It would not be a short voyage to Skyrim. The boats boarded were stocky things, full of supplies and men alike and bearing no rowers the sails could only do so much to take its fat frame through the waters of the North, a task made far harder by the permafrost of Northern Skyrim having to be cleared or sailed around. But eventually the Blue Palace could be seen in the distance. Soon the Karth river was entered, the mouth of the waterway decorated with new statues of great Nordic heroes: Ysgramor with the head of a Falmer, Tiber Septim - Talos - bearing the Amulet of Kings, Gormlaith Golden-Hilt with her sword held high, the Dragonborn in all the splendour recent memory could allow.
Though a wondrous sight, there was little chance to see it as most men on the deck focused on watching the Eastern shore for Thalmor lackeys. Though certainly none dared try mount an attack on the vessels, many a probing eye could be seen in the marshes.
The process of disembarkation from the vessels was somewhat strenuous, with a great many crates to be carried, horses to be lead out, and of course a good many papers to fill out from making sure that all troops were presented and accounted for to ensuring that all the auxilia had disembarked from their vessel with no clever bugger hopping off some way mid journey to swim for a rendezvous (or whatever similar journey of spycraft the mind could imagine). It was a time where it paid to be of the lower ranks, for whilst the officers and elites toiled away an enlisted man and conscript alike could do their bust to bundle up and enjoy the view; a more enterprising soldier could sidle off and purchase a bottle of Solitude’s famous spiced wine from a loose vendor.
Eventually the respite ended however. The squads were to move into the marching formation of their cohorts, and thus they climbed the stone trail to the capital of Skyrim. Always the core of support for the Empire, the locals passing by the city cheered for their arrival hoping it would foreshadow a day when no longer were they strangers in their homeland. The words that went unsaid were the thought that before them was the strength for a true, Nordic Skyrim.
The march would be the first time that the Legionnaires would see their Legate, Ingjald, in person. A massive man, it was no secret his ornate armour was inspired by the many statues of Ysgramor across his homeland. Riding upon his horse at the front of the column, he was stopped by a guard that came running out of the gates. A master of the thu’um and su’um alike, there was no difficulty in overhearing his discussion with the guard: the barracks was at full occupancy, even the floors covered in sleeping bags. Ingjald was an intimidating man, but instantly hundreds of soldiers were willing to brave his wrath as they scattered upon hearing that they would have to make alternate arrangements for the day and night.
“Stand! Stand where you are!” The Legate attempted briefly, but seeing the chaos that erupted in his ranks he simply roared “Anyone who is not at the gates in the morning is a deserter who will receive the full penalty of Imperial law for such a transgression!” Many a man went to simply set up camp near the refugees from the rest of Skyrim along with the wandering merchants and paramilitaries outside the city. Some ran to the large temples to the Divines within the city hoping their faith would convince the clergy to give them respite. Many of the Legionnaires along with some of the auxilia ran to the inns, deciding to spend their first salaries on a last night of comfort before heading towards death. Some with local connections found rest with their family or an empty stable to sleep in.
Of course, these were only the men with foresight. It was only midday, and many a warrior that would take life as it came to them found themselves wandering to places of entertainment. Taverns, guilds they were associates of, the Bard’s College, or embassies of their homelands in the case of some Dunmer, Redguard and Argonians. Day and night was theirs to spend, how they would do it was a choice up to every man.
The squad had been rather near the front of the formation, and thus even the scoundrels among them would not scatter with the first wave of men upon hearing they had to make their own sleeping arrangements. Sergeant Dallio turned to them, doing his best to have a bright smile. “Apologies comrades, I uh... if anybody would like next month’s pay early I can hand it over now. It’s from me, not the Legion so pay it back when you can please.” Dallio would be far better known to the squad than the Legate was. A career soldier and native of Colovia he was a younger than many men of lower rank. He'd have done his best to make a good impression on his squad when they were training playing a more soft counterpart to the rigidness of the drill Sergeants. A man of few words it would nevertheless be a mistake to take this for coldness or unsociability for he would produce a friendly smile to any that meet his gaze.
Behind him, Solitude was different to how many who had been there before might have remembered it. Its streets were far busier, luckier refugees residing within rather than without. Soldiers mingled with the common folk rather than just patrolling it, donning full Imperial armour rather than the gear of Holdguard that once prevailed. The population was primarily Nordic as always, but the proportion of Mer and Beastfolk in the citizenry was now replaced almost entirely by Imperials. Though the war had brought some somberness, there were also some signs of festivity. This was owed to both the changing of seasons and the glorification of war by the Nords. Bards sang songs in Old Nord or even Dovahzul to praise the Dragonborn, competing with the myriad of shouting Priests of the Divines for one's ear. Vigilants of Stendarr walked the streets and harassed those that acted pecuiliarly whilst offering charity to the ailing. In the distance, the Blue Palace remained pristine as ever with decorations padded upon it to celebrate the arrival of the Legion.
The City was now a place of great contrast, flairs of the Empire and Skyrim clashing for dominance in all five sense.
The temperate climes of Cyrodiil were not able to welcome Drelas for long. He had not long settled into the barracks that he was brought to before word arrived that he was to be shipped to Skyrim to join the war effort there, grim as its situation was. Supposedly, at least according to rumours whispered by the Legionnaires, Skyrim was a complete mess in that as soon as the banners of war were raised, every faction and their mothers crawled out from the shadows and took for themselves a piece of the Nordic territory each. The most dire of rumours spoke of things worse than Thalmor awaiting the Legion there, if one could imagine such a thing.
Before this, Drelas had arrived at the Imperial City a few weeks after being carted off from Morrowind. The journey, while uncomfortable, was surprisingly trouble-free and unremarkable. A small Dunmeri trading outfit had a route between Narsis and Nibeney, with a stop off at the capital for mass restocking and offloading before heading back north-east. Its owner was a snobbish and snooty mer, who spoke few words to Drelas - the ones that did come to pass were merely grunted announcements of resting or of setting up camp. More engaging were the mercenaries and the labourers who travelled with the caravan. Of those, Drelas spent his time with and got to know Bevdyni, a female dark elf from Balmora, the most. She spoke of the fickle and fragile state of her city, which was once a Hlaalu stronghold of trade and commerce on the isle of Vvardenfell, but was now a frontier town at best. The Red Year had not been kind to her family nor any who resided there, but the reconstruction efforts had fortunately gone fairly well thanks to the pride and resilience of the Vvardenfell culture and the skills of the workforce - a labour that had clearly not enticed itself to Bevdyni. As the White-Gold Tower grew closer, Drelas had grown fond of Bevdyni, and caught himself oddly forlorn as she bid him farewell and disappeared into the city, right before an attachment of Legionnaires arrived to 'escort' him to one of the garrisons to sign what seemed like a book's worth of papers and essentially contract himself into a near-certain death by sword, arrow or fireball.
Perhaps this is what his father truly wanted for his most disappointing son. Not to make connections, not to bring glory to the family name, but to be rolled into a shallow grave on some wretched battlefield.
As was not surprising for a soldier's life, the food was gruel and the ale watered down, and Drelas found the company to be drab and predictable. The enlisted were the expected mix - patriotic zealots mingling with terrified conscripts, overseen by dreary and stone-gazed officers ensuring that neither were acting out of turn. The Dunmer made no effort to engage with any of them, instead opting to stick to himself and consume his poultry rations with resigned disinterest. He had considered escape, but with the watchful eyes of his 'superiors' combined with what Drelas presumed to be heightened intolerance for insubordination as a result of the increased levels of conscription across the Empire, he reckoned an attempt wasn't worth the effort or risk. There would be opportunity enough for desertion, he mused. So drab company it was. Between the mealtimes, training and drills were the norm. Drelas was initially taught, forced as he was, to learn the fundamentals of sword-and-shield combat and archery in between. After the first couple of days, however, he was brought aside for special training as a scout. The reasoning here was his slender frame and 'elf-eyes' making him well-suited for such a responsibility, and so the physical conditioning was supplemented by theory on staying hidden behind enemy lines and how to survive on your own in the wilderness if needs be. It was a useful curriculum, at least - far more beneficial to know than being shown the right way to slash and thrust before being inevitably cut down unceremoniously like the insignificant grunt you are.
Drelas had become accustomed to the routine until the rumours of deployment were confirmed the next morning. The next few hours were a blur as what seemed like the entire garrison was led through the city to the Waterfront, names were called from clipboards and soldiers were shifted to different vessels. Drelas' mind was with thoughts of home and nostalgia when he heard his name called out, he didn't quite catch which detachment he was to be part of, but he was gestured to embark on a chunky and blandly-brown vessel which he sheepishly shuffled over to after the captain had to bark his name once again with no attempt to hide his annoyance.
The naval journey was no more pleasant than the overland one Drelas had not long since experienced. The hull was almost overloaded with stock, and the cabins even more overloaded with sailors and soldiers. Days turned into weeks, the only semblance of time was sunlight and moonlight glimmering through the shutters, for the deck was found to be most unwelcoming for anyone wishing to gawp at the outside world as Drelas quickly found out. He came to learn that his immediate superior was one Antony Dallio, and Drelas found him a somewhat uninspiring man who nonetheless seemed to go out of his way to not be unpleasant which was at least worthy of appreciation if not respect. His newfound compatriots did nothing to disprove Drelas' earlier presumption of the qualities of the typical Imperial Legionnaire, at least not the ones he managed to get a good look at. On one particularly dark evening, he could have sworn he saw the silhouette of another Dunmer down a corridor, but dismissed the thought as he realised the figure was far taller than anything but an Altmer should have a right to be, and far bulkier than any mer could surely ever be.
The voyage become more stop-and-start as the weeks dragged on, with many of the crew having to do shifts to remove the ship from the trappings of ice and frost that threatened to leave them stranded in the frigid and chillingly hostile sea, to the point that Drelas grew to dread every time the ship rocked for fear that command would be issued. Eventually though, the famed Sea of Ghosts gave way to the landmark of Solitude, and Drelas could not help but gasp has he lay eyes on it for the first time. He was under the impression that Nordic architecture was crude and rugged, lacking the finesse of most other cultures. But the city atop the natural arch was truly a wonderful sight to behold, and once again Drelas was surprised by his reaction to an event that marked another step toward a surely doomed end. He shook himself clear of his awe and reminded himself of his situation as they sailed underneath the stone structure.
As the ship docked and the crew began disembarking, a familiar chaos of the organised sort erupted along the port in the shadow of the Great Arch. Orders were barked by grumpy officers, soldiers shuffled along the piers to where they were told to be, and arms and armour were unloaded and exchanged hands. Drelas himself came to possess a somewhat droll steel sword and clunky steel-lined shield, a basic hunting bow, and a set of late 4th-era Imperial-style lightweight leather armour that felt like it would struggle to stop a butter knife - Drelas hoped his inexperience in handling armour would prove him wrong. Finally, the young Dunmer was instructed to approach one last station wherein he received a worn telescope surely intended to be specialised equipment for his scouting duties should they arise, judging from the relative rarity of their issuing. Drelas donned his armour over his roughspun tunic, equipped his gear on the respective belts and buckles and slung everything else over his shoulders. After that, he was yet again implored to stand in a certain place in the formation that was built at the base the Western side of the mighty Karth.
The climb to the city itself was not easy, the difficulty of the journey exasperated by the pace that the Imperial higher-ups demanded the Grey Legion to maintain. Morrowind seemed like a flat plain by comparison to this hike alone (Red Mountain not withstanding), but then Skyrim was known to be the land of great and majestic mountains, unfortunately marred by the brutish and lowbrow nature of its inhabitants. It felt like hours had passed by the time they reached the imposing gates that had insofar protected Skyrim's capital from being overrun by whatever forces threatened to smother this side of the province, forces that Drelas would no doubt become acquainted with in the coming days. He caught many glances at what seemed to be the commanding officer of the Grey Legion in its entirety - the decorated and ornated armour attested to that. A brute of a Nord, even by their large standards, his already broad presence was underpinned by his booming voice as he roared his threat of consequence to any notion of desertion that may stir within the ranks. Perhaps Drelas would have to withhold any attempts at escape for the time being.
The organised contingent soon devolved into a disjointed rabble as soldiers went their separate ways. Before Drelas could slip away amongst them, Sergeant Dallio approached and it became clear that those around him were not random troops, but were his squad. Suddenly, he made an effort to take stock of who surrounded him, but his attention was snapped back to the Sergeant upon hearing mention of pay. The loan-nature of it didn't matter to Drelas, what mattered what the financial freedom it represented. With money, he could find company was wasn't drab, he could at least enjoy himself before being carted off to his shallow grave - better yet, he could even use it to arrange a way out of this fate or explore the options available to him to be used at a more optimum time, when watchful eyes were relaxed and suspicions were beginning to falter.
Drelas was the first to approach to the Sergeant, perhaps a little too eagerly, to simply ask: "How much?".
As Dallio addressed the squad, its members pushed closer to hear the man over the chaos that unfolded as everyone scattered to where their fancies took them. There was the Hastatus Sejanus Tyrsson, a Cyrodiil born Nord that was all too eager to show off that he was still a true son of Skyrim despite being born outside of it and speaking the tongue with a Bruman accent. The remaining Hastatus went simply by Telleno, an Altmer apparently apparently related to the dissidents from the Aldmeri dominion that had been slaughtered by the Thalmor and was simply looking for some measure of revenge. Caius Ganelon was a Ballistarius that despite a clearly Imperial name never really touched on his heritage, simply claiming to be a man of the world; a rather quiet soul, he would remark that he had killed once before the war and became a crossbowman simply to avoid seeing death so close again when serving. Jean-Anselm Portexe was a Breton Ballistarius that had apparently joined when he had naught to repay gambling debts with and decided the Legion would be a way to both escape men with clubs going to collect his cash, but also to honourably repay them when at last he came home to High Rock. The Redguard brothers Hakim and Rashid of Fireglen both hunters that felt it was simply their duty to the glorious Emperor to join up.
There was Ryjko, the aged Nordic mage of restoration and healing that had fallen under the Imperial amnesty for Stormcloak members some years ago and now simply wanted to repay the deeds the Dragonborn's lineage had done for his homeland. Last of note was the Bard Mukbolg, the Orc that was rather diminutive for his kind and unsurprisingly an outcast for not being able to wield a smith's hammer or warriors blade; could play a damn good tune on his trumpet, though.
It was young Sejanus who chuckled out "Hah! Always thinking about your own money like the rest of your cunt-kind, fucking typical." The Sergeant threw the Nordic youth a dirty look, but didn't speak on the matter instead choosing to address the question of Drelas as he opened his mouth. Words didn't come out as a shadow loomed over him, and he turned to face the polished mask of Ingjald. Dropping a purse of coin as a hand struck his forelock with a thuck noise upon salute. A finger of ebony stretched over him, pointing first to Edward Gonard. "You." It addressed, the words whispered in a baritone that somehow seemed louder than the speech of the Sergeant. "And you." the voice continued, the digit now hovering over Tylmaesa. "Come with me. Now." The tone suggested that there was in fact a choice here, but only one good one. He turned, his long grey cape trailing behind himself as he walked into the city.
Dallio turned back to his squad, swallowing some air before addressing his squad again. "Right, your pay, you weren't aware?" He motioned for Drelas to come a little closer. "Its eight hundred Septims a month after deducting expenses for you."
Boats. It had to be boats. No, not a jaunty march through the mountains, nor was it a stroll through the daisies- it was boats. Frelayne looked skyward and permitted herself the briefest of prayers as she gazed sunward. Not a soul could call Frelayne Ildered a coward, and neither could they call her a fool... So long as she was on dry land. Horseback? Dignified. A party? Downright civilized. A stroll through a flower meadow? Positively charming. On a boat? Newborn deer caught in headlights and struggling to keep down last night's dinner.
Oh yes, on this venture she would need all her wits and training at hand. It would not do to make such a poor impression after the incident in Training*. To her credit, when Frelayne stepped upon the boat it was in a gallant stride and with a straight back, a stiff brow, and a damn fine impression of someone whom she imagined to be grizzled. Or, perhaps, seasoned. In short, she looked far too serious and far too clean. Luckily for everyone else, there would be little time for her strange antics upon the trip.
Most of it she'd spend leaning over the side of the vessel retching up whatever meager meals she could manage to stomach, or staggering about the surface of the ship in an effort to continue her duties. If it weren't for the occasional burn of Magicka for telekinetic assistance and her unwavering sense of pride to accomplish her tasks she'd have been a downright detrimental travel companion for the squad on this stretch of the journey. Her days spent shivering and sick. Her nights spent frantically cleaning and scrubbing at her robes as she could find the time. Her meals quiet, trembling hands guiding morsels to forcefully parted teeth. The only solace she had on this trip was the brief glimpses she managed of the statues along the Karth River.
By then she'd began to steady her footing and had finally learned that, yes, it was going to be this cold in Skyrim. And yes, it did indeed get colder.
Ysgramor- Talos- Gormlaith- The Dovahkiin! It was enough to fill anyone with a patriotic fervor. So much so that Frelayne seemingly forgot she was supposed to be seasick and, perhaps, she even managed to walk along the deck without swaying for a time. It was a frequent relayed order to Frelayne to stop 'gawking' and to pay attention, there were scouts afoot. After a mere moment of incensed and quiet, withering, anger Frelayne's inferno of patriotic pride was cooled and the training she'd been instilled with was reasserted as the dominant force in her mind. Soon she was recaptured by incessant illness- but at least she was alert and watching the far shores. Something she could do well; gazing at the stillness of the shores seemed to calm her somewhat, and the rest of the trip was spent under the austere and watchful eye of a now stationary Frelayne.
It wasn't until the boats docked that people began to remember why Frelayne was even along. One of the few members of the legion with a presentable uniform after a long journey at sea-river-ice flow-Hell, she made quite the striking figure. Thick hair brushed well and bundled into a tight, serious bun; uniform somehow clean and unsoiled by wrinkles or sogginess, the white and black standing out in a very contrasting manner on her preciously maintained attire as opposed to the fading or mixing greys of the rest of the legion; staff in hand, reminding all that she, in fact, is a mage.
And a damn good one at that, she liked to think. Modestly, of course.
She exerted herself mildly to make short order of her squad's debarkation process- an affair rendered easy by the burning scent of Magicka emanating off the woman and accompanied by the sight of telekinetically maneuvered crates- so that they could free themselves of work and enjoy a little more free time before the marching began. Now that was something Frelayne was good at; marching. Equal parts transport and parade, the tall woman's features and personage appeared at times as if it was bred for a sort of marching. Just not military marching. She could keep pace easy enough- the training had seen to that, after all- but it was clear from her shifting expressions that every muddy step or imprecise splatter from a nearby comrade was steadily working up her frustrations.
Seeing the Legate assuaged the rising temper of the woman; high ranking authority was something that always had this effect on her. Privately a need to compete, to posture and position and challenge, always arose; openly, a deference, reverence, a catering whimsy and delicate personage always rose to the top. She had no interest in challenging the Legate, no interest in testing his mettle or sampling his personality, but those inclinations were always there. The noble-bred and tutor-instilled need to maneuver and court and intrigue.
They'd almost been buried over the years. The hard days of travel on the road, the dangers afoot, the required violence at times, the sweat and callouses accrued- all of it had formed a hard shell over the noble upbringing and mixed with it to form the modern woman of Frelayne... However there were times and places that the shell broke and she couldn't help but hint at the higher station she came from. Seeing the Legate, regally portrayed in the splendor of Ysgramor, was one such moment. If she'd had a harp, she'd positively have strummed it. Perhaps even peeled a few grapes. Thankfully, with neither at hand, the demure woman had but a brief moment of a soft smile and a delicate swoon before she regained herself and returned to proper marching order.
By the time she'd regained her thoughts, she found herself in the midst of a scattering and scrambling crowd of soldiers attempting to escape into the city before the Legate could-
Ah, yes. There we are, she thought to herself. The order to Stand. That was something Frelayne did exceptionally well; standing at attention. The way she stood very much so made her seem as if she was someone used to being in someone's attention. A natural charisma flowing through features and body language even as turmoil of scattering comrades faded around her. In a strange way, bereft of magic, Frelayne was like a bastion of properness in this chaos- it certainly helped that she was taller than most others around her. The Legate's begrudging permission, brought about in her eyes at realizing he was too late to stop the exodus, gave him a rugged sort of authority to Frelayne's eyes. Crack the whip, but let the horses guide themselves. She could see the merits to the style. Nobody wanted a daft horse after all, and this would be a simple way to weed out the chaff before the seriousness of their circumstances could force the subject in a critical manner.
Frelayne's height was not the only bastion of purpose in the chaos, however; soon Dallio made an effort to address the squad directly, and the woman once more stopped to appraise the company she was in in her own quiet way. She was by no means a rude or unsociable person, but there seemed to be distinct quirks in how she spoke and dealt with others for sure- things she'd claimed came as part of upbringing in the higher echelons of Glenumbra Society as a Hairdresser. She even offered to give people haircuts, though so far none had taken her up on the gambit. The first to speak up was the Dunmer- she could not recall his name immediately, he was a quiet one who she felt was paying more attention to everyone else than they were to him- and, indeed, his question was a most prudent one!
But her attention was swiftly stolen from the Dunmer. Sejanus earned a fleeting glare from the woman- crass language was second only to unnecessary mess in her wrath, and outright rudeness was a swift way to get on her bad side. Choices flowed through her mind, and just as she resolved herself to let it pass for now and to remember this situation for the future Sergeant Dallio's demeanor portrayed much of the same. And then there was Injald.
Once more that bold smile, her features shifting unbidden to something a little softer in the face of such high station and authority. The training kicked in, her posture shifting as she struck a powerful salute. Her eyes flickered to follow his indicating hand- if that giant slab of a thing could be likened to what the rest of us mere mortals have called hands, she thought to herself- and she folded her arms behind her back. Edward Gonard and Tylmaesa. Interesting. Part of her wanted to step forth and demand inclusion in whatever special attention they were receiving- but the practical part of her mind managed to wrangle that in and put it back to sleep. Gonard was a good sort, Breton stock, and proper upbringing. He'd represent the squad well enough- and Tylmaesa was almost a mythological creature to Frelayne. Every so often she had to make sure that the towering auxiliary wasn't a dream she'd concocted. She relaxed as the Legate made his exit.
But finally the chaos was calming, and she offered Dallio a sympathetic smile as her features returned to normal. It could be hard maintaining your own authority when your superior was so stifling, hard to read, and seemingly valued haste and results over the direct chain of command. In an effort to maintain the required respect and hierarchy of the squad, Frelayne offered a partial, but respectful, bow to Dallio as she stepped forward.
"This is most kind of you, Sergeant. It is a debt then, to be repaid when next we receive our wage as well as with duty upon the march." Her words flowed with an elegance as she shifted the staff in her hands, an idle twirling of the object accompanying her flowery language. "I certainly know whose name I will be toasting tonight, and to whom the blame for my hangover will go come the morn."
She laughed. It was a strong laugh, but also faintly musical.
Frelayne thrashed. Kicked. Clawed. Her struggle was explosive in its violence- a surprising force erupting from deep within the tall woman's body. Panic, adrenaline, and an ancestral, perhaps even primal, fury at her circumstances rising within her. She could not see, and scarcely could breathe- but her ears worked fine and she recognized some of the voices around her.
"Oi, she ain't so prim and proper now is 'e?" That idiotic drawl was Tomlinson, some Imperial backwash she had the unpleasant honor of enlisting behind. "Think this'll teach 'er not to lorde 'erself over the rest of us?"
"Shut up, Tom, you'll spoil the night." She couldn't recognize that voice. She had heard it before, and it made her spine tingle. It was cold and quiet, a malice within it rather than the foolish misplaced joviality of Tomlinson. Her adrenaline fueled limbs twisted in that direction and she permitted herself the appropriate dose of smug joy at feeling her heel connect with flesh and that voice tighten into a tumbling cascade of coughing. Several other voices erupted into the barks of laughter as arms tightened around Frelayne's body and forced her to go still- all of them voices she felt she should be able to place, but fear and exhaustion had worn memory thin. Tomlinson's was the only name she could recall, and he was the one who had his arm around her throat and was keeping the sack pulled over her head.
These buggers had ambushed her in her bunk and dragged her out of the barracks. As Frelayne's racing mind finally digested their words, she discerned that this 'prank' of theirs was some sort of payback for perceived insults and slights across their time in Training. One voice commented that Frelayne was an 'uppity bitch', another remarked that after tonight she'd hardly be able to 'tell me to keep my hair brushed', and a woman hissed through clenched teeth that she in fact did not 'have crooked teeth and that smiling did NOT ruin her face'.
Frelayne winced. The last thing sounded like alcohol had been involved. She hated the stuff, tried to avoid it whenever possible, but the allure of intoxication occasionally outweighed the desire for sobriety; or, rather, sometimes the sober world was so horrid and unbearable that drunkenness was a temporary escape. Even nobility experience this sensation, after all, they just stretch their drunkenness out across the whole night instead of racing towards it at the bottom of a tankard. The final straw, however, was the next comment;
'We'll see whose uniform is dirty after tonight'
Frelayne grew still at that, and the whisper of a voice she managed out caused even her aggressors to pause.
"I warn you. Cease this foolishness now and I will forget this ever happened."
But they only paused a moment. Soon Frelayne was forced to her feet and felt her back pressed into a tree, her arms pulled back. She gave up on struggling and resigned herself to storing that energy up deep inside herself and compiling it into the pressurized container of pure hatred she kept bottled up deep within her heart. It was born from years of political maneuvering as a young debutante in Daggerfall courts where insults had to be carefully avoided and graciously handled. Unfortunately for these hazing pranksters, the pressure within her heart was reaching critical mass.
The Event Horizon, as it were, was having the sack yanked off her head. She had a split second to open her eyes and see scattered starlight filtering from above through light tree coverage before her mind acknowledged that two buckets were being slung towards her. The next instant she was blinded, eyes shut tight and stinging as a sticky, thick, liquid splattered heavily upon her and over her body. Coating her thickly in the-
These buggers had poured blood on her. The cork burst, Magicka crackled in the air around her, and the scream that erupted from the woman's lungs rivalled- well, there was nothing to compare it to. Her body contorted against the bonds she was in, the flare of something magical surging through her, and as she screamed to the high heavens in this bloody banshee wail her magic surged outwards.
Whatever Nightmares her attackers witnessed, it was of their own sowing. Soon Frelayne's own voice quieted, but the night was now split by the terrified screams of her assailants. Her pounding heart echoed the parade of fleeing footsteps. Their cacophonous wails music to her furious and incensed principles. Her Magic had done its job- Illusions terrible beyond compare had seeped into their minds and warped the blood soaked woman before them into- she didn't quite know what they saw, but she felt vindicated in having repaid their foolishness in kind.
She had overspent herself severely; the Fear spell was not ordinarily this taxing on her, but affecting a group of people so potently took its toll on her. Unbidden, a restful state soon forced itself upon her as she sagged to her knees to await being discovered the next morning.
Tomlinson, fool as he was, had deserted in the night. It was the wisest decision he'd ever made; he was the only one Frelayne could identify from the hazing group, after all. This incident in training had earned Frelayne, whispered behind her back, the temporary nickname of 'Banshee'. She rather liked it, truth be told, but she would never openly admit this.
Drelas did not face his heckler, but ensured to remember his voice. Its gruffness seemed artificial, as thought its bearer was making an effort to seem more manly than boyish. Its accent was distinctly Nordic, but also with a peculiar twang unfamiliar to the dark elf. That was enough information to narrow it down for any intention of revenge that Drelas would enact at a later point, for the Dunmer were a proud people, whether by nature or culture, and Drelas was prouder than most - or at least more unwilling to allow slights against him. He would not let this transgression slide without consequence, especially not from a filthy Nordling who likely had more spots than hairs on his chin.
He found his head elsewhere as most of the squad seemed to nervously shuffle and stiffen and dulled growls seemed to vibrate through the air, but not really penetrating the Dunmer's ears. Drelas lazily swayed in the tide of reaction from the squad, more out of instinctual bandwagoning than any real effort. His focus returned to the Sergeant upon receiving the answer to his query after the short pause due to whatever entity had interrupted. Eight hundred septims! What opportunity that presented, in spite of any deduction of expenses. "I'll take it". Drelas ensured his shield and bow were still secured over his back before approaching further. He held his hand out somewhat ungraciously considering Dallio had offered this out of his own pocket, but the Sergeant hadn't yet done anything to warrant much in the way of deserving gratitude considering the conscripted context of Drelas' presence there. Dallio dropped a coinpurse into the outstretched palm, which swiftly enclosed to secure it, and watched as the dark elf turned on his heels to head into Solitude. Drelas saw a tall woman approach the Sergeant in the corner of his eye as he headed off, but could not see much in the way of details beyond a great dark mane that seemed greatly out of place in a martial environment.
Drelas made his way through the bustling crowds that swamped the entrance to the Nordic capital noting - as impossible as it was not to - the strangely upbeat vibe of its inhabitants. Beyond the beggars and the crippled, the people did not seem to be aware they were in the midst of a Great War. The further he went, the more he realised that the opposite was true, they were not ignorant to the conflict surrounding them. They were accepting of it. Elated, even. These Nords became more strange and alien the more time Drelas spent trapped amongst them, and he was becoming increasingly unconvinced of the nobility some attributed to them and more convinced of their primitive and barbaric stereotypes they had earned. The Dunmer raised his eyebrows in bewilderment as he passed street performers and processions, preachers peddling their piety, and bardic tales spoken in incoherent languages.
His eyes darted above the crowds for a certain archetype of signage, and it did not take long until his groans of disappointment turned to ones of approval upon gazing upon his intended destination. The Winking Skeever. A fittingly crass name for a such a crass corner of the world. And yet Drelas withheld his disdain, for this fine establishment was a tropical island after a snowstorm. He barged past a drunken gang of Nords hobbled around the entrance and was met with a soothing embrace that engulfed his face. Cathartic sounds of revelry and carousing filled him with warmth and comfort as he secured a seat on the edge of a bench towards the far side of the tavern and for a moment, Drelas closed his eyes and imagined he was back at the Fervent Guar Cornerclub in Narsis. But alas, he remained thousands of miles west as he opened them.
He beckoned a waitress over and hesitated as he realised he wasn't quite sure what to order. Surely such a refined beverage such as sujamma was an unheard-of commodity in this backwater corner of Tamriel. These concerns were confirmed as he repeated his request to the barmaid twice without any progress. In the end, he had to settle for an ale - although on his first sip, it wasn't the swill he expected. Perhaps these Nords could do something right after all.
Handing over the coin purse, Dallio gave the man somewhat of a sheepish look and a salute. Though as an auxiliary he was not quite a Legionary, the young Sergeant thought that some sign of respect would be appreciated. Turning to the Breton woman he drew another coin purse, withdrawing a few pieces from it. "As a mage you're entitled to seven hundred and fifty after subtracting from expenses, pension and the likes." The officer smiled to everyone, but the one he gave to the wizard was a lot brighter; it was far easier to keep up his pleasantries to someone that was likewise pleasant.
"Will that be all?" he said, looking to what remained of the squad after already three of it departed.
As Ingjald went into the streets of Solitude, he did not turn his head to make sure that the duo he had selected had followed him. “Do you have any… ideas as to what you were selected for?” His tone was indecipherable. Did he expect them to already have figured it out? Or perhaps this was the start of questioning by the socratic method.
"Some sort of diplomatic purpose, sir? The only thing common between the two of us aside our soldiery, as far as I'm aware, is that we both know how to behave ourselves in a formal setting. A Squire and a noble." Tylmaesa said, shrugging their broad, muscular shoulders. Inwardly, they knew - or at least thought they knew - why Ingjald had demanded their presence, though they weren't about to call him out for using them as a token of the Legion's diversity. Unlike the vast majority of the soldiers, though they wore distinctly red-gold Imperial uniform, they lacked anything resembling armour, instead opting for modest, insulating cloth to protect them against Skyrim's cold. Their clawblade sat securely in a pouch at their hip, Dunmeri hooksword in an intricately engraved bonemold scabbard on the opposite side. It depicted a scene of Saint Vehk himself, Mu'atra pointed downward, piercing the chitinous exoskeleton of the Ruddy Man.
Edward’s eyes were glued to the floor as they marched along. Ever since his name had been called by the Legate, he had been quietly searching the ground for his organs, feeling as if they’d fallen through his stomach and out his feet. Even the King of Daggerfall was a less intimidating man than the Nord- at least from a distance- and Ingjald’s tone had given nothing away. “I’m not sure, Sir.” He replied to the Legate, ignoring the Dunmer’s suggestion so as not to get his hopes up.
Back in High Rock, a request like this hardly ever turned out to be a good thing. Often it was latrine duty or cleaning the stables, or worse, Dragonic lessons. Who knows what it was here, in this strange foreign land, within an army that was so alien to everything he had known. Regardless, it didn’t matter what the Legate wanted or even what they were doing. Edward just knew he had to be ready. “Whatever it is my Lord, I’m up for the task.”
A short rasp of contemplation came from Ingjald as he heard these answer, the slightest motion of his mask betraying that he was moving his tongue through his mouth in a physical motion along with his metaphorical digestion of what was said. “Close. Close.” he replied to the former, while keeping quiet to the latter. A finger was raised and pointed towards the blue palace. “[b]Before everyone goes to die or record those of us that go to die, an event will be held there. The most important people in Skyrim and many of the greater figures of the Empire t large will be there. Of those that were close enough they couldn’t scuttle off to find their amusements for the day, you were the best selections. Maybe the Altmer, but he does not speak many a word, nor does he bear himself like the silk clad creatures tonight will expect. Your names….” the man paused, cycling through a long mental list.
“Edward, Tylmaesa. You Breton, will be my bodyguard for the night. I do not need one but you will be such nonetheless. When not draining expensive wines and and other such shite you will tell dashing stories of my, your, our joint exploits before this war began around Falkreath. You, Dunmer, will say you are an advisor to me. When not trying to find the bastards trying to quietly glut themselves on moonsugar, you will feed stories of the complex choices we have discussed together for prosecution of the war, and of our deep discussions of the Imperial state, philosophy, and such things. You are both to tell people what they wish to and what they wish to think; if it is a matter of dispute between two or more parties, you will speak in a manner to please all, or not speak at all.”
Taking a rather large coin purse from his belt and removing some to put into a pocket, he turned his head somewhat to face them. “If you understand, this coin is yours to buy foppish cloth at Radiant Raiments, perfumes at Angeline’s Aromatics, the likes. You are to stand by the guards at the Blue Palace entrance an hour before the festivities begin turned in entirety to face them as he waited for a response.
Ah, Tylmaesa thought to themself. Suddenly, they felt themself being launched back to their time among the Hlaalu nobility, of being coached on behaviour by their parents, dressed up in pretty clothing and slathered in makeup and perfumes, and eventually suits and cologne, sometimes a cocktail of the above. They remembered being forced to converse peaceably with arrogant Telvanni wizards, appeasing Redoran Siblings with tales of martial prowess...
This, they thought, is my element. "I understand perfectly, sir. I'll use my experience in these fields to my advantage - I'll be able to manage well." they said. Truthfully, they did not particularly enjoy Imperial clothing, but... Perhaps they could find something interesting to wear?
Bodyguard Edward mouthed silently as he looked towards the Blue Palace. His eyes widening in awe as he studied the grand piece of architecture, built teetering on the edge of a cliff. Elsewhere, his heart constricted with fear. “Stories.” He thought. “Gotta think up something good for the Legate. Maybe I’ll alter the one with the Ogre and hopefully the people attending haven’t heard too many tales from Daggerfall.” Stroking the few hairs on his chin, the teen turned back to his commanding officer. “As you wish, Sir. It would be my honour.” He replied, adding a polite bow.
Taking the coin from the Legate, the Squire hurried away. The raiments Edward had been given by his Lord back in the Order would more than suffice for the evening. That, and the boy doubted he would find much of use in the local shops. Assumedly they’d cater mostly to Nords, with their clothing being well oversized for the boy. Instead, he would use the coin to purchase perfumes, a place to wash and prepare himself at the inn and a small meal to line his stomach for the wine. Money well spent.
“Good, good.” The Legate muttered at the departing Edward, moving his face a little to gesture that Tylmaesa ought follow him. “Tell the Altmet that truns the place you are from the Legate, it may… help.” He called out.
How is it always this bloody cold, Lucas thought to himself as he stood in line waiting for orders with the rest of Legion. He hadn’t been warm since a few days after they’d set sail to Solitude. All he wanted was to warm up next a fire so hopefully there wasn’t anything for them to do today. He looked around to see the men and women stood in line with him and noticed all the Nords smiling, not seeming to feel the cold. It annoyed Lucas as to why they could be so happy when the weather was so miserable, it was one of the few times he missed Bravil.
A few moments later after finding out there was no sleeping arrangements, most people scattered whilst the Sergeant offered people his own money as an early payment to find somewhere to sleep. There was two people who decided to take him up on his offer a Dunmer and the female Breton. He remembered her being dragged from the barracks as he laid in bed watching. Lucas didn’t take part in whatever came next but he didn’t really care too much for stopping it, thinking it had nothing to do with him and she was rather snobby. The way she even thanked him for the money annoyed him slightly. Lucas simply said, “thank you.” As he looked at the Sergeant and smiled and then walked off on his own with his wage.
The city was unknown to Lucas as he wondered around the place. Not really knowing where to go but not wanting to ask anyone for directions he found himself within the nicer district of the city. There was multiple shops and taverns here and he went into a shop that sold cloaks. He knew he’d not be able to survive in this cold with just the basic Legion armour he was given. A few moments later he walked out of the shop with his coin purse considerably lighter but a pristine black fur cloak. Lucas walked back down the road with his head held high feeling a lot more important and classier. With the amount he spent on the cloak though, he knew there was no way he could afford to stay in one of the inns in this part of city so he decided to move on until he found a place called The Winking Skeever. It didn’t look like the nicest taverns but it might be cheap and have some beds still. When he walked in he noticed Drelas from his company and gave him a nod of the head and walked to the bar asking for a bed and some food.
“I’m guessing you’ll want a drink with that?” The old woman said standing behind the bar.
“Just some water.” Lucas replied looking around to see if a spot near the fire was free.
“Water?” The woman asked.
“Yes, water.” Lucas said slightly annoyed by the question as he looked back at her as the woman who was looking at him just as confused.
“We don’t sell water, what kind of tavern would we be if we sold water to our guests.” The old woman let out of a laugh at Lucas’s request. “Now don’t be stupid dear you’ll have a mead. That will get you some hairs on your chest and you’ll not need to be striding round with a cloak wrapped around you.” Lucas was taken aback by the way she spoke to him, what kind of place insulted their guests? He just stared at her with his mouth open not really knowing what to say as he handed him a bottle of mead. “Now go take a seat and we’ll bring your food over to you when it’s ready dear.” Lucas walked off still a bit speechless but had hold of the drink. A seat close to the fire was available and Lucas went and sat down examining the bottle. The last time he tried alcohol he was around ten and him and his friends had stolen some from his father. It was his father who was the reason as to why he never drank seeing how it changed people for the worst but decided to have a swig of it anyway. After swallowing he looked at the bottle again and didn’t understand the reason why people went crazy for alcohol.
"Perhaps you could use a lesson or two in dalliance with nobility, Legate." Tylmaesa thought to herself, staring up at the image of a mortar & pestle hanging above their head.
They were already a noble themselves, after all, or a former once, depending on who you ask - but that didn't matter. Tylmaesa needed something other than clothing entirely - a way to mask the powerful musk accumulated by weeks trapped aboard a boat, more than a simple trip to the bathhouse could do. They'd made sure to squeeze one of those trips in of course, but...
Dunmeri clothes were more exotic anyways, and despite the small chance of causing offense they carried, they were far more concerned about seeming exotic, pleasingly aloof, and, most importantly, Dunmeri.
"Angeline's Aromatics, don't fail me now," they said in perfect, unaccented Cyrodiilic, passing under the sign to open the door. They were immediately assaulted by the pungent, not-entirely-unpleasant smells of medicinal herbs, floral aromatic oils, and practically everything under the sun that didn't smell downright awful, even if the combined cocktail was so powerful as to be nearly overwhelming. They were immediately struck by how much stronger the harsh, medicinal smells were, familiar from the years past when Skyrim was embroiled in its first recent civil war. This, Tylmaesa reasoned, was more like an absurdly violent barroom brawl in terms of the sense it made, so they supposed the similar character of the shop's atmosphere was to be somewhat expected. Rows upon robes of herbs and plants and concoctions lined the shelves along each wall, a large wooden counter dominating the rear... No Angeline, Tylmaesa noted. Had the old woman kicked the bucket? It had been twenty years, after all, but alas... No time to discuss family. They only vaguely remembered the middle-aged woman standing there. She lifted her head to hear Tylmaesa enter, and Tylmaesa smiled disarmingly back at her, hoping to reassure her of their good intentions despite their massive size. Mercifully, the woman didn't appear to recognize Tylmaesa any better than they did her - a relief, for faces often blurred together in her life, and this one certainly hadn't been one of their dalliances. That, they'd remember...
Assuming she was any good.
"How can I help you? Looking for healing remedies?" She asked, smiling.
"Oh, no." Tylmaesa replied, shaking their head. The intricate, flowing black robes hung about their wide frame shifted almost imperceptibly with the movement, fine golden decorations shimmering gently in the dim light; a large strip of cloth decorated with various Dunmeri symbols topped with a similarly oval-shaped strip around her collar.
"Cologne, actually. I'm meeting with an old friend of mine, an Imperial diplomat - but I've been on a boat for weeks. I managed to get by one of the local bathhouses, but..." Tylmaesa shrugged, chuckling disarmingly. "There's only so much a single trip can do, especially on a time crunch."
"Oh!" The woman replied. "I see, I see... Is there a specific sort of fragrance you're looking for, or perhaps recommendations?"
"Well... Sort of. Something smokey, like an incense stick, if you're familiar - the Khajiits use them, as do my own people." She explained. It was a simple choice to make, but an important one - while being too visibly Dunmeri could cause problems, Tylmaesa didn't frankly give a shit if it did, and... Besides, they were the philosopher and advisor. People were often fascinated by visibly exotic philosophers, so all the better to highlight her culture.
"In other words, a scent that would remind someone of Morrowind. The Ashlands, even, if you're familiar."
The middle-aged woman shook her head. "I'm not, but... Let's see if I have something."
The woman turned around, taking a book off the shelf, and began quietly leafing through it. An inventory ledger, Tylmaesa assumed - a much more practical way to track inventory than rooting through endless shelves, and a brief respite for Tylmaesa - time to ruminate. Time to be alone their own thoughts.
They were being used as a political tool by the legate, of course, and they were playing along - admirably so, even - but this function presented a unique opportunity to make friends and allies in the Empire. Not something to be passed up
“Ah! Here we are!’ She said, holding up a small bottle of aromatic oil, gently placing it on the counter. “Here, if you’d like to give it a try?”
Tylmaesa nodded in turn. She approached the counter, popped open the bottle, and daubed a tiny bit onto her wrist, bringing it to her nose. A deep inhale, and...
The muted scent of a distant fire, exotic fruits and flowers, the faint smell of the forest floor.
“Perfect.” They said, recapping the bottle. "How much?"
"One hundred Septims, please." The woman smiled. For a moment, Tylmaesa thought it seemed smug, even mocking - but what the Legate provided was enough. Thankfully, their own funds would still be saved for booze, food, and women.
Tylmaesa plopped a pouch of coin onto the counter, waiting patiently as the woman popped it open and counted out the coinage within. Why the Imperials had yet to fully implement larger denominations if coinage, they did not understand - or perhaps they did, but were simply too frustrated by the inconvenience to care.
Noticing a satisfied nod from the shopkeeper, they snatched up the purse, and made their way to the Palace.
Drelas was two-thirds of his way through his second ale when the crotch of a man entered his peripheral. Leather strands of the all-too-familiar Imperial Legion armour dangled against the bench=edge as Drelas ignored the question, hoping the troublemaker would move on.
He did not.
"I said, are you lost, knife-ear?"
A faux-frustrated, gleeful intonation underpinned the repeated words. The overtly more insulting addressal further stated the hostile intentions of the questioner. There was no ignoring this particular dolt, it seemed. This was one drunk Nord that would not tire speaking to a uninterested Meric brick wall.
"No", Drelas answered. He was on his best behaviour, but he knew himself to know that such restraint would not last long.
A poorly-masked façade of curiosity continued to envelop the inquisitive thug. Drelas did not need to turn away from his tankard to notice the smug aura the Nord was exuding, nor the showmanship of swagger that was on display for anyone who cared to engage in the racial-led grilling. He took another swig, contemplating the words and actions he could opt to use in this situation and weighing up the consequences of each. He has his reasons. After all, while he was a soldier in the Imperial Legion, he was a Dunmeri soldier in the Imperial Legion, in Skyrim. A court martial would not look on him favourably if he stabbed the bigot in the eye with the nearest butter knife. And he wouldn't make life easy for himself if he was to antagonise half of the local legion by being the 'cunty Dunmer who can't take a joke'. So a 'no' it would remain. For now.
"Well, what's a grey-skin like you doing this end of Skyrim, then?", the Nord asked, the mocking tone increasing with every question.
Drelas let out a sigh, but quietly and through his nose only. It was drowned in the noise of the tavern, thankfully. "Same as you, I'm sure.", he retorted. Hopefully that response would invoke comradeship and not animosity. Though he did not have much faith that it would. The dark elf mused at the diplomacy he had shown; normally bottles would be breaking by now.
"What, to make Skyrim a home for the Nords again? To drive out the foreigners in our land? I doubt that, elf."
Patience was wearing thin, for both parties. Drelas could practically hear the Nord's knuckles clicking next to him, and his own sabbatical in passive non-antagonisation was nearing its end as well. Smart arse-ery was pushing its way to the front of the queue.
"You've got a fair few Imperials to worry about first, I should think. They're the reason I'm here", he said, as he turned to face his aggressor. A middle aged man, clearly not the cream of the crop of fighting men. Clearly not a career solder - his build nor character attested to that. Perhaps a fellow conscript, or an overeager jaded farmer who'd had enough of news of rumours of foreigners daring to encroach on borderlands hundred of miles away. The Nord's eyes narrowed as they met the dark elf's, and brief moment of tension flew by. A pin could be heard dropping, if not for the many loud conversations and ambience of merriment encompassing everything.
Drelas awaited the first punch as he had many times before. Nine times out of ten, they swung with their right. And so his left foot was tensed and ready to propel him away from the blow and out of the bench ready to counterattack.
Instead, the Nord belly-laughed, disarming Drelas with confusion, enough for him to allow a hairy hand to slap his shoulder. "Ain't that the truth.". The Dunmer would have shaken his head in disbelief of the sudden turn of discourse and emotion if he wasn't still in a state of alert. He'd witnessed and performed too many dirty tricks in fights to let his guard down at this point.
The Nord continued. "Means to an end, though. As soon as we drive out these damn Thalmor, these Imperials will leave, and we'll have a Skyrim for the Nords once again. And we can get back to what truly matters... Mead! Making good mead and revelry! None of this wartime piss that we're forced to drink!"
He let out another glottal laugh as he finished off his own punchline. Drelas was liking Nords less and less by the minute. Not only were they brutish animals, but they were unpredictably so. At least a pig was expected to roll in its own muck and gorge. These Nords would seemingly do that, attack you, then buy you a drink and get back to the rolling. Which was not appreciated by Dunmeri culture or Drelas as a result.
Drelas watched as the man he thought he'd have a tussle with stumbled off, presumably to poke at another poor soul who just wanted to wallow in peace. He looked around the tavern and noticed that everyone was mostly at least with someone else. Whether in giddy carousal, boisterous banter, ice-breaking curiosity or absolute silence. And he realised that on his lonesome he was a prime target for the gibing he'd just experienced, and that the next drunken Nord may be so fickle in their pursuit of a reaction for the fun of it. He needed to at least pretend he was with someone else so any other bully would think twice about approaching two men who could have each others backs instead of a sole Dunmer who kept to himself.
He glanced around the Winking Skeever for anyone who may be willing to accommodate his presence. Perhaps even his company - after all, he'd stuck mostly to himself since he left Morrowind, so it might be good to actually converse with someone else for a little while. As long as they weren't dull, of course.
The cold had somehow crept into his bones despite the warmth of the tavern, and his eyes were compelled towards the fireplace to his right. As he glanced over, he noticed a seat by the smouldering fire become vacant as a old civilian struggled to pull himself up - out of drunkenness or decrepitness, it wasn't immediately obvious. Maybe both. Either way, Drelas was already up and out of his seat to fill the void. The glow of the fire was a welcoming sensation, warming to the core far more than the ale ever would have been.
The dark elf removed the gear on his back and belt obstructing his comfort and promptly sat in the chair before anyone else could claim it, noticing his tankard was running empty as he did. Would he have to go to the bar himself to get it refilled in an adequate time, and risk losing his prime position? Would someone be round soon? He was not familiar with Nordic customs of patronage in such places. He settled to wait for now though, and basked in the inviting embrace of the fireplace as he looked to his flanks.
Snoring to his left was a grizzled soldier in full armour that was slightly to small for him. Or rather, he had grown too much for it. No doubt incurred by the consuming of mead and beer and ale, if the empty bottles surrounding him were anything to go by. The man couldn't even wait for his booze to be decanted into a mug it seemed. And so there he was, fat and passed out.
To his right was a less-grizzled and admittedly handsome Imperial, who was very much awake if a little confused as he stared at the book in his hands. A fellow foreigner, surely, as the local Nords showed no desire to read for leisure. As good as any to strike up a conversation with. In fact, he could swear that he recognised the Imperial from somewhere, perhaps earlier at the docks or on the ship? Time would tell.
Drelas cleared his throat as he hoped to not make a cracked voice his first impression. He said, raising his voice to be sure to be heard above all the rabble, "so, what do you make of this place?"
The streets of Solitude were bursting at the seams. Soldiers of the Imperial army littered the pavement like grains of sand on a beach while merchants hustled their wears and locals hid in their safe havens. Sifting his way through the maze of men and mer, Edward weaved his way from the inn towards the perfume shop. His decision to reserve a room had in avertedly killed two birds with a single stone, for he had managed to snag one of the two remaining beds in all the city. That, and he was able to wash himself with a bucket from the well. “No sense in trying to find a perfume if all I can smell is myself.” He had reasoned.
The double doors to the shop unlocked with a sonorous gear shift, followed by a long whine as they opened. Inside, the shop had been made from solid stone blocks, awash with dark colours and contrasted by rugs, curtains and linens of warm colours. Candlelight and a fireplace flickered in the last gasps of the wind as the large doors howled shut. “No need for a bell here.” He mused as a middle-aged woman appeared from behind a desk towards the centre of the room.
A Breton, by the look of her, dressed in a simple cotton dress with her brunette hair flowing over her shoulders. She looked tired, exhausted even, as she smiled wearily at Edward. Stomping the mud from his boots, he swept the muck to one side with a single foot. The Squire beamed a smile of his own back, content in having found some semblance of home.
“Hi there, I’m Vivienne of Angeline’s Aromatics. How can I help you?”
The woman’s thick Nordish accent gave the young man a pause in his step as he approached the desk. “Oh… Erm…” he stuttered, attempting to stay on track. “I’m, um, after some perfume.”
“Ah, you too aye?” The shopkeeper chuckled. “Though I assume you don’t want anything from the Ashlands, right?”
“I’m sorry?” he replied, as his face fell further into confusion.
“Nothing,” She giggled, “Don’t worry. Any idea what you’re after?”
Edward’s head swiveled. All manner of potions and ingredients lined the many shelves that encircled the room. There were a few he recognised; restore health, magicka and stamina, even a few bottles for fortifying several different attributes and skills. But perfumes? That was far from his area of expertise. “No, not really. I need something for-”
“For the dinner this evening?” The woman replied, slamming down a rather large book on the table.
“Uh yeah, that’s the one.” Edward approached slowly, curious as to how she knew about the dinner. “Maybe something traditional?”
Vivienne paused, her lips pursing to one side as her head cocked. “I’m not sure if I have anything from High Rock, you lot can be an isolated bunch.” Flipping through a couple of pages, her finger traced down the many names that littered the book.
Edward’s chin reeled in. “You lot?” he said as he took a step back. “Surely you mean us lot?”
Vivienne shrugged, “I suppose so. I dunno. My Aunty, Angeline, brought me all the way from Wayrest when I was a baby, Divines rest her soul. I can’t even remember what High Rock looks like.” Edward could feel his face scrunch up at the mention of his rival city. A motion caught by the shopkeeper. “See, I’m not about that business.” She continued, stifling a laugh while reaching for a bottle off the shelf. “Bretons are so concerned with themselves while there’s a whole world out there.”
Popping the cork on top, Vivienne handed the young man the bottle. “The Nords don’t seem so different.” Edward muttered, taking a whiff of the perfume. “They seem to be just as concerned with themselves. I’m not even sure if they’ll continue to fight once the Thalmor have been driven back.” Pleasantly surprised with the aroma, the Squire gave a raised eyebrow nod of approval, recorking it and handing it back to the shopkeeper.
“That’s different.” She replied curtly, “Skyrim has seen too much of war. You would want the same had you lived through such a thing. The cost of war runs deep, further than most realise. Even if you’re not the one doing the fighting. Every soldier standing out there has friends, family, loved ones. To lose one person causes a rift… one that can drag a lot of people with you.” Staring off into the fireplace, Vivienne became mesmorised by the flickering of the flame, sighing heavily as she wrapped the bottle.
“It is our duty as those in the Light to drive out the Dark.” Edward spoke softly, as if to gently rouse her from her trance. “As difficult as that may be to process, those around us must understand we have an obligation.”
Handing over the bottle to the Squire, Vivienne grimaced, her eyes filled with pity. “Such words are spoken easily before the fight, young one. I pray that your innocence holds.”
Unsure how to reply, Edward returned her sentiment with a kind smile, placing some gold in her outstretched hand. Nodding to each other, the Squire took leave to finish getting ready for the evening’s festivities.
The squad spent their time in their various ways, from the posh soiree of the blue palace to a quiet (or in some cases, rather rowdy) pint in the fine establishments of Solitude. Sejanus had gone to the temple of Talos, trying his best to pray out loud in a rather odd rendition of Old Nord. Nobody truly knew where Telleno went, a fact that would be used later for speculation and accusation that he was a spy for the Thalmor. Ballistarii Portexe and Ganelon had chatted each other up, Ryjko nonchalantly noting they went to bed in the same room later, for they had gone to spend the night in the same inn he lulled himself to sleep in a rocking chair. Hakim and Rashid had apparently won many a gold piece wrestling, only to lose them all and be back where they had started in some other wager. Mukbolg had gone to the Bard’s college hoping to find kin spirits, where instead he was turned away as an unwashed grunt of the Legion. Dallio had apparently waited politely in the Imperial barracks until a spot in one of the beds was freed and spent the remaining few hours getting what little sleep he could for the night.
But ultimately, day would come and the Legate would await his muster at the city gates. Word would spread that he most certainly kept true to his promise of prosecution for deserters, ordering Penitus Oculatus agents to track them down on suspicion of many crimes from spying to nondescript treason. Once all were assembled and orderly, a march would be declared Westwards. Edward and Tylmaesa would be the only two people below the rank of Captain in the Legion to know of their first destination. It was the Kilkreath ruins beneath the statue of Meridia, the vampires having desecrated the statue and the ruins beneath, a fact that was of no particular care to the Empire at large for the lack of apparent strategic value to the war, but had provoked enough concern among the Dunmer that the ambassador had - upon hearing of this - politely suggested to the Imperial forces that they should consider focusing on that area. At their leisure, of course! Regardless, once the site was liberated it would be a camp from which to erase the vampires in the area.
The snow had started to melt, but thankfully not enough to turn the roads and all around them into mud to sink a man to his waist. Unfortunately, it was not yet warm enough that the marching ranks would be free from gales to chill to the very bone. Small encampments and outposts along the road would be passed, but they would be stopped at for mere minutes to receive any news they might have and provide little respite. Other groups would march along the road, be they the blue paramilitaries of the local Nords or the Dawnguard trailing the column. Marching songs of course boomed throughout the ranks at the order of the Legate, the man using his voice to begin refrains that were in turn echoed by the officers, and yet further in turn the common soldiery.
The lines were organized such that Hastatii would be organized on the outer edges of the column, such that in event of an ambush they could shield their comrades from the first volleys of fire whilst the ballistarii and mages returned all that they could. The Ballistarii with their pavise shields were next in line, followed by auxilia, then mages, then the bards, and at last officers — the most treasured of the force.
The strictness of adherence to the formation could by many have been seen to have been foreboding what was to come; it was at the crossroads from wherein a turn right would bring the Legion’s march to the statue of Meridia. It was as they began the right angle turn to go North that the first arrows flew. The appearance of the Thalmor was as sudden as it was violent, hundreds of conjurers dropping their illusions to spring the ambush. It was a true combined arms strike with archers positioned behind hills knowing exactly where the Legionnaires were hailing arrows from above. Destructive mages closer to the the Legion rained a far more direct fire with bolts of lightning and streaks of flame smashing into the massed ranks in a great burst to take advantage of the shield wall; the cessation of their volleys by virtue of an exhaustion of magicka coincided with the charge of Altmer footmen started some moments ago bringing them to a mere stone’s throw away from the Legionnaires.
For their part, the warriors of the Empire had a mixed reaction. Many a man followed protocol forming ranks with their shields to protect the mages and ballistarii whilst they returned fire, and many of such men were scorched alive within their plate. Others were far more disorderly for better or worse. Many a man fled as a coward, screaming for mother only to be mercilessly brought down by an Elven arrow to their neck. Just as many showed bravery, initiative, and possibly insanity by breaking rank and bringing forth their own counter-charge into the elven swordsmen, a most gruesome melee beginning as a result with gore spraying across the field. The Legate himself entered the fray, his shout tearing to pieces a cluster of Elves that sought to slay him. Dallio attempted to bring the squad to order, though before he even finished his command an arrow punctured his armpit and another the eye of Rashid, held by his screaming brother. Mukbolg sounded his horn as loudly as he could, this rousing Sejanus to charge the approaching Thalmor. Ryjko dropped to heal the wounded Redguard, the whistling of crossbow bolts from the ballistarii echoing in his ears whilst Telleno tried to protect the Redguard Brothers and the Nord restorationist from molestation by yet more arrows.
A leader, or at least a subcommander of the Thalmor entered battle himself, his telekinetics bringing individual men airborne only for them to implode into messy clumps of flesh and steel. After just a minute hundreds already lay dead, for it seemed the Thalmor sought here to destroy the Legion in one fell swoop, and the battle had far more twists and turns to take as the Altmer archers previously behind hills now ascended to stand upon them to fire directly at individual Legionnaires and officers. If the Imperials won the engagement, it would certainly be a close deal.
Vehk's left tit, Tylmaesa thought to themself, watching with grim fascination as they pushed toward the front of the formation, silently cursing the most favored of their long-gone living gods. They briefly cast a glance skyward to eye the sun-blotting arrows above, but their focus was quickly drawn to bolts of magicka streaking across the battlefield - an accursed pox in this situation, rendering the neat, armored lines of the Imperial Legion into little more than human cooking pots. Instantly, years of battlefield experience willed them to advance, somewhere, anywhere, weapons lingering at their hips to give the appearance of minimal threat.
Not today, prissy n'wah. Not today. They thought, quietly wishing the entirety of Alinor an existence blighted by agony. The sound of pained gurgling drew their eyes to a fallen Legionnaire, an arrow punched straight through his throat - as good as dead, unfortunately, and they had no desire to waste time trying to save a dead man andend up dead themselves. Worse, than the arrows and spells, perhaps, was the swirling cacaphony of conflicting orders. Most of which they assumed came from cowardly and confused officers, but a number of which, they surmised, were cleverly crafted illusions designed to sow further discord.
"Move, you worthless bastards! Stay bottle up and they'll cook you alive! We fight our way free, or we die like sick dogs!" They shouted, the Dunmer's low, bellowing voice cutting through some of the noise.
Some, they hoped - their squad's, perhaps - but Tylmaesa had little hope that a single cry would change the course of the battle. Still, their words certainly carried enough volume to be worth a try, even if far more important matters were at hand.
Wandering eyes eventually fell upon the advancing Legate, the warrior's own shouts dashing whole swathes of Altmer wretch upon the ground. Brief pangs of jealousy washed over them, and they even contemplated attempting to flee, rushing through the Altmer lines and burning out their legs in a fevered escape or attempt to surrender, but they were quickly reassured by the calming wisdom of divinity, a favored passage.
Sermon Sixteen, passages seven through eight.
"Nerevar said, 'I am afraid to become slipshod in my thinking.'
Vivec said, 'Reach heaven by violence then.'"
Its message was simple, and always true - to choose the path of weakness and complacency was to refuse divinity. To choose the raw violence of emotion, to choose to act - this was divine. This always was, and always would be, so wrote Saint Vehk, Warrior-Poet.
And so, a path was chosen. Flowing alongside all those who had the same though, Tylmaesa chose their twin blades as Nerevar chose his axe, for they knew that to stay still was to invite death, for they did not need steel armour and would not suffer its protection nor its weighty burden. They would fight as the Saint did - forging their own path ahead, moving with such violence as to approach the divine, perhaps some centuries in the future.
In the here and now, that meant advancing behind the Legate, weapons drawn. It meant dodging past wayward arrows, keeping an eye out for the filth that so deftly wore a false veneer of truth and nobility. She hated everything they represented - their clever duplicity, their assumed supremacy, their smug tyranny... But most of all, she hated that she could not simply obliterate them. At least, then, they carried the unexpected element of the claw-dance.
Once more, their eyes were drawn from the legate, and to the wild storm of soldiers engaged in melee about him. They joined the loose ranks of Imperial soldiery, but not to hold in formation, no - instead, they were drawn to a low-ranking Altmer officer, engaged with one of their Imperial comrades in a duel. An opportunity, and a deadly one, but an opportunity nonetheless. They watched, transfixed and moving, as the Imperial Sergeant unwittingly exposed himself, receiving a slash to his leg in turn. They watched, still moving, as the Altmer raised their blade, ready to deliver the killing blow... And thanked the She-Who-Erases as the officer turned toward the towering Dunmer barelling toward her.
Sparks flew as her blade collided with Tylmaesa's, scraping away at the surface of the metal - not glass, she noted, but certainly moonstone. Lighter than theur steel, and hard enough to severely damage their blade given a few good strikes. Pulling backwards and to the side of a thrusting strike that narrowly sailed past their torso, they realized what a problem that was. A second jab immediately followed, and once again, they narrowly managed to move out of the way. Again, and again, the Altmer insisted on forcing the giant on the backfoot, and for all Tylmaesa's size, she was succeeding, as much as Tylmaesa attempted to meet her.
For long enough, Tylmaesa thought. Perhaps she thought they were a mage, trying to keep them on the backfoot to prebent the casting of spells - after all, what Dunmer would practice the Khajiiti arts?
Finally, the officer brought down her blade in an attempt to slash open Tylmaesa's gut, and once again, she nearly succeeded. This time, though, Tylmaesa was prepared - a wild slash toward her face in preemptive retaliation fell short, but just as was intended. As it cut through the air, Tylmaesa thought back to their lessons of fire, of channelling aggressive movements into the most openly aggressive of elements. Their anger flowed into the weapon, washing the officer's open eyes with flame, instantly searing her beautiful eyes, her flawless Altmeri countenance. Tylmaesa was a mericful foe, however, and in the officer's screaming, howling confusion, a steel blade hacking at her neck quickly ended her life. One, two - Tylmaesa watched with satisfaction as the creature's head rolled to the side, limply toppling to the floor along with her body. Tylmaesa snatched the moonstone blade from her hand as she fell, shoving it into their belt... And continued to move, advancing with their comrades into the tide of Altmer filth.
The night seemed to be going pretty well with most of the drunken Nords seeming to leave him alone by the fire which he preferred. It was a welcome change to be on an actual seat compared to a creaking boat which was freezing at the same time. Lucas wondered to himself how long would it be until he was actually in a warm homely place like this again after tonight. A few moments later the barmaid came over with his food and chuckled to herself when she saw he’d hardly touched his drink. The food was much better than the soup though which he finished quickly. While there was sufficient light and he was on his own, Lucas pulled out a book that he’d been trying to read. A woman back in the barracks had been teaching him how to, but he still was still a novice.
As he flicked through the pages trying to find where he was up to, a voice interrupted him. “So, what do you make of this place?” Lucas looked up quickly to see the Dunmer from the Legion walking over to the seat closest to him.
Lucas looked back down to his book and replied, “Cold. I don’t know why anyone would want to live in a place this bloody cold.” In the corner of his eye, he noticed the Dunmer taking a seat as he began to try and read. As he looked at the words in front of him, his lips moved trying to spell out the words. He was told the more he practised, the less he’d move his lips and he would just hear the words in his mind. Lucas glanced up for a quick second to see if the Dunmer was watching him and went back to reading. “S, s, s, p, sp, sp, spe, spell.” He muttered to himself quietly, it was barely a whisper. A smile came over his face but it was wiped away as quickly as it appeared as he glanced up quickly again looking at the Dunmer. Lucas had no idea whether or not the Dunmer was even paying attention to him still but he felt embarrassed thinking the Dunmer was judging him. Quickly the embarrassment turned to annoyance and anger. Straight away he shut the book and stood up trying to stay calm, Lucas simply said, “I’m off to bed, early start in the morning.” And without waiting for a reply, he left for his room leaving the mead behind.
The march seemed like it was going to be cold and hard, Lucas was smiling to himself though as he was wrapped in his fur coat staying rather warm. What he wasn’t happy about though was how dirty it was getting at the bottom as it dragged through all the slutch from the melted snow and mud. As soon as he got the chance, he’d make sure to clean it again. The morning seemed to be going off without a problem though and then from all around them hundreds of strums could be heard. For a split second it sounded like people had started to play the lute until the arrows arrived.
Suddenly all you could hear was thuds and scrapes as the arrows started to connect with their targets. A few places in front of Lucas a mage had an arrow stuck in his neck as the man fell to the ground. Lucas quickly turned around to face the attackers raising his shield at the same time, the many hours of training started to kick in. An arrow skidded off his helmet. Most of the Legion had started to draw their weapons but Lucas hadn’t yet. His right hand was moving about with a white glow swirling between his fingers as he quickly muttered the words for his spell, then a white glow shone from him for a second. It happened just in time because fire balls came flying towards them and one hit Lucas directly in the shield, even though it had only hit his shield and the oakflesh spell was giving him a bit more protection, the heat from the fire ball still burned his arm slightly. The man next to him however was not so lucky, a massive fireball and hit him in the head and sent him flying back knocking over the troops behind them sending the column into disorder. At this moment the Thalmor warriors descended on them. They charged shouting their war cries and one came sprinting for Lucas with her sword held high. Quickly, Lucas raised his shield and pulled his sword out of its scabbard. It was just a plain steel sword and slightly inferior to what the Altmer had but it was in good condition with Lucas maintaining it well and sharpening it as often as he could.
The Elf slashed down smashing her sword into Lucas’s shield and another one came slashing down at him straight after, Lucas was only managing to get his shield up in time to block the shot as another came down and another. The Elf was quick but she had no real skill just over and over again she slashed down at him. As her sword went up again, Lucas pretended to lift his shield but at the last moment stepped back out of range of the attack as it came down and parried it with his sword to throw her off balance. Straight away Lucas brought his shield round to smash her in the face and then lunged with his sword quickly and hard into her stomach. The sword scraped through her armour and plunged deep into her belly. Lucas pulled the sword out and turned around looking for someone else to fight as the Elf lay dying on the floor. In front of him he saw the Legate some distance away followed by a massive Dunmer and other soldiers. Lucas moved towards them.
"Cold. I don’t know why anyone would want to live in a place this bloody cold.", replied the Imperial, eyes back to his book after a quick glance at Drelas. Somewhat rude.
It was a statement Drelas agreed with, but from the demeanour and body language shown in the response, he decided to not pry further and leave the surly soldier to his book. The Dunmer swigged the last dregs of his ale and immediately glanced around looking for a barmaid to refill his empty tankard. As he did so, his ears picked up a muttering coming from his right flank. From the Imperial. The words were not meant for him, clearly, and as Drelas listened it became clear that it was words from the book that were being uttered by the young man - and not in the way that one reads aloud to themselves when mulling over something.
No, the mutterings were ones of an illiterate. And to think that the Imperials were meant to be more civilised than their Nordic brethren! He gave some fleeting curious glares at the Imperial, to confirm his conclusion. Though never long enough to allow him to truly notice, but perhaps long enough to give the impression of being judged. Which of course he was.
The Dunmer must have looked for a second too long, however, as the Imperial suddenly stood up and announced his retirement to bed. Whoops. Hopefully Drelas would not be later counting on him to save his life tomorrow. The silver lining, though, was that there was now a mostly-full mug of beer-like liquid up for grabs, which Drelas quickly took advantage of.
Almost on cue, the barmaid finally found Drelas' empty mug and offered to refill it. The dark elf nodded, ensuring to allow his impatience to engrave his face as he did so. A mer's tankard would never dry up in a Cornerclub. Imperials that couldn't read, and Nords that couldn't keep their drinks flowing. The world has truly gone mad.
Drelas spent the rest of the evening to himself, for the effort of engaging with other fellow patrons was wearing thin after the tense encounter with the drunk Nord and the brushing off he experienced from the Imperial. He people-watched and listened to conversations of revelry, of curiosity, and of fear. Each had their own means to deal with the coming battles that loomed over the Legion and the soliders within. Everyone know what tomorrow could - and would - bring for many, often regardless of skills or experience or talent for the arts of war.
He heard nothing too significant beyond a few rumours of the Legate (how his Voice could shake mountains, how he killed 12 elves before his eighth winter, and how he has ruthlessly deals with insubordination and cowardice), and how many treasure-laden ships were at the bottom of the Sea of Ghosts (such rumours surely existed in any body of oceanic water, Drelas thought).
With little entertainment available in the tavern besides more mediocre ale, Drelas decided to call it a night and called for his tab to be paid the next time the barmaid came round. He asked if there were any rooms available, but there were none available that she knew of, and this would likely be the case across the city. After a bit of wandering and attempts to negotiate somewhere sheltered to sleep, he decided to give up. It looked like he was sleeping rough tonight.
Defeated, and slightly tipsy, he meandered his way to the refugee camp outside of the city and brushed past soldiers from all stripes and walks of life, but paid them no mind. He found a patch of unoccupied haybed and slumped into it after de-equipping his gear, not taking long to drift off to sleep despite the cold. At least the ale helped with that.
The morning went well, for the most part. It wasn't by any means pleasant - the food provided by the camp was barely adequate, there was the omnipresent Skyrim chill in the air and the march was as joyful as one could expect. But it wasn't going badly in the context of things.
And then the arrows started flying.
Drelas was an Auxilia and was therefore a bit removed from the grunts at the vanguard of the Legion's formation, but the chaos that erupted was felt throughout the ranks. Instinctually, and most likely due to the training he went through in the Imperial City, he raised his shield to protect his vitals from the incoming projectiles. This reaction no doubt saved his life as he felt the impact of several arrowheads bounce off the steel embroidery. He froze there for a while, the only thought in his head being 'protection' as barked orders and reactive commands were smothered by haunting screams and squelches of penetrated flesh.
His mind found room for musings of how he found himself here, and then he remembered that he never wanted to be. What fool would volunteer to participate in this brutality?!
The barrage seemed to pause for a moment, allowing time for the Dunmer to peek over his shield at the skirmish that lied before him. The Imperial forces were all over the place, any semblance of organisation and tactics were shattered by the effective ambush. Drelas had only just clocked who they were being ambushed by - Thalmor, of course. Trust his luck to come across the deadliest of foes in his first battle within only hours of arriving in Skyrim.
His fellow Auxilia that were next to him no longer were, and Drelas found himself solitary and therefore easy pickings for archers. No wonder his shield was a magnet for arrows, it was a miracle that he wasn't dead already. He hurriedly moved to a group of Imperial forces that had banded together in solidarity, ensuring to keep his shield above his head and torso towards where (he thought) the enemy archers were. As he joined the group, he found no time to engage to understand the plan or tactics before they were descended on by a squad of Thalmor counterparts, weapons raised. The Imperial cohort readied themselves in turn, and Drelas took a few deep breaths before focusing on his assailants.
He could almost feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins as the gold in the Altmeri eyes became clear to see. Drelas' mind was simultaneously blank of all thought and yet acutely analytical of the approaching threat. The elven swords glimmering in the sunlight, the recently crimson red snow crunching underneath moonstone boots, the evident conviction in the faces of the Thalmor soldiers. All of that came to a head as the two parties engaged.
Drelas raised his shield to counteract the predictable first strike of the Altmer that beelined for him, and responded with an equally predictable thrust towards the abdomen of his aggressor, who had backed off just in time. The Thalmor soldier initiated another strike with his sword, which Drelas again blocked and risposted, this time with a forehanded slash followed by a backhanded one, to keep his opponent at bay. The two exchanged blows a few more times, to no avail for either. Drelas took momentary glances to his comrades for any assistance, but noticed they were equally as busy as he was.
The longer this stalemate went on, the more chance that Drelas would get an arrow in his neck. He had to try something to end this quickly so he could refocus on defending himself from projectiles instead of being tunnel-visioned into fighting one Thalmor soldier. As the Altmer lunged in once more, the Dunmer did something very unorthodox indeed - he threw his shield towards his foe with a backhand, releasing the grip to see it clunkily flung towards the centre-mass of the incoming elf. It was not a throw meant to be deadly, or even harmful. Merely a distraction.
And one that worked a charm. The Thalmor, clearly not expecting such a reckless move, was caught half-catching the business-end of the shield as Drelas tackled him with the tip of his sword into the stomach and then the force of his body, piercing a gap in the Altmer's armour and landing on top of him, the two locking eyes as they hit the mud and snow. Drelas could almost see the life leave the Thalmor's as his removed his sword and stood up once more. Realising he was exposed with only leather armour to protect him, he searched the ground frantically for the shield that had been so vital to his continued existence on Mundus. Seeing it behind him, he rushed towards it to be secure behind it once more.
As he crouched to pick up the shield, Drelas felt a sudden warmth in the side of his right thigh, followed by a surging pain as the dark elf cried out. He flipped his body around so the shield was on top of him, and shuffled backwards away from where the pain had come from as he scrambled to his feet. His eyes darted across the scene of battle and the treelines, but found no sure sign of his attacker. He then looked down to the source of his anguish, and saw a horizontal streak of red on his thigh. But thankfully, no arrow stuck out of it. The archer must have only grazed his leg.
But, lesson learned - don't throw away your shield when there are archers pummelling the battlefield.
Not long after that had sunk in, Drelas learned another lesson: Don't stand around thinking in the middle of a skirmish.
Sheer speed of reaction allowed Drelas to turn and block an incoming mace with his shield, but was unable to stop the kick to the chest that followed and had sent him on his hind. Winded and bruised, Drelas could do little more than look up at his attacker - a much bulkier Thalmor footsoldier than the last, and clearly more skilled in combat. The Dunmer winced as he expected the final blow, but only blood spatter connected with him. A steel sword poked through the throat of the Altmer brute as he crashed to his knees attempting to cover the rushing blood loss in vain.
An Imperial soldier was revealed as responsible for the blow, but before Drelas could offer his gratitude, the Imperial's own neck was a cushion for an incoming arrow. Drelas' saviour collapsed over the Thalmor solider he had just killed mere seconds ago, and Drelas stared in shock at what just transpired. But not for long, as he once again got to his feet and (quickly, this time) scanned the battlefield. It was still chaos, of course. The group that we was previously alongside was either dead or gone, and he noticed that some of the Imperial forces had mustered some form of counterattack, led by nobody other than the Legate. He also couldn't help but notice an extremely tall Dunmer that followed closely behind.
The pain in his leg dulled as Drelas ran towards the assembling Imperial contingent. If he was going to survive this, he'd have the most chance alongside the legendary Ingjald of Stuhn. Drelas hoped the rumours he heard in the Winking Skeever the previous evening bore some truths.
Though men on both parties fell, and with every passing moment there were less people to fight the violence only seemed to escalate with the passage of time. This was, admittedly, a fact brought on by the conjurations and illusions of the Thalmor. Many an Imperial soldier would beam with pride as he dodged the slice of an Altmer only to find that the foe he counter-attacked would burst in a puff of warm magicka. Typically, this would leave such a person open to being killed by a foeman that was not in fact, an illusion. The fact would rather quickly spread through the ranks that the merest of contact would defeat the illusions, prompting a far more aggressive style of fighting from the Legionnaires; where even a single tap to he foe's breastplate would be more important than awaiting a chance for a meaningful riposte. While this somewhat solved the issue of illusory foes, this accomplished the initial goal of such illusions of creating distractions that would allow more footmen to survive, and hence slay more Imperials.
But the valiant efforts of the squad and the Legion as a whole were not in vain, even if for the moment insufficient. As they charged out to meet the foe, the barrage of fireballs largely ceased, the Thalmor wizards instead beginning to use sparks to ensure the death of the wounded with well placed electricity. Now of course, the kill tallies moved to the archers. The footmen of the elves switched to far more defensive postures, squatting with shields held high to simply take their enemy's attention whilst arrows flew overhead upon the Legion. The greatest quantity was of course aimed at the Legate, the Aldmeri archers rather careless of hitting their comrades knowing that such would be forgiven tenfold if they contributed to the death of the Legate. Besides, who would be able to tell it was them in particular?
Regardless, the melee around the Legate was perhaps the most chaotic of the frontline. It seemed that just as he was a high value target, so was he a beacon of hope (or safety, for the more cynical and perhaps numerous of the minds assembled....) in the battle. The duo of dunmer in particular would bear witness to the savagery of his fighting. Though beneath his armour he was perhaps a few centimetres shorter than the gargantuan woman near him, Ingjald's girth was far greater; this was most evidenced when with his shoulder he struck the glass breastplate of a Thalmor officer that had not backed behind his minions in time, shattering the tough but brittle protection just as the ribs beneath with a shoulder barge. But having found himself over extended he was pinned in place by several of the foe, each trying to pick at the weakpoints of his armour enchanted at Skyrim college of wizardry. In an act of desperation were uttered but three well known syllables:
FUS-RO-DAH
As the Legate coated himself and the comrades nearest him in a slurry of what remained of the Altmer nearest him, the words were echoed by the Nordic component of the Legion. Never before had the phrase unrelenting force brought a smile to so many faces. But though the morale of the Legion improved with the sight and sound mere single digits of the foe had fallen in the battle. But the effect on the foe's morale was as pronounced, even if in the inverse effect. Elven soldiers began to back away from the Legate, but with a wave of his hand for his troops to follow he would pursue. The Imperials were now on the offensive, and though they still had much to fight through the Imperial army had cut through the illusions, with reserves of magicka among the Thalmor exhausted for the foreseeable future. This was in effect the signal to cut losses and retreat with the satisfaction of having killed hundreds of Imperial wounding hundreds more.
A retreat began, a rather organized affair among the wizards who simply took a head count among their formations and then legged it. The archers - or those that still had arrows at least - did their best to cover their retreat. Some had this in the form of well drilled stances where lines would form, volleys be fired and then some several dozen paces displaced before this was replaced. Among others, this was simply an affair of running and shooting whenever they had managed to pull an arrow from their quiver and knock it. Neither of these were particularly accurate, but they had the intended effect of frightening away more cautious Imperials or impaling some of the over-eager ones in their haste to pursue.
The worst off were the footmen; they who for reasons ranging from lack of skill and intelligence to a heritage of mixed race were at the very bottom of the Aldmeri dominion's social substrata in the military. Some attempted to stand their ground, not quite realizing that the other troops were leaving regardless of if anybody remained behind. Others attempted to do a fighting retreat, using the cover of volleys to sprint before pausing to catch their breath and parry those who tried to run them down. Others simply ran for it, deciding to use those that had not as a pleasant distraction for their survival.
Warfare in the traditional sense had ceased. For the Altmer it was now a matter of survival, over the corpse of fallen brothers and sisters in arms if necessary. For the Imperials, it was now a matter of vengeance (in the passion of which many lost their lives) whilst for others it had become a matter of licking wounds, taking stock of the fallen and trying to avoid becoming a casualty after the battle was already done.
Tylmaesa, for all their faults, could scarcely remember a time they enjoyed more than this bloody art - the singing of blades, the whistling of arrows, the screams of the fallen foe... Together, it formed a symphony to their ears; a cacophony of awful noises that together became something beautiful, something that brought them all that much closer to reaching Heaven.
Bliss, perhaps.
Turning from their thoughts, Tylmaesa spent a handful of moments scanning the field ahead of them, and toward the stream of Altmeri s'wit swarming about the Legate like mindless Kwama drones to an invader marked by their Queen. Truly, they wondered if the Altmer could be even be called people in such a state - did they lose their personhood when they thoughtlessly obeyed their orders? Was their dedication a thing to admire, especially in the face of how so many of their allies cowered behind their shields? Regardless, they were enemies to be slain.
Now, unfortunately, was not the time for philosophical contemplations, they thought, advancing closer toward the Legate, the giant's graceful steps carrying them forward, into the mass of the gold-armored elves, desperately clawing for the glory of being the one to put a blade through the Legate's throat. Silently, Tylmaesa reached out, ignoring the sounds of arrows whistling past overhead. The Legate was capable - but he was only one man, and the foe were many.
They wished there was more time to plan - to carefully select an enemy where a fallen foe would be the most beneficial, even to push their way to his front and help him force his way deeper into enemy lines...
But there was none.
If they dared allow a single second to pass, more drones would press about the Legate, surrounding him with so many blades that even he could not stop them all.
And so, acting quickly, Tylmaesa simply charged at the first Altmer drone they saw in the Legate's vicinity, a shield-and-sword wielding soldier clad in gold. Grunt or sergeant or officer, Tylmaesa did not care, though the sheer bravado and glory-thirst they showed revealed the truth. A young soldier, unknowingly charging to their death.
Tylmaesa moved as fast and their legs could carry them, pushing past the masses of soldiers engaged in savage melee with little thought to any of them. Arrows rained down from above, each threatening to spear them through - all the more reason to find cover.
Finally, with mere feet separating them, the Altmer began to turn...
And narrowly managed to bring their shield up in time to intercept the path of Tylmaesa's blow, a downward stab mere moments ago aimed for their vulnerable neck.
Tylmaesa didn't follow through, instead taking a step backwards, bringing themself out of the smaller elf's reach. They were larger, and a large target, but their sheer size afforded them immense reach; reach enough that it was a simple matter to lay blow after blow upon the soldier's shield, hammering away so persistently as to force them to maintain a defensive posture, exhausting and waiting for them to make a fatal error. In the heat of battle, of course, there was little time for extended duels - most inevitably ended in less than a minute, and when the life of their commander was on the line...
Sucking in a deep breath, Tylmaesa took a step forward, into the Altmer's reach. They slowed their next strike, hoping the Altmer would see it coming...
And so it did. The blade lanced out for Tylmaesa's side, scraping against their skin, and Tylmaesa responded by ducking down, thrusting her own sword upward into the Altmer's armpit, thanking Mephala that their deception had succeeded. From their, it was a simple matter of kicking the Altmer's legs out from under them, and moving atop their body. Tylmaesa didn't waste time looking at them, even to grant them mercy, instead stomping on the soldier's open face, the first blow crushing their nose with a sickening crunch, the second denting their skull, the third opening it, and the second leaving it a smashed ruin like a rotting coconut.
Panting and satisfied with their kill, Tylmaesa turned toward the Legate, eager for a chance to further hone their battle-craft in a brief, brutal duel. The Legate was overwhelmed. He couldn't handle the sheer volume of soldiers swarming about him, and so they-
And then, suddenly, there was naught but smashed armor and gory paste about him. Their comprehension of the Nord tongue aside, Tylmaesa needed only to see what happened to understand what she'd just witnessed, a smile spreading across their face. In but a fraction of a second, the overconfidence of the Altmer had turned to stunned confusion, the noise of shouting Nords ringing in Tylmaesa's ears.
In this confusion, they found the perfect time to strike, snatching up a fallen grunt's shield.
After a brief pause to collect themself, Tylmaesa broke into a lightning sprint, each step kicking up little clouds of dust, their previous prey's shield clutched tightly in their arm. Past the slower legionnaires and wounded Altmer they went, blood-red eyes scanning a fleeing wall of gold for the telltale signs of someone of more use than a grunt. Many of the higher-ranking officers had surely fled like the cowards they were, but for each twi that had given away to the instinct to flee, surely one would have simply frozen in place, hesitated in the face of the knowledge that such a certain victory had been turned into a rout by supposedly inferior beings.
Shoving their way past a bloodthirsty legionnaire, Tylmaesa finally caught sight of what they'd hoped to see -- the glint of blue-green malachite glass among a sea of golden moonstone, the mark of one above the status of mere footsoldier. They didn't imagine any of the real commanders would have lingered for so long, but...
It'd have to do.
Sucking in a deep breath through their nostrils, the giant put all the energy they could into moving as fast as possible, momentarily struggling to catch up with the fleeing sergeant. Tylmaesa, though, was both faster and wearing even less armor, for what little weight glass and moonstone carried, but it was enough. Each great stride shrunk the divide between them, step by step, until Tylmaesa was forced to admit with a disappointed sigh that the badges of rank they saw were, indeed, merely those of a sergeant. Less valuable prey, but much safer prey, even if the challenge had evaporated the moment they began to route.
Two dozen meters eventually turned into one dozen, one dozen into six meters, six into three, and still, the Altmer hadn't noticed the towering Dunmer barreling down on them. *Her*, Tylmaesa thought, numbly evaluating the running officer, noting the way they moved, the shape of their armor and the body beneath..
Three meters into one, and the muscles in Tylmaesa's legs tightened, spring-like, before they launched themselves at the Altmer, outstretched arms reaching for her torso. The moment they collected, the Altmer crumpled with a sharp gasp, brought down by the sheer weight on top of her, struggling to turn herself around from her position between Tylmaesa's powerfully muscled legs, straddling her waist.
Tylmaesa wasted no time securing their prey, though. A heavy, closed-fisted blow to their forehead rung their skull like a bell, dropping their into unconsciousness before they had the chance to act.
Grunting in frustration, Tylmaesa quickly worked the Altmer's helmet free, tearing free a strip of cloth to stuff into their open mouth, shield raised above their head all the while.
There was no less chaos surrounding the Legate than there had been elsewhere in the skirmish. The Thalmor force had their sights clearly set on him, and the reasons why were clear - even to a militarily ignorant Drelas. They were to assassinate a key component of the Legion's arsenal in the Imperial counter-insurgence. What they did not expect, however, was the Legate's insistence to remain alive.
And seemingly, not the Voice he commanded either.
Drelas was keeping a wary eye on his surroundings, his crimson gems darting left and right, his sword and shield raised and ready for an encroaching Altmer footsoldier. And yet to his surprise, none came, though the Dunmer did not go looking for a fight eagerly. As he anxiously waited, a booming and glottal roar shook his bones, and the entire world seemed to quiver. He had witnessed the source of the sound in his peripheral, but his mind could barely comprehend what he had seen. The Thu'um! No wonder those of the Dragonblood were so feared, and no wonder that the rivers of destiny bended to their will.
That draconic sentence somehow turned the tide of the battle. The Thalmor decided that they had caused enough carnage to be worth their current losses and so their leadership pulled back. If only mundane words could hold such power. Drelas watched as his comrades gave chase, butchering the Mer who were not quick enough or aware enough to flee. The Dark Elf felt no such urge, there was enough blood on the snow already, and he did not feel a zeal nor passion to the countless avenge nameless Imperial grunts that had predictably been slaughtered hours into their arrival into this grim North.
Instead, he inspected the wound on his leg once more as the pain had reignited. It did indeed seem like just a flesh wound, but a wound all the same. He glanced around for any nearby medic or healer, but struggled to identify one. Fatigue came over him in a rush, and so he slumped on the frosty ground beneath him, his sword stabbing into the ground to support a tired lean and his shield still over his arm. He took a few deep breaths and tried not to process the event of the past few minutes too much.
Was this just the first of many battles? How many lives did he have left? For it was surely by divine intervention that he was still able to see his steamy breath in front of him. That, or sheer dumb luck, which would hardly last forever.
Drelas just knew that he needed to find a way out of his service. It was just a matter of an opportunity presenting itself...
For an instant the whole world seemed to shake and a brief moment the battle stopped, people stopped to see what happened. A small cheer from the imperials erupted when they’d realised what had happened and now it was there turn to go on the offensive. Most of the elves or at least the smarter ones had started to retreat but a few still pressed on. One elf screamed and charged at Lucas, there was no real skill in what the elf was trying to do and Lucas quickly slid to the right after the elf had lunged at him and he slid his blade into the elves side. The elf was dead before he’d even hit the floor as Lucas stood over him noticing he looked even younger than himself. After a second were he caught his breath, Lucas continued to move to where the Legate was.
Infront of him an imperial was on the defensive, blocking blow after blow and the man didn’t look like he had much strength left to keep on defending so Lucas simply went behind the elf and thrusted his blade through their back. The force of the stab broke through both sides of their armour. The imperial nodded to Lucas as a thank you being too out of breath to actually say anything. Now the battle seemed to be practically over around Lucas but he wasn’t too sure what was happening further in front or behind of him. He continued to walk towards the Legate to see what was happening now. All of a sudden, an elf who appeared to be dead grabbed a hold of Lucas’s leg which shocked him, he quickly jumped back away from him. As Lucas inspected the elf, it was clear to see that they were nearly dead. “Please… Please… Help me.” The elf whispered to him. There wasn’t really much Lucas could have done even if they were on the same side and he was a gifted medic. The elf’s belly had been opened up and you could see their guts. The only thing Lucas could do was give him a quick death which he did. Lucas pushed the tip of his sword into the elves neck, he choked for a second and then passed away.
“How the hell did we get ambushed so close to fucking Solitude.” Lucas said to no one in particular thinking about it. Why had they not sent scouts ahead Lucas wondered to himself. Surely, they could have avoided the loss to their soldiers. Lucas stood still looking around at the dead bodies on the ground as the adrenaline started to leave him. It had just sunk in that this was the first time he’d ever killed someone, he really didn’t know what to feel about it. Pain came flooding back to his shield arm where he’d taken the full force of the fire ball. As he looked around, Lucas noticed the Dunmer from the night before sitting on the ground holding his leg. Lucas gave him a simple nod.
Though the battle was over, for a long time it seemed that sound did not in fact subside. Some more opportunistic soldiers got to the looting. Using the cover of other men from their officers, they got to bodies looting jewelry, pulling off boots, and in a few cases even using knives and blunt instruments to gouge out fake teeth. Others were eager to find vengeance, or simply show savagery and bravery when it no longer particularly mattered as High Elves were shown no quarter, even the ones biting off their tongues to commit suicide getting a rough beating to ensure their last moments were not comfortable. The few who were too cowardly to do such begged for their lives, though in many cases this was upon deaf ears particularly for the Nords and few Bosmer among the Legionnaires. Surprising to some, were the Altmer in the Legion such as Telleno being particularly cruel to their racial kinsmen, spitting on corpses and otherwise defiling and desecrating their eternal rest.
The Legate was seen by many, to be wandering the battlefield with his great maul dragging behind him in one hand, his mask not concealing the melancholy and shame befalling the man. However at some point he would sit on a rock near the road, and then a minute or so later motion to one of the Sergeants to come over. Saying some orders to him, a few men would fan out to ensure any deserters in the aftermath were apprehended, and the worst of the looters would similarly be stopped such that intelligence would not be lost.
At some point the Adjutants not yet dead would attend the Legate, and thus the order would spread that camp would be made here. In the morning, some men would be sent to escort the wounded back to the capital, though terrified rumours spread that these men would only be cut down by more Thalmor. When accounting for the wounded sent back to Solitude and their guardians, the casualties of the battle would amount to having little more than two thirds of the strength the Legion had set out with remaining. Though many Thalmor had fallen in the battle, it was clear this was a tactical defeat they would be glad to take for its value as a strategic victory.
For the squad, it would be notably reduced. Frelayne and Edward had both found themselves injured far too seriously through the course of the battle, and were sent back to find more serious treatment at the temple of the Nine, while the brother Rashid was taken dead, the best efforts of Ryjko being insufficient to resuscitate him. Rest, recuperation was the order, for while the Legate ruminated on what to do next the soldiery would have to be ready to tackle whatever was next.
