The King

The emissaries' footsteps echoed not at all as they were led through the halls of Windhelm keep. Jasper - tall by Imperial standards - still felt daunted by the sheer immensity of the Nords. The keep felt like a thing cut from the very mountains. Eternal, immovable. Walking beside him, his younger sister took his hand in hers. He didn't look at her, instead keeping his gaze fixed on the tall Nord guard leading them, but patted her hand gently.
    'It'll be fine, Katie,' he whispered. 'The king will listen to us.' He squeezed her hand once, then gently pried her fingers away. The guard stopped outside a pair of massive iron doors.
    'Take care that you do not insult the king,' he said and pushed open the doors before they had a chance to answer.
    Upon a stone throne sat the biggest man Jasper had ever seen. Huge even for a Nord, the king of Windhelm had thick, gray hair that fell past his shoulders. He was clad in simple woolen britches and a white shirt, opened halfway down his chest. On his shoulders - broad as a bull's - he wore the pelt of a massive wolf.
    Jasper approached the king with long, certain steps and bowed deeply.

Letter To Josiah

    My dearest Josiah


   I write this letter in the darkest hour of night, by the light of a lantern. Soldiers march by the house every few minutes, but they've yet to attempt to enter. We pray that they pass us by. The invasion was over before anyone had a chance to fight back. Judging from the sounds of fighting, the last remnants of the royal guard are still holding out in the palace. A dying candle in a storm. Your mother and I will attempt to flee the city as soon as possible. Gods willing, we will find you in Brensburg. 

Rubble

    Doctor Blitzmann is barely alive when they find him. As they drag him from the ruins of his own workshop, he mutters a few choice words regarding Drow assassins and their mothers' fondness for mating with goats, before passing out.
    A few feet away, the rubble shifts. Ulrich groans as he claws himself up through crushed stone, splintered wood and shattered glass. He breaks the surface with a gasp of pain, throwing aside the body of a black-clad assassin. He staggers to his feet, surveying the scene. His throat is lined with dust.
    'Where is the Doctor?' he croaks.

John

John's bed was unmade, his coat thrown across it, riddled with bullet holes. John opened the refrigerator door, ignoring the cloying smell of stale air and almost-spoiled food, and grabbed a can of coke. Flopping down in his squeaky but comfortable chair, he opened the can and drank deeply. He sighed and held the cold can to the large, blue and purple swelling over his right eye. After a few minutes the cold metal had taken the edge off the pain, and he put it down. Grimacing with pain, he carefully removed his crimson t-shirt. It had been white that morning.