Martin Septim, it's cold out here, thought Marcurio as he walked out of the pub. The fierce, howling wind managed to travel it's happy arse from the Jerall Mountains to Riften, and seemed to take delight in blasting him with it's fury. But other than the wind, there was one other insignificant thought buzzing around in Marcurio's head: Why the Oblivion is it always Autumn. And that's exactly why the Arcane University sent him here. At least 3 years ago, when he still had a job. Marcurio thought about that long and hard as he lit up his pipe outside the Bee and the Barb. Now he was cold, jobless, and an Imperial stuck in the heart of Stormcloak territory. Even canis was illegal in Riften. But the poor bastard had nowhere else to go. He could hire a carriage, but that cost too much money. He could get a job, but he was, again, an Imperial in the heart of Stormcloak territory. He could get family help. Sure they had tons of money, but they wholeheartedly cut him off when he told them he wanted to go to Arcane. 8 years and a mage's degree there, and still nothing. All he could do is wait for some dumb hero to hire him for his destruction spells and be off.

That very same day Marcurio had his first stroke of luck in 2 years. Some dumb hero actually escaped from Mehrunes' door in Helgen. He didn't know this, because he didn't care. Sure, dragons. Wooh, I don't give a single crap about this. I mean, it was obvious. Marcurio had an Apprentice's degree in Nordic History, and if you remember one thing about that class, you'd know that the "Fabled Rise of the Dragons" would happen sooner or later. Whilst the Nords in town had shocked expressions on their faces, Marc wore a sly smile, knowing that he was right all along. This he pondered about as he sat in the Bee and Barb, as Keerava poured him another glass of mead. Damn, I've got to stop drinking this Marc thought as he downed his first glass of Black-Briar. It didn't even taste good, and it was owned by what was more of a criminal guild than a family. But oh well, you only live once. Marc was just about to buy another glass when Captain Jollis came crashing in with his troupe of dumbarses.

"Hey Scale-skin! I'd like for you to pour my men a nice, solid round of Mead. Why don't you do that for free huh? For the, uh, war effort."

Even a fool could see that Keerava was quite angry. Losing money and being called by a racial epithet aren't exactly what Argonians like. But Marc knew she was powerless against a Stormcloak captain with his nose shoved up the ass of Riften's leaders.

"Come one, Keerava! Pour them." said one of Jollis' men as she hurriedly poured 7 glasses, and proceeded to spit in each one of them secretly. What an idiot, Marc thought. Not already mind-blowingly stupid, but also drunk and pissing off the Barkeep? Priceless, Marc thought. Keeping his mind off of the drunken antics of the Bee and Barb, Marc sought to review all the fire spells and incantations he learned in his head, as he had nothing else to do. He was about to think about his Fireball spell when he smelt the alcohol-heavy breath of Captain Jollis.

"So Imperial, how do you think about our "Little Crusade" or whatever the Oblivion you people call it", asked the drunken Jollis.

"Frankly, I couldn't give a flying-"

Suddenly, before Marc could finish his lovely little sentence, the doors to the pub slammed open. It was some Stormcloak messenger dressed up in some battlegear or whatnot. Quickly walking in, he approached Jollis with a slip of paper. Jollis took it, and the messenger walked out of the inn, ready to deliver his next message.

Jollis opened it up.

"No. I… I object to this. I cannot. I just…" Jollis Green-Hand of Riften walked out of the pub, no longer the champion he always held himself up to be. His little band followed him.

It just happened to be that Jollis left his note on the ground. Marc picked it up, and went back to his stool. It read:

Dear Captain Jollis Green-Hand

Even though Ulfric may be facing execution, the rebellion must still go on. This is why you are being removed from the Stormcloak forces at this moment. We need actual men in the army, not drunken idiots whose only qualifications are having affairs with Jarls and royally pissing off everyone you can find. Not to mention the fact that you are a terrible leader. Good day,

Commander Korlus Even-Stone.

By the way, give my greetings to Leila Law-Giver. I know that you duo are "very close".

Marc felt a smile on his face, the first in a long time.