RENEGADE CHRONICLES-PART I: THE IMPERIAL (A Skyrim AAR/Fiction)
-THE RENEGADE CHRONICLES-
Part I.
The Imperial
Gaius Ordo never wanted to come to Skyrim.
He hated the biting, unforgiving winds that whistled down the craggy canyons. He hated the relentless snow that crept down boots and inside leather armor. The Nords were a stupid, petulant people, and their Stormcloaks lacked the discipline to pose much of a threat to his legate. Worst of all, there was a lack of good, clean skooma. During his legion’s stay in Morrowind, Skooma flowed as freely as alto wine. However, product was poor and spread out in Skyrim; and with so few Kahjits willing to wander the dangerous and unpatrolled highways, when some product became available it was diluted and purchased in the shadows from some paranoid Orcish fiend.
Worst of all were the officers.
In a civilized province, imperial officers rarely interfered with the enlisted ranks, operating as more of an uncle than a harsh disciplinarian. This Tulius fellow, however, was a different breed of General. He hand-selected overzealous, headstrong academy graduates from noble families, unwilling to get their hands dirty but more than happy to order their men to.
In Morrowind, Ordo’s commander was a decent enough fellow. A bit of a drunkard, but who wasn’t in an occupational army? The man was decent with a blade, gave a fair share of loot to his men, and turned his head the other way when the moment called for it. In Skyrim, everything changed. The old commander was sent to some pisshole in High Rock, and the new officers came in only months before the legion left for the front.
Quintius Alexius was the new legate commander; a petulant and rosy-cheeked aristocrat who grew up in the well-protected countryside of Cyrodil after the sack of the Imperial City. His father was a Grand Councilor to Titus Mede II. The boy carried himself with the air of a Grand General, hosting elaborate inspections each morning and surveying the lines with a leather-bound stick. General Tulius might as well be a God to the young officer, who read the General Orders of the Imperial Legion daily before the assembled legate after inspection.
Even worse, Captain Alexius hated Gaius Ordo.
Ordo was an easy target. He was a massive man, so much that most thought him to be a Nord at first glance. His eyes were magnificently green, making him more conspicuous among the ranks. He was a head-and-a-half taller than most Imperials, and two or three heads taller than the average Bosmer. In Morrowind, he killed two Dunmer with his bare hands in a drunken brawl. His old commander pretended not to notice, but Quintus Alexius heard the rumors and continually reminded Ordo that he would have no such uncivilized barbarism in his legate.
Alexius was a small man, even by Imperial standards, and quite enjoyed holding power over a giant like Gaius Ordo. He would continually make an example of Ordo before the formation, criticizing his shave or uniform and sentencing him with latrine duty, or extra watch.
Though not the brightest of Imperials (no one who stands seven feet tall has much need of cleverness,) Gaius was no fool. Defying an imperial officer was a capital offense, and the giant had no desire to be hanged in a land so forsaken as Skyrim.
Not only that, but he enjoying soldiering. He was a natural warrior, and although the unit-oriented tactics of the Imperial Legion were somewhat restraining, Gaius Ordo was a fine legionnaire. In his months on the front, he gained some notoriety among the Stormcloaks as “Big Leo,” ‘Leo’ being a derogatory term for an Imperial soldier. At a skirmish near Bleak Falls, Big Leo broke legionary formation and defeated nearly ten Stormcloaks, who scattered in terror. He killed six and mortally wounded four, but Captain Alexius still reprimanded Ordo for breaking formation and ordered him to double-watch.
Ordo didn’t mind the watch, either. When everyone else was asleep, he could trade his war trophies with the camp followers for skooma. Sweet, wonderful skooma—even the diluted Skyrim mixture—was Ordo’s only real friend in the Imperial Legion. He imagined that he would continue fighting the Stormcloaks, selling their armor an weapons for skooma, and repeating each week, forever.
It couldn’t last forever.
On a patrol to Riverwood, Ordo convinced the Prefect to adjust the route and spend a couple hours in the village’s tavern. Although reluctant, the newly-promoted Prefect was terrified of Ordo and the other three soldiers, who grinned at him malevolently, as if to suggest that a disagreement could mean his cold body floating over the falls. Besides, stopping for a drink on a long patrol was routine among Imperial soldiers. What the officers didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. A solemn “nothing to report, sir,” was all they required before turning to evening quarters.
In the tavern, the night began quite well. Riverwood’s Jarl was no friend of the Emperor, but the small village took gold for what it was and cared little for the war. They served ale to stormcloaks and legionaries alike, and when the two met in combat the village children carried their weapons and armor to the Breton tradesman for gold coins. Although the tavern’s patroness was a surly and close-lipped woman, the wine and mead flowed freely. Ordo traded a stormcloak helm for thirty gold pieces worth of credit, and drowned his hatred of Quintus Alexius with an incredible amount of alcohol.
Ordo barely noticed Captain Alexius enter the tavern, as well as the dozen or so soldiers that came with him, dressed in full armor with weapons drawn.
The Prefect pleaded with the Captain, but Alexius simply struck the young soldier on the face with his steel gauntlets and ordered him under arrest, teeth missing and mouth bleeding profusely. The tavern cleared out, leaving Ordo and his two drunken compatriots before the Captain and his men.
Worse still, the soldiers pulled Ordo’s skooma pipe from his pocket, and what remained of his stash in his pockets.
“Carrying contraband is a hanging offense, Ordo.” The Captain said with a wry smirk, dropping the expensive glass pipe on the ground and smashing it with his boot.
“Arrest these treacherous fools. The lot of them will go before the General.”
The two men beside Ordo swallowed, and one began to whimper and piss streamed down his pant leg. To go before a General for an offense, especially one like Tulius, meant only one thing. Hanging by the neck.
Without really thinking, Ordo grabbed an iron steak knife from the tavern bar and buried it in an approaching soldier’s neck, right above the armor. He wouldn’t die hanging from a castle wall. He pulled the dying man’s sword out from its scabbard, and sliced across the face of a second soldier, cleaving his steel helmet in two.
The room froze in utter shock. Captain Alexius hurled a curse and drew his ornate sword, screaming at his men to kill the bastard.
Most held back, but a couple men advanced, eager to replace the recently dishonored prefect. One carried a spiked mace, and the other a steel sword. Ordo knew the men; he fought with them in Morrowind against Bandits and Marauders. He went for the stronger of the two first, a stout lad called Rurik. The first of Ordo’s blows were blocked by Rurik’s ornate family mace, but the third slashed deep at the Nord’s Pelvis, and the Fourth was a clean drive Rurik’s shoulder and out his spine. The Nord shuddered, sputtered out blood and fell dead to the floor. In a single motion, Ordo turned to the second Imperial assailant and drove the sword clean through his leather breastplate and into his heart.
There was only one door out of the inn, and Captain Alexius and his remaining squadron stood in the way. As the rest of the men charged at him, Ordo jumped behind a table, and in doing so kicked an oil lantern into the wall, where it burst with flames and set the tapestries on fire.
Wheeling forward, Ordo knocked a burly Breton to his feet and took the arm of an unfortunate Bosmer clean off. However, Ordo knew there were far too many to fight, and in the chaos he overturned a large table, using it as a plow to break through his enemies.
The soldiers scattered like sheep in the billowing smoke, with Captain Alexius crying out madly and the town’s bell sounding.
“You’re a dead man, Ordo!” Alexius cried. “A dead man, you bastard!”
Plummeting through a glass window, Ordo landed hard on the cobbled street and felt glass cut deep into the muscle of his left arm. He was still very drunk, though far more alert. He searched frantically for an escape, reeling to the stables and swatting a stable boy aside. He took a black charger, Alexius’s steed, from the stalls and whirled around with his sword still in-hand.
At the same moment, Alexius emerged from the blazing tavern and cried out in malice.
“Kill him!” Alexius screamed, pointing to Ordo with his sword. Ordo wanted to charge right at the high-born bastard and cleave him in half, but he heard arrows thud into the stall behind him and realized that the town guards had joined in the attack. He struck hard on the horse and lurched forward, making for the stone footbridge out of the town. When he was nearly across, an arrow struck deep into the neck of the horse, and another landed squarely in Ordo’s thigh. He shouted in agony as the horse doubled over, off the bridge and into the rapids below.
Just before he hit the water, Ordo freed his feet from the stirrups and pushed himself from the horse with all his might. He lost his sword and slammed his face on a rock as he plummeted into the icy water. The arrow in his leg caught on a boulder as he was swept downstream, turning him around, and then broke inside his leg.
The pain was worse than Ordo had ever felt. On he tumbled, unable to grab ahold of anything and reeling in anguish. He swallowed large amounts of water in his effort to gasp for breath. He felt himself fall off an effacement, and then another.
Although his vision darkened, he knew that the falls were approaching, and with every ounce of his energy lurched for a rock, clawing on its slimy bastion and barely pulling himself out of the current. The rapids were torrential, drowning out anything else he might hear. He moaned in pain, crawling from rock to rock until he collapsed, drenched, on a bank. The arrow was still in his leg, but it had pulled nearly perpendicular to its original entrance and had torn the muscle and tissue to shreds. Brick-red blood pooled in the wound, and more flowed from his face and arm.
Fire. He needed fire. He was drenched, it was late at night, and he had nothing on his person whatsoever. He struggled with his rags, pulling them off and tossing them aside. His fingers were numb—nearly everything was numb—except for the throbbing from his head and thigh. He tried to stand, doubled over, and vomited on the frosted grass. He spasmed out onto his back, sputtering and groaning and trying to move to his side, as to not suffocate in his own vomit. He felt heavy, but suddenly warm; warmer than he had ever felt in this Godsforsaken land. He was back in Cyrodil, with the sun shining on his face and a girl with golden hair smiling at her with pretty blue eyes that danced and flickered, full of brightly shining stars.
Gaius Ordo never wanted to come to Skyrim.
He looked up, and the last thing he saw before darkness took him was a bright, beautiful array of blue auras, blanketing the stars as they danced mysteriously across a red moon.
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Originally Posted by Slaytaninc
