The uprising had been a surprise, mounted quickly and just short of their destination. They hadn't nearly stopped for the evening, Denerim visible over the cresting hills and nestled between the tops of the trees, but the road had been long, and one more night of rest would have been good for the weary elves, and for those in his Caravan.
Brethor clenched his sausage like fingers against the hilt of his club, his grip already slick with sweat and flecks of blood. This had gone so wrong. He struck out, his downswing battering Davin across the shoulder, his breath heaving from his lips. "You little shit... stand down!" They weren't warriors, and realistically Brethor knew his weight rested in his middle. He couldn't carry on for much longer.
Quickly, he was knocked back, taken entirely by surprise by the shield crushing him from the side. He stumbled, tumbling hard into the dirt, dangerously close to the campfire.
Addled by the blow, his first instinct was that their skirmish had drawn the attention of bandits; the din summoning an ambush when the camp's attention had been divided. If that were the case, and if they survived, he would throttle Davin for sure, wringing his neck for every ounce of trouble.
The armor was that of a knight though, not the scavenged bits worn by a bandit, and it brought only the smallest measure of comfort. He was clad in silver, and while he was unable to see the region emblazoned across the chest, he knew that this close to Denerim, he was likely one of theirs.
Several feet away, bronze reflected the orange flames harshly, and for a moment it stunned Brethor further, covering his bleary vision with harsh white dots that followed him even when he shut his eyes. Two knights?
He shuddered, shaking his confused head, hoping to push away some of the daze. He dropped his club at the knight's request, tossing it toward his feet, his aim was off, and it skidded several feet from where he'd intended.
Brethor tried to find his voice, choking on air as he wheezed. "Stand down... you heard him, stand down!" He started the slow rise to his feet, glancing warily at the merchants that were now stepping back from the fight. It was a tense moment, and he was unsure how things would proceed. The others did not drop their weapons outright, instead held them level with their chest, ready to strike out defensively if necessary.
There were several dead, five, maybe six elves, their fair faces invisible in the dark. They'd started this, and he'd been hoping for a way out. This may have been as good and divine as any opportunity.
He looked around to see who still stood, only three surviving elves... only a four of his merchant friends and companions. He seethed, shaking both from his exertion and his rage. Brethor pointed his fat finger and Davin, "You little bastard, I hope you're pleased..."