The chorus of calls from the prisoners echoed through the village, and several of them stamped their feet in honour of the man who stepped forward. As the only member in the group who had not been stripped of his possessions and most of his clothes, the Jarl towered over the men at his back, and the legionaries to his front. Dressed in rich robes and furs, he cut a figure that looked somewhat constrained, and unnatural, even, despite the circumstances, an appearance that wasn't helped by the thick cloth gag, stuffed into and around his mouth. It was almost as though his body, one hardened and tempered in the flames of war, protested the lack of armour surrounding it, and yearned for fighting again.

  "It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric!"

  "Quiet!" Snarling, and without a moment's hesitation, one of the nearest legionaries slammed a fist into the kidney of the stormcloak who called out.

  "Ralof of Riverwood."

  Spitting at the feet of the legionary who had hit him, Ralof glared at the plated soldier for a heartbeat before striding forward, but the whole time his eyes were locked into Hadvar's for every step. Neither of them were unaware of the eerie symbology of such a moment, one dressed in the ragged remains of the stormcloaks' heraldry, the other in the pristine armour of an Imperial Legionary. Seeing a childhood friend, standing with hands bound as a prisoner, was always a sobering moment, but Hadvar’s guts twisted into rotten coils as he struggled to remain impassive. Many, many years before, there would have been comradery and friendship between the two of them, but now there was nothing more than simmering hatred that only a civil war could infuse into hearts and minds.

  "Lokir of Rorikstead."

  Almost to prove their differences, the twitching, fearful weed of a man looked about with dawning horror on his face as his name was called. Especially as realisation dawned, when his eyes locked onto the executioners block.

  "No, I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!" With legionaries advancing on all sides, his attempts to hide within the group of prisoners were for naught, and out of pure desperation, he reacted entirely on instinct. Shrinking away from the legionaries advancing on him, he suddenly broke out into a run, shouldering his way through the crowd of stormcloaks and past the grasping hands. One of the legionaries tried and failed to grasp the fleeing figure, staggering as the skinny nord picked the first direction he was facing and began to run, legs pumping and breath steaming in the frigid air.

  "Halt!" The snap of the command rippled through every soldier in earshot, legionary or Stormcloak alike, as centurion Toninne stormed forward, face flushed in blinding rage.

  "You're not going to kill me!"

  Murmuring grew, soft prayers to the gods and muttered oaths half-spoken on tongues, as Lokir sprinted with all the legs he could manage. Neither the pain of his bare feet being sliced open on the rough cobblestones, nor the freezing temperatures in his lungs, seemed to trouble him, adrenaline flooding his veins as he did everything in his power to flee.

  From their positions in the town square, there was little that any of the legionaries were capable of in stopping the runaway. Especially as fully laden in armour, leather, and furs as they were, there was no way that any of the soldiers would be capable of catching a man dressed in rags and fuelled by terror.

  "Archers!" Toninne snapped, turning and watching as a pair of the chainmailed foresters began fumbling with their quivers in response to her command. A bow was raised and a string drawn back, and soon the first slap-cracks of bows releasing tension reached everyone's ears.

  For several moments, it appeared as though he would make the safety of the street's curve, and the corners of the buildings hemming it in. As nervous fingers snatched at bowstrings the first few arrows skittered across the cobbles, or ripped through the air around the fleeing man, but it was inevitable. Within metres of perceived safety, a goose-feathered arrow punched into his ribs between his shoulder blades, plucking him from his feet as though tackled.

  "Anyone else feel like running?" Above Lokir’s choking gurgles, the centurion's voice filled the sudden silence, as prisoners and soldiers alike watched as one of the archers strode over to the wounded man. Even with an arrowhead in a lung, coughing bloody froth over his face, and hands bound in front of him, he continued struggling to rise, squirming away from the approaching archer as he drew a dagger from its sheath. A quick, economical stab put an end to Lokir’s attempts to escape, and the desperate struggles transformed into spasms, as his life flowed from the wound in his throat.

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  Feeling sickened at the sight, Hadvar brought the list back up before his face as continued reading from the list of names, ticking them off one by one as he went. It was a collection of names made famous in the rebellion, containing over three dozen individuals that included a majority of Ulfric's commanders and lieutenants. It was a powerful list, but he couldn't help but feel anger at the elvish deceit that would lead to the deaths of so many of his kinsmen.

  One by one, the captured Stormcloaks moved forward, shuffling with dejection or marching with their heads held high and proud as they went to their fate. The growing ranks standing before the chopping block increased, the tension filling the air with an almost palpable sensation that left the skin crawling.

  He reached the end of the list, ticking off the last of the names and quickly counting them. Thirty-one. Thirty-one of his kinsmen, doomed to die at the chopping block. Not a single one bothered to hide or to falsify their identities, choosing to step forward with their honour intact rather than resorting to some cheap, elfish trick to buy a few more minutes of life.

  But, despite the list and the names, there was one last individual standing before the wagons, staring at him with an eyebrow slightly raised as though amused at being missed.

  "Wait..." The confusion that filled Hadvar was quickly crushed at the sight of someone not on the list provided by the treacherous elves. Quickly checking it again, he sighed to himself. It stood to reason that in such an ambush, everyone who happened to be in the area would have been scooped up with the others.

  "You there. Step forward."

  Without hesitation, the prisoner obeyed, striding across the cobblestones to present himself before the young legionary. Like the other prisoners he stepped forward with confidence that seemed entirely at odds with the situation and the fact he was half dressed in tattered remains of his clothing, reduced to rags in the ambush that had netted him with the stormcloaks.

  He was tall, not overly so, like an Altmer or Nord, but was powerfully built. Instead of the brutish strength of the northmen, there was a whipcord strength about him that suggested a dangerous and agile fighter yet unlike the other prisoners, he was no Nord. With the build of a professional soldier and tanned skin from years in the elements, his home may have been in the south of the Jeralls, with the darkening hints of Redguard blood in his veins. A distant ancestor perhaps, but still giving his skin a healthy, sun-kissed appearance of strength and vitality.

  Dressed in rags like most of the other prisoners, he stood straight-backed and tall, matching Hadvar in his average six-foot height. There was a moment of insecurity in Hadvar's mind as he saw the way the coiled muscles bunched and clenched in the prisoner's arms, the tell-tale swelling of a shoulder showing an archer's strength from years of drawing a bow.

  The scars though, were humbling and a little terrifying. Every inch of his flesh had felt the kiss of a blade or the punch of a dagger or arrow. In places, the skin was puckered and raised from where heat and flames had scorched the skin raw, and threading their way up his arms were dozens, if not hundreds of jagged nicks where blades had cut deep. Whoever this man was while he had the muscles of an archer, he was not someone who fought from afar and certainly didn’t shy away from revealing them to others.

  What was only partially curious to Hadvar though was that he could see a trio of deep burns where someone had repeatedly pressed a hot bar of metal to seal a set of terrible wounds on his bicep. It was oddly placed, and only seemed to accentuate the remains of a fading legion brand under the ruined tissue. Under any other circumstances seeing an ex-legionary in such a state and a prisoner of the Legions he used to serve would have been unusual, but he wasn’t the only one among those present with such a mark. Many of the Stormcloaks were indeed veterans of the Great War and served the Empire with distinction before the Civil War tested their true loyalties.

  "Who...Who are you?" Hadvar asked, feeling his growing confusion at the way that the man stood there, watching with a predatory intensity.

  For a moment the prisoner regarded him with the piercing brown depths of his eyes. Despite the injuries and scarring that put even some of the most vaunted veteran Legionnaires of the Great War to shame, he looked to be in his mid thirties. Except for his eyes; his eyes spoke of horrors, and experiences that would quail the hearts of lesser men. There was a depth of age and knowledge of someone many years older than one such as he, and Hadvar involuntarily shivered as though his soul had just been laid open. The scar under his right eye only increased the prisoner's intimidating presence and unbidden, Hadvar recalled the tales his mother used to tell him of how the ancient Knightly Orders would gash their cheeks when they pledged their oaths of loyalty.

  For several moments the prisoner seemed deep in thought, looking about the group with all the emotion of someone on an afternoon stroll. There was amusement in the slightly raised corner of his mouth, as though laughing at a joke that only he knew or understood. To the steadily increasing annoyance of both Hadvar and Centurion Toninne standing beside him the scarred prisoner remained deep in thought as though considering what name to give them.

  The grin lengthened as he looked over the Legionary and his commanding officer, his face showing infinite amusement that somehow didn't manage to reach his eyes. It was almost as though he was bitterly amused with the whole situation which put him entirely at odds with the other prisoners.

  "Kaius." He said simply, as though coming to a decision before speaking. "Kaius Treblanus Desin."

  Blood of Dragons Volume 1 - Bloodtide Receded