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ImmortalBlood Timeline presents:

The Darkmoth Retreat

The Summerset-Empire War was one of the worst military disasters of the Empire. With no Emperor not only did the Third Empire of Man failed to regain control of Summerset Isle; according to the Treaty of Anvil that ended the bloody conflict, Valenwood was to pass under Altmeri control as well, marking the rebirth of the Aldmeri Dominion. Taking the cue, the Ra Gada of Hammerfell rose up as well, and though the initial part of the war was unsuccessful, the Roaring Walls of Sentinel soon proved themselves more than capable of bringing the exhausted Legion to a halt. The tide of war turned, soon becoming a serious strain on the Empire's already limited resources, prompting another disaster for the Empire ? the Elsweyr Retreat.

Though the loss of Hammerfell was an obvious sign that the Empire had lost its dominating position, the Elsweyr Retreat before that was perhaps an even greater blow to the Legion's prestige ? in the face of the Dominion's unprovoked invasion, the Elder Council called for a full-scale retreat and evacuation of the province. The Empire's hold over the south of Elsweyr was already very weak; it took only the news of this new turn of events to spark a rebellion, encouraged further by the successes of the Ra Gada and the Dominion beforehand. Spreading like a wildfire through the whole province, this new rebellion soon made the situation in Elsweyr even more uncertain.

As the numbers of the nomads and bandits roaming the deserts of central Elsweyr swell and as the south prepares itself for a full-scale war against two colossal forces, orders to retreat reach Fort Darkmoth ? a small outpost north-west of the town of Heimthor, sitting on the other bank of Xylo river. Not being a place of much importance it was one of the last to receive the orders to withdraw and avoid the larger settlements; however, little does anyone in the fort know that these commands have reached them a touch too late.

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http://www.majhost.com/gallery/Anticlere/Timeline/starting_area.jpg

You are to RP someone in Fort Darkmoth, be it a soldier, a healer, a prisoner, a traveller passing by or whatever else you can think of that'd make sense; of course I would ask for common sense equipment-wise (say if you're a prisoner you're not really supposed to have anything else than prison rags on your person) and that a bit more emphasis will be put on vital supplies in this RP, given the setting. Be warned too that I'd prefer it if superhero action types were avoided, since this is for the most part about realistic people in the service of the Legion; super uber adventurers wouldn't have much to do in a backwater fort designed to provide supplies for soldiers travelling to Torval.

On another note, since obviously not everyone will be talking the same language I'll ask that any languages asides from Colovian (which is what we'll speak amongst ourselves) would be underlined.

Obviously you aren't required to have been part of the Timeline previously, nor is any great knowledge of the events in SoS or QW needed to join; all that needs to be known is up there in the OP.


Usual RP rules apply, the first and foremost being: use common sense. That's where all the other rules stem from; ones that I don't think need be listed. Also I'd encourage people to look at the TES races in a different light than just cookie cutter stereotypes out of the games providing some bonuses and some drawbacks; it does sound like a given but quite a good bit of interesting stuff could crop up given the environment this is set in and some stuff could be overlooked, like say the Bosmeri-Khajiiti hatred.

Character sheet template:

Name:
Race:
Age:
Birthsign:

Physical Description:

Role in the Fort:

History:

Weapons: (Legion soldiers are expected to have an Imperial Legion broadsword in addition to whatever other more role-specific weapons they may have (usually not too great quality, we're talking mass-produced stuff here for the most part), non-combat personnel ? shortsword)
Clothing/Armour: (if prisoner then rags; Imperial Legion non-combat personnel have to wear a dark blue tunic with a dark red Septim Dragon and the Legion belt; Legion soldiers are to wear either Imperial http://www.uesp.net/w/images/images.new/b/b6/MW_Armor_ImperialChainM.jpg or Imperial http://www.uesp.net/w/images/images.new/f/fe/MW_Armor_ImperialStuddedLeatherM.jpg depending on their rank, and the belt)

Misc. Items:


Locations:
http://www.majhost.com/gallery/Anticlere/Timeline/fort.jpg - A supply spot for Imperial Legion troops moving down river, built to accomodate some 300 troops but currently undermanned, the garrison being composed of only around 80 men.

Dramatis Personae:
Arvan Andarys (Jail keeper) ?Dres
Artois de Metz (Soldier) ?Person from Anticlere
Eleri ferch Rhodri (Healer) ?Verlox
Farin Hlaalu (Travelling cartographer) ?Evil_pigeon
Farus Trebonius (Soldier) ?BladeMaster07
Cephas Helva (Errand boy) ?Marn
Bartolome (Soldier) ?heldwyn
Dovinnius Hirnonen (Soldier) ?Lord Dren
Custer Penforth (Paperwork stuff) -Atomic
Ashirra (Translator (AKA Religious Daniel Jackson)) -Alakata

(And yes, that colon in the subtitle is a mistake. One that I missed of course >.>)

Fort Darkmoth

The sun had set a few hours ago, shrouding all of Elsweyr in the thick darkness. Fort Darkmoth was no different - only flickering torchlight of the Legionnaires working on the supplies or patrolling the walls provided light, since not even stars went through the clouds gathering above the fort on this rather horrible night. Flashes of lightning could be seen further south - a great storm was comming, nature preparing to pound again on Elsweyr. By know the garrison of the fort knew what to expect from Elsweyric storms, so everyone was in a hurry to finish up their work before the blow landed.

The commander of the fort, Knight Errant Junius Grakhus, had only today received the orders that called for a withdrawal of all Imperial forces from Elsweyr, so he was in a hurry to leave. Supplies would have to be packed overnight if his goal was to be reached and the fort abbandoned tommorrow. Only luck had kept Darkmoth intact for now - though raiding parties roamed the lands from Xylo river to Valenwood with worrying frequency they seemed to steer clear of the only still functional Imperial fortress along the river, doubtlessly because the Dominion was unaware of Darkmoth's sorry state. Junius wasn't willing to rely on luck any longer, having been planning the retreat to Heimthor if no news came in the course of the week.

The orders that came, though, weren't only relieving - that they were to avoid any larger settlements due to Khajiiti uprisings was unnerving and meant the trip could get dangerous and very difficult. Covering a long distance through the jungle that spread here from Valenwood would not be easy and definately not safe, even for a group of some eigthy soldiers; Junius was worried, as, likely, was the rest of the fort - they would be putting their lives into great danger during this voyage, though there didn't seem to be a way to avoid the hardships of such a trip, asides from surrendering to either the Dominion or the Khajiiti rebels, which would've only resulted in even greater danger.

What they didn't know, however, was that their trip would start sooner than anticipated.

The sentries in the towers couldn't see the gentle swaying of the bushes, nor could they hear the silent rustling as many men moved through the jungle, taking up positions around the fort. Oblivion itself would soon rain on the unsuspecting garrison of Darkmoth...

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BANG.

A large thunderclap boomed in the distance, startling Arvan. He was never one to take shocks well, and the current conditions that he was in further enhanced this. With the orders to retreat coming through, Arvan had been ordered to pack all of his belongings and organise the prisoners for the fall-back. His heart racing, Arvan was shooting between the jail cells, the jail entry office and his chambers, off to the left of the office in a dark, cramped room with a roof so low a Bosmer could not stand on his bed without whacking themselves, attempting to both pack his bags, prepare his uniform and keep check on the prisoners who were in a state of unrest without a clue as to the situation. Of course Arvan planned to tell them - in fact they'd most likely suspect what was going on if they were marched out of the city gates at a rapid pace - but right now it was not the main factor in his always clouded thoughts.

Arvan was always paranoid about his belongings; he was the kind of guy who would leave this house and check himself 40 times over for the keys. And being hurried around was never something which filled him with joy. Of course he had his water and food, and a map, some survival tools like a hunting knife, his blade, his broadsword, his stick, healing potions, disease potions, keys, skooma...suddenly he stopped, shocked in realisation. This was a large scale retreat; 80 men, with prisoners, marching as one with no time to stop and no time for a quick puff. He brought his hands down on the table with a crash, sending the bottles, books and other assorted, seldom used or moved clutter that rested upon it toppling over and onto the floor. He knew then that he couldn't take the skooma with him. If he was caught, heaven forbid what would happen. He knew his life was more important than his drugs; but he also knew all too well the problems caused by not taking these products for long periods of time. He slumped into his chair, memories of Migraines, Illness and Voices willing him to take that extra bit more filling his brain...

"ANDARYS!" Arvan was pelted from his mental nightmare back into the nightmare of his current situation with astounding accuracy. "I said i wanted those prisoners up here in 10! Get a move on!" Arvan rolled his eyes, before slapping his hands against the table and pushing himself to his feet. He grabbed his bag and searched through it multiple times. When he was satisfied with the contents, he slung his bag over his shoulder, slipped his dagger and broadsword into his belt, and pulled out his skooma vial and his small package of moon sugar. Although his heart battered against his brain, logic won, and he placed the moon sugar in the wooden skooma pipe and dropped it to the floor. Then, though he had to shut his eyes to pull it off, he brought the metal sole of his boot onto the pipe, crunching wood. He stomped more and more until the moon sugar was too scattered to be picked up and the skooma was seeping from the tiles into the cracks in the floor. Satisfied, he marched over to the cells, attempting to think only of the job at hand.

The Khajiti prisoners greeted him with puzzled looks, their faces a show of emotions both interested and scared. "What is going on here?" Came a voice. Another piped up: "Tell us Dunmer, what foul play is this?" Arvan breathed in deeply and let out a sigh before answering in broken Khajit.
"Look, the order has been given to retreat from Elswyr. Apparently some kind of rebellion. The Khajit heard of the success of the Dominion and it seems they have tried their hand at driving out the Empire." The news was greeted first by shock, then by joy. Arvan couldn't tell if it was happiness at their country's revolt, or self-interest with a chance to escape, but he didn't want to know. All he knew was that he wasn't going to tie these up without help. He leaned back so his head was in the office and called for a guard out of the open dungeon trapdoor. A minute later a fresh faced young Imperial came speeding in, his legs tangling causing him to nearly trip down the stairs as he ran towards Arvan. He stopped, panting, his words coming out broken up by large intakes and outages of breath.
"I...was sent....guard....some prisoners....reporting". Arvan raised his eyebrow's at the young mans eagerness. As a youngster he had never had such desire - perhaps that was why he was in the situation he was in now and not selling muck and frost salts to crazy Telvanni sorcerers at extortionate prices. Nevertheless he needed a hand and he rather a spirited youngster than a withering old man.
"Just watch them will you." Said Arvan nodding to the prisoners. The young legionnaire nodded back and drew his sword, occasionally flashing it at any unruly prisoners. Once the prisoners were safely chained to each other, Arvan grabbed the front man by the arm in a tight grip and led them up out of the dungeon into the fresh Elswyr air, unaware of what was about to happen.

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OOC: I know not many have started yet but i just wanted an opening for my character before the ensuing trouble.

OOC
Character sheet


Name: Farin Hlaalu

Race: Dunmer

Gender: Male

Age: 23 (apparent)

Birthsign: The Steed

Physical description:
At 5,9' Farin isn't unusually tall, nor is he very bulky, being thin and wiry though surprisingly fit and healthy thanks to his rambling hikes that take him all across Cyrodil. In fact on first impression alone, its quite difficult to tell that the rugged, floppy haired Dunmer is an academic though that can quickly become obvious through conversation. He often appears thoughtful and is prone to a dire lack of observation of his surrounds.

Bio History:
Farin was born the son of a minor Hlaalu noble on Vvardenfell, from early age the course of his life was rigorously controlled by overbearing and ambitious parents who saw their infant son as a ticket to the higher ranks of their House, whether or not the young boy liked the idea. To this end, Farin was dragged from an unusually early age into education. This education was wide, focusing on more practical arts such as combat, negotiation, magic even some elements of stealth. This regimen was designed to mould Farin into a perfect house member; brave, cunning, shrewd. The mix wasn't complete however and Farin 's parents decided to add another trait to the mix, to set their son above the competition. A working knowledge of history, geography and other scholastic subjects which, they believed separated the nobility from the peasantry.

In reality, Farin didn't shape up to his parent's expectations, as he missed out on many of the social aspects required to become a high ranking member of House Hlaalu whilst he was closeted away studying. The studies themselves didn't go that well either as Farin proved himself an unexceptional diplomat and soldier (he is both uncomfortable in armour and a terrible shot, as well as being far too antisocial for a life of politics). His parents were disappointed with the outcome of their training and, at 18 when Farin came of age, he was sent away from his family to live in Cyrodil on a small monthly fund so that his parents could concentrate on raising his younger sibling.

Farin flourished in Cyrodil, thanks to his education he was a prime candidate for the Imperial guild of Cartographers which was always in need of naive educated young men to send out into the wilds of Tamriel to collect data for the more senior members of the guild.

About the character:
Farin is a bookish, introverted man. He is often nervous when engaged in meaningful conversation, though this is partially due to a very mechanical training in the art of conversation which doesn't really apply to life. However, when he gets onto a subject he knows about (for example the geography of Cyrodil) he can talk the hind leg off a donkey. He enjoys his privacy though this extends being around people for extensive periods rather than conversing with them.

Part of Farin's love of Cartography comes from his love of the outdoors, one of the few things he gained from his weapons training as a child. He has been known to spend hours wandering the countryside, armed with his trusty sabre and a book for identifying flora and fauna. That said, he isn't much of an alchemist the rudiments from his youth, as well as some simple illusion spells that have come in handy. Though his early weapons training proved fruitless Farin has flourished as a swordsman since coming to Cyrodil ? practice makes perfect.

Weapons:
Farin favours a light steel fencing sabre, useful for dealing with small creatures and for hacking through thick undergrowth not for dealing with armed and armoured opponents. The weapon is too light to give much armour penetration or to be useful for blocking but allows for surprising speed on the offensive. Unfortuneately because the blade is so unusual, its quite difficult for Farin to make good use of other swords.

Armour/Clothing:
Farin is currently dressed in his travel gear. Which consists of a heavy coat over a tan tunic, trousers and some heavy boots.

Misc. Items:
Farin has managed to hold onto his family signet ring, and also carries a pencil, paper for sketching and recording descriptions of any odd flora and fauna.

Languages
Farin speaks Mer and Colovian but with a noticeable Vvardenfell accent


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IC
Farin


A flash of lightening in the distance; the bright bolt arced down into the distant jungle leaving a vivid streak across Farin's vision.
One...
Two...
Three...
Crracckk
The strikes were certainly getting closer to the fort. The lanky dark elf shivered; he hated lightening. Back in Morrowind it had been a rare occurrence but down here in the charged heat of the Southern jungles it seemed to be an almost weekly phenomenon and there was something about giant, blazing pillars of energy smashing into the ground that had him up all night counting.

It was quiet tonight and Farin was alone, save for the crackling of brazier, atop one of the fort's turrets. Normally there would've been a Legionaire up there with him but the troops were occupied tonight: Earlier today orders had arrived for the garrison to withdraw, Farin wasn't exactly sure where but he'd been relieved to find out they were moving. Darkmoth fort was almost in the middle of nowhere but even so news of the war had filtered through to the encampment and he was well aware that the Legion wasn't faring too well in Eleswyr.

Still, it was a pity that they hadn't been able to stay in the area longer. He was just starting to get to know the dense jungle that surrounded the fort, he'd only been out a few times, accompanying Legion scouts on their patrols of the river banks. He'd managed to sneak a few sketches along the way however and, thanks to a couple of interviews with some of the more experienced members of the garrison felt he had a pretty good idea of the layout of the land surrounding the fort, good enough at least for a rough map of the area to satisfy his employers upon returning to Cyrodil. He looked down upon the sleeping land on the far side of the fort's sandstone walls, trying to save this picture of the place in his mind, the never ending rolls of trees stretching to the horizon, they were almost identical and yet each completely unique and unlike any place he'd seen before on his travels. He breathed deeply, this was far better than the dreary house politics of his homeland.

There was a sudden commotion amongst the ant like soldiers far below in the flood lit courtyard, people started to scurry off in different directions and Farin could hear the murmurs of far off orders as sergeants brought their workforce to bear. To Farin's right, against the far side of the wall, nearest the gate a group of people trailed out of a building in neat rows. They were very different from the other figures that dotted the courtyard, their movement was fatigued and Farin could just make out a few tails swishing. The Prisoners were being moved.

Character Sheet:

Name: Dovinnius Hirnonen
Race: Imperial
Age: 33
Birthsign: The Steed

Physical Description: He stands at 6'2" with a typically broad Imperial chest, thick arms, buzz cutt dirty blonde hair, green eyes, and a strong curved chin.

Role in the Fort: Imperial Trooper

History: As a small child, Dovinnius alway knew he'd join the Legion. It's been in his family since the days of Tiber Septim, when his ancestors set the standard for the Hirnonen family bloodline. At the age of 18, Dovinnius joined the Imperial Legion and was first stationed at Fort Buckmoth. As soon as he achieved the rank of trooper, he requested a transfer to Fort Darkmoth and has been there ever since.

Weapons: Imperial Broadsword
Clothing/Armour: Imperial Steel cuirass, boots, pauldrons, with traditional purple Imperial skirt

Misc. Items: Leather flask

IC:

The news of retreat had only just reached Dovinnius. He had spent most of the evening patrolling the stone walk-ways with a fruitless report. His thumbs stuck under his belt as he glanced out into the night, watching strieks of cyan and white tear across the darkened skies. He yawned and headed back down to the barracks when an Imperial spearman coming out of the Temple shouted news of the withdrawal. In an instant, the courtyard was buzzing with nearly fifty to sixty soldiers, all mumbling to one another, gossiping and preparing for a retreat.
"Since when has Darkmoth ever retreated?" One soldier asked another. "I can't believe this! It's pitiful to think we can't stand and fight for a change." Another scowled with a frown.

Dovinnius found himself in an empty dark corridor--away from the ongoing shouts and rattling of old carts back and forth from the supply room to the gate. Retreat? From what? The Khajiit have long overwhelmed Imperial troops in the south. If we were going to retreat we should've done it long ago.

Fort Darkmoth

Lightning illuminated the wide open spaces beyond the fort, casting strange, stark shadows across the broken landscape. The menacing silhouettes of exotic flora were alien in the half-light: dancing, jumping, climbing, darting - but it was only shadow. There was nothing out there. There is nothing out there. Nothing will be out there. Cephas' boots went clack-clack with every step across the top of the wall. It was quiet (not silent, mind) but quiet between the lightning and thunder. Went it roared though, it roared. It was a primal orchestra in the vast gulfs of sky above: trombones and kettle-drums bursting across in a deep rumble, sharp viols and lighter horns howling in the gaps.

Below, barely visible in the twilight, the many Legion lackeys went to work packing away the supplies for the long trek back to Cyrodiil. Every now and then there would be a smattering of shouts, and a Legionary would have to lift back a sack of grain stowed into the wrong wagon. They don't understand how necessary it is to do it right, do they? At face value, this was a planned withdrawal, a tactical retreat. It didn't take a genius to recognize that this was flight, however - plain flight, running from some enemy. Somewhere out there, in the desert or the jungle (because it didn't really matter), there was something that wanted the Legion gone from Darkmoth. Such was the way of the world, in those days; there was always somebody that wanted to put Cephas out of a job.

The point, at the end of the day, was that the chain of command in the Legion was so mangled that for the past decade or so, men out in the desert moved and manoeuvred - but nobody ever told them why. The recruits, privates, grunts, troopers (call them what you will) never knew what was going on. That night, they didn't know either. It bothered Cephas. Something stirred deep inside him, he who was often tasked to leave the dreary, sun-baked fort more than the others. It wasn't right. Retreats should be better organized, planned in advance...

They'll have to work faster though, the man (only recently a man) thought. The vast granary at Fort Darkmoth was known amongst the frontier forts for its huge stores. Whatever didn't get taken along would be left to the enemy or burnt to waste. Ah, well. As soon as we leave this [censored] [censored] hole at the edge of Elsweyr, I'll be able to file for a transfer. He liked that thought. Where was Cygnus? His brother (of close enough age) had been transferred from the Deathshead Legion as well, but not to Fort Darkmoth, no. Their father Cephorus had hinted in letters that the transfer had been to Nibennium. Something more important than working as a simple grunt like Cephas.

Cephas managed one last look out into the distance. It was quiet and still: little wind. It was cold too. He disliked the darting shadows, but it was only the light. Grinding his teeth hard, he shrugged into a heavy great-coat and stepped inside the corner tower.

Wisps of thick smoke drifted through the air as the low, thrumming din of thunder could be heard outside. Custer sighed, taking another deep puff from his pipe followed by a quick sip of brandy from his glass. The room was scarcely lit, only the lone glimmering flames of the candle on the desk gave off any real visibility.

Blasted weather, blasted jungle, blasted heat he mumbled, showing an expression of clear disdain. Life at the fort had not treated him well, and he was not used to the humidity of the jungle, or the weather for that fact. He leant back as relaxing dreams of summers spent in Colovia swept through his mind. Oh, how he longed to be back there within Cyrodiil! This harsh land was no place for a semi-retired guardsman...especially one of his age.

A sharp rapping could be heard against the lofty oak door. Penforth put down his pipe and quickly finished off his drink in one final sip before answering with a gallant "Do come in then".

The door crept open to reveal a grunty-looking Nord. "Orders come through Penforth, get your pack together and finish up your reports before heading out. We need every man we can afford to help with packing the carts and supplies".

Custer nodded, dismissing the soldier with a smile and a wave...his hand cleaving through the thick blanket of pipe-smoke as it swept through the air. Indeed, word of tactical retreat had been travelling around the fort all day...so the news was old. The younger grunts saw no ill of such a decision, but Custer couldn't help but feel slightly worried. Indeed, his time in the legion had helped him build some degree of cynicism...but the sudden nature of the order had caught him slightly unsettled.

Rounding up the several reports laying on the desk and neatly ordering them together before putting on his boots and cloak, he quickly got up from his seat and followed the soldier, with only one thought going through his mind. Horrid time for an evacuation then, especially if things for whatever reason suddenly go pear-shaped..

OOC : crappy post I know but hopefully I'll RP a tad better when the action picks up :shrug:

IC:
Darkmoth, Granary

" Set the barrels so they don't roll Madison! I swear you have less common sense than a drunken Nord! No offense Torgir...." Bartolome trailed off. Madison and Torgir were arranging barrels of grain on a supply wagon, one of three that had been ordered filled by the end of the night. Oliver Madison, a wiry breton who was good with a sword but stupider than hell and Brennen Torgir, a reclusive Nord of decent stock and modest word toiled while pouring sacks of grain into barrels that would hold for the journey.

" You spose' we'll be meeting up with the fella's retreatin' north from Corinth?....Bartolome? Bartolome?" Bartolome had been pondering something else,...his deliberation interrupted by Madison's enthusiastic squeak. Bartolome knew something wasn't right, why had it taken so long for the Empire to order the retreat? Why would they recieve the orders just before a heavy storm. It seemed too suspiscious for everything to make sense but Bartolome dismissed it on paranoia. Telecus and Vaeran, two imperial soldiers were loading another wagon full of dried fruits and jerkies, ration supplies. Bartolome assisted Vaeran lift a sack of parched looking apples, slightly wrinkly into the wagon.

" Madison and Torgir, take a break. Cyrus and Daniel you're on!" Bartolome watched as the two rotated and Cyrus and Daniel, two Redguards worthy of wielding a sword took up the task with every complaint under their breath. Bartolome didn't mind the complaints, it was natural. Disobedience however, got people killed. That was definately something he was trying to avoid.

The storm could be heard booming in the distance, rain would fill the Xylo's banks and if it got bad enough debris floating down river could destroy wooden bridges and fill the easy crossings. Bartolome thought about how such a storm could possibly cut off a retreat, the idea fueled his paranoia, he was glad his squad didn't sense it, the men were lost in the rhythmic workings of their task and Bartolome was left sitting alone near the entrance of the granary staring out before a mist, something less than rain and not as thick as fog began to envelope the fort. Microscopic beads of water could be felt touching Bartolome's marble cheek. So, it would rain soon, the roads would be muddy in the morning the river swelled.

Dovinnius paced the length of the corridor-- his head lowered in deep thought and his thumbs once again tucked under his leather belt. It didn't make sense. Surely the battlemages would've predicted such a storm and suggested against a hasty retreat. The enemy wouldn't move through rain. To the best of his knowledge, Dovinnius was sure the Khajiit were similar to their very close feline house-cat cousins in fearing water. If not, wouldn't now be the perfect oppurtunity to strike? Whilst the fort held it's gates wide open. Wouldn't an unexpected storm make escape all the more difficult?

Dovinnius sat once again, finding his interest in the manner much too cumbersome for an already strained mind. With a decrease in manpower and a noticeable decline in livestock, he had more important matters to attend to.

In the courtyard the soldiers and workers remained busy with gathering supplies and tidying up Fort Darkmoth should they return. "Hey you, Trooper!" Someone called from amongst the crowd. Dovinnius spun in circles, feeling foolish for assuming the voice was directed at him. Only until he noticed a working waving frantically did he realize who it was to. Mouthing the words 'me' he pointed to himself half-confused.
The worker smiled and waved him over once more. Not thinking, Dovinnius paced towards the man, more lost and half-minded then with any actual thought. It was probably aonther dead chicken or a missing shovel. The peasants kept the lower ranks busy with these trivial tasks. Being civillians gave them an unofficial right to do and ask of them what they pleased. It was either comply or face an officer.

Darkmoth Courtyard

Bartolome was sitting on a battered crate, it emitted a rather expected creaking noise when he shifted his weight. The man actually wore his helmet for once, another product of his paranoia. He slightly eased his sword in and out of it's sheath, the square legion shield strapped to his back hung over the back of the crate, Bartolome never used it he would rather it block an unexpected strike or bolt to the back. He was decent with his sword.

Nothing really seemed right, the start of a misty rain while not too uncommon set an atmosphere. The officers, soldiers, civilians, and non military personel all scrambled throughout the courtyard while Bartolome's and two other Trooper's squads loaded the wagons with grain. Bartolome was no veteran, and even though he had been excited about combat before he knew for sure today was not one he wished to see combat.

The curtain walls wrapped around the granary and other buildings, even upon the walls sentries still wandered and stared blankly into the distance. A distance all of them would have to burden. The more Bartolome thought about it, the more he came to bare with the situation. The Xylo was rather close to the Valenwood border, now dominion territory and any rebels would be coming north, from the southern cities like Torval and Corinth.

Madison's question earlier led more likely to 'no'. If men were in Corinth, they would probably be dead. That is of course, if the danger was as imminent as the chain of command had led to believe. An eighty man garrison with according staff and supplies could hold Darkmoth until reinforcements arrived. There just weren't any.

Bartolome didn't want to die.

Fort Darkmoth

"...We'll be leaving for Dune in the morning, when the necessary supplies are packed. March on north along the river until we reach the river bend, then we try to reach Ein Meirvale. According to the orders it's still held by the Legion. Then it's the road from there, should be easier if we retreat with Meirvale's garrison. You'll be leading the rearguard, cover us from any Dominion troops..."

"Dominion, sir?" Artois interjected, causing Junius to raise his eyes up from the papers strewn about his table: maps, reports from nearby areas, letters from friends and colleagues and of course the large, highly official-looking letter with the orders to retreat and avoid the larger settlements of southern Elsweyr. "Sorry for interrupting, sir, but..?"

"Yes Artois, Dominion. I suspect they'll be hot on our tracks as soon as we get further away from the fort and their forward patrols spot us; at least for now they're our greatest worry. You may ask why leave then; many of the men are probably asking that question. This is only the very beginning - these raids are the tip of the iceberg. Some of the locals spread rumours of large Dominion forces amassing in the west... And guess who's on the front lines." Sighing, the Knight-Errant started digging around his papers, looking for something.

"There have been reports... People're fleeing further east, forest fires are getting more frequent; and they're not natural, else they wouldn't stop so easy. Means there's Altmer mages - the Bosmeri wouldn't touch the trees. I don't want to take any chances - if we come face to face with an archer platoon we're screwed, particularly if they're bringing mages along too. A group of eighty Legionnaires, half of whom are probably drunks or just simply incompetent... We have good men here and I don't want to take chances if their lives are at stake, but by the Nine if those few weren't here, I'd be setting fire to this fort myself. Where is the glory of the Legion... Our best are tied down in Hammerfell, and even they are failing against the rebel scum. Disgraceful..."

For a moment the pleasantly warm room of the fort's commander was silent. Artois could see Junius' lips move, however he didn't hear a sound comming out; probably the middle-aged commander was lamenting the sorry state of the Legion as he rummaged through the papers. Finally he pulled out a rough map of the surrounding areas, handing it to Artois along with several other papers, amongst them a envelope letter.

"Here, take those and keep them safe. You'll need them; this'll be one hell of a trip and if you fall behind with the rear or if something happens to me, you'll need some way to find Dune. In the envelope is your promotion to Champion, still unsigned; if you reach Dune alive, get someone to sign it, you'll need a higher ranking man than me. I was supposed to give you these a few weeks later when you were to leave Darkmoth officially, but if I die or get lost you won't be able to get these. If you die it won't matter; and if you pull through this, you'll deserve getting the promotion a week or so earlier. In fact I think everyone who survives this retreat will need a promotion... Not trying to jinx it - if you believe that nonsense - but there's not much to jinx anyway; this already looks quite doomed and we haven't even marched out yet. Of course if the ordrs got here bloody sooner we'd have moved out with Heimthor garrison, but of course 'there weren't any messengers available'... My ass. Now go check the men."

With a salute Artois left the warm solitude of the commander's office and proceeded down the twisting stairs. The fort was nearly empty, only a few scurrying around in search of something, likely some items they forgot; everyone else was in the courtyard, readying the supplies for the journey ahead. Despite the fact they had enough carriages and food in the fort, Artois doubted they'd be travelling comfortable - Dominion, rain, bad roads and the lack of certain supply spots up north along the river meant they'd be racing to reach Ein Meirvale before their food ran out - that is, if the city was still held by the Legion. If not, it'd be a strict diet for them until Dune - though as many carriages were filled as could be pulled and everyone were to take as much as they could carry without slowing themselves down too drastically, Artois was sceptical. Food would be lost along the way undoubtedly, so it didn't seem all that likely it'd last comfortably until Ein Meirvale.

Thunder boomed in the distance; the storm was getting ever closer. Likely it'd be upon them before sunrise and they'd have to cover the first day burdened by rain, which wasn't all that great in Artois' book - now they weren't as tired as they would soon be, which meant that if they waited until the rain passed they could put more distance between themselves and the fort. However, Junius was too worried that waiting any longer would mean that the surrounding lands would be crawling with even more Bosmeri than there were now.

"Can I help you?" Dovinnius asked. His mind was elsewhere but he let his face show nothing less then interest. "Yes. I'm missing some of my tools." the old man replied, eyeing the ground around them as if he'd looked over them. "And you want me to help you find them I suppose?" Dovinnius responded, now more irritated that the worker hadn't asked for assistance from one of the many other workers surrounding him. "Aye. Indeed. I wouldn't have asked ya if I didn't think you could handle it in a timely manner." the old man was reading his mind. He just wants a reliable hand.

"So can you help me young'n?" the worker asked. Dovinnius had only just noticed how hunched over and riddled with arthritus the man was. He suddenly felt pity for him. "S'ppose I can." he replied. "Where did you have 'em last?"
"Well if I knew that they wouldn't be missin' would they?"
"True. Well it'd help to have some sort of direction old man."
He chuckled to himself and reached a hand on Dovinnius' shoulder.
"You know. Now that I think about it, I did leave a few tools outside the walls this morning. On the northeast end."
"I'll go get them if you like."
"Naw, it's a rainy mess out there. Once we retreat you can run and grab them."
Dovinnius nodded and said, "If you say so. I didn't catch your name..."
"Alec. You can call me Alec."

Their shackles and chains jangling, the prisoners marched across the courtyard, with Arvan at the helm. His grip around the front Khajiti grew stronger as they approached the prison carts. Arvan knew perfectly well that Khajit prisoners running amok was the last thing this fort needed, and the front man was the key to this. The others could go nowhere but if he slipped, the other prisoners could follow; although most likely they would be caught, Arvan was taking no risks and he held tightly. The beast race at the helm muttered something loosely in Khajiti, but Arvan didn't understand; it was said quietly, and even if he had of heard it he most likely wouldn't of understood it with his loose grasp of the language.

Soon Arvan and his caravan of prisoners reached the prison carts. There was only one cart for 8 prisoners, and the cart itself wasn't in the best condition. The metal bars which would provide the living area for the prisoners for the foreseeable future clung loosely onto the rotting wooden cart base, and the floor of the carriage was hard wood with a few pieces of fabric laid out as "beds" - Arvan used that word with caution - and there was a small bucket in the corner for a toilet. The prisoners protection from the rain consisted of a piece of fabric the was hung across the roof and draqed over the sides, which it only half covered. It might stop the rain but it wasn't going to keep anyone warm. Nevertheless, it was a price to pay for being criminals. The easiest option would have been to just let them go, but there was a possibility they could tell others about the vulnerable state the fort was in; that's assuming they didn't already know of course. For all Arvan knew they could be out there right now, watching, waiting, contemplating the time to strike.

Arvan knew if they hit now the Fort would have no chance. But he also knew that dallying on his thoughts would get him nowhere. He motioned for the young guard to seize hold of the front prisoner while he took out his key set. He held keys to all the cells, his chamber, this cart and the dungeon itself. He offered a quick prayer to Saint Veloth that he would never need to unlock those cells again. If they got out of this mess he would most likely ask for a transfer to the Fort in Narsis. He didn't like the idea of working near his family on Vvardenfell but he also missed his kinsmen and at least working around the Hlaalu capital there would be Imperial-compliant Dunmer, no slavery and much more action than in this hole.

Arvan dismissed his thoughts for later. Right now he needed to make sure he had a body to go to Narsis with. He twisted the key in the lock until he heard a familiar click. He grasped the handle of the carriage, and, with some effort, pulled the large door open, then herded the prisoners in, who mumbled and groaned in Khajit as they scrambled up the steps. Once they were all safely inside, he swung the door in and put his back into shutting the rusty old piece of crap before relocking it. His paranoia made him check it was locked again before his mind could rest. He turned to the trooper and told him to get a driver, sending the young man scurrying off. Arvan turned away and slowly walked round to the front of the carriage, expecting the worst. Upon reaching the head of the carriage, he observed what would be his travelling area. There was a wooden bench which had a small wooden roof which jutted out and overhung the bench, which had just enough room for around 3 people, Arvan, the horse driver and possibly soldier to keep an eye on the prisoners. It looked very cramped and, although there was some tattered fabric to cover cold legs it didn't seem very comfortable. But Arvan would take a lack of comfort over painful death at the hands of Khajit claws.

Arvan placed his bag and broadsword on the seat and glanced around for any sign of anything at all to do. The only thing he could see were soldiers carrying food from the granary. Arvan shrugged - had nothing better to do - and was about to head over to help when he was approached by the same Legionnaire who had helped him watch the prisoners (in truth Arvan didn't even realise he had gone) but this time he was accompanied by a stocky yet burly-looking and muscled man who spoke in a gruff imperial accent. "I'm the driver," He said, motioning to the worn prison caravan. "And this Legionnaire says me and him are to accompany you on this caravan." Arvan rolled his eyes. Great, he thought to himself, weeks cramped up with these two, a thick little imperial and an over-eager young kid. This day just got worse and worse.

Penforth walked out into the biting air of night, and immediately felt a swelling and uneasy sense of dread. He looked out into the sky, the thunder of which was once a light hum had now become steadily more loud, and the surrounding land was shrouded in eerie shadow. It felt as if the fort, with its lights, was but a desperate lone candle trying to fend of the enveloping darkness...and the light was now beginning to run out.

Yes, time was of the essence.

He looked down from the battlements into the business of the courtyard. "Tactical" retreat my eye...this is unorganised chaos he murmured to himself, standing above the hustle and bustle with his arms crossed and his cape billowing into the air. Still, atleast the men were getting ready to leave....and thankfully too. The sooner they left the better, there was something frighteningly picturesque about the whole situation. Thunder...Darkness...it was like something out of an scary fairy-tale.

A hearty pat on the shoulder snapped Custer out of his paranoia and back into the reality of the situation. "'Scuse me sir, lend a hand with these barrels 'o butter then?". He turned to look an aged and ill-shaven peasant in the eye. He nodded, taking no effort to wipe the dismal grimness from his face.

"Yes yes, of course. These ones here?". He bent down and picked the barrel up by the handles protruding from each side, putting all his strength into his back to heave the mighty thing from the sun-bleached floor of the courtyard and onto the bed of the canvas-covered carriage.

"Jolly good then, now lets make haste. I fear that we musnt dally given the dire nature of the situation, wouldn't you agree? Go see if you can help somewhere else...I have you covered here, these barrels will be loaded by the time you get back".

Darkmoth, Courtyard

The night was setting in, the sun had set only just over an hour ago but the cloud cover obscured the starlight. The burning torches and braziers and small fires littered around the fort were the only thing keeping the place illuminated. It was a very dark night, unnaturally dark. Most soldiers wouldn't be paying attention to the details Bartolome saw, even some experienced soldiers wouldn't. Bartolome was uneasy, he'd only been in the legion for a short time and if he could see it. How couldn't his superiors?

Maybe they were hiding something from them, that had been a common case in many of the stories Bartolome had been told. His men now worked through their shifts, they knew something left him in unease and so when he took leave they said nothing.

Bartolome was in search of a single man, possibly the only one of his peers he could talk to, a fellow trooper. Dovinnius, a soldier, it was the way everyone described him, he was the perfect generalization of an imperial legion trooper. The thing that had always bothered Bartolome had been that Dovinnius had requested Darkmoth. Not only would his fellow trooper likely understand but if it came to a fight, the tall and steel clad imperial would be one to fight next to.

Bartolome kept his head low, the rim of his helmet slightly hid his face from the slight mist and he made little noise as he approached the trooper from behind, the man was speaking to an old civilian, Alec, an ancient farmer and attributerto the granary.

" Dovinnius?" the words escaped Bartolome's voice in little more than a whisper, but he knew the soldier had heard.

Dovinnius found it hard not to think of calm old Alec, not finding a single worry in the world. He envied his carelessness. Now tucked inside his armor as if to protect himself from the sudden chill that had swept over Darkmoth, Dovinnius contemplated heading back to the barracks for some hot tea and perhaps a nap by the window. Anything besides the cold busy courtyard.
As he turned to face the only clear path through the rattling old carts strolling by and shouting peasants, Dovinnius stopped suddenly at the faint call of his name. I must be insane.
For it seemed everyone wanted his attention on this night. Still, he turned to once again face the voice calling his name. This one however sounded somewhat familiar. He relaxed in his cuirass to see Bartolome, a young Imperial trooper from Cyrodiil standing before him, his head tilted low to the ground-- the rim of his helmet covering his face.
"Is something the matter Bartolome?" Dovinnius asked curiously.
What in Tiber Septim's name does he want?

" I'm sorry to bother you Dovinnius, its just....I must be going insane. We're all going insane." He crossed his arms to hide his already covered hands from the cold. " There is something rather odd about this night and it's not the retreat. I know there are others who could possibly feel the same way. The more I think about how royally cursed we are the worse it gets. I can't help but get the feeling we won't make it out alive, or we would not be ordered to retreat. I could only think of one man sensible enough to talk to of equal rank besides you and I can't find him. My squad has almost finished their task, six men. I'll keep them on their toes tonight, however if anything goes wrong on our journey I want you to know that we will fair better if we stick together. I will bring myself to you. I wish not to burden you with worrying about myself. I will find my way to you, wherever it is you and any men under your watch may be."

Bartolome spit to his left and looked up at Dovinnius, the man stood much taller than Bartolome. He could no doubt see worry in Bartolome's brown eyes.

So it's true. There are more skeptics then myself.
"As much as it displeases me to agree Bartolome, I've felt exactly the same since I left my post on the walk-way. It's odd to me that the Legion would retreat and let Dominion forces sink deeper into Elsweyr. It's odd to me that on this night of all nights we decide to retreat. If we had had time, wouldn't we have simply waited out the storm and left on the morrow? It feels like all sorts of wrong Bartolome. And you're absolutely right in wanting to stick close. Should the scat hit the fan I'd much rather be alongside men I can trust. Even as young as you are, you'd suit for a better comrade then these drunks. If something does happen and we're scattered, gather as many able-bodied men as you can. We'll have to push north alone. Thank-you for seeing me Bartolome. It's good to know there are some compitent youth left in this world." Dovinnius concluded, sticking his shivering hand out into the cold. It was rare for him to show even the slightest acknowledgement to the younger soldiers. Somehow this one had earned the right.
He's a good kid.

" Thank you Dovinnius, I appreciate it. I hope we're wrong. I hope to the nine that we are wrong. I think i'll head to the Barracks for some hot food, spiced wine, and some rest. I doubt i'll sleep tonight though. Goodnight and may you fair a better relaxation than I." Bartolome retreated, turning and heading right towards the Barracks, part of the general quarters and the main building. Some men who had done their ordered work had already found themselves in the double bunk area, rather nice for a Legion Barracks. The small garrison allowed the men to sleep well and keep the place rather clean. It would be ransacked by bandits, rebels or taken by the Dominion soon. No longer would Darkmoth be called home. Retreat to the Nibenay, Bravil or Leyawiin either would accomidate the Imperial Forces, border posts were no doubt fully garrisoned, especially Skingrad's.

Bartolome didn't want to think about it. He removed his helmet and unstrapped his shield, deciding to keep his sword and armor fully strapped in place. The small table and window would be the last watch of Darkmoth. The bowl of hot mush, oatmeal of sorts, steamed in front of him and a mug of hot wine for a cold night. He stirred around in his food before dozing off.

The thin worn covers lining his bed kept Dovinnius up for the better half of the night. That and the idea that a Khajiit could sneak up on him in his sleep and make work of the dagger lying under his pillow. If an attack occured could he truly rely on Bartolome so come to him. Dovinnius only held sway over two spearman and a recruit. One of them was a drunk and the other was greener than grass, having never seen combat. It was until a few hours before sunlight when Dovinnius finally put his worries at rest and drifted off to sleep. He dreamt of death.

Fort Darkmoth

As the night went on, the garrison began settling down for the night; bit by bit, soldier by soldier, the courtyard fell quiet. The supplies packed, everyone thought they had little else to worry about asides from the comming storm. Soon enough, the only people awake were the sentries and a few restless souls, Artois de Metz amongst them.

Something seemed off for the Breton; he had overheard mutters about how this night was particularly eery. He couldn't tell if this was because of the suspense or was this something more; however, nature itself seemed to have frozen in what was undoubtedly the quiet before the storm... Literally and figuratively. Flinching as thunder boomed again, even nearer, Artois frowned and leaned on the battlement. In his relatively short stay he had become accustomed to the fort; it was quite a sad feeling, knowing they'd leave it behind to fall apart tommorrow, even more so given the circuimstances.

Bloody hell, at least they'd bothered to get the orders to us faster, then we wouldn't have had to worry about much else than falling in with the Heimthor garrison... Sighing, the Agent was about to proceed to try and find himself somewhere more comfortable to sleep; however, just as he was turning to leave the spot on the wall, an arrow whizzed right past where his head had just been. Artois didn't have much time to look around in the dark to try and spot his assailant; several other arrows (apparently not as well-aimed as the first one, as they either hit the stone or flew somewhere more to the side) forced him to duck behind the battlements.

Another arrow flew by above. At first, Artois asumed it had been sent blindly at where he previously was; however, his oppinion was swiftly changed when it exploded as it was flying roughly above the granaries, illuminating the fort in a greenish light for a few moments, long enough for the hidden archers to unleash a better-aimed volley at the few soldiers on the walls than could've been made in the dark.

"ASSAULT! WE'RE UNDER ATTACK, ASSAULT!" Artois started yelling a touch too late. Though he wasn't very well-learned when it came to magick, he had no doubt that what he had just seen was a display of quite powerful Illusion magick; a pretty big clue on who was attacking them.

Blasted Dominion... The orders came too late.

With little to do, Arvan was tucking into a small meal, his last before the retreat where he would no doubt have little time for eating. It was a small dish, just some egg between a small bit of bread, but in his hungry state it felt like a banquet to Arvan. Beside him, sitting on a wine crate, was the young Legion, who was tucking into his yams. Arvan pulled a face of disgust. Horrid stuff he thought, how anyone can like it i don't know. Arvan turned away and took the final bite, finishing the lovely sandwich off before licking his fingers clean as he chewed the remnants that still clung in his mouth. Just then, he heard footsteps ahead. He looked up to see the horse driver approaching, bucket in hand. The bucket was water for the horses to drink from, which Arvan had requested hours ago; this man certainly took his time. "Finally." He said, rolling his eyes. Arvan got up and was about to move over to the man, when he heard a whooshing sound. Mere milliseconds after this sound had registered in Arvan's ears, an arrow thudded into the horse drivers head. He stood for a second, almost frozen in time, the same expression on his face as blood trickled across it, before his body fell limply to the ground.

"ATTACK!" Arvan yelled. Just then many more arrows thudded into the ground around Arvan. His instincts took hold and he dived behind the cart. Seconds later he was joined by the legionnaire, who had an expression of horror etched onto his face. Arvan ignored it; battle nerves. Arvan took a look over the cart, but had to lower his head as an arrow thudded into the wood by his face. The prisoners had hid in the corner where it seemed no arrow could hit them, but Arvan knew they could well have the whole place surrounded, in which case, they were out in the open. Just then a burst of light filled the night sky, and, like thunder follows the lightning, arrows rained down on the fort. Two peasants who had been caught in the open were hit. One of them was hit in the throat, and staggered round, his arms clenched around his neck in a vain attempt at stopping the unrelenting tide of blood. The other had been hit in the leg. He staggered towards cover, but as he was near to it, another arrow struck him in the back, sending him keeling over into the sandy floor and sending many a grain of sand upwards, floating into the air. It was then that Arvan realised they did have the fort surrounded, and glancing back, he knew that he was right in the open from behind.

"This is it!" He yelled, his thoughts escaping his head via his mouth. "We are going to die! We are all going to die!"

Farus had little to do that night while others were running around packing supplies and being irritable with each other. He was one of the unfortunate -- or fortunate if on was lazy-- ones to be put on sentry duty for the moment, and like his many sentry duties before, he was already slipping into a stupor. Off in the distance he could see flashes of lightning and a few seconds later a rumble of thunder met his ears, ominous and threatening the men of the fort.

His mind slowly wandered off, and the shouts of the agitated men organizing supplies were only a background noise as thunder continued to grow louder and the sleepy Farus gazed off into the black distance. The terrain below him was simply a blur in his peripherals, and any movement down there did not register in his sleep depraved mind.

A louder thunderclap finally shook him from his sleep stance and he sheepishly wiped the drool from the hand he had been leaning on on his pants and stood up straight, looking around to see if anyone saw him. He realized the fort had quieted down now, and he was grateful his shift was almost at an end, where he could curl up in a nice bed instead of standing on the hard breezy wall. He readjusted his sword belt, and began walking along to his left, looking out into the darkness to see a flash of light much closer now, followed by an even louder rumble.

He brought his hand to rub the dryness from his eyes, and almost poked it out when a bright flash of light startled him. It was green though. Lightning isn't green..... His mind struggled for a second, and only when a shout came from along the wall, "WE'RE UNDER ATTACK, ASSAULT!" and something struck the stone battlement a foot to his left did he finally catch up. Simple instinct saved him as he just dropped to the ground, rubbing his sore eye as he belly crawled to away from his position.

He loosened his sword in his sheath but kept it inside, using both hands to move quicker along the stone wall realizing he had forgotten about his shield, but dismissing it from his mind as he wanted to make it to the stairs and off the wall. He heard the sounds of more objects hitting the wall which he guessed were arrows as they simply "clinked" off the stone. One skipped off of the battlement and bounced off the stone a few feet from Farus. He swore quietly and kept on moving, his eye still watering from the nasty poke he had inadvertently given it.

Cephas Helva

Tick, tack, tick, tack. Cephas jolted out of his reverie, where he was leaning against the wall just inside the watch tower door. Just outside, he watched with horror as the greenish light receded quickly further into the fort - answered by a precise volley. From beyond the fort. Any men on the walls that were seen would probably have been killed by those few arrows, but the arrows that missed made a terrible noise somewhere between tapping and scraping nails on a chalkboard.

Cephas almost laughed. So this is how its going to be? I can't say I didn't expect it. Finally! Some action... He didn't laugh. I hope we don't die. I have things to do once I get out of this [censored] hole. Though a trooper in the world's greatest medium infantry army, Cephas was not the greatest fighter. From middle-class merchant stock and having run errands day-in-and-day-out during his Legion years, Cephas never really got the knack of sword fighting. Most swords didn't feel right in his hand. Strange as it was, he quietly drew his broadsword from its sheath and shrugged out of the heavy but warm greatcoat.

In the court, the myrmidons were mustering. Their curses and orders floated up to the walls through the flat, cool air. Somewhere, somebody was probably taking charge, but instead Cephas found himself looking out across a dark stretch of flagstones, with not a man in front. God forbid they scale the walls... Legs crouching; teeth grinding; muscles tightening; Cephas crawled out the door, not a hair of his head peeking over the crenelations. The first bastard that comes over the wall dies by this sword, he told himself, and hoped he could kill a man.

Darkmoth, Barracks

The Barracks was in chaos, men scrambled into bits of armor, grabbing weapons. Some ignoring it all together and hiding under the beds. Those who fell to fear were left, most of the time, inspiration was a rather rare ocassion. Men in nothing but simple sleeping garments charged out into the night with sword and shield, picking a death by fighting over enslavement by the dominion. Bartolome had chosen to fight, along with his men Bartolome would assist those already assembling in the courtyard.

It had taken only moments to assemble the squad, Cyrus and Vaeran had been on sentry duty and had been lucky to escape the arrow fire, luckier than some. Telecus, Madison and Daniel had been warming around a fire made of empty canvas and destroyed woodworks, they ran easily for cover to the barracks where Bartolome and Torgir had been leaving to search for everyone.

Bartolome stood in one end of the barracks, nearest his small table and window. He watched as another two dozen men scrambled out of the Barracks in full arms. Arrows could be seen pelting the walls everywhere, no doubt the wood elves. " It's best to stay inside for now." The anxiety plagued Bartolome's voice, the cold whisper was not marked with fear but undeniable calm. Madison, Torgir, Telecus, Vaeran, Cyrus, Daniel and Bartolome all fully armored and armed for chaos. Their training would come in handy and they were all willing to accept that they would probably die.
" Dovinnius." The name escaped Bartolome's lips.
" What sir?" Three of the men asked in unison.
" He means Trooper Dovinnius." The usually unsettling Torgir answered for him.

Bartolome took a deep breath. " We need to stick together if we are to stay alive, I promised Dovinnius earlier I would find him. I'm a fool to have lost track of him." Men rushed around the barracks. " Our first task is to meet up with him and his men, no doubt Artois and Junius will be arranging a fighting group to defend the walls. The main group of men will be the ones to die, I will not die tonight. We were ordered to retreat and if carving a path out with the good men we have is what it takes then so it will be."

Bartolome drew his sword, his eyes searching the barracks for Dovinnius's height...