A cold pale winter night in Whiterun Hold. All villagers of Whiterun sleep peacefully this night as if yesterday's night attack by Stormcloaks was but a dream. If not for the Imperial Garrison at Fort Greymoor Whiterun who had fallen that night. If it were not for the brave commander, the Stormcloaks would have looted and burned Whiterun to the ground. Because of the bravery of so few, the villagers were spared and slept soundly, knowing the Dragon of Akatosh watched over them. For the soldiers that survived the battle, the march back to the fort was not filled with victorious screams and songs. Instead it was a grim and solemn watch. Unknown to the villagers, the garrison lost 70% of its troops in the fight with the overwhelming force of the Stormcloaks. The walk back to the fort was solemn and no one spoke out of both respect and the atmosphere. However there was some talk.
"So, how many did you kill." Whispered a guardsman to the ranger to his left.
The ranger looked up from the ground and met the guardsman's eyes and said in a wavering voice, "Not enough." The ranger looked back to the ground.
"Come on Contos I didn't mean anything by it." The guardsman said in slight remorse. "We all lost some brothers and sisters this night. No sense to dwell on it."
The ranger looked back at the guardsman and gave him a smirk of understanding. A steady rain starts to pour on the region. The rain clinks as it hits the heavy armored centurions that hold the front and rear of the column. In front of the column a lone rider on an armour clad horse leads the column. The lone rider holds the flag on the Legion in one hand and a bloody sack in the other. The guardsman leans his head out of the column, then pulls his head back and nudges the ranger.
"Hey, Contos what is the Commander doing with that sack?" The ranger leans his head out then back.
"I have no clue." Contos replies. From behind them a voice is heard.
"Thats where he keeps the commanders head". Someone behind them says.
"Who said that." The guardsman asks."Decius, you idiot."
The guardsman looks behind him to see an old nord centurion clad in full heavy imperial armor without the helm.
"I was only asking". The guardsman says meekly.
"Every Time the commander kills a high ranking enemy he takes the poor souls head and sends it to the Thalmor with a very dirty letter attached." Decius says with a big grin on his aged face.
The guardsman and the ranger both shudder at the thought. In almost a moment the column comes to a halt. The lone rider rides toward where the guardsman and ranger are. The rider comes off his horse planting the flag in the ground and dropping the sack on the soaked mud. "Company 90 degrees left." The Lone rider yells in a thick dunmer accent. At once the centurions turn to face the rider. The auxiliaries follow seconds after seeing the centurians. The rider stands hands behind his back and keeps his head up to the sky.
" You men have fought well." The rider says toward the sky in an almost sad way. He now focuses attention on the wounded and looks at each one from behind his helm. "As Commander of this fort it is my great honor that I have men such as you." He yells at the top of his lungs."If you were any other men you would have surely been defeated, but not my men!" He yells even louder. He takes off his helmet and tosses it behind him in excitement. The night conceals his face as only his blue reptilian eyes shine in the darkness. The rain starts to fall heavier. "You men deserve some time off. This week I relieve you of duty and you are freemen until the following week." The commander says in a voice full of excitement. The men look in astonishment even the old veteran Decius. In a moment the sad column erupted in a great cheer as they hugged each other and kissed the ground. They had completely ignored the fact that the legate was an argonian or the fact that they were literally a foot deep in mud. Their sorrows drowned away in hearing the commanders sudden goodwill. The first week of winter was there's and there was nothing that stopped them from seeing their families and enjoying life.
In just about five minutes the commander was left alone just outside the entrance of Fort Greymoor surrounded by footsteps separating in different directions some towards towns and some towards the woods and wilderness. The commander picked up the flag and sack and walked alongside his horse inside the now vacant fort completely devoid of life. He tied up his horse in the stables and walked into the fort whistling "Age of aggression." He walked up the stairs into his room. He placed the bloody sack by the door and placed the dirty flag against the wall as he took of his bloodied armor. Taking off the armor his muscles reveal the multiple scars and wounds on his body including a tattoo that reads 'PROPERTY OF MISTRESS R' clearly imprinted in bright blue on his upper back. He walks toward his desk and places a parchment onto the surface and takes out an inkwell and quill. He writes 'SIEGE STOPPED MANY CASUALTIES NEED FRESH MEN-LEGATE WOLF.' He folds the message and ties it to the flag he then takes another parchment and writes 'HERE'S YOUR FUCKING PRISONER HOPE IT ROTS BEFORE REACHING YOU -LEGATE WOLF' and ties the letter to the know on the sack. He spits toward the sack as he gets up and moves to the cabinet. From the cabinet he takes out a book and a bottle of Argonian Bloodwine. He drinks from the bottle and starts to write down the names and ranks of all the men killed in combat. 60 names in all. The names fill up half the page. He looks sad as he realizes his 500 page book only has 2 pages remaining. He takes a huge drink from the bottle. He places the book back into the cabinet and drinks the rest of the wine then falls into bed half dressed with only his chestpiece and pauldrons taken off. A lone tear rolls down his face as he nods off to sleep.