Solitude, Haafingar, Skyrim
1200, Last Seed 5, 4E 205
Morning, Last Seed 5
Proudspire Manor
Once upon a time, in a city far far away, a hired sword swallows his sorrow in the company of liquid toxin. In a city of Solitude, in the mansion of a wealthy man and in the mind of a jaded Redguard, drama of the Aurbis unfolded. The great battles against the frost demons, the sinister betrayal of a god-slayer and the struggles of his men finding humanity within each other and themselves. Oh, what pain, what torment, what injustice, what...
Burp.
“Urgh, hgnhh, hmmm.”
The great Ashav stirred, and with a gasp and a rising feeling in his throat, he was awake from his drunken slumber. Immediately, he seeked a container, immediately, he puked in Gustav’s laundry basket. Dumhuvud Cat-Kicker and Edith Bright-Wings observed from afar, far away from the stench of vomit and far away from the delusional ranting of Ashav’s dream.
He was drunk every single night since arriving in Solitude, and yet, he did not regret a single minute of it.
Running his sandpaper like hands through his scalp, and silently cursing the fact that he no longer had the luscious hair that he had in his dream, Ashav stumbled around until he found a water basin; he dived right in. The water brought him back to reality like the salty waves of the Ghost Sea. He didn't want to, but a gaze to a conveniently placed calendar told him otherwise. Today was the fifth of Last Seed. Today, they would be back out to sea.
With one of Gustav’s finer shirts (one that didn’t smell of his own vomit), Ashav wiped his face clean of his misery. Dumhuvud and Edith were still waiting for him in the exact spot they were before. They were worried, for none had seen Ashav so somber and lacking in self-control. Ashav himself, however, had only one question.
“Where is he?”
“Gustav went to get breakfast.” Edith answered.
“Go find him, and Dough-Boy, and leave me alone.” Ashav slumped back to the couch he had fallen asleep shirtless, with only his metal greaves on. His lieutenants left soon after, with Edith going to the forge for the last bit of supplies, and Dumhuvud no doubt going to pick on Sadri or Keegan. Ashav sat there, listening to the symphony of his stomach grumbling and praying for Gustav to hurry back with the most important meal of the day.
Gustav arrived within a few minutes, having found his way after being informed by Edith that Ashav was looking for him. The Nord man entered the cabin and immediately had his nose assailed with the rancid scent of vomit, quickly tracing the offending scent to the last place he wished to discover it.
“Ysmir’s beard, Ashav, get a hold of yourself, man!” The financier growled, his immaculately groomed figure and expensive clothing clashing significantly when paired against the human shipwreck that was Ashav. “This could not wait until you cleaned yourself up and had someone see to that disgusting mess you’ve left in my damned laundry?”
The last entrant of the cabin was a hyperventilating mess, his face red, with beads of sweat dripping down his despite the cold climate of Skyrim. Propping his torso up by placing his palms on his thighs, Dough-Boy raised his head after a few seconds of catching breath. “Ye were asking for me, sire?” He asked in between his breaths, rubbing the back of his hand against his brow to swipe off sweat headed for his eyes.
“Lucky you, Goose-Tough, here is just the boy, man, whatever, for your laundry needs.” Ashav pointed his finger at Dough-Boy, but not actually sparing the young man a direct look.
“Oh, and where’s the food, hmm? I could use something like a bagel, salmon, orange, or, how about some fresh water?” Ashav’s already raspy voice was extra raspy, which, combined with his slurring, made him barely legible. “So thirsty after a hangov-, you know, self-treatment session.”
Looking down upon himself, Ashav promptly realized that he was still shirtless at this point. Grabbing Gustav’s shirt-turned-towel, he quickly donned it, albeit backwards and awkwardly stretching at the seams. Now properly dressed, Ashav let out a sigh at the inevitable conversation to come.
“I know you got new recruits,” Ashav rasped, “and so do I. In fact, Dough-Boy here’s got a list of them, losses and gains, and a couple of promotions for you to pay as well.” The Redguard cleared his throat, to no avail, due to the lack of water. “First, you feed me, and maybe the kid too.”
Actually regarding Dough-Boy for a rare moment, Ashav asked. “You ate yet? Can’t keep asking for a sword when you’re too thin to swing one.”
“I've, uh, had a few things for breakfast, sire,” Dough-Boy stammered in reply, happy that at least
someone found him too thin to be able to do something properly. He wasn't sure if he needed to put on some more weight for swordsmanship, for at least some fellows in the Company were thinner than he, but he still appreciated it.
“Business first, then meal.” Gustav replied wearily, standing his ground. It would be his small revenge for Ashav’s abhorrent behaviour. “And aye, there’s a few new names on the payroll. Wars have a funny way of bringing out willing swords from the woodwork.”
“Nooo...” Ashav whined. Gustav was being extra assertive of himself this morning. Normally, or at least when he thought of the times in Dawnstar, Ashav was the one bossing Gustav around. Perhaps it’s because the Nord man was at his home turf, or maybe the fact that Ashav himself appeared absolutely pathetic in his full post-intoxication glory.
“The list, then,” Dough-Boy said for the sake of not letting the conversation hang like that, checking the pockets of his tunic before finding it stuck into the side of his breeches. Offering the list to Ashav in a somewhat restrained manner, he looked at the laundry basket from the corner of his eye, wondering if he could find someone else to handle it.
“Fine.” Ashav conceded, eyeing hungrily at the package brought in by Gustav. “Eirik’s dead, Elmera is missing in action, and Solveig’s, well, gone.” Ashav announced as a matter of fact, as he had done way too many times in the past.
“On the bright side, if anything can be considered bright.” Ashav continued. “That Imperial kid, the one even thinner than him,” Ashav motioned to one of the few notable aspects of Dough-Boy, “dragged in his sister; Piper’s her name. The Dunmer knight that went with our Bleakrock group also wanted to tag in. And Keegan, that Altmer clown, came back. I didn’t want him, however, Ariane Fontaine insisted that I do. Of course, you insisted on me having Fontaine in the first place.”
“I’ve always had an eye for talent.” Gustav interjected, arms crossed. “If she wants someone, her word is gold as far as I’m concerned.”
“Promotion, too.” Recalled Ashav. “My old scout quit, so I am promoting Sevine the Huntress for that position.”
“You can give the money for our no-longer-present members to our new members; seems about even.” Passing the list over to Gustav, the Redguard scratched a sudden itch in his crotch.
The Nord took the parchment gingerly, wondering exactly what horrors it had endured in Ashav’s hand. He’d be washing his own afterwards, that much was certain. He skimmed the names, feeling a pang of remorse for those who were no longer with the company. Damn the war and its hungry maw that never seemed to be satisfied with how many good people it consumed. “What do you make of the recruits? We’ve lost a number of veterans.”
“The new guys aren’t too bad. They’re good enough for the next mission or two, until they’re inevitably killed.” Ashav collapsed back onto the couch, sinking as low as he can from the world and decided to let Dough-Boy have his fifteen seconds of fame. “Right, boy? You tell our nice, ignorant, money-man here what you think of our mighty meatbags.”
Gustav looked at Dough-Boy expectantly, although not unkindly. “It’s alright, lad. Your word is welcome here. You probably see things better from your station than we do up top.” he said, glaring at the somewhat prone form of Ashav. For whatever reason, Gustav was feeling rather irritable towards the commander today. The laundry wasn’t even an isolated incident.
Dough-Boy propped himself up for a proper reply, wishing to show that he appreciated this unexpected attention from his higher-ups with all his being. ‘’Well, I'm sure experienced men and women like you have no doubt noticed what I've noticed, but if you've asked…’’ Giving himself a moment to think, the baker's apprentice raised a finger, as if he found a spark of inspiration, and began.
“The Bosmer one, her name is A-daisy, I think?.. She looks like tough stuff, with that giant saber of hers. She looks too intense, though. I'd say she's either constantly on the lookout for danger, or she's afraid of something.” He had thought of a few other options, admittedly, such as her being a complete nutjob, or him looking too appealing as a target for sword practice, but those did not feel as plausible as the ones he voiced. Plus there was no need to make such ridiculous claims in front of the entire chain of command.
“Wait, what?” Ashav was completely surprised. “Bosmer? I heard her name’s Adaeze at-Djer, and that’s as Redguard as it gets.” Looking confused between Dough-Boy and Gustav, Ashav began to ponder. “I met at least two Adaeze’s in just Rihad. There’s got to an error somewhere, or maybe, maybe she’s sent by Mehm!”
“Did I ever tell you about conniving Mehm is, Gustav?” Ashav suddenly rose from his slouch. “What’s this Adaeze like to you? Any ulterior motives?”
The Nord shrugged impassively. “She’s definitely Bosmer, just born and raised in Hammerfell, aspires to her homeland’s culture and all of that. Think of her like an Altmer who’s been in Imperial City their whole life.” He set the food tray he’d been carrying down at the table, sitting down on the table itself with his foot resting on a chair as he plucked an apple from the tray, inspecting it for rot thoughtfully. “We’re not exactly picky for who we pick up, or rather, we
can’t be picky. As long as they look like they can hold a sword and follow orders, the rest we will have to work with.” He took a large bite out of the apple, chewing it obnoxiously for several seconds before muttering through half-opened lips. “She seems to have a chip on her shoulder. Might be a pain in the arse if she’s too prideful.”
Ashav did not say anything first; he simply indulged in the taste of bread and egg. Wiping his hand on Gustav’s finest tablecloth first, Ashav proceeded to chew loudly and ate with crumbs falling onto the carpet. Followed up was a several gulps of milk to wash it all down. “Milk’s not bad.” Ashav remarked. “I thought you Nords have something against it, but you prove me wrong, Gustav. You are the best milk-drinker I’ve seen.”
“Ugh.”
Satisfied with the food and the mess he made, Ashav went back to the topic beforehand. “Fine, but know she, Adaeze, is confused about who she is.” Commented Ashav, now speaking firmer and clearer. “She’s just like Farid; ripe for propaganda bullshit. That’s how Mehm operates; he exploits your insecurities and offers you a cause to throw away your life for.”
“I’ve been in this line of work for almost three decades, and I know exactly I fight for. Not glory, not honor, not some altruistic crap. I fight for this,” The Redguard flipped out a single gold coin for seemingly his rear, “gold.”
“I also know what I can and cannot do.” Ashav continued, only taking a momentary pause to finish the jar of milk. “I keep my men organized, I whip them into fighting shape, but I never stab them in the back, no matter how important my personal belief is. Either we all get paid, or none of us do.”
“Even he knows what he does.” Ashav stared expectantly at Dough-Boy. “Go ahead, tell Gustav why you’re here.”
Finding the question perhaps a little too unexpected for the situation and his own position, Dough-Boy stuttered for a moment, unable to gather his thoughts, before replying. “I... I suppose amongst you folk was the only place where I thought I could m-make a man o' myself. And now with those demons we're fighting against, it feels good to be able to actually do something that matters. Skyrim's me homeland, in the end.”
“That’s right.” Ashav agreed.
“So tell me, why are you doing all this? Why are you spending all your time and money on my company.” Ashav leaned forward, pointing the milk jar at Gustav like a general’s baton. “Surely you’ve figured out by now that this isn’t being profitable, so what are you in it for?”
Gustav crossed his arms defensively, biting back the urge to respond sarcastically about his costs being kept low because Ashav keeps killing or otherwise losing most of his payroll. He decided to play it with a safe answer that didn’t exactly satisfy the man’s curiosity, and maybe give the man a reality check. “Do you think I acquired and squandered my wealth by investing in a private fighting force? There are side benefits and objectives of mine that made this the smart choice, although there are times I wish I’d taken more time looking for suitable freelancers. For all your brag and bluster, Ashav, you’ve provided little result for the pay at times and unless you start leading by example, you may find the day coming where you’ll have to find someone else to line your pockets as I look for someone more… profitable.”
“Lead by example; you’ve got to be kidding me!” Somehow, Gustav couldn’t help but spew stupid shit out of his mouth. Ashav wasn’t surprised at this stage, but he was nevertheless amazed. Ashav’s veins started to bulge as anger set in.
“Have you fought a Kamal face to face? Have you ever seen one? Actually, I don’t think you fought anything.” Shaking his bald head in anger, the Redguard fumed on. “War doesn’t work the way it does in books. You don’t survive by charging snow demons head on. You don’t get things done just by thinking about in your living room. You certainly don’t just come into my company and tell me what to do, who I should let in and how ‘profitable’ I am!”
“Ugh, forget it.” Ashav resigned, massaging his suddenly burning face. Gustav embodies stubbornness, and Ashav needed to abandon his own in order to stop wasting his time. “I’ll figure something out for our new members, even that old cat. I’ll have the Imperial girl carry your fancy luggage, the Redguard sneak dump our wastes and the old cat polish those sparkling shoes of yours.”
“Go sort out his laundry, boy.” Ashav ordered. “And grab Dar’Jzo, the Khajiit, if you need help. You are in charge of our new laborers; make sure you get to know them.” Ashav dismissed Dough-Boy with a wave, then immediately regretting giving him authority for the first time.
Dough-Boy nodded with unexpected discipline, not wishing to piss off his employer with any doubt he could possibly show in the tense room, and immediately procured to himself the empty basket on the side of the drawers for the sake of taking the victimized articles of clothing to whoever he could pass the laundry on. After filling the basket, and thus emptying the drawer with care as to not get his hands dirty, Dough-Boy grabbed the flax basket from its handle and left the room with haste, leaving the two bigwigs alone.
Once Ashav’s alone with Gustav, he let out a sigh, not one of relief, but one with more tension then he had prior. The Redguard pondered his words, his thoughts, and gazed upwardly at the flawless chandelier. He didn’t grow up a wordsmith, but decades of commanding made him a practical, though unrestrained, speaker. He never wanted to take a job of this caliber at all, and yet, here he was, sitting in the home of one of Skyrim’s wealthiest. Suppose Ashav should be grateful; grateful of the Dovahkiin’s contracts, grateful of the easy year he had with 204, and grateful of Gustav for picking his company up at their worst. However, Ashav couldn’t possibly conjure up a single ounce of gratitude when he knew that he would have to fight this terrible war for long as possible. Being a mercenary was all he knew, and it was a career that conferred no retirement benefits; the mercenary fights until he or she is dead. Ashav wanted no more fighting; he had long gotten the excitement of combat, and he wanted a few years of peace before the Far Shores.
Of course, he wouldn’t say any of that to Gustav. He wouldn’t show his doubt.
There was one thing he had to ask.
“What is your plan when we get to Jehanna? What happens when we do find your prophet?” Questioned Ashav. He picked up a green apple, rotating it slowly in his hand but not eating it. Examining the fruit helped calming him down. “You only told Edith, Dumhuvud and I about your soothsayer. I’m sure you understood that my men are, well, concerned about your direction.”
Gustav put up his hands in a gesture of disarming. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that earlier. Tensions have been high for weeks now and you are not the easiest of men to work with.” he said, pulling up a chair to sit across from Ashav, placing his hands on his shins. “I’ve never been the kind of man to put his faith into what soothsayers and prophets and what have you have to say, but who could have predicted an Akaviri invasion? Who could have found a way to keep a step ahead against the storm? Imagine if we had beaten them to the College and gotten all of the mages out, or warned the Jarl of Windhelm to stock up on firesalts and prepare sea defences? This prophet, if they are who they claim, maybe they could provide an insight into what’s to come and we could act preemptively instead of reacting. We find them, and they are true, then maybe we can still find a way to win this war and save lives.”
“Well,” Ashav said uncertainty, “alright, you have a point there. Go on.”
Gustav leaned back, massaging his temple with a pair of fingers, a headache was coming on, he could tell. “I’ve kept it to the leadership for now because you know as well as I what rumours turn into amongst a crowd. I also don’t want to give anyone’s hopes up, so if this turns up to be horker shit, no one loses faith in a long shot and we’re still in a position to recruit mages that should, excuse the play on words, provide us with the firepower we need to fend off Kamal and just about every other nasty brute that the Akaviri can send our way. I like to keep my options open.”
“I’m going to be honest with you,” Ashav laid out, “and say that I still have doubts. But you are right about our personnel, and we have to keep them in the dark for their own sake.” The light cast from a nearby window was making Ashav uncomfortable warm at this stage, and he realized that this meant he didn’t have much time to sit there; he needed to prepare.
“Suppose that prophet is the only path we have.” Admitted Ashav. Standing up to stretch, he also pocketed a napkin from the table.
“There’s no contract left with the Dragonborn and Skald dead, and everyone else is busy crawling back to the little hole they came from.” Politics never worried Ashav too much, however, it was hard not worrying about Skyrim’s current state of affairs. “Both you and Dumhuvud grew up here. Not sure about you, but he said this whole thing with Elisif nearly assassinated and Erikur being a Boethiah cultist is more messed up than Ulfric shouting Torygg down. You Nords here sure like drama.”
Gustav offered a terse smile in response. “Well, considering people still sing songs about Ragnar the Red in taverns nightly, we Nords do aspire to be a part of a good saga or song. It’s hard to earn a name if someone’s beat you to it, so passions lead to stories like we are speaking of now. I do admit, it gets rather exhausting going from one crisis to the next wondering who’s going to pull the stones out from the fragile foundation of peace next. “
Ashav walked back to the guestroom Gustav gave him, where he changed into cleaner clothes, making him appear less like a homeless drunk, and more as a grumpy old man. He returned to the living room musing aloud. “I miss Madura now. As clumsy as he was, that dark elf used to be our news source to the outside world.” The thought of the journalist brought out a snicker from Ashav. “You did figure him out from Sadri Beleth, did you?”
“Har har. Even I can tell when a dark elf is missing bits and pieces.” Gustav replied, sharing in the humour with a hearty chuckle. “Madura was a pain in the arse, but he was good at his work. I suppose we’ll just have to wait until his papers find their way to port, aye? But I must take my leave of you now, I’m sure you’ve a busy day ahead with the new blood and I’ve my own affairs to attend to. Here’s hoping High Rock still has it’s shit together.”
Noon, Last Seed 5
Kyne’s Tear, Solitude Harbor
The mercenary company, now rested and recuperated, was loaded onto the
Kyne’s Tear. The lines and anchor have been cast off, and the ship was rolling out of port. Ashav stood just below the quarterdeck, surveying the bustling ship deck under an overcast sky. Just five minutes into their voyage, Karena and Hargjorn were already arguing over the wheel. Mercenary warriors and specialists were settling in, finding places to sleep and stowing their equipment.
Speaking of stowing, Gustav must have contributed half of the stowed luggage. Ashav lost count of how many bags, boxes and crates that belonged to Gustav. Dough-Boy and Piper Speculatus spent hours hauling these things from Proudspire Manor to the ship. The porters had just finished their work, and at the same time, Gustav emerged from somewhere that Ashav couldn't see before.
“Is all that really necessary?” Ashav asked, puzzled. “I thought you left your stuff in Jordis’, your housecarl’s, care.”
“The day I find a Kamal wearing my finery is the day I summon Mehrunes Dagon to finish what he started.” Gustav replied, deftly evading explaining how much he didn’t trust a potentially rioting wartime populace of the former Imperial stronghold in Skyrim and for his estate to go unmolested. For most people, belongings were just things, for Gustav, it was an accumulation of his life’s work.
“You are tiring the poor boy out; just look how exhausted he is.” Ashav beckoned Dough-Boy over.
“Word of advice, Gustav, us mercenaries get by packing light.” The Redguard pointed out several mercs, most of whom had nothing more than a bag of personal possessions. “And bonus advice; you better get Dough-Boy a drink of those expensive wine that he carried for you. It pays to reward those sworn to carry your burdens.”
“It’s a good thing I have you lot to fight for me then, aye?” Gustav replied with a cheeky grin. “And don’t worry, I always reward those who do well by me. Say, Dough-Boy? When we hit port, I’m getting you some quality time with a lady of the night. Then you might be called Dough-Man, aye? And what I said goes for the rest of the company, continue putting in work, and I’ll make sure the coin flows better when I can reach some of my contacts and arrange for some lucrative work. There’s no shortage with those Bretons, they’re always at each other’s backs with schemes.”
Satisfied with giving Gustav advice, Ashav left the Nord businessman alone with Dough-Boy (and not giving the former a chance to shoot back smart retorts). Instead, he went to where Dumhuvud and Keegan were having an unpleasant conversation. Gods know what kind trouble they stirred up this time.
The boy, with his cheeks having practically gone red with embarrassment and excitement at their backer's suggestion, found the sudden silence caused by Ashav's departure rather awkward. He was going to be a man.
He was going to be a man. “That’ll show them, Antti and Fjuhl and all those others back in the neighborhood,” he thought to himself, as he tried to come up with something smart and worldly to make himself look better in Gustav’s eyes. He had to make sure he didn't mess this up. He had one shot.
“Y-You don’t actually go for the navel, right?”
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