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[[OOC:

*Septim stabs the dockworker and runs around screaming...

jk XD

Don't have much to say, I'm just standing behind you.

=P]]

To Hirgon, these lands were home... The heat that the other men found oppressive was perfect for him, and the language was his native tongue.  He stepped onto the dock, and disappeared into the city, remembering the port city in which he had been born.

[[OOC: I've got a lot going on now, but will become more active here sometime later...]]

"Captain, I mentioned earlier that I knew two men in the city. Sir Roderick, a Cidellian knight, now leads many of the troops in the city. Father Kahiim is the head of his own church, and is well connected in the city," said Ciwulf as he followed Ragnarrson.

"Gaius? Gaius Baramir!" yelled Roderick.
"Roderick!" yelled Ciwulf as he grasped his friend's hand tightly.
"What are you doing here!? Who're they?" asked Roderick.
"This is Vulkoslav Ragnarrson, and the rest are from his crew on the Stormsong," said Ciwulf.
"Pleased to meet you, Ragnarrson," said Roderick, "So...what are you doing here!?"
"We are on a quest, I will not get into details, but we are stuck here...Vulkoslav can explain," said Ciwulf.

Roderick looked at Vulkoslav with asking eyes. He seemed to have forgotten the initial hostility he had on his face when they had entered.
"I'm honoured to meet you, Sir Roderick." Ragnarrson looked towards Constable al Nasser. "M'lord, I'm honoured." He then looked towards Roderick again. "My longship the Stormsong was going resupply and rest at your docks for around a week, yet I had no idea that the city would be sieged... "
"The river gates are not to be reopened." Al Nasser's voice was firm. "I will not risk the defense of this city - not for one solitary moment."
"Listen, we need all the men we can get to fight on the walls." Sir Roderick spoke. "You are going to stay here throughout the siege anyhow. And if these walls are breeched, no one here will be spared - not even neutral travallers. The Genevesian king Nicholas is thirsty for blood and fame. This city shall be purged."
Heavy silence hung in the air for a moment.
"Then we shall aid you." Vulkoslav's face was serious and he had gained the cold expression his grandfather often wore.
Sir Roderick breathed out heavily. "We need experienced and rough warriors on the first tower west of the northern gatehouse. It seems to be a weak spot which need to be held by veterans. You Nords have the fame of being unmatched in melee combat. I am assigning you there. Now get your men and hurry to your position." Roderick spoke with strong authority, and although he was not Ragnarrson's lord, his words were to be obeyed.
"Yaroslav, get the whole crew in full battle gear to the tower. We shall await them there." Vulkoslav spoke when they left the citadel. Shortly after Yaroslav left off running, a loud horn was sounded, tearing the air with a deafning warning. Warned and alarming yells were heard.
"There!" Vulkoslav pointed to the northern horizon, where red banners were seen.
Suddenly, the horizon was overwhelmed by a sea of bright, reflecting the sunlight armor. The sea became larged and larger, until knights, warriors, crossbowmen, arhcers, footmen and siege equipment was visable. The ground was rumbling beneath them. The Genevesian army had arrived...

Ciwulf stood beside Vulkoslav, his loose white robe was being worn, and his headscarf protected him. The fools on the opposing side would get tired from the heat and be easier to kill. He was sacrificing protection for energy, but he really didn't have much to worry about from death, except boredom. Buckled at his side was Firengard, and in his left hand was his shield. He was ready for whatever the battle brought upon him.

The distant northern horizon represented a hilly landscape, mountains visible far ahead. The brownish-yellow rare grass, rough bushes and olive trees were being flooded by a moving mass of iron. Row after row of footmen in heavy chainmail, colorful surcoats, large shields, spears, pikes, swords and iron half helms. Amongst the vast army were many regiments of pavise crossbowmen and longbowmen, with kettle helms and heavy leather armor or padded cloth. Large columns of knights advanced through the iron sea, donned with heavy plate armor, sallet or great helms, lances with decorative banners, heraldic shields and surcoats, swords, maces and axes. Amongst the mass stuck out banners and flags to the sky, the colors of the Genevesian Kingdom flying - the golden phoenix on a red field.
The army had obviously made camp further behind them, as large siege equipment - trebuchets, rams and siege towers - rumbled along in the distant edge of visibility.
The heat was becoming greater, as the sun rose higher. Hot fumes and evaporations played with the eye - the army looked as if it walked upon a lake, while many of the images looked unsteady and wobbled in the warm air. The sun rays were hammering upon the ground mercilessly.
Vulkoslav watched the army approach slowly, the ground disappearing beneath its swarms. It was such a sight. Any defense would be...his line of thoughts was shattered.
"Wait, Gaius Baramir?"he spoke askingly to Ciwulf. "Sir Roderick adresed you as Baramir..?"

A regiment of Qauqjian archers positioned itself on the tower Vulkoslav was assigned to by the Constable of Cala Bahiya. They all had some sort of hard determination on their faces - or was it the terror one is obsessed by in the calm before the battle? Several baskets of arrows were brought, as well as spare weapons. The whole northern wall was manned with warriors. The Citadel itself had vast numbers of archers on its ramparts, all ready to start deadly volleys, one after one. It was uncomfortable, narrow, packed with warriors, and immense heat was pounding on Vulkoslav's Nord helm. He had managed to put on some chainmail shirt and acquire a round shield, which had a white crescent on a green background. His battle axe stood ready in his right hand, its hilt being nervously settled in Ragnarrson's hand.

A battle horn cried out behind them. "Stormsong!" the whole crew roared and banged weapons upon the wooden shields as they climbed up to the ramparts and took positions amongst the Qauqjians, who gave them a curious look.

"Everyone is here, Ragnarrson." spoke Yaroslav, who had put on a nasal helm with chainmail a safeguard.

Vulkoslav turned to the men and spoke to them: "This might not be your battle, but we will not let this whole city of our hosts be destroyed before our eyes. If you do not fight, you will be killed by the b-stards over there!" He pointed towards the approaching army with his axe. "The Gods are on our side! Let us honour them with blood!" A roar of yells and battle cries shook the tower. It soon spread throughout the whole defensive line. An intimidating sight for any besieger.

The cheers and yells soon stopped as a wave of stones, projected by the distant trebuchet bashed against the walls. The defenses shook and rumbled beneath the feet of the besieged, some of which fell off the ramparts. A shrill battle horn sounded from the Citadel, after which all the archers aimed their short bows high and released a volley of arrows upon the attackers. And then another one, and another...

Their action was replied by another wave of bolts, arrows and projectiles. The walls creaked beneath, dirt and rubble flew in the air, large broken off stones bringing men to the ground.

The siege towers came closer and closer...

Chaos. No one really knew what was happening overall - there was just those before you who rushed forwards, eager to spill your guts open. The Qauqjians made a volley of deadly arrows towards the pouring enemies. Many fell, but more came after them before the archers could reload. They pulled out their scimitars and melee started.
Vulkoslav raised his shield to block a hammering axe. It struck again quickly after the second time, and then a third, breaking it into two. Ragnarrson threw it in the direction of the blows and made a strong high slash that cut open the attacking footman's throat. The unfortunate cackled blood as he tried to scream his terror out while falling to the ground. He was lost in the chaotic battle as more came in his place, stamping over his useless body.
Ragnarr parried a falling sword from a knight, the dodged a mace from a second and could not evade a bashing shield in his face. He fell to the rampart's floor, pushing another two Qauqjian warriors unintentionally. A sword stabbed downwards, but miraculously missed Ragnarrson, who grabbed the weapon and pulled it downwards with all the force he had. The knight fell down upon Vulkoslav, who kicked him away, stood up and struck savagely with his axe several times upon the defenseless warrior. Vulkoslav then punched the closest foe in the face with his hard fist, as he was too close to strike with his weapon. He then parried a sword twice, yet the third time the sword struck his chest. The amror resisted the innacurate astray blow. Vulkoslav then elbowed the attackers blooded face and made a finishing slash upon the yelling Genevesian warrior's skull. It was a filthy, bloody and chaotic fight...

John wore no helm to protect his head, but he carried a small buckler for defending any openings in his defense.  He also managed to aquire an armor of steel scale mail that he found quite comfortable.  Then all John could do was wait.  Wait for the siege towers to arrive.

Then everything seemed to go silent when the first enemies came at John.  Everything slowed down and he then acted.  Then John saw his first enemy.  The man wore a long chainmail shirt that covered his entire body and went down to his knees.  He had leather boots, gloves, and a steel helmet that also had neck protection.  The Genevesian soldier rushed at John with an edged shield and steel sword with deadly intents in mind.  John then did what he did best...he rushed forward.  While the Genevesian soldier had perfect armor against slashing attacks, John would have to use stabs and thrusts.  There was no opening in the armor that would work except the eyelets of the helm.

John drew his flamberge from his side and met his enemy head on.  He blocked an attack with his buckler carefully before shoving off with it.  He then struck repeatedly with his sword, but the Genevesians shield intercepted each blow.  John spun upon his heel and slammed his sword into the shield, causing it to vibrate greatly before slamming his buckler into the face of the enemy.  He then plunged his sword into the chest of the enemy with all of his strength.  John dropped his buckler quickly and stole enemy shield just as another enemy came at him.  John charged forward again, blocked an attack, and then threw the Genevesian soldier off of the wall into a fall of death.

The battle raging about him seemed to be in slow motion and quiet, but every block or attack he made vibrated with boisterous noise.

Ciwulf saw Lorn on his horse on the battlefield and cursed.
That bastard won't enter the battle himself...fine...
Ciwulf turned and parried a blow before stabbing his blade into the enemy's neck. He then ran towards one of the wall mounted ballistas and commandeered it, aiming it at Sir Lorn. After adjusting it, he fired.

The bolt travelled through the air at lightning speed before scoring a direct hit on Lorn's chest, he was killed instantly.

Ciwulf smiled.
Have fun in hell, Lorn...
Ciwulf then jumped off the ballista's platform, ignoring insults from the regular operators, and continued fighting.

[[Its okay...I need a break]]

Vulkoslav was not sure when the Genevessian army started falling back, as he was in his "battle joy". However, it was well after midday, and only after the fighting stopped did he suddenly feel the terrible exhaustion that made him fall gaping for a fresh breathe to the floor.
At one point of the battle the siege towers had caught fierce fire. The flames burst violently upwards and the besiegers jumped off in panic to their death. The structures collapsed on top the vast armies below the walls, raining over in burining wreckage.
The horrid heavy heat had given away to a fresh breeze from the west. Vulkoslav looked around to recognize any of his own warriors in the post-battle chaos.
Many wounded Qauqjians lay around, calling for medics or praying. The ones who were able to walk had started making preparations for tomorow, when the attack would surely continue. Several healers came running to take away the wounded, while other soldiers came to take away the dead.
There were also bodies belonging to Ragnarrson's crew - at least fifteen of them. Yaroslav was leaning on the rampart, barely cleaning his heavy sword, while several others simply lay too tired to do anything else...

John walked over to Ciwulf and Vulkoslav slowly. His flamberge was dragging along the ground by the tip with blood still running down the waved edges. He looked up at the sky before pulling a cloth from the front of his shirt and wiped off the blade of his sword. "So many dead..." he thought to himself as he stood before Vulkoslav.
"How many of the crew were lost? My mind spins as if drunk." John said in a dazed voice.

Lanoc stumbled over to the rest of the remaining crew, a bloodied rag held to right upper arm. "I took an arrow, it inflicted a deep wound, I'll be lucky if I can use my arm again," he smiled grimly, "though I'm better off than our foe. It was a fine bow and a fine shot to scale that wall, there were good warriors and archers among them." He sat down, feeling faint. He tried too wrap the rag tighter, but it of course fell off. He lost conciousness, blood still dripping from the wound.

John continued looking around at the exhausted Quaqjian soldiers that
were still recovering from the battle. He felt their fatigue as he
walked among them to find a place to rest himself. He finally found the
energy to sheath his flamberge before moving his way to the top of the
walls again. He sat down with his back against the stone and closed his
eyes. He let out a long sigh before attempting to rest, expecting
battle the next day.

The sun rose heavily and lazily above the dry land and slowly made its way higher in the orange lit sky. Dry, hot wind blew persistantly from the east, creating a gibla, a desert storm. It was not the strongest seen in these parts, but was enough to create a pressing, crushing warmth and near to nill visibility beyond thirty-fifty meters. Clouds, waves, fogs of dirt and sand blew through, colouring the blue sky into orange.
Any attack on weather and conditions like these would be suicidal. Or the Genevesian army would be desperate to enter Cala Bahiya? Would it use this cover to enter while the defenders could not see a thing?
At sunrise Vulkoslav woke up by instinct - and the growing heat, which was generally a new experience for him. He stood up from the cold, shaded corner he had found in an alley by a blacksmith not far away from the citadel of Cala Bahiya. He stood up, adjusted his sheath and noticed Ciwulf, who stood up from a weaved chair.
" 'Morning." Ragnarrson spoke after long silence. "Walk with me, Ciwulf."
Ragnarrson passed by the small blacksmith and took the a light, Qauqjian, chainmail shirt, as well as a wooden round shield. Then they headed slowly towards the citadel to find the rest of the crew before any attack might be commensed.
"Why did you join the Stormsong's crew, Ciwulf?" Vulkoslav asked suddenly as both were going up a stairway passed a pack of marching Qauqjian warriors...

"I ask because that was generally the first explanation you gave me - identical to the one now. But when I look at you, see your massive experience and... unusual aura I tend to think that there is something more than...what you say."
They continued silently to the defenses, which were thick with patrolling warriors and alarmed men. All were concerned about the zero visibility, yet all were seemingly tired from the last day of fighting.
"Well, what will you say, Gaius Baramir?" Vulkoslav asked Ciwulf coldly...

[ Sorry for really delaying any action, tomorow I'll try and make up for lost time of my continuous illness and work. ]

Ragnarrson remained silent for a moment. 

"I guess the matter concerns you only."

He dismissed the topic with a vague had gesture and turned around to see Yaroslav running among the tired defenders on the wall. Vulkoslav raised his hands and called out to his commrade, who noticed him immediatly and clumsily made his way through the patrolls and packs of Qauqjians.

"Where were you damn it?" Yaroslav roared with a wide smile. He didn't seem tired or demoralized by the long hard fighting yesterday.

Vulkoslav granted him a cold look, which suddenly disappeared and turned into an honest, jouful grin.

"In some cold shady corner..."

"Ah, I see...what's her name?" Yaroslav often had the tendancy to add comic remarks that went over the top that the given situation allowed.

Vulkoslav's grin remained though - he suddenly became unusually cheerful.

"Where are the rest? Berkeley, Lanoc...?"

"I really have no idea...." Yaroslav shrugged. "Listen, what's going on with..."

His speech was harshly interupted, as his words suddenly sunk into the piercing sound of a battle horn, blown from the citadel. It was the warning for the swarming sea of men, emerging from the sand storm.

Many alerting calls were yelled in Qauqjian, as no one expected an attack at such weather - in fact, the weather conditions were a strong factor in everyday life of Qauqjians. Whenever a crime was committed during giblas, the concivted was usually always given a less harsh sentance due to the immense pressure the heat caused on the mental condition of people. Of course, it all depended on the situation.

Ragnarrson hastily looked around. "Where the hell are they going to breech through?" None of the warriors around understood him, yet even if they knew nord, they would still igonre him, for they were totally engulfed in their chaotic duties. Nothing was clear.

"Ragnarrson!" someone yelled from afar. When Vulkoslav turned towards the direction of the call, he saw Sir Roderick waving from the battlements of the gatehouse. "Follow me!"

Ragnarrson immediatly made his way running through the swarm of warriors, without waiting to see if his brethrens followed.

"Let's go rally up your warriors, we need them as a crack force, these Genevesians won't do a normal breech in these conditions. They're up to something."....

[[Guess I should post it myself...sorry for the delay]]

John had woken up early in the morning and looked out over the city from where he was on the wall.  He was still slightly tired since he only got a few hours of sleep during the night.  He walked down from the wall and towards the citadel, feeling he needed his armor repaired by a blacksmith.  He wandered his way towards the smoke that rose in front of him, leading him to a blacksmith.  He walked in the door and saw a man working earnestly on a number of weapons.
"Excuse me kind sir.  Could you take a few moments to repair my chainmail shirt? It is not too damaged but I cannot risk it being my death." said John as he removed his beautiful chainmail shirt and set it in front of the blacksmith.
"This is indeed a fine armor.  Where was it made?" replied the man as he held it up in front of himself to look at it more.
"It was made in the village of Berkeley in a far distant land." replied John as he thought of his homeland.
"I have never heard of it, but I will repair this quickly.  There seems to be a few links broken." replied the blacksmith as he turned and began to work on the armor.  John found a pile of wooden shields and took one before sitting outside of the shop.  He waited for almost an hour before walking back inside and retrieving his armor.  He then walked towards the citadel again, wondering where the others were.

The blast of horns made John become immediately alert and his hand went to his sword.  He heard shouting and soldiers were running to and fro in confusion.  John then saw Vulkoslav rush towards the gatehouse and he raced after him, finally glad he found someone.

Vulkoslav followed Sir Roderick down the gatehouse's spiral staircase, which was wide enough to allow a flow of Qauqjian swordsmen and archers to rush upwards. They reached the bottom, flew threw the wide opened entrance and rushed through the small cobble stone square which was positioned behind the gates (inside the city) and surrounded by high, desert beige structures. On a normal day, one would hardly be able to see the houses themselves due to the packed marketplace that usually stood here.

Ragnarrson, being followed by Yaroslav, Ciwulf and Berkeley, who had emerged from no where, followed the running Sir Roderick into an alley from the square. They stumbled into thirty nord warriors rushing out in full battle gear.

"Ragnarrson!" at least half of them roared with pride and joy.

"Listen, brethrens, it seems we nords, for our hardships yesterday, are to be awarded the fiercest piece of the battle..." Vulkoslav grinned.

Several men laughed quietly, others smiled, and although they knew their commander's black humour, all were a bit nervous.

"Sir Roderick will lead the way."

Sir Roderick nodded. "This way, lads."

He headed them through the wide street, flanked with palm trees, right below the wall. They marched beside several other Qauqji regiments. Most of the local defenders were speaking amongst themselves in their own tongue, which either sounded like they were having a harsh argument, or they were singing softly to each other. It was an extremely unusual language to Ragnarrson, who found it very flamboyant, flowing and somehow warm. Most of the Qauqji warriors had swarthy (but only slightly) faces and matt black hair. It was unusual how their eyes resembled almonds. There was no uniform, but all wore a similar pattern of battle gear, namely flowing robes, light chainmail armour, round wooden shields, keffiyehs (the uniquely local headdress) or steel halfhelms with chainmail neckguards. Most were carrying scimitars or bows, yet several pikes and baradiches stuck out from the marching crowd.

Sir Roderick caught up with the leader of the column, who was on horseback and was dressed much more wealthily, for his white robes were embroidered with silver decorative motifs. His keffiyeh was crowned by a golden diadem, his armor was carved with delicate decorations and seemed more protective, and his scimitar's hilt and sheath glittered with rubies. His face was pleasant and friendly, and his eyes seemed seeking and piercing, like an eagle's.

It was constable Imad Al-Nasser.

"Ah, you arrived. The Genevesians are breeching from the river gate and the tower overlooking the river bank. Right now half the defenders are there, but being taken by surprise, they're being overrun, as I understood from a messenger a while ago…" He coughed - the dirt and sand was dense in the air. "I am going to lead a counter attack, which shall prove to either save Cala Bahiya, or loose it to King Nicholas…"

Sir Roderick nodded grimly. Ahead, in the orange fog, a battle was heard. Swords clashed, men yelled, shields bashed, armor tinned and wounded screamed. On the walls, the defenders became more packed, just ahead a large mass of Qauqji warriors pushed through into the battle further ahead.

Imad Al-Nasser drew his magnificent scimitar out. He yelled out an order in Qauqjian, turning his strong black horse round to face the column. His flowing words were those of a nobleman - pleasant to listen, yet overflowing with authority. His short speech was answered with a loud battle yell, and the march became quicker. Now the defenders became densely packed, yet they managed to make way to their Vizier. Al-Nasser lead the column around the mass of defenders into a street, perpendicular to the walls, then through a street parallel to the walls again. The houses here were larger and richer, with marble, fine wood and beige, smooth stone used for their construction and decorated with elegant eastern motifs.

The column came onto the large river shore avenue. The river's flow was clumsy and slow, and the water seemed dense with dirt and sand. However decorative the avenue had been made, with its flanking palm trees and statues, the grayish water and the orange fog and sky created a tense atmosphere. The voices of the warriors now grew to a halt. They silently marched west along the river, hearing the battle ahead.

And then it happened suddenly. The fog before them revealed the battle. Numerous gallies had rammed into the river iron-bar gates and Genevesian troops in vast numbers were climbing up the bars slowly, yet surely. To the right, the tower from which the wall continued on land was being stormed by King Nicholas' army. The massive round tower was being overrun by Genevesians, who were killing off the last of the defenders and bringing up their own banner on the defenses. The walls were being swarmed with the enemy, who had no difficulty in breeching through, as it had gained the advantage of the small fortress created by the defenses around the round tower, overlooking the river gate. Using the bad visibility, they had brought  ladders and gallies to the ill-manned defenses. Now, Genevesians were pouring onto the street, which represented an urban battlefield. The Qauqjians on the river shore avenue were being broken, yet a group of two hundred warriors stood their ground before Imad Al-Nasser.

"Yallaw!" Al-Nasser yelled out and lead the charge directly towards the breeching Genevesian armored warriors. The beaten back defenders joined the charging column, which pierced into the quickly-formed ranks of the attackers. The battle began...

Vulkoslav ran as the column crashed into the Genevesian armored men-at-arms.  Having gained momentum, he bashed his shield into the face of a chainmailed warrior, who had raised his sword in an attack stance. Instead of striking down heavily, he fell back with a broken, bleeding, deformed face. Vulkoslav then hacked horizontally at the exposed chest of another Genevess, protected only by leather armor. The man yelled in pain, fell to the ground and, in total panic, hastily tried to stop his blood and insides coming out with his hands - of course, inefficiently.

Ragnarrson then realized someone was charging him from the side. He raised his shield in the direction of the attack and felt the heavy fall of a broadsword, which cut half through the wooden shield. Vulkoslav spun his shield with force, thus making this foe drop his weapon. Still haven't understood what had just happened, the attacker helplessly watched as the exiled Nord lord (Ragnarrson) struck into him with his axe right into his shoulder, through to his chest. The man screamed in agony and fell to his knees. Ragnarrson tried to force his axe out of the dying man, but apparently it was so deep that broken bones and flesh had buried the weapon inside. Vulkoslav tried to pull it out again, only to increase the immense pain of the Genevess, who started screaming louder, blood spurring out of his mouth. The Nord then saw a charging knight in plate armor running towards him, with a raised spiked mace and a horrid battle cry. Ragnarrson dropped the hilt of his axe, which he could not free, and evaded the heavy, clumsy fall of the mace with a simple dodge. He then broke what was left of his wooden shield (along with the sword stuck on it) into the head of the Genevesian knight, yet that had little effect, since he wore a sturdy steel helm with decorative motifs. He turned round, shrugging of the wooden remains of the shield off of him and struck at Ragnarrson again. Yet Vulkoslav had grabbed a bardiche from the ground from a dead Qauqji warrior. He raised it horizontally, making the falling mace's hilt hit the hilt of the weapon he had raised. The knight dropped his weapon due to the unexpected early clash, and the mace fell ofn Ragnarrson's left shoulder. The Nord grunted the pain out from the heavy, yet non-fatal hit he took and raised his bardiche to slash down at the knight. The Genevess raised his shield in protection, yet the slash was so massively strong, it easily cut through the wood and went straight through his head, killing him immediately.

The attacking Genevesians were pushed back to the walls, and for a moment it seemed the attack would be beaten back. But then disaster struck. The iron bar river gate suddenly fell noisily into the water with a great splash. Cries of triumph were heard from the round tower of the river gate, as the men there had finally broken the system and opened the way in for the besiegers. The gallies that by now stayed patiently by the gates now rowed into the borders of the Cala Bahiya. At least three of them "docked" by the river shore avenue, were the massive battle was happening. Genevesian troops started unloading, fiercely attacking Imad Al-Nasser's warriors at the flank. This proved fatal...

The Qauqji warriors fought like nothing Ragnarrson had seen before. They were masters in individual sword fights and melee, as well as excellent cavaliers. They wielded their slim scimitars as if they danced and dodged, parried and slashed as if they celebrated the beauty they created in each of their motions.  However, in close combat against an organized, armoured mass like the Genevesians, their fluent and artistic fighting was not appreciated.

Myriads of troops were pouring out of the docked and clumsily embarked gallies on the stoned shore. They sliced into Al-Nasser's flank in a spearhead formation, cutting the defenders' army in two. Soon, the half that was surrounded found itself in a fight to the death. One by one, the green banners with the white crescent fell, their holders being massacred.

Vulkoslav was being pushed back towards a house behind him when the squealing battle horn blew. When he briskly looked over the shoulder of one of his attacking pursuers, he saw Imad Al-Nasser sounding the battle horn in the distance before masterfully turning his horse on its hinds and harshly yelling out an order in Qauqjian. The broken mass of the defending warriors then started falling back in disorder. Around a hundred brave ones stood their ground to allow the rest to retreat with their backs covered, but soon they too broke into running after their constable to the south, towards the river's curve. The river Hatul went through Cala Bahiya in curves and turns, roughly cutting the city in two - a southern and a northern part. The battle was now raging in the northern part of the city, and the masses of warriors were now falling back towards the river bridges in hope to amass a defence there.

Vulkoslav dodged an axe by ducking, letting it hit the wall behind him instead. He then turned and rolled by the wall, dodging another few strikes from swords and stumbled into a room from the door that was luckily near by. The Genevess with the axe barged in behind him, but Ragnarrson slashed downwards with a heavy scimitar as the man came in and cut into his neck and shoulder. He then turned round and ran through the hall he was in, over the thick, rich carpet and up a stairway that found itself in front the rushing Nord. Vulkoslav ran up, being followed by five Genevesian chain mailed footmen. He came out on the roof, among woven baskets, shades from cloth and leisure furniture. The Nord kicked through several baskets and went over to the next rooftop, which was merely a meter above the current one. It was remarkable how Cala Bahiya was constructed - one could basically go through the whole city by rooftop - one house to the next.

Then he ran into Ciwulf, who had just lopped off the head of a Genevess knight.

"Seven hells, what …" Vulkoslav could not find words in his rush, as the five pursuers had just ran from the stairway to the roof.

Ciwulf shrugged. "I was corned into here…"

The Genevesian warriors noticed them, as they yelled out alarming calls, pointing at the two.

"We're heading south…" Vulkoslav said unclearly and started running through to the next rooftop. Ciwulf followed him, as he felt obliged to.

They rushed by a wooden veranda, ran through several woven chairs and fell on the next rooftop, which was a meter beneath. They made their way around the white stone dome, past a high tower and jumped over a narrow alley onto the next rooftop. Vulkoslav briefly looked over his shoulder to see Ciwulf making the jump over the alley and the five Genevesians near the white dome, still following with blades out.

The two ran by a surprised old inhabitant of the house they were running on and over a low decorative fence. Then on a wooden balcony and over another alley. Then through a vast, empty roof and stumbled in a halt before the street in front of them, wider than a jump would allow.

Ciwulf, for Ragnarrson's surprise, barely slowed down and jumped over the street, which presented the battle of around twenty Qauqjians against a greater number of Genevesians. Ciwulf made it on the other rooftop without problems. Vulkoslav heard the five attackers behind closing in, so he stepped back, made a run and the air embraced him with its nothingness. For a moment his mind could not accept what was happening, unfamiliar with the sense of no ground beneath. Then he felt that he was weightless and a surge of energy pumped through his whole body.

He did not make it though. He heavily hit the edge, his right hand managing to grab the parapet but his left arm beneath, searching for something to hold on to. The impact had certainly broken some of his bones, as he felt a crushing pain in his ribs and left arm, and as he slid down, the stone scraped off his skin on his right arm. Before Ciwulf could do anything to help, Ragnarrson fell down to the street in the middle of the battle, making a fall of five meter*beep*ting the ground heavily. The world went dark and the sounds of battle melt into a whole, and then the whole disappeared.

[ Berkeley, post when you can. It's no problem. I am aware the image is from Assassin's Creed, by the way, and since all right are reserved (as it writes), I just felt the need to write this. ]

The tall pines and larches bent and waved lightly with the wind's joyful game. Fresh green grass ran with the wind's surges and its danced as it made waves. The sunlight fell through the leaves and branches, creating individual rays of brightness, fall to the little dirt road in the middle of the forest's green. Just ahead, a tall Slavyarussian wooden castle emerged from the woods, being almost blended with nature.

But then everything disappeared and there stood Odin, amidst the unclear darkness. The face that was revealed from between the long, white hair was frighteningly strict. One of his eyes had a cloth covering it, going around the whole forehead underneath the long hair. The other eye seemed to see through all, momentarily seeing all in one's soul and mind.

"It's not your time yet." Odin spoke.

But then Ragnarrson woke up. The unclear image that formed in front of him reminded him of that of a woman. Vulkoslav raised himself to a sitting position in his moist from sweat bed, but then he felt a sudden pain in his chest. He quickly placed his hand over the wound, as if that would stop the surging pain, and felt his weakness. He powerlessly leaned back.

Before him, on the edge of his bed, sat a young woman with a white face and heavy, black hair. Her eyes were warmly green, shaped like almonds. Once she saw Ragnarrson waking, she picked up a few bandages and pots with herbs and, with slight fright on her face, left the room.

Vulkoslav's sight escorted her to the door. He then observed around himself. The room had at least two windows, but they were defensively shut. The room was lit by several candles here and there. Ciwulf was leaning on the wall opposite, beside a tapestry.

"What the hell…" Vulkoslav grunted and stood out of the bed. Luckily the only thing missing from him was his weapon and chainmail shirt, so the only difficulty before him was finding his heavy fur boots.

"You've been in bed for two days now." Ciwulf spoke. "That woman said you had three broken ribs and a wounded left arm. She treated your wounds and said you should be healthy again in a week."

Ragnarrson pulled on his boots, stood up carefully, not to cause excess pain, and looked around for the scimitar he had grabbed as a weapon during the battle.

"Meanwhile, the whole northern part of the city was occupied by the Genevesians. They started raiding and pillaging, several even barged into here, but I took care of them. Half the city is in flames."

Vulkoslav finally found the chainmail shirt which he donned on, then he attached the sheath with the blade inside to his belt and finally looked at Ciwulf.

"The army? Imad Al-Nasser?" he asked.

"The constable put up a heavy defence on the bridges, still unbroken, protecting the southern part…or rather what's left of the city. The only place in the north that still has not fallen is the citadel, but it too will break soon, as I was told." Ciwulf's speech was solemnly earnest.

"We have to get out of here. We need to find the rest of the crew. We have to meet up with Al-Nasser and…" Vulkoslav stopped. "What do you propose we should do?" His sight fell heavily upon Ciwulf...

Vulkoslav stood silent for a moment, his hand remained on the sheath he had grabbed a while ago. He then shook his head and looked down.

"I have involved my whole crew into a fight that is not their at all because of my own judgment and understandings. Who knows how many lie dead because of me." He looked at Ciwulf. "You are right, my friend. Let's leave this place. We need to pass unnoticed through the city to the place we docked the longship. Hopefully, we will find a way to pass through the eastern river gate…if its not already open."

He limped to the door, but before he opened it he stopped. "You realize that when we leave this house, the family that lives here will probably be assaulted." The image of the caring beautiful woman came up in his mind.

Ciwulf nodded solemnly.

"You lead the way, my friend. My weakness will not allow me to act as the lord, now…"

As Ragnarrson followed Ciwulf out of the room, he started wondering where Lanoc and Berkeley could be...