"Do you know why they call this blade the Empire's Wrath?"
He held the sword up against the Stormcloak's throat. Its shining blade lit up the otherwise pitch-black cave. In the darkness hid dozens of dead Stormcloaks, whose blood had completely covered his sword just moments ago.
"No, no I can't say I know. But something tells me you do."
The Stormcloak met his eyes, respectful in a way. But the suppressed anger could've not been missed.
"Indeed, I do. It's called the Empire's Wrath because this weapon is especially made for killing lowlifes like you – enemies of the empire."
Now the suppressed anger boiled up and showed itself.
"Lowlifes!? Why, because we want to free our homeland? Because we want to live according to our own customs? Because we want a home for the true sons and daughters of Skyrim!?"
"Because you're idiots, that's why. A Skyrim under Ulfric Stormcloak is a weak and broken Skyrim. Going to war against the elves now would be pure suicide, leading to nothing but more dead Nords. Unless Ulfric doesn't manage to kill them all himself."
That was the last straw for the rebel.
"Ulfric is a true Nord! Death to the Empire!"
In a blind fit of rage, the Stormcloak drew a hidden dagger and charged at him. A second later, Stormcloak blood was pouring all over the cave walls. The headless body gushed like a fountain, painting the cave in a deep shade of red. It was something he could never get used to – decapitation was the quickest way to deal with threats, but the aftermath was always obscene in an unreal way. He stood and stared at the dead body for a while before he sighed deeply and wiped the blood off the blade on the corpse. Serves him right, he thought.
The landscape looked exactly the same as it did when he entered the cave. The bleak skies and snow-covered grass, the small creaks and tall pine-trees. He smiled.
Ancient, beloved Skyrim. How can you still be so beautiful when the rest of the world is burning? He thought.
Eternal beauty and sainted solitude, that's what he used to think when thinking of Skyrim. But things have changed. War, fear and paranoia now ruled Skyrim, and his childhood-home was no longer the gracious land of heroes it used to be. Now it was infested with vandals, bandits, Stormcloak vermin and worst of all – dragons. Dragons, the very thought of it! It was almost comical in a way.
He looked up to the sky and gave out another deep sigh. His mission was complete; it was time to make his way to Dragonsreach to inform the Jarl. After walking a distance, his eyes caught an all too familiar sight.
Bandits, holding a Khajiit caravan. His mind went dark. Bandits - filthy, loathsome bandits! He stared at their dirty, scarred faces as he walked towards them. The terrified Khajiits held hostage saw him coming, and a look of slight relief striked their faces. They knew who he was, they had heard the stories. The bandits saw him as well, but didn't let themselves be scared. There were nine of them, armed to the teeth, but wearing simple hide armor, not much to stop a blade. He would take no joy in this; it wouldn't be fun or honorable. One of them, quite obviously the leader, walked towards him and drew an old, rusty iron sword. This wouldn't even be a fair fight.
"Looks like it's our lucky day. First we get ourselves a fancy cat-caravan, and now an Imperial officer walks by. The gods favor me today!"
The bandit pointed the rusty sword at him. What gods? He thought. Who does this vermin worship, daedra? Surely none of the Nine Divines would favor such filth. Eight, he corrected himself, Eight Divines. It was only temporary.
"All right, now hand over your coin!"
He looked at the bandit a long time before speaking. The criminal's arrogance was intriguing, Windhelm-born perhaps?
"Do you know who I am?"
"Does it look like I care? Just hand over your coin, or I'll decorate the path with your insides!"
The scum was clearly from Windhelm. He calmly ignored the threat and continued.
"Well then, allow me to introduce myself. I am General Lux Umbra Inductor, Special Tasks Officer of the Imperial Legion in Skyrim. I specialize in killing anyone foolish enough to deny Imperial justice. People like you."
The bandit leader looked dazzled at first. Or perhaps even scared. But he then pointed the sword closer, touching the plate of the torso. He threatened Umbra once more.
"I'm going to give you one last chance. Give me your coin, or I'll kill you, and then the caravan. And then I'll use your own blade to stack your head on it! Understand!?
"Fool."
Umbra advanced on the bandit and grabbed his arm, as the sound of bones snapping was heard before being drowned in echoing screams of pain. Needlessly, the bandit dropped his sword and swore loudly to himself. Umbra had crushed his fighting-arm.
He didn't get to say much more, as Umbra grabbed his throat and calmly lifted him above ground with just one hand. His right hand holding him started to glow red. Umbra looked at the filth with a mixture of casualty and disgust as he delivered his infamous catchphrase.
"Imperial justice cannot be denied."
And in a split second, the glowing hand poured out a wave of intense fire, burning every inch of the victim's body to a crisp. Then just as quickly as it had appeared, the fire vanished, leaving the arrogant bandit leader into a burned corpse. Umbra dropped the body, and stared hatefully at the remaining crew, frozen in place.
"Leave."
That's all he has to say. The bandits' spell broke, and they ran in all directions, terrified for their lives. The Khajiit merchants sighed in relief, and one of them, an elder, rushed to him.
"It seems that the stories are more than true. Mister Umbra, you have me and my children's most humble thanks. We shall not forget your kindness."
"Where are you headed, Khajiit?"
"To Whiterun, mister Umbra. And – the name is Kah'Shat, mister Umbra. "
"Well then Kah'Shat, I think you could repay me by give a lift on your wagon, since we're going to the same destination. "
"A lift? Umm…yes, yes of course! That…that would be my pleasure!"
"My thanks."
Umbra climbed up on the wagon, sharing space with two Khajiit merchants, a man and a woman, Kah'Shat's children. They introduced themselves – their names were Rhamin and Tha'Sha, and thanked him once more. Kah'Shat said something in Khajiit-tongue and the horses went off.
The rest of the journey was calm and silent. Much too silent. The two Khajiits kept looking nervously around them, but not for bandits, he could tell. Umbra noticed one of them flashing his eyes repeatedly on a basket covered with a green cloth. Umbra understood their nervousness. Skooma. No wonder they hesitated when he asked for a ride.
It was always the cursed skooma. Just once would he like to meet a Khajiit merchant with no skooma, just once. His eyes swept through the two nervous felines with a penetrating gaze.
"I will not imprison you. But I will confiscate the skooma when we arrive to the city. Is that understood?"
A look of shock striked the caravan. The cats simply stared at him, shameful and possibly scared. There was silence a long time until Kah'Shat spoke.
"We're not proud of it, but here in Skyrim, skooma is our biggest investment. As ashamed as I am of selling this abomination together with my own children, it's how we survive. Nords prefer not to trade with Khajiit, unless they want…rare items."
"I understand your situation, but it's a crime anyhow. Normally I would send you all to Dragonreach prison. I am making a significant exception by not turning you in. Do you understand?"
"Yes…"
Shortly after, the wagon arrived at the Whiterun gates. Umbra stood up, grabbed the basket and thanked the family for the ride. The caravan nodded in silence. When out of the caravan's sight, Umbra destroyed the flasks, a dozen in total, and gave the basket to a shopkeeper as a gift. He always did what he could to maintain a good relationship with the citizens, especially the merchants. Business and politics always went hand in hand – it was an ugly truth he had learned during his time in Solitude, but a truth never the less. Umbra liked to tell himself that that was the difference between the imperials and the Stormcloaks – the imperials actually understood how the world worked, while the Stormcloaks fought for some imaginary ideal they didn't fully understand themselves. Business was part of the reality. Legends were not.
As he headed to the Cloud district, Whiterun's finer parts, he couldn't help but notice that the Gray-Manes and Battleborn were at it again, fighting over their political beliefs like screaming hagravens. Normally, he would have broken up the fight, but now was not the time. Now he would have an audience with Jarl Balgruuf, one of the few men of power with a straight head.