The Elder Scrolls

The orc grinned as he felt the end of the blade sink through steel and into soft flesh, Kildra's pained cry curling a sadistic smile behind his tusks. Nords and their notorious rage were almost forgotten when she jumped up to return an attack - he lost his high ponytail but managed to save his head in avoiding her axe. He paused backwards, managing to rebound back and charged her, halberd thrust out to pin her with the pole.

The argonian had no idea how full his hands were going to be going into the battle with the blood-thirsty Nord. His blades were neatly avoided, infuriating that he then barely managed to avoid a sword chopping him in two; the blade cut from his shoulder to his stomach before he got away, hissing with the stinging pain it brought. "Cur!" he hissed, bending over. He used the low form to slash his sword at Olek's ankles and legs - a good cut would end this fight soon.

Rothwar allowed his men to carry on ushering him off to the side, choking slightly on the pain and blood loss. Scowling as the battle raged without him, he couldn't have been more happy to see Syndrelas, a man who at the best of times made his skin crawl slightly. Still, a good healer was important on a ship like his. Managing a grunt, the captain set his teeth when the pain set in and the mending of his flesh began. The intense burn was marked only by the tongue slurping across his chest, which was rewarded with a reprimanding smack to the side of the head of the vampire. "Thanks," he grunted shortly, taking a moment to gather his senses from the bloodloss and check out the battle.

The halberd- splattered lightly with blood from the Nord's shoulder- was narrowly avoided with a swift sidestep to the left. Her lips curled back with a furious snarl, & although this was hidden behind her helm, the low rumble of a growl would sound in her throat. Kildra's arm recoiled like a serpent before arcing forth smoothly towards his throat.

Oleksondair's eyes swiveled to the corners of their sockets and met Vandir's while he recovered from cutting into the Argonian. His sword was thrust into the air and he shouted for his ancestors once more- "For Mighty Talos!"

Olekval swept his high sword around to cut the head from the lizard's shoulders and his blade bit through nothing but air. The slinking Argonian cut his legs and nearly took his right leg in half above the ankle, causing the Nord to surrender to gravity, knees and hands hitting the deck. His call turned to a bloody yell, which turned again into a battle cry as he shoved himself back up to sit on his knees and slashed for the Argonian's belly in the same movement.
"Shor's hall will have me in pieces!"

Vandir started to show that he had never really seen a true battle, not a life and death battle like this. Although he was being silenced by a pirate he winced and whimpered with the blows that connected to Olek. At the worst cut he closed his eyes and started to sob into the palm of the pirates hand like a frightened child. The pirate snickered and uttered a few insults quietly behind him.

Rip-Jaw moved quickly away from the captain as he was smacked and huffed as if he felt the man was ungrateful. All he wanted was a little flesh. He darted to the edge of the ship to get a good view of the fight, deciding if he was needed back on the other side again. He was needed to heal, but it could wait. His eyes had caught something far more important to his own amusement.

He smirked toothily down to the side at Olek and raised both his hands. Light pulsed around his palms and fingers as he summoned up the energy for a calming spell and cast it directly over the edge of the ship towards Olek in the hopes of rendering him too passive to fight back immediately.

There was little the stumbling orc could do - the knife bit through the side of his neck, popping out at the corner and tore open at the quarter of his neck. It was enough to end his battle; gagging and dropping his weapon to latch his hands on the gushing vein in vain. In a matter of minutes he'd be dropping to the deck from bloodloss.

The argoninan didn't show his pleasure at the nord's pained cry, already moving out of the way when he hit the deck. His flicker of interest in the direction of the captain had him foolishly distracted enough to barely brace for the sword swinging at him. He pulled back, hissing as the blade cut deep, hopping back and stumbling into the arms of a waiting crewmate gratefully. How lucky they had their healer with them.

When Rothwar had finally shaken himself back to a state of more fit focus he brushed past his people to watch Rip-Jaw playing with the mad Nord who was bloodier than ever and bent on his own death. These great warriors of the North never knew when to quit, but he smirked as the calm seemed to be sucessful, passing his first mate as he was carried aboard the ship. Prisoners were being brought up from below the deck now, their cooperation securing their lives as they were rounded up and the sounds of fighting died to nothing. "You fought well, Nord," the captain complimented, his hammer finding its place in his hands as he hefted it appreciatively. With a grunt he made his move, hefting it to the right and swinging sideways at roaring deeply with the power.

Oleksondair cut and swung from his knees in the apex of his blinding rage until an unwelcomed energy entered his body. He felt this thing sap the fight from his arms and as hard as he tried to keep a fist, his sword fell from his twitching fingertips, and he watched it begin to roll away from him. The magic bottling of his seething anger only caused the strain and pressure of it to build up in his skull and his heart to vessel-bursting intensity, but he could not let it out. Try as he might to swing his arms and tear the flesh off the Orsimer, they just lay there placid, wet on the deck of the ship. And try as he did to open his teeth and scream a deadly scream to let his enemies and his ancestors hear him, Olekval just stared up at Rothwar. His eyes twitched with what wanted to be a cursing glare. His mouth was neutral, though blood covered his face. The warrior seeking Sovngarde died not in fervorous battle but on his knees near the posture of a bow to his executioner, and the moments before in which he hailed the names of his gods felt like so long ago.
The hammer disintegrated the skull and hot blood sprayed Rothwar's face. Grey-matter spiderwebbed into the mist and heavy chips of bone and teeth were thrown as far as Vandir.
Oleksondair Longbeard, son of Olandir Longbeard, though he never knew him; Olekval Ember-Headed, who never slept; who fought for solace with Woskir; who slew his grandfather, and lost his wife; who charged to the defense of the Grace of Kynareth with death on his mind may have been robbed of Sovnegard in his last breath. His body lay there without a face on the cold deck of a ship among all the other bodies, losing the rest of its blood.

Vandir didn't have much time to think, nor react as the man whom he'd started to consider a brother and a friend (from just a few minutes of battle) had his head destroyed before his very eyes. Even the pirate covering his mouth needed to look away and groan sickly. A few chips of bone and teeth landed on him, some on his face and after a prolonged silence and a very pale face he started screaming and with great strength, threw the pirate off him and tried to run for the other side of the ship. He was quickly stopped by another pirate tying up some prisoners near the mast "SHUT UP!" he yelled and tried to cover Vandir's mouth again, the poor noble screaming at the top of his lungs repeatedly and wailing for help and mercy and god knows what else.

Rip-Jaw let out a horrible shrieking laughter and bounded across to where Rothwar stood "Such a noble death!" he announced loudly and grabbed the headless body and dragged it onto the Black Skeever and off behind some rope piles and crates where he began to feast on poor Olek's warm flesh, muttering something about freshly peeled fruit.

A muddy brown and green Argonian that had been securing prisoners and handing them across finally came to Woskir's side "Don't give me any trouble n' i wont give you any trouble" he grumbled as he dragged the nord's dead weight back towards the Black Skeever and with the help of a larger pirate, an imperial, would hand him across.

A couple of men walked towards Kildra with their weapons drawn, one had a battle axe and the other a mace "Come quietly and we won't have to kill you, lass" they growled and nodded back towards the Skeever impatiently.

Kildra's forefathers would have been proud of the spectacle: her waraxe bit through the Orc's throat, his blood sprinkling across her helm, teeth bared behind the steel as the last of a war cry escaped them. In her adrenaline rush, his body seemed to fall to the deck as though underwater. She would have followed his death with a cry of triumph had the berserk rage in her blood not dissolved.
The puncture wound his halberd had made through her left shoulder throbbed, left hand trembling as it reached to recollect her shield. Her fingers refused to form a proper grip on it. As the pair of pirates approached, the Nord would kneel into a crouch, growling animalistically. Her eyes darted between them as though contemplating whether or not to fight. Her breathing was rapid & shallow, dizziness clouding her mind. She was evidently going into shock.
Kildra was no coward, but she was not yet ready to sacrifice her life for pride's sake.
She'd remove her helm & walk towards the pirate's ship with hesitant compliance. She was too stubborn to leave her weapon behind, & should one of them make a move to take it from her, she would spit venomously but otherwise allow it. Her emerald gaze shifted about even though her head hung. The screaming noble, the headless body of some unknown kinsman, the austere vampiric wretch- Kildra would take it all in with an ounce of bewilderment.

The captain shared a fierce roar with his crew; the hot blood cooled on his face quickly while his own boiled. Those who weren't dead were being ushered onto the ship and led through the dark depth to the narrow passage that made up prisoner's quarters. He watched his men while Rip-Jaw approached, flickering distaste as the man gathered up the body and took it to a dark corner aboard the ship; he couldn't allow his people to starve, after all.

Rothwar limped once more across to his own ship, eyes set on the screeching noble. "Children don't scream so loud," he shouted at Vandir, leaning forward to punch the noble firmly in the gut with a winding blow, "Get him downstairs, already." Treasures and goods were starting to be brought up from the depths of the ship now, the largest cargo his men couldn't slip into their pockets. "Is their Captain still alive," he asked loudly, looking up from his inspection of the growing pile of weapons shaken from the prisoners.

Woskir struggled to put his legs under him as he was drug across the Grace of Kynareth by an unknown man. He managed to catch his footing and drive himself forwards for a short series of steps until his knees hit the railings and he fell forwards onto the bridging. The person hauling him waited not for Woskir to gather himself, simply dragging the man across the splintery wet wood as dead weight. The young Nord pressed hard on the wound that bloodied the entirety of his face, at first searching through the haze for his axe, and then looking up and scanning for the face of his friend, unable to find either.

"Yeah, 'ere, Cap'n Rothwar." is a low reply from an old, white-haired Nord who has seen so many brigand ships and so little land in his lifetime that his voice rasps like salt water. He shrugs an Imperial man off his shoulders hard to the ground and he sags with age and lethargy after the weight is relieved from him.
"Do with this brave man as ye see fit, Captain." whispers the old Nord to Rothwar with no excess of breath. If he intended sarcasm, he didn't manage to stress the word in the slightest. He bows his head to excuse himself, and then he heads off tiredly to the lower decks for his rum and his bread and to clean off his sword. The old man doesn't care to see to the politics with the prisoners or to cleaning up after the fight is finished.

The Grace of Kynareth's Captain Verodas struggles to sit up onto his knees, though it's difficult with the old pirate's tight rope bindings around his wrists. The man looks up at Rothwar with a head held high in mighty Imperial spite, with a mix of uncertain fear and withheld racist spit across his face.

Vandir's screams halted abruptly as he was punched in the gut and a wheeze followed. He gaped a few times, struggling horribly for breath as he sank to his knees, only held up by the man behind him who had grabbed him. The pirate holding him nodded with a crude grin towards Rothwar and momentarily eyed the gold and jewelry on Vandir's person before heaving him off below deck, followed closely by a Khajiit with a greedy grin.

"This one mews for mother's milk," came an amused purr from overhead. An austere alabaster Khajiit was referring to Vandir, her savage amber gaze burning from within dark eye markings, maw curled into a sadistic smile. Oily ebony shoulder-length hair framed her pale complexion {which was marred with several small scars}. Tasrin was currently stretched luxuriously across the support of the foresail, "supervising" as prisoners & goods were brought on board. She was ultimately responsible for conducting the repairs of the Black Skeever, a task she took great pride in, her love of the ship only second to that of her captain's. She rarely participated in the actual attacks however. When their ship had rammed the Grace of Kynareth, she would have retreated up into the sails & stealthily fired the occasional arrow. The Khajiit was notoriously lazy, but she was kept around due to her skill & the vitality of her repair work.
As the number of crewmates returning from their target dwindled, Tasrin would slide down to the deck & make her way to the bow. Her maternal fretting was kept to a mutter as she set about inspecting. Captain Rothwar's ship was formidably sturdy, & although the Black Skeever seemed intact, she couldn't help but cringe whenever she was used as a battering ram.

Sweat seeped from her skin as Kildra struggled to remain conscious, gritting her teeth against the throbbing pain of her shoulder wound. The flow of blood was beginning to slow but she'd already lost a considerable amount. She was lead below deck with the rest of the prisoners, her movements sluggish, trembling fingers slipping beneath the collar of her armor to secure a section of tunic. The Nord would rip at it with her teeth & attempt to shove the cloth into her wound as a makeshift gauze.
"How were we so unprepared...?" she'd murmur gloomily to herself.