stream that gave Riverwood it’s name before climbing up the muddy hill that lead to the town.

The combined armies of the once great Cyrodiilic empire stood arrayed just below the crest of the hill. Above their heads was the forest of pikes that stood sixteen feet tall straight up, bristling like the quills on a porcupine. Their colorful doublets were barely recognizable under the muck. The tips of the pikes swayed too and fro noticeably, amplifying the movements of the shivering, terrified masses that huddled in their wet blanket-cloaks.

Just behind the pike blocks were the guns, forty-three field pieces in all. Mostly twelve pounders with a handful of the great twenty four pounders and a single thirty two pound siege gun interspersed. The blue and yellow doublets of the Imperial artillery were only slightly cleaner than that of the infantry. The artillerymen were allowed to ride clutching on the field pieces as they were hauled by the scant few oxen remaining.

Caepio’s breath was ragged and difficult in his chest. The hill up to the army was steep and the mud thick. Oh Talos, please let the Nords attack. By god but we’ll knock the spots off them if they have to climb this mess…

Up by the crest a cannon fired. It’s deep concussive report echoed through the valley before rolling on towards the enemy. Gallerius’ eyes followed the thin pencil line of smoke that the shell’s fuse traced through the air. It crashed into the tree line at the top of the enemy held hill to bury itself deep in the soft mire of the wet earth. After a moment the ground bent upwards into a great brown bubble that shoved tree’s aside before birthing fire and the sound of an explosion. It was one of the great thirty-two’s shells. The group of horseman that it aimed at scattered and disappeared back behind the crest, leaving the field empty.

“So you buggers finally decided to join us eh?’ One of the pikemen from ahead said mockingly as the company of shot finally rejoined it’s mother unit. That unit was the emperors 1st legion, Talos’ own. They were the only ones in the army that wore the red and black doublets of the emperor.

“Boil your head you bastards, we’ve been beat out and covering your asses for the past two weeks.” The wounded Breton, Vaelin said breathlessly. One of the mounted officers, a signifer, rode over to the dispirited group of newcomers. The Signifer had the honor of carrying the staff mounted with the red diamond of Talos into battle. It was the soul of the legion, to lose it would mean a great disgrace in the eyes of the Army.

“Centurion, take your men over to the right side of the pike block. You’ll be supporting Centurion Palatina’s company during the battle.” The signifer said. He wore a looping golden chain around his right shoulder that showed his rank, and his wealth. The man was nearly spotless. Caepio could hardly believe that he had stomped down the same road as himself…

He was a feather bed soldier, but the man was an officer and had to be obeyed.

The cannons boomed louder now, all forty-three guns were hammering back on their limbers and digging trenches in the mud with their wooden tails. Most of the shot was invisible to the naked eye, except for the ones that either flew directly away from, or directly towards Caepio.

After reaching their position and biting off small bits of stale bread, the musketeers shivered as they watched the big guns go to work. The Nords were busy moving their field pieces now. Axes could be heard in the far woods, a mere half-mile away. The chopping sound meant that the enemies pioneers were carving their way through the dense forests to set up the batteries that would hammer the legions into submission, just like they did outside Whiterun.

The Imperial round shot splintered through the forest, cleaving branch from trunk and sending a constant rain of pine needles down to the floor, where the axmen worked diligently. A puff of smoke and a jet of flame burst from the woods off to the right, near a field of dead, unreaped corn. A half-second later the thunderous report rippled down the valley. The barrel was cold and the ball fell short, burying itself in a shower of mud nearly thirty feed from the blue and grey jacketed troops of the ninth legion, the twins. The men of the tenth jeered and mocked the Nordic gunners.

The next shot was better aimed and rocketed over the tenth, shattering pike shafts, and sending a shower of splinters down onto the cold and wet men. The imperial heavy guns took up counter battery fire. Shot and shell churned the ground around the single Nord piece, sending it’s cannoneers scurrying back into the woods.

One shot shattered the right wheel, another fell short and covered the shiny brass barrel in muck. A third struck the barrel full on, denting it heavily and sending the ball ricocheting straight up in the air. The men of the legion cheered at their new entertainment. The Nords could be seen in their pale blue doublets with dirty white sleeves as they used roped to drag the damaged gun back into the woods where it would no doubt have it’s wheel replaced and be sent back into action within hours.

More guns sounded from deep in the woods. The Nordic axmen did their job well and quickly too. As the artillery fired and counter-fired in the evening cold, a low mournful call sounded from behind the ridge. It was the deer cry of a war horn. The enemy infantry was here.

The battle of Riverwood valley was about to begin.

Chapter 4: Once more into the jaws of Death
The first thing visible over the crest of the hill were the colorful blue and white banners of Hrolf Dragon-Bane. He was in the center, riding up the road along with a cluster of officers in uniforms of almost every color and style. Centurion Gallerius Caepio squinted through the cold haze and the dying sun to get his first real look at the warlord who struck such fear in the legions.

"Doesn't look like much really?He's shorter than I am. You can see that great ugly beard from here though!" Said Daenlin. It was true, the man at the center, under all the glittering flags was short, covered in expensive furs and sported a large red beard, that was easy to see even a half mile away. Down south in Cyrodiil beards were an old fashion, with short mustaches and pointed goatees being the style, at least in western Colovia.

Round shot flicked the ground around the enemy commander, who seemed to be oblivious of danger. His spyglass glittered in the reflective sunlight. After a few short movements of his hands several more of the sad animal horns blew, and the tall pike shafts came into view. The cannons continued their private duel across the great valley.

The first massive square of steel clad humanity crawled out of the trees off to the west, far from the men of Talos' Own 1st legion. The men of the first were content to shiver violently, rub their hands, and watch the drama about to unfold.

The steel armor of the Nords sparkled in the sun, but it soon became dirtied and dull as the large block tried to move through a plowed field, only to slow, and then stop as the mud rose to their knees, then waists. The rippling blue and white striped banner showed the men were from Gromm's Wolves. The soldiers, clad completely in grey from head to toe all sported wolf heads on their helmets. Their sleeves of shot that stood on either side wore wolf tails pinned to their knit stocking caps. It was a terrible regiment hailing from the harsh land around Dawnstar. They held the center at Whiterun, and were the ones most responsible for splitting the Imperial line in two.

The pike block quivered as roundshot tore great lines through it's ranks and files. Gallerius laughed with the sheer joy at seeing such a hated enemy given a bloody nose. The mud was too thick, and the massive block of men was stuck, and being pounded by each and every one of the forty-three guns in the Imperial arsenal. The flag fell, was plucked up, and fell again. The men could be seen trying their best to advance even through the quagmire and hell storm. The companies of shot, who were lighter equipped and thus less burdened were able to wade through to form a feeble skirmish line in front of the pikemen.

The first of the musketry crackled through the valley, but the range was too great, and the brave men merely wasted their powder as more and more cannon fire was poured into the great target. The men died in the mud, stuck upright, so that the dead remained standing like the living. Some were crushed and pushed under to drown horribly in the muck.

Two more pike blocks appeared from over the ridge to advance down into the valley. Some of the cannon fire blessedly shifted away from the wolves, who were finally freeing themselves and moving back up the ridge. The mud covered grey jacketed troops trod back in ignominious retreat. Though it was little conciliation the Imperial troops across from them, the third legion applauded their bravery. Even under such a hail of fire and stuck, the wolves had tried to advance.

The two new pike blocks began to march down the narrow road that stood directly in front of Talos' Own. The road was in better shape than the fields, and the squares of infantry, each easily a thousand men strong came on in good form. To cross the creek's narrow stone bridge the second column fell in behind the first. The company of shot moved ahead, sliding down the grimy banks, splashing through the frigid, ice caked water, and climbing back up the other side. The blond haired and bearded men wore filthy and faded orange doublets.

They were the Amber Guard in name and location. The men were Reachmen: farmers, sheepherders and border thieves from the western edge of Skyrim. Unlike the homogeneous wolves, this block was mixed with Bretons, Nords and Redguards.

"Palatina! You and Caepio move your shot up! Clear away those skirmishers!" Their commander, Marcus Pavo shouted from atop his fine bay horse. He pointed at the enemy, but that gesture only reveal the mangled claw that was the remains of his right hand. Only a ring finger and thumb were left after some thugs caught up with him in a dark alley and called in his prodigious gambling debts.

"Very good sir!' Centurion Luther Palatina replied. The exhausted and frozen musketeers stood to replace hats, blow on match cords, and go once more into the jaws of death.

"Talos' shot, port arms! Half files, double your ranks to the left!" Palatina shouted.

"My boys, Half files double your ranks to the right!" Caepio echoed. It was an overly complicated sounding command for something simple. The sleeves of shot, who stood four abriast and as deep as the long pike block simply spread out and formed a four man deep line on either side.

"Forward!", "Forward!"

"March!"

The tired men stepped off, moving forward towards the enemy musketeers who were trudging, red-faced and sweating up the great muddy hill. Gallerius watched as more than one orange jacketed Nord slipped and fell face first in the slime, to slide helplessly back down the hill and plunge into the creek.

"Close it up!" The two separate lines formed one great line in front of the mass of Nordic pikemen who were only now beginning to move forward.

Thirty yards, the enemy was close now, danger close. Muskets banged and cannons thundered as both sides fired at the other. The orange musketeers were furiously loading and firing up the hill now, and the bullets whip lashed madly around Gallerius. A ball plucked at his shoulder, tearing away the cloth but doing no real damage. A man two files to Caepio's right cried aloud and fell face first, sliding down the dark brown hill with surprising speed. The Nords fired into the poor man over and over as he slid through their lines, to be finally engulfed in the bristling amber pike block ahead.

"Halt!" Palatina shouted, as calm as ever. He was a good man from Cheydinhal, his family had bought him a place in the first, but could only afford the rank of Centurion, so the squinty eyed clockmaker became a musketeer. And more than that, he was surprisingly good. Amiable, intelligent and with high standards, he proved a popular leader.

"Make ready to fire by introduction! Files, open to your open order!" The front rank continued on four paces, the second three, the third two and the fourth stood still. The men rubbed at cold numbed hands before blowing on matches and checking their pans.

"First legion! Give fire!" The order was bellowed aloud before quickly being swallowed up in a haze of powder smoke and the roar of a hundred guns. Smoke and flame jetted a full six feet down the slope in front of the imperials. The rear rank sidestepped and moved carefully until it was in front of the first rank. They then aimed and fired down upon the shocked Nords. Caepios turn.

He sidestepped, passed three men, slipped on a submerged rock, regained his footing, aimed and fired. He saw a young, hawkish faced Breton down the line of his barrel stare wide-eyed and terrified up at him before disappearing behind a white cloud. It's ok, you didn't kill him, now load!

The sheer violence of the now constant volleys drove the Amber Guard's skirmishers back, and onto the lowered pikes of their friends. A run down that steep and slippery hill was nearly uncontrollable. Screams and shouts were quickly drowned out by the rattle of the matchlocks as the Imperials advanced down the valley.

The enemy cannon was now starting to engage the musketeers who were keeping the large assault column at bay. Shell's came screaming in to bury themselves in the mire before heaving a great lump of viscous soil into the air. Hot scraps of iron tore through the red and black ranks leaving horrifying and jagged wounds.

There were flashes of orange and red light down below that glowed in the thick cloud of powder smoke.

With screams of anger at being torn from their barren plane, heavily armored dremora waded through the haze with claymores and hammers bared. The volleys continued to hammer constantly down, bouncing harmlessly off the enchanted deadric armor. The dark skinned terrors were making headway, and, while they didn't reach Caepio and his men yet, they soon would. A hand to hand brawl between an unarmored musketeer and a massive dremora would be a one sided thing.

"Cease fire. Cease fire. Back up the hill boys!" Palatina shouted. His vice was as calm and solid as if he were ordering a laborer to carry a crate around back in Cheydinhal. Remarkable? The musketeers turned and fled, crawling on hands and knees up the thick slope. Men screamed in terror as the ground gave way and they slid helplessly on their bellies to be butchered by the conjured demons from oblivion. Caepio was reaching through the muck up to his elbow to find purchase, and even then it was a desperate thing.

"Out of the way! Out of the way!" came a shout from above. The mass of armored pikemen were beginning their descent into hell.

Chapter 5: The symphony of battle
The heavy artillery rumbled like a violent thunderstorm through the valley. Screams and clashes of steel on steel rang like the sound of an army of blacksmiths plying their trade. It was the horrible and terrifying symphony of battle that Centurion Gallerius Caepio had heard many times before.

The massive pike block of Talo's Own legion paused on the crest of the mud soaked hill. The men were shivering and terrified. Most had already lost the feeling to anything below their knees. They breathed heavily, not from exertion, but from fear. The dremora were halfway up the hill, but their heavy armor was dragging them down, slowing them, and they were slipping and falling, to slide back down the hill.

The Nordic guns hammered heavy in the evening air. Their round shot was trying to clear the way for their infantry. It smacked and tore though the block of Imperials, sending helmets, pike shafts and unrecognizable chunks of flesh and bone spiraling through the air above the men.

"Shot to the flanks!" Shouted Palatina. How can he stay so calm? That bastard sounds like he's shouting a dinner request in a crowded restaurant, not giving orders on a bloody battlefield. The damp and already tired men waded through the mud to poise themselves on the flanks of the advancing pike block. They wouldn't engage the Amber Guards and their evil lackeys, not now, not with their friends so close. Rather they would try and down as many of the enemy musketeers while the Nords did the same.

"It's amazing how personal something this big can feel?" Caepio said to his the man next to him. The Nord, Skjol the Fair was the same man who'd taken a bullet in the cheek. His teeth could be seen through the ragged, blood crusted gash.

"Oohat?!" He shouted back. Whistling oddly for lack of cheek.

"Talos' Own! Fire by file! Give fire!" Palatina's voice rang loud and clear like a bell over the maelstrom of death. The front of the musketeers let loose a wave of powder smoke that rolled down the black and red jacketed line before starting again. The rippling blast splintered the glowing red evening air.

The Nords of Gromm's wolves were professional soldiers. The men of Talos' Own were professional soldiers. The men of the Amber guard were enthusiastic volunteers. Enthusiasm had carried the regiment far. Their energy had carried them through the hard march from their hometown in the reach all the way to Whiterun. Their excitement had carried them down the body strewn road that lead to the Legions. Yet, their enthusiasm wouldn't and couldn't carry them up twenty yards of muddy hill in the middle of a wheat field outside Riverwood.

On that muddy hill, outside a captured, Imperial held city, a regiment of professionals was giving the amateurs a brutal lesson in soldiering. Though the smoke obscured any idea of what was going on, Caepio could hear shouts, cries, curses and splashing down below.

"Cease fire! Prepare to advance!"

"Thing's are finally looking up, eh boys?" The wounded and pale Vaelin joked.

"Quiet in the ranks!"

"Advance!"

The pike column had already engaged the Amber Guard and driven them back down the hill to crash into their supporting pike block. In battle, panic spread like disease, and the two nord regiments in the valley were infected with it. The Dremora fought on, hacking pike shafts in half and sending many men to the far shores, but the Nord battlemages had a perilous hold on them at best. Just when they were needed most, the mages concentration slipped, and the dremora escaped nirn, back to their vile home.

The remaining Nords ran as if they were pursued by the very princes of oblivion themselves. Tearing off helmets and briastplates, throwing weapons aside, anything that could let them run just a tiny bit faster.

Cheers erupted from the imperial lines. Wild, ecstatic cheers. The enemy was finally being driven back. The dark nights spent in foreign territory were finally over. No longer did they have to live in fear. No longer was their bedtime prayer 'Oh Talos, deliver us from the northmen'.

Caepio and his men walked carefully and warily down the mud-caked hill. The smoke was unbearably thick at the bottom of the valley. No wind blew, and so there was nothing to sweep away the cloud of sulferous haze that had descended on the battlefield. It was almost impossible to tell where the shots were coming from. Still they splashed on, through the muck and ahead into the unknown. Muskets crackled fiercely, but their noise was oddly distorted in the hazy, milky white valley floor. The echos vibrated strangely. The brown caked bodies of hundreds of men lay sprawled across the mire. A slimy splash. And then a sudden yelping cry. The musketeers braced themselves for the enemy.

"I've found the creek?" Palatina's voice came ironic and disappointed from ahead. The men exhaled audibly, relieved.

"See any nords, Luth?"

"Nary a one. Err, rather there's plenty, but none alive." the clockmaker said. In a few more feet the man emerged from the gloomy white fog that was beginning to take on the bloody hue of dusk. He stood knee deep in the frigid, ice caked waters of the creek, rubbing his glasses with the hem of his sleeve.

"Powder wet?"

"By the grace of the nine, no. Just the tools the good lords gave me." he smirked. "Well don't just stand there Gallerius, help me out?"

The battle echoed and raged wildly around them, but in the smokey gloom of the valley, things were calm. The pikemen stood at alert at their side of the stone bridge, the musketeers leaned lazily on their forked musket rests, and all of them waited for the order to be recalled.

"Gallerius, see if your men can't get a fire going. I don't imagine that we'll be pulled away from this bridge anytime soon. I would so love some hot wine. Maybe even fortified with some fatigue potions?" Luther said before looking around in the claustrophobic haze of powder smoke. Visibility was less than ten feet in every direction. They were in a sea of sulfurous grey.

A whooshing puff sounded from behind Gallerius, and he turned to see that his men had lit a fire using splinters from a shattered pikeshaft, a spare bit of powder and their matches. Drops of blood boiled on the wood.

"Daenlin, can you get on the other side of the creek and keep watch?" Gallerius asked over his shoulder. The bosmer moaned and rolled his eyes, but obediently stamped over the bridge. "I only chose you because you're the best!"

"Blow it out your ass, I expect a mug of wine soon!" The short elf shouted over his shoulder before disappearing into the fog. Such insolence would normally be punished with the lash, but the strain of retreat had lowered everyone's standards and expectations. Luther smiled and slapped Gallerius on the shoulder, then sat down on the body of a muddy orange jacketed man missing half his face.

"Nice to see you back with us Gal."

Your first chapter gave me chills, absolutely immersive, I loved it. Can't wait to read the rest.

I normally don't like Fanfics for some reason or another, but i love this.
I share Ghostpaw's feelings about the first chapter, it made me put on a sweater.

Chapter 6: small bit of dignity
The battle continued on into the evening, the sun was sinking low, and night was falling. That meant the battle would end soon. At least that's what Caepio hoped. Most battles ended at night, because only an utter fool would try and maneuver something as large and unwieldy as a pike block without visibility. Any night attacks usually became terribly delayed, off plan, and more often than not, ended in allied troops stabbing and shooting each other in dark confusion.

The wine was rolling to a boil in the small makeshift camp kettle. It originally held axle grease for the great supply wagons, but it's long since been emptied out. A wire attached to the top to make a rudimentary bale, came from the large blocks of hay that supplied the animals with fodder. One of the ragged legionnaires used his wooden ramrod to lift it gently from the fire. Soon men were huddled around mugs, sipping happily.

"I'm sorry about this past few weeks, Gallerius. That was a tough situation to be put in. You did a good job." Palatina said quietly before sipping the wine. His voice was low and serious. Caepio could only thing of all the ways he failed. One hundred and thirty eight failures to be precise. One hundred and thirty eight men left frozen or bleeding on the long road back from Whiterun. Caepio's left hand started to shake imperceptibly.

"I appreciate that Luth?"He said, distantly. His mind was still in the farmhouse, still in the road. Daenlin trudged back through the mud and grime to approach the campfire. According to the clock making centurion, forty-eight minutes and twenty seconds had elapsed since the bosmer went on watch. He was supposed to have been replaced at forty-five, but the man replacing him had popped his top three buttons on his pants, and thus struggled to keep his small bit of dignity.

"Nothing, Centurion. Far as I can tell, It's quiet up front. Nords aren't going to be stupid and attack that bridge gain. Sounds like the battle moved down to our right, closer to the woods. Someone is taking a hell of a pounding though. Can't be sure tough, the spirits in these hills are playing with the sounds. Can't hear anything straight." the squat wood elf said in all seriousness. He received a few chuckles and jibes from the less superstitious Imperials. The heavy cannons banged and rolled like deep chest-thumping thunder. The muskets cracked a much higher pitch. The battle indeed was intensifying.

"So why are we here Caepio?" The voice was thinly veiled insolence. Praxus Ottus. He had once been a Centurion, but his inability to control his drinking lost him command of his company and any rank. He was the troublemaker in the unit, and unfortunately, there were plenty who looked up to him.

"We're guarding a bridge Praxus, or are you blind?" Gallerius replied, deliberately dodging the question.

"I mean why are we expected to die for a muddy stream in the middle of this barren heathen land. I don't see how we should be here?sir." he said with just enough respect to not be punished. There were several heads that nodded in agreement.

"It's politics, you wouldn't understand?" Caepio said lamely. Now is neither the time nor the place for this discussion.

"I think I would understand, centurion?"

"Trade money Praxus. Like everything else in life, It's about money." Caepio said. Palatina looked on, amused and unwilling to help. He would rather watch the scene unfold like a play. "The Nords don't want to let our caravans pass through their territory, and once more they attack unarmed merchants. He are here to protect those poor merchants."

"I suspect they aren't as poor as you'd think." Palatina added with a mischievous smile. He loved playing this game with his fellow centurions. Gallerius shot him back an angry look.

"That's right, sir. If they're so bloody rich, they can hire guards. We don't have to march all the way up here to do the job of thugs and mercenaries." Praxus said. Gallerius was getting annoyed, especially since he believed he was on the losing side of this battle.

"Did you volunteer Praxus?"

"Of course I did, Caepio, you know that?"

"By volunteering you gave your consent to the emperor to let him send you wherever he damn well pleases. You're here because the emperor wants you here, and that's all you need to know." Caepio said. The conversation was growing dangerously insolent, and Gallerius had to be concerned about the spirit of all his men, not just one's personal scruples. Palatina chucked silently as he drew on his pipe. Caepio had ended the discussion, but he certainly didn't win it.

"Luther, you see that rock there in the river? The mossy one next to the bank, far side, near the fern." Caepio changed the subject.

"Yea? What about it?" Palatina asked, intrigued. Caepio reached into the discarded bandoleer of an enemy musketeer and pulled out a handful of round lead balls.

"If I hit that rock, five times in a row, we'll get recalled soon. If not, we'll get send back into the thick of it." He said. Palatina simply nodded. This was the traditional way of making up ones mind or trying to pry open the riddle of fate. Daenlin scoffed at the superstition.

First one, dead on.

"Hey, Luther..." Gallerius began, embarrassed. Palatina drew on his pipe, allowing him to continue.

Second, dead on.

"How do you stay so calm during the fights? I'm always a nervous wreck..."He finally blurted out. His face reddened and he hastily threw the third pebble.

Third, high and to the right, still hit's the rock but barely. All the imperials in the company audibly gasped at the near miss. No one wanted to go back to the fight.

"Gal...I'm scared to death. Probably more so than you...I pissed myself at Whiterun." Palatina said quietly, hoping to alleviate his friends embarrassment with an admition of his own. "But you can't let people see that you're scared." He turned his head to look Gallerius in the eyes. "There are hundreds of people relying on you, twice as many parents hoping you keep their sons alive. You don't have to be brave...you only have to hide the fact that you're not."

Fourth one, dead on.

Gallerius smiled at receiving the intimate advice. He paused for a moment, and took in breath, readying to say something important. His face reddened and he bit at a lip.

"You really pissed yourself at Whiterun?" Gallerius exploded in laughter, one that was slowly, but less enthusiastically joined by Palatina.

"Throw the pebble you bastard." Luther drew on his pipe and smiled the mischievous smile he always did.

Here we go?the fifth?Caepio drew his arm back, aimed and threw.

The neigh of a horse signaled their one handed officer, Parvo. He was visibly shaken and red-faced. The last ball went wide and splashing into the water. The men all cursed their luck.

"Palatina, Caepio, form up your companies be ready to march in five. The Nords punched a hole in our lines to the right, men are holding, but we have to reinforce them! Go!" He shouted frantically.

The sun finally dipped below the horizon, and the only light was from the single small campfire that lit the haze in the valley.

"Bloody night battle!"

Chapter 7: Stupid, selfish, proud bastard
The rhythmic slap of feet in mud was all that could be heard in the night air. The ever constant mud?it almost seemed like a third army in this battle, fighting angrily against anyone who dared tread on the fields of dead corn and wheat outside the city of Riverwood. The nine-hundred odd men of Talos' own, were on the road, but even then the brown slime was thick enough to pull off boots and make a short walk difficult and arduous. On the march, Caepio's whole world was the back of the man in front of him and the mud underfoot.

Talos' Own were on the march.

"It's going to be a desperate thing, desperate what. Nords broke through just east of Riverwood. Have a pocket, so they do, a heathen pocket in our lines. Got to cut it out. Right out! Like lancing a boil, what?" Knight Errant Parvo twitched as he spoke. He was an odd sort of officer. The man seemed to be sickly, almost like death itself. The men of his legion were drawn to him like mothers, wanting to protect him and his eccentricities from harm. Parvo, though odd, was clever. Even though he never let on, he knew exactly what the men of Talos' Own thought of him. He was always in the thick of the fighting, and his men would always fight like dremora to keep him safe.

"When we go through Riverwood, Palatina, If it isn't a bother, I hope you don't mind detaching a group of men to guard against stragglers, shirkers and thieves, what?" Parvo's face spasmed. "I fear the idea of an open town full of warm mead and soft women will rather appeal to the men, don't you agree?"

Caepio nodded, he completely agreed. Who wouldn't? He was still disappointed though. Palatina would be given free reign to steal anything he could get his hands on, not that he would. The clockmaker was too much of a good person to do that. Unlike many pious people though, Luther didn't hold others to his standards. His men would leave the town with mead and cheese, gold and bread, anything they could fit into pockets. It's bloody unfair?

"Here's the town. Up ahead. Gallerius, be a dear would you, and straighten up the line. Don't want to stroll through the city looking like beggars, what?" With that, Knight Errant Parvo spurred off.

"Felonius?" the voice came from behind.

"What?"

"I bet his name is Felonius. He looks like a Felonius doesn't he?" It was Musketeer Praxus Ottus. There had been a pool in the company that would go to whoever could get Parvo's name. Most of the men had known him for over two years, but not a one knew his given name.

"It's not Felonius."

Just outside the walls of Riverwood the column was halted, jackets were buttoned, rags and corks were removed from muskets and the men were reformed. They marched into the town from it's western gate, and then it would be a short road to the eastern gate that opened into a great, thick pine forest, and the enemy beyond.

The people of Riverwood glared silently at the muddy and threadbare line of soldiers. Silent hatred stared out from shuttered windows and down alley ways. Their town had gone from back road country town to Imperial strong hold in the past five months. The populous had grown tired of the drunken soldiers and curfews. Caepio could just sense the Nord civilians waited and hoped for that final breakthrough, that would send the legions running to Cyrodiil with their tails between their legs.

A gun boomed outside of town. Then a second and a third. Windows rattled in their frames with each thump. Musketry crackled violently on the cold night wind. Gallerius' eyes rested on a pretty young Nordic girl. Eighteen or nineteen at the oldest, blond pigtails and a light blue corseted dress. His eyes met hers and she glared, her beautiful sapphire eyes filled with hatred at the Centurion and everything he represented. Caepio looked down.

The eastern gatehouse loomed large in the darkness, silhouetted black against a navy blue sky.

"Alright Palatina, you can have your men bring up the rear if it's ok with you, what? Caepio, bring your misguided children up here." Parvo had suddenly appeared seemingly out of thin air. He looked down off his horse at Gallerius before pointing with his mangled, two fingered hand out the open gate.

"Out that gate is a road. The road enters the woods after three hundred yards or so. The Akavirs are out there, somewhere, as are the Wolves?" Parvo paused as a shattering volley sounded in the woods, lighting up the deep thick pines in red light for only an instant. "You'll be the vanguard, the tip of the spear so to speak. I need you to go in there and link up with one of the Akavirs and then send a runner back so we can move the pikemen in."

The Akavirs were the tenth and fourteenth legions. They held the battle honors for that disastrous expedition. Even though it was a defeat, the fourteenth and especially the tenth relished the noble history. Both legions wore reed green doublets, black breeches, and green stockings. Colors, that mixed with the flat grey of Gromm's wolves, would be impossible to make out in the dark.

Bloody night battles?

"Men, prepare muskets, check matches and blades! Make sure everything is tight, I don't want to hear any rattling. Leave your haversacks and snapsacks here. Top off canteens, no wine. You have ten minutes. No wine! Daenlin, parade them in fifteen." Caepio said loudly. Already some of the musketeers uncorking the small wooden drums that served as canteens, to down as much wine or mead as they could before refilling with water. Certainly some of them would be drunk by the time the ominous pine trees closed in.

"Caepio?you need to come here!" Daenlin's voice sounded worried. With his musket and rest in one hand, and his brimmed helmet in the other, the centurion jogged past his men. After some looking, he found his Bosmer Optio standing near a doorway. Antoine Velaine was against the door, sleeping.

"You called me over here for this?" Gallerius angrily. He turned and was about to kick the Breton to wake him from the alcohol induced sleep when he saw the fear in the Bosmers eyes.

"He's dead?"

Gallerius looked again and saw that it was true. The Breton's skin was pale and pulled tight against his face. His eyes were half open and glazed over. Velain had taken a ball in the shoulder at the fight in the farmhouse nearly three days ago.

"Stupid bastard." Caepio said under his breath. "You stupid proud bastard!" he shouted at the face of the dead man. In the flicker of a streetlamp he could see the blood shimmering on the black cloth of his doublet. Velain had marched for two and a half days, bleeding and suffering the injury the whole time. He had taken the repeated hammering of the musket's recoil directly in his wounded shoulder all evening, preferring to say nothing rather than burden his friends with caring for him. The bastard had even died in a quiet alcove, away from everyone else.

"It must have hurt like the devil, firing on a wounded shoulder?"Daenlin stated the obvious, preferring saying anything to the silence.

"Stupid, selfish, proud bastard?" Caepio muttered. Velains death was hanging heavy on the Centurion. It was his fault or not seeing the blood and forcing the Breton to receive help. There was no way to see it. Everyone was wet and muddy, dark red on black? No way you could have known? It didn't matter, this was just another mark of failure for the Imperial.

The fifteen minutes flew by for Caepio, he spent most of the time in the bottom of a canteen of mead. When Daenlin called him over to inspect the men, he barely looked at them. He didn't need to, both the Musketeers and his Optio did their job.

"Shoulder Matchlocks. Left face. Forward thirty paces. Halt. The company will wheel to it's right, right wheel. Halt. Front. Stand right in your files, make even your ranks." each command came automatic and unemotional from Caepio, as he moved his men through the gatehouse and formed them into a line in the grassy plains outside. Even if you did see, there is no way he would have accepted your help. He knew that anyone helping him would mean two or three muskets taken out of the firing line? "Files open to your skirmish order."

A body moved out of line and stood next to the centurion. Together the two men stood outside the walls of Riverwood, watching the constant flashing of muskets that cast weird and twisted shadows in the far woods. The staccato of musketry sounded ominous and angry.

"Caepio, it was a pleasure to have known you." Palatina's voice was soft next to him. There was a terror in his eyes that Gallerius had never seen before. The soft red and yellow strobe lights of the light of thousands of muskets firing in the far wood cast weird shadows on his friends face.

"You too, Luther. An honest pleasure." the Centurion looked over to his friend, and the two shook hands as a cannon thundered deep in the woods. A constant snow of pine needles floated to the ground, a visible reminder of the hundreds upon hundreds of invisible lead balls that flicked through the undergrowth.

"Well, lets get to work..."

"Talos' Own, forward!"

Absolutely brilliant, lol! I'm actually worried about the fate of your characters, which means you've gotten me to care about them too, haven't had that feeling when reading a story in a long time. My only gripes are minor spelling an grammatical errors. Keep up the awesome story telling! I want to read more!

Chapter 7: the dark black of the forest
The hollow cracks and pops of matchlocks echoed weirdly in the woods. It always amused Caepio the way surroundings changed the sound of a musket. In a city it was a loud boom that rang the shooters ears, in an open field it was a sudden pop, and then gone, in forests it was a crack that would hang in the air for close to ten seconds.

And now, in the forest, the air seemed to be literally dripping with death. A cannon thundered, sending a roundshot through three large tree trunks, causing them to come crashing to the ground. The screams and cries of those caught beneath it turned into whimpers as the men lay crushed and dying in the thorny branches.

"Ionith! Ionith!" The battle cry of the Akavirs pierced everything else. A huge rumbling crash of branches as hundreds of men ran through the undergrowth. A shattering volley. Nordic voices could be heard, shouting in their strange guttural language.

Long, lonesome cries filled the piney dark as the men of Gromm's regiment imitated the howling of the wolves that gave them their name. It was a terrifying sound.

"No one fires! Stay together!" Palatina shouted. The musketeers of talos' own would have one volley before they reverted to their long thin rapiers.

"I'm one, you're two"

"I'm two you're three"

"I'm three, you're four"

The whispered sounds of men came down the line. It was the only way to tell if the long spaced out skirmish line stayed together. Caepio's eyes were wide open now as he tried to see anything in the dark black of the forest. Powder smoke hung thick in the air, looking like an eerie, otherworldly fog.

Movements in the dark, shadows darting around. Caepio dropped instantly to one knee. A musket flamed ahead, lighting up in red a man standing no more than ten feet in front of the centurion, the color of his uniform was impossible to tell. He was aiming at something to Gallerius' left.

"Ionith!" Caepio shouted, hoping it was one of the Akavirs. Silence. Small taps of a ramrod being used. Breathing.

"Ionith!" Gallerius shouted again. Flame shot red, a ball whistled and smacked into a tree, sending splinters and sap to rattle against Gallerius' face. More muskets hammered, this time from behind. Screams in the night. Silence.

More movement. Even through the slow tingling of drunkenness that was starting to dull the centurions senses he could feel terror. Everything inside him wanted to turn around, and go back to the safety of Riverwood.

Whispers could be heard from ahead, carried on the breeze. They were impossible to make out. A series of metallic clicks. Red dots of glowing match chords floated like will-o'-the-wisps.

"Talos' Own! Give Fire!" The volley hammered in the dark night, giving just enough light to show a group of huddled figures thirty yards ahead. The men responded with a volley of their own. Bullets smacked dully into trees and branches.

"Draw swords, prepare to charge!" Gallerius dropped his of musket and forkette to draw the fat bladed schianova. Other blades rasped free of scabbards. "Charge!" Screams broke the night air as the ragged line ran forward, crashing through the undergrowth. A branch speared into Gallerius' arm, halting him for a moment. He could feel blood drip down to his wrist. Bodies rushed past, screaming their war cries.

"Ionith! Ionith!" Came the sound from ahead. Oh, gods?they are akavirs!

"Halt! Stop! We're friends! Friends! Talos' own!" It was too late, steel crashed on steel as the two lines engaged. Gallerius heard a guttural shout in Nordic right behind him. They're behind us! He turned to see a large shape stomping through the bushes. With a flicker of reflected steel Gallerius speared is shianova out to bury it in the chest of the man. The blade sunk up to the hilt, and blood splashed thick and hot across the centurion's chest. He could see the sparkle of wide eyes just before the body fell back and against a pine tree. A musket banged.

"Long live the dragon born!"

"Gods forgive me!"

"Ionith!"

"Friends! Friends! Cease fire!"

The howls of wolves signaled a new attack. A shot exploded no more than two feet from Gallerius' ear. A ringing sound filled the world to drown out anything else. A new set of voices rose in song as the crashing and snapping of tree limbs came from the distance.

"Souls of our fathers, suffer deeply,
For you have led us to the dark time,
When our own souls, filled with air,
Allowed ignorance and villainy to thrive"

The mournful song was sung angrily.

"Glenumbra, give fire!" A splintering volley lit up the woods to show a mass of men rolling around, punching, hacking and kicking at each other.

More bodies stormed into view, all holding shortswords and rapiers. Gallerius, still stunned from the close shot tried to stand, but fell back down again. He could feel blood trickle from his right ear. His head spun, he was dizzy. The singing continued more ragged this time as the men panted, running ever closer.

"In what used to be our land.
Howl, ancestors, howl and bring us
Memories of our conformance with evil.
We do anything we can to survive,"

Gallerius rolled onto his side, and meekly began to paw at the ground, searching for his dropped sword. He could feel pine needles and wet ground. His hand curled around something wooden. It must be a forkette, one of the hooked staves that a soldier rested his heavy musket on to fire.

"Giving up our minds and hearts and bodies
We will not fight, and we will be torn
And like flotsam in a whirling tide"

Another shape was in front of him, the moons reflecting their light on the naked sword blade in his hand. With a grunt, Caepio swung the wooden staff with all his might and felt it connect. A yelp of pain. The body collapsed in front of him. Gallerius was on the man in a flash. Punching down to smack flat against bare skin and cloth. He could feel the man's breath hot in his face. It stank of mead, fish and tobacco.

"Bastard!" the shape spat the insult before it smacked it's fingers against Caepio's face, the man was trying to find his neck. He bit down hard on a finger that touched his lips. Blood poured like wine into the centurions mouth. The man screamed and hammered a fist up that flashed white stars across his sight.

Reaching down he could feel hair, then the hollow of an eye socket. With his thumb he dug in hard and felt a wet pop. The man screamed aloud in pain and fear. More punches sent white dots across Gallerius' vision. He heard a grinding snap as his nose was broken.

"Long live the Dragon born!" Gallerius screamed the warcry of his regiment, hoping the phrase would give him strength. A wooden rod brushed past his face before fire exploded in front of him. The report of the Matchlock was deafening. The hands on his face spasmed, digging their uncut nails deep into his cheeks before going limp. A hand on Caepio's shoulder.

He whirled around, ready for violence.

"Ionith!" Came the surprised yelp. It was an akavir? He could feel two strong hands lift him to his feet.

"God-damn, but I didn't know they let the emperors pets get into real scraps." the man said in an exhausted happiness that only victory could bring on.

"We've been looking for you, how many are they're?" Gallerius' hands shook from the aderneline, h was breathing heavy.

"Gods know, It's a nightmare in here, we've got the remnants of three or four different legions in this mess. Good to see you mate."

"Yea, you too. You and your men wait here, I've got to send someone back to get the rest?" Gallerius stopped mid sentence. During the chaos of the battle he had lost track of which way was which. He scanned the trees in every direction but saw nothing. Damn.

"I wouldn't worry about it mate, most likely you'll just wind up lost. We're holding as well as can be expected. Just sit tight here and we'll wait for old Hrolf to get bored?"

Just finished the lastest chapter and i am definitely excited to see this as a rp

RP will be up by this weekend. Storyline to be announced. The RP will however follow the men of Luther Palatina's Century. Start thinking of characters within the 1st legion.

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Chapter 8: The last chapter



Epilogue
The counterattack in Agata's woods was the final blow for the advancing Nord army. Spread thin from their initial attack on the imperial left and center, the Dragon-bane threw his last reserves into the piney deep. Initially his men did well, shattering the men of the third legion and driving a deep pocket into the Emperors lines, but with the few men that he had left, it was a tenuous hold at best. After both Gromm's wolves and the Glenumbria Legion were ejected, Hrolf was forced to accept defeat. The fifteen guns and six thousand infantry under Bjorn the Unwavering that could have turned the tide in favor of the northmen were stuck in the mud of the road, nine miles away.

During the night of 16-17 Sun's Dusk, the Nordic army withdrew to the Jorunder Pass three miles north of Riverwood. That is where the front lines stagnated and both sides rested for the next season of war.

The emperor, Corvus II sent repeated messengers to Jorunder pass calling for a truce, but each one was rejected and their heads sent back to court. It was a grave insult, but not one that the Emperor had the ability to punish.

The war in Skyrim raged on for another fifty years, eventually drawing in the provinces of Highrock, Hammerfell, and Morrowind. A final and uneasy peace was signed on 5E 458. The empire gained the territory within the Falkreath, Whiterun, Riften triangle. It came at the cost of nearly a billion septims and the lives of 1,589,367 soldiers on all sides. As a conciliation, the Emperor Pelagius VI erected an obelisk commemorating the dead just east of Riverwood. The monument soon becomes vandalized and forgotten. It's destroyed by an avalanche in 5E 532. It was never rebuilt.

Hrolf Dragon-Bane continued to fight the Imperials for the rest of his life. His daring and innovation won him acclaim at home and abroad. In his later years he began to suffer a series of defeats that threw him into a deep depression. Still, he commanded each and every battle until his death in 5E 437 when he fell from a horse during a ride through the countryside of Amol. He remains one of Skyrim's most beloved heroes.

Optio Daenlin left the army in 5E 435 after the second battle of Whiterun. He returned to the imperial City to open up a bookstore. His business did remarkably well, and he became moderately wealthy. He died defending against an attempted robbery in 5E 457. He was survived by a wife a two daughters.

Musketter Ottus went on to great glory. He regained his lost promotion, and then made the unlikely jump from Centurion to Knight in 5E 439 after the third battle of Whiterun. He died during the second battle of Laintar Dale in 5E 441, at the front of his Legion, leading them into the breach in the city walls. A statue of him stands in the public park of his hometown of Aleswell, where his accomplishments are quickly forgotten.

Though Caepio would never know it, the Nord he killed in the piney dark was one of his own, Skjol the fair. His body was found the next morning and sent back to his family in Granite Hall where he was burned on a pyre with honors.

Knight Errant Parvo went on to a moderately successful political carreer. He joined the Elder Council in 5E 436. He was a vocal opponent of Emperor Corvus II until he died mysteriously in 5E 440. His death was attributed to a severe case of syphilis. His birth name was Kirsten. No one in the 1st Legion ever won the bet.

Luther Palatina was wounded in the left leg at Riverwood. He recovered and returned to his legion where he remained until the battle of Grey Barrow 5E 435. He took a pike to the hip, the bone broke, and the marrow poisoned his blood. The wound grew infected and both his legs were amputated at the hip. He spent the remainder of his life in Skingrad begging for change. He died on the streets in 5E 445, frozen to death by an early winter that he said 'reminded him of Whiterun'.

Gallerius Caepio's letter never reached his fianc?e. The assembly he wrote about was for a patrol. He was shot in the stomach and bled to death in a drainage ditch just south of the farmhouse he had defended so fiercely. The letter was buried with his body in a mass grave just outside of Riverwood. It's marked with a small stone that reads 'Known only to Arkay'. He was twenty-five

Wow, can't wait for the RP, you are a great storyteller

:huh: :bowdown:

You sir, are an amazing story teller. Glad you're not afraid to get your hands dirty. It was all so friggin' awesome! The Epilogue gave me more chills than the whole story, though.

EDIT: Oh, one little nitpick though, you appear to have 2 chapter 7's, lol! But if chapter 7 is a 2 parter, NVM

Thanks guys, I appreciate the compliments. You must forgive some general carelessness and spelling errors. Thx for pointing out the double chapter 7s. I actually hadn't caught that before.