-[| Show No Quarter |]-
Disclaimer:
- TES: Skyrim related characters and content all belong to Bethesda.
- "Barnabas Quintillus" and other original characters belongs to BackwardEdge. Steal my boy, and I shall evoke wrath upon thou with a rusty carrot peeler! ... Not sure why you'd want him, anyway...
The Author's Note of Notifying Notification:
So this, Ladies and Gentlemen, is a redo of the previously completed-but-not-quite-finished storyline, Show No Quarter. It will be the same, of course - but it won't. This is why:
- Spelling and Grammar : To fix those distracting typos and hasty Spell Checker fails. Fails that nobody likes to come across, never mind read repeatedly.
- Appearance : This is to make this look a little more appealing, and to hopefully distract you from the above when they do ultimately happen ._.
- Plot and Lore : I'm gonna fix all that - hopefully, SnQ will be a little more smoother flowing in regards to storyline then before.
- Extra Content : Like most writers, I have ideas. I want to put ideas in, without ruining the whole thing for you guys. Hence, this.
In other words, fasten that safety belt, keep your arms in the carriage at all times - and enjoy the ride. Feedback is always appreciated.
- BackwardEDGE, Over and Out.
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
"Discipline is simply the art of making the soldiers fear their officers more than the enemy."
- Claude Adrien Helvetius.
-[| SnQ |]-
| Part I : Legate of the Second Cohort |
| Chapter I : Twisted Lands |
What now remains of the Fourth Legion's Fifth Century is encamped in a patchy clearing of good size, a few miles south-east from the little village of Karthwasten. Well, the locals call it a little village, but in reality it was a hamlet - precisely one of the reasons why the encampment was placed here to begin with. The Legionnaires would receive no bother or interruption from such a small populace. That, and the clearing itself was a short walk away from the river and protected at two sides by the developing mountainside. The Legionnaires here had pushed from the city of Solitude with numbers over eighty strong, but now after a bloody skirmish with the Stormcloak Rebels, there is little over fifty and these beaten men and woman are dosing.
If they were stationed anywhere else, perhaps they could have welcomed sleep, however the Reach gives no such luxury. These twisted lands are debilitating mentally as they are physically, and the whole area just feels... wrong. It leaves even the most hardened of Legionnaires glancing over their shoulders at the most innocent of noises; a breed of anxiety that they are not familiar with. Adding this to the constant threat of attack, the uneasy exposure and the recent tales of mythical monsters and burning towns, it's no surprise that these soldiers cannot simply let their guard down enough to sleep.
It's a problem, a considerable one. After all, most soldiers, no matter their flag, learn to catch sleep even in the most dire of circumstances. Getting a good few hours rest is a luxury you cannot often afford out here.
The News regarding the sacking of Helgen has spread like wildfire over the past week and a half, so much so, that even the most primitive corners of Skyrim have heard the news. For those survivors involved however, it's just another reminder, another pressing annoyance. Every story surrounding the attack is somehow different; a blend of not-quite truths, shouldn't-be truths, exaggerations and downright sheep's piss that blend to make an uncomfortable retelling.
The Second Cohort's Legionnaires in particular know of only a few men to escape Helgen; Their commanding Legate happens to be one of them - and that man in particular is not one for telling stories.
The Legate, Barnabas Quintillus, known to the majority of the Fourth Legion as 'the Tactician', had taken complete command over the Fifth Century a week after the events in Helgen. He had arrived at their encampment with only the necessities and freshly healed burns promising incomprehensible strife. With naught but an order, he had whisked them off into the Reach. Not many people can go through all that and come back after a mere week - but they are at war, a fact that the Second Cohort in particular are well familiar with, because there is none better then Quintillus to remind them.
General Tullius calls the Legate 'Reliable', but the Legionnaires know the difference between simple reliability and terrifying battlefield brilliance. When Legate Quintillus looks at his men, he sees numbers - he sees soldiers, nothing more and certainly nothing less. In his eyes, they are not quite expendable, but not quite cherished either. He's the man to lead them to their fate at any rate and not bat an eyelid. Of course, he may not like it - he may argue until he's blue in the face with the General about it later on, but in the Second Cohort there is one rule above them all. A rule that Quintillus has personally beaten into his Legionnaire's heads from day one:
Orders are Orders, and they to be obeyed.
And the Second Cohort's Legate does so nigh on religiously, without fail, every time. It's one of few traits he allows his men to see.
The man is a soldier, through and through. If there was anything beyond a uniform, a head for tactics, a strong sword arm and a commanding tone - then they had yet to see it. He's not a leader one could easily look up and relate too, in fact, if the Legionnaires wanted someone like that, it would have to be their current Centurion.
Because Barnabas Quintillus he wouldn't - he couldn't - relate to them even if he tried. After all, he's not there to be a friend.
The man himself; Legate Thaddeus Barnabas Quintillus of the Second Cohort, The Second Lieutenant, The Tactician, stands directly perpendicular to his tent, overlooking a major decline in land. The scene stretched out before him is rugged, empty, foreign, and he contemplates it with his arms folded across his armoured torso and a scowl upon his face.
He stands in silence, per usual, even when Centurion Ausonius approaches from behind and when he's within an acceptable distance, the younger man clicks his heels, to which the Legate nods. Many men regard to Quintillus with as much respect as any other Legionnaire, just without the parade ground flair. It's one of the few things they've come to like about the man. The most their Legate asks for is the completion of his orders, the meeting of his expectations and perhaps a salute now and again. There is no need for petty admiration in the Legate's mind - they can save that for the decorated old boys back home when they've put this bloody rebellion into the ground.
"Did you hear the news then?" Ausonius asks, his voice is carried away and it echoes against the sharp cliff faces. Quintillus ticks his head to the left; as of late he's heard a lot of things. There is a series of shouts behind them, Legionnaires moving about, clanking armour and boots slapping against mud. There's the faint sound of, well, Skyrim in the background, a general air of wilderness. "The Dragonborn has signed up - the Auxiliaries are practically rejoicing."
That gets a reaction from the Legate. Grunting, he considers the thought for a moment and he shifts slowly to clench his pipe between his teeth as he does so. It's a complex mix. He's largely indifferent, yet at the same time, he's very much swayed by the news.
"Not as a regular, I hope." He finally replies, running a hand against the shortly cropped hair above his ear and glancing sideways at his Centurion. The man's accent cuts clear through the air, sounding odd in this Nordic Fatherland. "We need trained soldiers, not more Nordic barbarian farm boys."
"Farm girls."
"I'm sorry, Centurion?"
"The Dragonborn is a farm girl."
The Legate turns somewhat, glancing once at the two Praetorian guards perched near his tent. They look back at him, per usual, stood like stone sentinels. There had been four of them before, but the Stormcloaks had cut two of them down as they dove in to protect their Legate. Something that Quintillus is unspokenly grateful for. "She's a Nord."
"Aye, Sir." Ausonius nods, statements like this he's grown accustomed to. It's not like the Legate is being intentionally racist - they couldn't even call it racism, really. He wouldn't punish a Nordic Legionnaire more then a Cyrodiilic one. It's just another mode of identification in the Legion.
"She's an Auxiliary." Again, Barnabas Quintillus falls silent. He's had no need for folk tales before, he has no need for them now. If the Auxiliaries are happy about it, then that's all good and dandy. Morale is good, he supposes, but morale's morale at the end of the day. "It's one more uniformed soldier, another name in the pyramid of military hierarchy, nothing to become exited about."
"Of course, Sir."
And that is the end of the conversation.
The two stand in silence for a moment longer, side by side, analysing the land before them with dull interest. A south blowing wind pushes against them, disrupting the Legate's hair in a way that results in the wavy overgrown curls clinging to his forehead gleefully. The man himself sighs, pushes them away, before passing his hand over his head to rub at the muscles just below his neck. But then, there comes a shout from further down the encampment and the Legate suddenly freezes, and then slowly turns on the heels of his boots. His expression blanks and the only indication of worry is the slight narrow of his eyes. Somewhat disturbed, Ausonius turns also, watching his Legate for any indication to what was going on.
"Did you hear that?" The Legate asks, slowly, his tone harder then before.
"Sir?" Ausonius questions and the Legate answers this by holding his hand up, the other curling around the hilt of his sword. On unspoken command, the two Praetorians form around him. They are uneasy and they clutch their swords, scanning the area. The Legate slowly shifts forwards, hesitating, completely alert.
Then it hits them.
"The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!"
Worry exploding into full blown panic, everyone snaps towards the vague direction of the declaration. The Legate doesn't have to order, "To Arms Legionnaires!" Ausonius barks across the encampment and the order is repeated, shouted across by person after person until there is naught but a clatter of armoured soldiers, boots and then, the sudden clash of swords against primitive sharpened bone. The Legate draws his own sword with simple instinct, running forwards to grab the edge of his officer's helmet. He pulls it over his head, the shaped metal fitting snugly as he swoops his sheild up soon afterwards and attaches it to his forearm with practiced efficiency.
"Retreat." He orders, firmly. Fully armoured and ready to go, he examines the encampment, his gaze darting across the scene with a frenzied sense of urgency. "We're sitting targets. Fall back towards Karthwasten," When Ausonius doesn't immediately react, he barks. "MOVE!"
Crawling through dips and crevices, the Reachmen - commonly known as Forsworn, come spilling into the encampment from the far right. Twisting and bending through the lines of tents, they scream loudly, constantly, adding to the roar of noise. They are a bigger threat then the Stormcloaks, and for one reason. The Stormcloaks, while comparable to barbarians at their base, they still had some form of human conscious. You can count of them hesitating, for the glimmer of emotion, fear mainly, to show. With the Forsworn however, the Legion would be better off facing against an army of half-starved sabre cats. There is nothing but a degree of relentless, blood curling madness bunched up in a vaguely humanoid shape.
As to illustrate his point, a scrawny Forsworn runt comes speeding towards the Legate. Dressed in naught but a series of pelts and an animal skull for a headdress, he dives under the legs of the first Praetorian, much to the alarmed surprise of the second. The Reachmen then makes to go for the Legate's jugular with, disturbingly, his teeth. However the Legate had quickly predicted this, and with a change of stance and a solid shove, the Forsworn was met with a shield to the face and a swift decapitation. The sharp edged officer's blade easily slicing though the jugular, bone and skin with little more then a blood spurt and the heavy thunk of the runt's body crumpling to the ground.
The Legate raises his eyebrows from under his helmet and looks towards his Praetorians. Although he'd be surprised if they managed to see past his helmet, his expression changed as if to state 'really?' and he squares his shoulders, powering on forwards. "Don't hesitate," He tells them as he does so, taking point. "They certainly won't."
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
The whole thing does not go well in the slightest.
They loose well over then a dozen Legionnaires trying to pull out of the encampment and the Legate himself can only watch as a further six more die in a last ditch attempt to get to Karthwasten. The Forsworn know the land better then the Legion could ever hope to and with this deep understanding of the Reach, they come in from all kinds of places. Reachmen pop up from under branches, from behind rocks, between trees, over boulders and through the gaps in the land. Spilling out from all angles, the Legionaries realise early on that they can only run and find some kind of defensible position. The Legate doesn't fare any better, after getting caught out by an archer hidden behind a collection of bushes, he has to pull one of his dying Praetorians behind a boulder, hiding the man's body by kicking a bunch of leaves over him as a last resort. Least the Forsworn find him and dismember the poor sod for decoration, or something equally horrifying.
After a good three mile dash for safety, they do find defence eventually. It's cut into the surrounding lower mountainside. While usually they order themselves according to rank, with the Auxiliaries and the Miles Gregarius at the front, making the first layer of a circle with the more important ranks inside, with the Legate and his men making up the core - the Legate instead orders the younger men towards the middle and puts his older, more experienced old soldiers at the front. The kids don't know when to block, when to move forwards or when to strike. The Legate is often regarded as stuck in his ways when he says that for every old soldier, tens or dozen of kids are killed in their place, but it couldn't be any further from the truth. When in a position like this - combat demands experience, understanding.
With so much as an exhale front the Legate, he forms up alongside his men up front.
Although he denies nor confirms the circulating rumour, he has a bit of a reputation for being half half cockroach. Back in Cyrodiil, it's often said that he just doesn't die.
The Legate himself doesn't like putting it to the test but sometimes he has to live up to reputation.
They move forwards against the onslaught slowly, firmly, bunched up with their shields raised upwards, packed up against one another shoulder to shoulder. One Legionnaire doesn't bring his shield upwards fast enough and he winds up with an arrowhead lodged into his skull, smack bang between his eyes. The man falls, heavy armour sinking into the developing mud with a squelch and a slightly younger male forms up in his place. Soon, the slow, steady marching Imperials clash with the perusing Forsworn, the frantic slashing of the Reachmen balanced out by the heavily defensive but sudden stabs of the men up front. It's hard to get an attack in, but the Legate calculates dutifully and manages to get a deep cut into a Reachmen's guts, disembowelling him as he falls. Another Legionnaire falls during this, the woman behind him moving grimly forwards. A native falls, he's replaced by about seven more. It's uneven, unbalanced.
Just like the land they are fighting in.
Soon, the attack begins to thin somewhat and the Legate narrows his eyes as he takes in their positions, their numbers and with a curtly presented order the Legionnaires push forwards suddenly. It must be startling, because the less insane of the Forsworn scramble backwards, up the hill and out of the way. Any remaining fear harboured by the Fifth Century is pushed away and for a long series of bloody minutes, the Legionnaires are just as animalsitc as their current advisories. They are not fighting for the Empire at this moment in time - they are fighting for their lives. They don't let up, even when hands are brought up in surrender. They can't. They just can't.
Eventually, the Legionnaires stop fighting and draw to a eventual standstill. The remaining Forsworn retreating back into the hills. They watch silently, doubled over and exhausted.
Slowly ambling forwards the Legate stops to stand some feet away from the rest of his men, panting, he swallows to find that his spit tastes like blood. A wipe of his mouth proves his suspicion. Who's blood it is, he doesn't quite know. Neither does he care. Right now, some part of him thinks that they aren't retreating at all. Losses or not, they came to disrupt what they believe to be intruders, and as he slowly turns to look at his crippled Century, it seems like they did just that. The Forsworn aren't known for having specific plans, no real order in how they accomplish their goals, they just kill and fall back, kill and fall back.
Kill his Legionnaires, then fall back.
Those Legionnaires who managed to survive look at him as he passes, his heart pounding heavily in his ears and the elaborate gold decorations on his armour running thick with crimson. Quintillus takes in each face as he glances back. He'd be lying if he said that he spent a lot of time with his Centuries, because he doesn't, but he's always had a sharp memory. It's a lost relic of the time before, a small part of his youth that has managed to fit amongst his elder's world of war and soldiers. He's spent a good week with these Legionnaires, and through subtle, silent observation, he can recognise their faces.
Not their names, though. He cannot bring himself to know their names.
In the Legion, a name means a story, it means a potential family back home, it means more then a soldier - and to Quintillus, it means a letter that has to be sent home, to be read by some unfortunate. It means that someone among his ranks won't be going home. In the Legion, a name means more then a loss of life, and that, the Legate will not - simply can not - comprehend. He knows their faces, however, he knows who's missing.
It hasn't gone well at all.
Sheathing his sword with a heavy hand, the Legate spies Ausonius collapsing heavily against grass to one side. Slowly, he approaches, his head pounding with a developing migraine - but he ignores that. That's not what's important right now. Through a bloodied nose and what looks to be a fatal stomach abrasion, Ausonius gives his superior a strained smile.
"Well, this is it for me, Sir." He states, voice gurgling. He manges to turn his head, but spitting is just asking for too much. So, the Centurion just opens his mouth to let the blood pour out instead. The Legate drops to his knees heavily beside him and pulls of his helmet, wincing when he realises just how bright everything has become. Slowly, he undoes the top of the man's uniform, pulling the plate off with a heave and without a word, he begins to bandage the wound slowly. Then he pulls of the Centurion's helmet as an afterthought, resting it beside him gently.
It won't keep the man alive for much longer, nothing will, but it will keep him relatively comfortable. The feeling of your innards falling out isn't something to be desired, after all.
"I'm not leaving you here," The Legate replies quietly and with this, he turns and nods towards his remaining Praetorian, who treks off slowly towards where the other Bodyguard is lay, likely dead. "There is no telling what the Forsworn will do to you all."
"We'll be dead." Ausonius says in the way of fitful argument and in response, the Legate gives him a strained half smile. He knows, but there is really no need to remind him at all. "The helmet," The younger man then says after a few moments of silence, his voice is barely more then a murmur, but the Legate's senses are acute. "Make sure my boy gets it, Sir."
Catching his breath, the Legate nods and without so much as a second thought, Quintillus pulls the Centurion over one shoulder. Slowly, the other Legionnaires move too, waiting for him. A glance acts as his unspoken order and with it, they slowly climb back towards the encampment.
Much to their surprise, there is a lot left over. Only a few things have been looted.
He stands silently as his men pack up the things, bury the fallen and scrounge what's left of their food and drink supplies, break the camp and collect up the gear. As it turns out, a lot of the horses had survived the attack, including the Legate's own. It's decided pretty quickly that they will be used to carry the equipment, leaving hands free to carry back the injured.
Eventually, once they have all formed up before him, the Legate calls his Century's number across the barren clearing. He does it for a few minutes, moving across and peering through the darker areas of the land.
"Fifth Century, this way!"
Eventually, he grimaces, turns on his boots and stands before them again, and then more softy: "Nobody else, Fifth Century?" He looks back towards the surrounding mountainside, silently hoping for a Legionnaire, any Legionnaire to come scrambling back out. He looks back to the faces of the survivors and then huskily, the Legate grimaces hard. "Is that all then?" And gives the order, "Number!"
The evening is cold, it was summer when they came up, when the Cohort was at around five hundred and sixty Legionnaires strong. Now, they all freeze in the developing winter weather, the evergreen leaves rustle around them, the voice of their Legate fluttering wearily. "One, two, three, four-" The Legate ceases twenty four men and he stops, quickly going over the number again as if he can't quite believe it. There is a long silence before he asks again, "Anyone else?" Another wait, a Legionnaire shivers in his mud soaked uniform. "Into tent groups-" But then he breaks off and just shakes his head, finally exhales slowly.
"Fifth Century, move out and march easy. To Solitude." The Legate's voice is quiet, but they know, even if they didn't happen to hear him. What else can they honestly do?
"I hate this place." Quintillus hears one of them mutter as they all walk past. He's pretty sure that the boy isn't the only one.
They had pushed from Solitude with eighty men, now there is twenty four.
And each and every one of them, they hate these twisted lands too.