Chapter 1: As The Crowe Flies
Part 1: Brothers in Blood and Nothing More
The council room was quiet, tranquil, secluded from the normal bustle of the D'Garethi estate, as long as the Council wasn't in session.
A single ray of light filtered down through the tall arch that overlooked the estate's grand courtyard, illuminating the tiny flecks of dust that swirled and drifted upon the invisible currents of air.
"That is what we must look like to the Gods.", Brannigan D'Garethi thought absently as he once again opened the letter, Ecklesheare's final letter, and read over it once more.
Brannigan had always thought of himself as a figure of power, an idea put into his head by his late father, though unintentionally.
He was tall by Breton standards, able to stare an Altmer in the face without having to stand on his toes, with pale white skin and emerald-green eyes.
His raven-black hair was slicked back against his head, and his goatee was neatly trimmed
close to his face.
He was clothed in the colours of the D'Garethi household; black, knee-high boots worn with matching trousers, a navy-blue tunic with gold
embroidery on the cuffs, collar and hem, along with the D'Garethi crest; an eagle in mid-flight.
Scanning through the letter a third time, Brannigan began to note the sounds of the world around him, like a submerged diver rising to the surface.
The distant cries of the drill-sergeant performing afternoon role-call for the Guardsmen on yard duty, the hideously out-of-tune whistling of the maid changing
his bedclothes just a few rooms away, the throaty rumble of a career soldier talking in his ear.
"My Lord, Master Crowe is here, as you requested."
Captain Harald, his one eye fixed on Brannigan, slowly straightened as he awaited a reply; He was a good man, if a little too gaunt and serious.
His fighting in the recent Great War with the Aldmeri Dominion had toughened him, though Brannigan
often wondered if the grizzled veteran's humanity hadn't been completely eradicated by the elves.
"Strange how a metaphorical wound can be more permanent than a physical one..." He mused aloud.
"Pardon, my Lord?" Harald asked with a narrowed eye.
"Please tell my baby brother he may enter." Brannigan replied.
Harald bowed before stepping outside; He never asked twice, he never took offence, and he was fiercely loyal.
Calling Crowe his baby brother was needless on Brannigan's part, but establishing his dominance as the
new seat of the house meant he had to make it clear to Crowe who was in charge, and to all, for that
matter.
"Your sacrifice won't be wasted, Ecklesheare." He murmured, folding the letter and tucking it into his tunic pocket.
***
"I thought he said I wasn't to let anything disturb me during afternoon kata."
Crowe was annoyed, to say the least, though he hid his anger well beneath a cool mask of neutrality and
an emotionless voice.
"I know, master Crowe, but Lord Brannigan requires you urgently."
Crowe snarled.
"What he needs is to perform the Black Sacrament, because I'm not going to kill half the Daggerfall
nobility to sate his lust for power."
He walked at a brisk pace alongside Harald, Brannigan's Guard-Captain, down the estate's sky-walkway, which hung above the main chamber, suspended by steel tethers connected to statues of cherubs adorning all four corners of the great room.
House D'Garethi's upper tiers were an immense maze of corridors, secret passages and false walls,
designed to confuse any invading forces, subsequently making it easier for the house's guards to pick them off one by one.
Only one who had been raised within the house knew it's complete layout, and Crowe knew it better than anyone.
He had often hid in various passages as a child, to be alone, to explore, or simply to hide once the cook discovered where her freshly-baked sweetrolls had gone.
Crowe had always been a natural in stealth, the art of remaining unseen had always been a delicate one.
Crowe much resembled his older brother, with black hair and
emerald-green eyes, not to mention his deathly-pale skin.
However, unlike his brother, Crowe had hair cut short against his head, and a light stubble across his face.
Where Brannigan often took to house finery, Crowe took to wearing his black leather armour, a symbol
of his dedication to the art of death.
Crowe's mentor had once been a member of the Morag Tong, and had taught Crowe well before his
death.
And after his mentor's death, Crowe had continued to train and hone his skills, becoming an expert in
sword technique, ranged combat and poison brewing.
Unfortunately, one thing he lacked, which was apparent in nearly all Bretons, was the inherent ability of
magic.
Crowe could master basic spells, and was adept in illusion, but casting anything more normally ended up in a fit, the worst of which had left Crowe confined to his bed for three days.
Crowe shook himself from his thoughts as he came face to face with the carved oak doors of the Council chamber.
Whilst it was required that all possible heirs to the D'Garethi lordship know of the politics of both the house's court and the court of Daggerfall, Crowe had always done his best to stay away from the room, with it's stuffy atmosphere and dust-choked furniture.
"If you'll wait outside a minute, Master Crowe." Harald muttered dryly before stepping inside.
***
"Ah! My dear little brother!"
Crowe cursed Brannigan under his breath; His brother had always had his subtle little ways of making himself superior, anything from height to an advantage of age would do.
Shutting the heavy oak door behind him, Crowe took a position leaning against the blue-plastered wall, his arms folded in front of him.
“You called for me.” Crowe stated coolly.
There were no warm welcomes between the two; Theirs was a relationship of master and servant.
Crowe didn’t want the mantle of leader, and Brannigan didn’t want to give up his power.
Since their mother had been confined to her chambers, the two kept as far apart as possible, though that wasn’t always possible.
“You weren’t at council yesterday.” Brannigan spoke softly, but his eyes had the venom of a Chaurus as they narrowed at Crowe.
“I was managing the transaction of the shipments from Blackmarsh, a transaction you asked me to oversee.”
Crowe made it as clear as possible whose fault the lapse was, but the twitch at the corner of Brannigan’s mouth suggested he wasn’t satisfied with the answer.
“The shipment should have been here two days ago.” He answered through gritted teeth.
“They were waylaid at Wayrest, not my fault.” Crowe shrugged, doing his best not to put a dagger in his brother’s throat.
“Your priority,” Brannigan stated slowly, as if speaking to a child, “Is the court. As much as it galls me to say so, you notice things others miss…For that, I need you.”
“I didn’t know you cared…” Crowe retorted sarcastically, and smiled lightly as Brannigan’s mouth contorted into a snarl.
“Let me make one thing clear to you,” the older brother growled, standing, “We are brothers in blood, and naught else, you are a tool, to be directed and used as I see fit.”
Crowe scowled, but remained silent; He couldn’t defy his brother in public, such things could bring a house crashing down within a matter of months if anyone overheard.
Rumour was as deadly as any warrior’s blade in Daggerfall politics, and whilst Crowe harboured no love for Brannigan, he didn’t want to ruin the house’s reputation whilst their mother yet lived.
“It is disappointing you weren’t at court yesterday, brother,” Brannigan seemed to relax, clasping his hands behind his back and sauntering towards the grand, marble-hewn fireplace, “Ecklesheare is dead.”
Crowe blinked, genuinely surprised.
The old Lore-keeper had been a close personal friend of their mother in her youth, and had practically brought the two up after the passing of their father.
“How?” Crowe murmured quietly.
“The ‘how’ is not important, dear brother,” Brannigan unsheathed his rapier, examining the hilt as he so often did when making an elaborate point, “What matters is the trail he left for us.”
Crowe frowned, “Which is?”
“The location of an artefact that might help put the house back in a position of power once more.” With those final words, Brannigan stabbed his rapier into the polished oak table; other such wounds marked tables throughout the estate.
“I hesitate to ask…” Crowe muttered.
“You’re going on a little expedition, brother.”
The malicious smile playing Brannigan’s lips told Crowe he wasn’t going to like this ‘expedition’.
Part 2: Deep-Delver's Tongue
Jehaana was a decent-sized settlement near High Rock's north-eastern border, and the last major settlement before travelers heading along the Jehaana Road hit the province of Skyrim.
The houses were built of solid stone blocks, made to last, not to look pretty.
The fact that Jehaana neighbored the region of Markarth, just across the border, meant that it could be subject to frequent Forsworn attacks.
Crowe shuddered as he thought of the famed Forsworn of Skyrim's Western Reach, who had been driven from their homes in the cities long ago by the Nords who now ruled Markarth; The Forsworn still lusted for vengeance, and would ambush any traveler along the road.
Crowe didn't doubt his combat prowess, or that of the men with him, but Forsworn were of Breton stock, and practiced darker magic than those of the Daggerfall Court did.
They could also overwhelm travelers in sheer numbers, or simply take a man's belongings and leave him to starve or be picked off by predators in the craggy, inhospitable canyons of the Reach.
That last fact made it all the more essential to stop off at Jehaana for supplies.
Riding astride each other, each on horses of the finest North Kambrian stock, were Emmelle Dervish, a young but promising recruit who had risen to the position of Watch-Sergeant within the space of nine months after signing up, Saxon Davenport, a seasoned veteran who had lost half his face to some kind of bizarre trap within a Nordic ruin, and now wore a metal plate over it, and finally Gascard Harald, Brannigan's Guard-Captain, who Crowe had managed to wrestle away from his liege-lord.
The four rode in silence; the rocky terrain and the bleak, cloud-covered mountain peaks of the Reach off in the distance were enough to silence even the bravest of men.
It was said that The Reach was a test of Nord strength and will; If you could survive there, then you could survive anywhere.
Crowe rode a little way in front of the group, bearing a sash over his black leather armour, bearing the hawk of the D'Garethi house, for the pure sake of getting into Jehaana without trouble.
"We stopping long?" Dervish called out suddenly, "I hear the girls in Jehaana are easy and eager."
"If you don't mind taking a girl with a face like a brick." Saxon replied in his grizzled, slurred tone; A result of his accident.
The others raised a chuckle, even Crowe smiled a little.
The rocky peaks in the distance suddenly didn't seem as foreboding.
They made good time to Jehaana, and were admitted into the city without any trouble.
"It seems the family name still carries some weight, at least..." Crowe thought to himself silently, passing his reins from one hand to the other absently.
The house's reputation had dwindled since Crowe's mother had been struck with her illness; it had been almost five years now, since Lilianna D'Garethi had first shown signs of her impending sickness, and from there things had spiraled downwards, until Brannigan had stepped in as acting seat of the house.
The staff and guards often spoke of Brannigan's ambition, and that he might be slowly killing his own mother to gain rightful control of House affairs.
Whilst Crowe and Brannigan hated each other, neither was capable of killing a family member; It simply wasn't done.
Crowe looked up as they came to an Inn, conveniently placed along the east-bound road to the Skyrim border.
"The Deep-Delver's Rest," Harald mused aloud, "Wonder if there's a story behind that..."
Crowe looked towards the western skyline, and sighed.
"We won't make it to the border marker before nightfall; we stop here and continue in the morning."
Harald dismounted and, as was customary for the highest-ranking officer in the company of house royalty, held Crowe's reins while he dismounted.
Crowe didn't need the extra help, but it was important for the house's sake to keep up appearances.
“Dervish,” Harald ordered, “Take the horses around the back and have them stabled.”
“Aye, Guard-Captain, long as I get my drink.” Emmelle chuckled as he took the horses by the reins.
Crowe often encouraged this kind of familiarity on his better days, and did nothing to stop it on his bad ones.
The guardsmen were always formal when the situation required, but here there was simply no need.
Harald led the way to the Inn, pushing the door open to reveal a dimly-lit interior, with a stone hearth sitting at one end, a healthy blaze at its heart.
Sturdy teak tables were spaced out throughout the Inn, which was starting to fill as the skyline darkened.
A bar counter sat at the opposite end to the hearth, a stout, bald man stood chatting with customers over local rumour and gossip.
There were also smaller details; A woman playing a game of Chance with several weighted dice hidden up her sleeve, some blathering idiot talking about a girl he was courting whilst a furious-looking man behind him quietly drew a dagger, and a curious-looking crossbow sitting on the mantelpiece above the hearth.
“I’ll get drinks…” Saxon muttered.
“Nothing too strong, Sax,” Harald grinned, the look seemed a little menacing with his eye missing, “I know you can’t tell one end of a sword from the other when you’re drunk.”
It was impossible to tell if Saxon was grinning or snarling beneath the metal plate covering the left side of his face.
Both were prime examples of what war could do to a person, but where Harald had earned his scars in the Great War against the Aldmeri Dominion, Saxon had been a sell-sword, a mercenary, a loner who had signed up for House D’Garethi’s guard out of a lack of work.
It was no hidden fact that Brannigan had been building a private army in the years he’d taken over from his mother, though his reasons for doing so could be anything.
The fact that his brother wanted a Daedric artefact told Crowe all that he could need to know about his brother’s plans to take the throne of Daggerfall.
But could he betray family like that?
The sensible choice seemed to destroy the artefact, but Crowe didn’t know a single mortal being that had done that, not even in the legends.
From his belt, Harald unfurled a battered old map, laying it on the table as the two sat down.
“What are our options?” Crowe asked.
“Besides heading back to High Rock and taking a safe route across mainland Cyrodiil?” Harald teased with a grim smile, “We follow the Jehaana road until it branches off…”
He traced a finger along a road winding eastwards from Jehaana.
“From there we have two options,” Harald continued as Saxon and Dervish approached with the drinks, “We can follow the road until it stops, after which we ride down into the canyons, where we join the River Karth…”
“Or?” Crowe pressed.
“Or we take an unmarked dirt track down to Deep Folk Crossing, an old Dwemer ruin with a waterfall off-shot of the Karth River.”
“More direct.” Crowe furrowed his brow a little.
“But almost certainly more dangerous,” Saxon commented, “Forsworn rarely build their own fortifications, they’ll use any left over from other civilisations, including the Dwemer.”
The group fell silent for a minute, contemplating.
“We take Deep Folk Crossing.” Emmelle put in.
“Why do you say that, boy?” Harald asked sceptically, raising an eyebrow.
“Know your enemy, Guard-Captain,” Dervish replied, “Forsworn gather where there are standing fortifications, true, but they swarm where the ground is even and there’s a sizeable flow of water.”
“So all along the Karth River.” Saxon said bluntly.
“No,” Emmelle protested, “See here? The river is thickest where the road officially joins it. The path at Deep Folk Crossing might be steeper, but we can make that work for us if we’re clever.”
“No wonder he’s already Watch-Sergeant.” Saxon muttered amusedly.
“Then it’s agreed,” Crowe announced, “We take Deep Folk Crossing.”
He got up, going to the counter with the intention of paying for the drinks.
“Four Black-Briar’s, was it?” The bartender asked.
“Yes,” Crowe replied, noting the bartender’s accent, “You’re a Nord, aren’t you?”
“Aye,” The stout man replied, “Navi Deep-Delver, I was quite the enterprising businessman in my day.”
“Why settle in Jehaana?” Crowe asked quietly.
“It’s away from the civil war.” Navi said simply, picking up a ragged cloth and cleaning a glass that already seemed spotless.
“Is there a story behind the crossbow on the mantel?” Crowe asked, glancing back at the ornate Dwemer weapon.
“That was my ‘insurance’, if you will” Navi replied, “Kept me safe on the road. I named the Inn after it.”
“Deep-Delver’s Tongue…” Crowe mulled over the words.
“Aye, it spoke for me when I wasn’t satisfied with a deal.”
"Might I take it off your hands?" Crowe asked hesitantly.
"Son," Navi stated, "Far as I'm concerned, she could do with getting out a bit, no charge on my behalf."
"I'll make sure to put her to good use."
Navi nodded, and smiled, "See that you do, son, there's a special bond between man and weapon, if you don't got it, you're dead."
Part 3: The Jehaana Road
At first light the next day, four horsemen rode out of Jehaana along the east-bound road towards the Skyrim border, into the open maw of the Reach, and all the dangers held within.
They went in a small column, two by two, wearing the royal blue and gold of House D’Garethi, save for Crowe, who wore his black leather armour, his belt carried two dozen throwing knives, along with two viciously curved short-swords and a quiver of bolts for the crossbow, which sat in a custom-made sheath over his shoulder.
He sat astride Harald, in his gold-rimmed steel plate; the navy blue underlay completed the appearance of a house guard.
The others were clad in similar attire, if with a little less decoration.
The road continued in its monotonous upward slope; nothing changed, not the bleak sky above, nor the timid mood of the soldiers below.
None of them aside from Crowe even knew their purpose for being there.
“How much do you know of Reachmen, Saxon?” Crowe asked, finally breaking the silence.
“Enough,” Saxon replied, “Savages, they hunt like animals, worship Daedra, kill innocent travellers, and war amongst themselves.”
“No unity, that seems a reoccurring thing in this gods-forsaken province.” Harald was in more of a dour mood than usual, suffering from an alcohol-induced hangover.
“Arkay guide the poor sodding Reachman who decides to take you on, Harald.” Saxon slurred.
“Damn right.” Harald replied with a scowl.
Maybe the silence wasn’t all down to the anticipation of what lay before them…
***
The sun was nearing its zenith when the ground started to slope gently downwards.
Before long, the four men came across a series of stone markers, set into the ground to mark the border.
None spoke, but they all loosened their swords.
The atmosphere seemed to become just that little bit tenser.
They followed the road along a little longer, until it split into a narrower cobble-paved road, and an overgrown dirt track.
“We’d best tether the horses and move on foot.” Crowe said quietly.
Horses from North Kambria were agile and fast, but not sturdy enough for steeper ground.
“We can’t just leave them here.” Harald frowned.
“I spoke with master Navi this morning; he said he’d send a stable boy out at midday.”
Harald nodded, though he looked less than pleased; His love of horses was the only insight into the grim Guard-Captain’s personal life that anyone ever got.
Shouldering their saddle-packs, the four continued trudging on, the ground was beginning to slope more steeply, and the sound of rushing water was quickly becoming a constant backdrop over the gentle stirring of the wind through the trees.
Crowe looked up as a glint of gold caught his eye, and saw a magnificent golden dome rising above the trees.
“Nearly there,” He commented, “Maybe we won’t run into trouble after all…”
“By the Gods!” Dervish grimaced, looking ahead.
On the path, just a few yards ahead, lay a creature formed from wood, the branches bent and shaped in a way that they vaguely resembled a female form.
A faint green glow emanated from its chest, and it made a noise like that of a wounded animal.
“What is it?” Dervish asked hesitantly.
“A Spriggan,” Saxon replied, “Wood spirits, they guard the forests…”
“What happened to her-…..it?” Harald uttered curiously.
Crowe took a few cautious steps forward, and saw the creature’s body riddled with arrows.
“These arrows are crude,” He murmured aloud, “The heads are hewn from stone, the shafts are uneven, almost like a savage crafted them…”
“Forsworn.” Saxon said simply.
Crowe felt a lump form in the pit of his stomach.
He forced his fear down.
“We keep going.”
***
The grey, slate-stone walls of the mountains had turned into the ground as the group left the treeline behind them.
They were in plain sight now, no helping that.
Beside them, off to the left, was the small rush of water that would eventually lead into the Karth River; ahead it became a torrent that spilled over the steep cliff edge and into a larger offshoot below.
Looming over it were two magnificent, white-walled towers, each capped with a gold-bronze dome.
Deep Folk Crossing.
Crowe held up his hand, signalling a stop.
“What?” Harald hissed.
“Shhh!”
As was part of his training, Crowe knew how to listen for signs of pursuit.
He slowly removed his saddle-bag, kneeling down and placing his ear to the rock-strewn ground.
It was distant yet, but the trample of feet against rock was definitely there.
“Run.” He said, softly, calmly.
None needed more prompting.
They dropped their saddle-bags, drawing their swords as they broke into a sprint.
A ball of fire burst into violent existence on Harald’s hand as he ran, and Crowe un-holstered his crossbow, racking it as he ran.
A primitive war-cry rang out behind them as they sprinted for the towers ahead.
Crowe turned and loosed off two shots from the crossbow, a mechanism on the under-slung barrel shifted another bolt into the stock.
Both bolts found their targets, and two fur-clad Forsworn dropped, blood pouring from their ruined throats.
Crowe turned and dashed to the shelter of the tower’s surrounding stone wall as several of the savages loosed off crude arrows that came down in a shower of sparks as they struck the white stone.
“Damnit,” Harald growled, dropping in beside Crowe, “I need to get me one of those.”
The middle-aged war veteran turned, loosing off a volley of fiery projectiles from his outstretched palm.
At least three Forsworn went down in one blast, but there were still far too many.
Saxon raised his palm and released an arc of lightning off towards the advancing Forsworn.
Crowe watched in anger as the grizzled ex-mercenary was peppered with at least five of the brutal arrows before he could duck back down.
Saxon gurgled blood before he keeled over.
“Bastards!” Dervish snarled, edging towards the others as another hail of arrows came down.
“Brilliant bloody idea, Watch-Sergeant!” Harald yelled over the various war-cries echoing from beyond the wall.
Crowe rose, having fitted a fresh rack onto his crossbow, and loosed off three more shots.
Two Forsworn cried out as their legs were shot from under them and a third flopped backwards as a bolt took her in the throat.
“Into the towers!” Harald cried, and the three dashed for the gold-clad doors as another hail of arrows rained down where they had been pinned mere seconds ago.
Crowe turned and loosed off two hasty shots as Harald and Dervish struggled with the doors; the first found its target, and another savage went down with a bolt jutting from his chest.
The second missed.
“Crowe, come on!”
He dived, rolling into a crouch as a magically-formed shard of ice struck the ground just where he had been standing.
With a heave, Harald and Dervish hauled the doors closed.
Stepping back, Harald sealed the door with a concentrated burst of fire.
“Well, lad, you’ve screwed us over now!” He snarled, turning on Dervish.
“With respect, Guard-Captain,” he began, but Crowe cut them both off.
“We can bicker later, right now we focus on what’s out there.”
“Right you are, Master Crowe.” Harald muttered, a flame bursting into life on his palm.
Dervish drew his sword, placing himself squarely in front of the door.
“You’ll do no good there,” Harald muttered, “better coming up to the top with us.”
“You go,” Dervish replied fiercely, “If they get in, I’ll be waiting.”
Harald took the steps two at a time, and Crowe followed.
***
Emmelle Dervish had originally joined House D’Garethi’s military to feed his sister, when the House had been signing on.
Now, after nine months of training, and three foiled attempts of Lady D’Garethi’s life under his watch, he had caused his first allied death.
An accident, but still his fault.
He assumed a basic guard stance as thin tendrils of ice began to spread beneath the door.
Almost half a minute passed, before the door was completely covered in ice.
Emmelle continued to wait.
Then, like the breath of some mighty dragon from the old stories, a ball of fire ripped through the doors, flinging Emmelle against the far wall and blistering his skin.
He screamed in agony, but that didn’t help the pain.
When his lungs were spent, he closed his eyes, and felt the cold void embrace him.
***
Three shots, release the spent rack, reload, and pull back the crank.
Crowe had repeated the action so many times he had lost count.
And yet more came.
The Forsworn below fired volley after volley of arrows, yet none struck Crowe and Harald.
“How long do you think we can keep this up?” Harald called over the crash of the waterfall.
“As long as it takes!” Crowe called back.
They both paused as a drawn-out scream rebounded up the stairs.
“Arkay guide him…” Harald whispered.
Crowe holstered his crossbow, drawing a throwing knife in each hand.
As he turned to the doorway, Harald was struck by a shard of ice that took him in the shoulder.
He stood, staring at the towering Forsworn that stood before him, one hand wreathed in fire, the other in ice.
Then, slowly, Harald toppled over backwards, down into the watery embrace of the crashing waterfall below.
Crowe let out an angered cry, releasing both throwing knives.
Both took the Briarheart in the neck, sending him crashing to the floor.
Others rushed in behind him, but Crowe was lethal, dancing aside blows from crude axes and swords and causing death wherever his knives struck.
He was cold inside, no anger, just the trained instincts of a killer.
At least a dozen fell, their blood stained the bridge red as they failed to match Crowe's deadly dance.
Then he stumbled, a lancing bolt of pain shot down his right arm.
He looked down, and saw one of the crude arrows jutting from his shoulder, it had sheared right through his armour and buried deep into his flesh.
Crowe stumbled as another three arrows took him in the chest.
He opened his mouth, but the words refused to come to his lips.
Crowe felt his hold on consciousness begin to fail, and he gained the sensation of falling.
He couldn't see anymore; the world was spinning too much, and the crashing of the waterfall beneath him suddenly became a tempest all around him.
As suddenly as the arrows had struck, Crowe gained the feeling of weightlessness as the sounds of the world around him became muted, as if he were listening through a wall.
There was a distant splash of something heavy striking deep water, and then silence.
Nothing.
***
The River Karth ran it's way southward, through the deep, time-hewn canyons of the Reach, and down past the mighty bulwark of Sky Haven Temple.
Here, a small offshoot of the river wound eastwards, through the mountains and down just past Whiterun Hold's most westward settlement, Rorikstead.
Britte knew that Papa would be angry if her and Sissel didn't bring in the potatoes before supper, but as always, her sister was being a complete Skever-face.
"Sissel!" she cried, exhausted, "Wait!"
They had ran through the village and along the northern road to the river, where Britte said she had found something.
"Not much further!" Sissel called back as she tore down the steep bank to the river.
The water was calm today; slow and peaceful.
"Sissel, wha-..." Britte cut off as she saw what lay in the shallows before them; caught on the reeds at the edge of the river, two men lay face-up in the water, their armour stained red with blood.
Gingerly, Britte waded into the shallows, hoisting up her dress at the front so it didn't get wet.
"Maybe we can summon them back from the dead," Sissel grinned excitedly, "Make them serve us! We could live like queens!"
"With just two of them?" Britte knelt to examine the closest one to her; He wore black armour, with four arrows jutting from his chest.
"I call upon you, undead spirits!" Sissel wailed, waving her arms around in what was supposedly a summoning ritual.
The man in front of Britte groaned lightly.
Sissel jumped, "It worked, look!"
"Of course it didn't, stupid," Britte scoffed, "They're still alive! Go tell Papa, and Erik."
As Sissel ran off to find their father, Britte looked back down at the two men, wondering what they had done so wrong that someone had wanted to kill them...
