Property of Samedi Kest Arenzehl
Tirdas, 30th of Heartfire
Several hours before dawn
Somewhere west of the Pale Imperial Encampment
The blizzard was in full rage at this time. Men do not live long in this age, but I have survived at least 30 summers, and braved Skyrim for nearly six. Six years ago, though I would not have survived here, in the heart of a region aptly titled the Pale, in this torrent of ice and snow. But little more than a half a decade has strengthened both my wit and my skill, with all the trials I have faced in it.
I account that over the past two months I have entered into the Legion, initially only with my housecarl Lydia at my side, but since then I have been assigned two legionnaires, Belrand and Faendal. They all hold the rank of auxiliary for performing under my leadership (I have been officially raised to the rank of quaestor), but Lydia is my second, and holds command over the two men. The dozen or so skirmishes those young souls saw in my employ before the Battle of Whiterun did not prepare them. Ulfric had sent his Stormcloaks in response to the axe I myself carried to him on behalf of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater in force, the plains outside the old city already littered with the bodies of men and horses and heaps of flaming wreckage loosed from the catapults. This was before the first wave had even hit the city, when me and my men came riding from Windhelm. The Stormcloaks were waiting for something.
A shout from my second shook me out of my thoughts. "Sir!" That siege had raged for days, and weeks of skirmishes and slow maneuvering have brought me and my company here. "Faendal has returned."
As if called by her, the elf appeared out of the blizzard and rode up to me. "Report," I ordered briskly.
He gave a quick salute before informing me of the situation. The camp was no more than a thousand meters out, but Stormcloak forces seemed to be attempting an assault. Fighting had already broken out. I needed no more excuse.
I gripped my dadao with both palms, and my steed with both knees, sparing only a moment to command my second accordingly. I drove the great grey beast with my legs, and raised my body upright, gripping my curved saber as I witnessed the battle I closed in on. The Stormcloaks numbers were dwindling already, but the forces on either side were not brought together in any particular formation. The legionnaires were attempting to regroup, but the warriors in blue fought ferociously, the only constant was the slow crawl the mob made toward the camp. None of the other soldiers were mounted, and it was simple to maneuver a charge through the chaos.
I used my body and legs to guide my horse, swinging my blade with both arms as I crashed into the ranks, immediately sending a Stormcloak flying, crying out as he was badly bruised by my horse. I lopped off the head of one in blue and saved the life of one in red. He used this gift to kill the man my horse injured. I catch another Stormcloak across the chest, decimating his light armor and wounding him fatally. Arrows whiz past and I maneuver out of the reach of most of the fighting as Lydia and Belrand deliver their own charges. I glance towards the south and glimpse Faendal clearing a ridge of a few archers before grabbing his own bow. I steady my horse, whose eyes glare wonderingly at the Stormcloaks who break off from the chaos to challenge me. One of their spears took my horse, and I leapt ungracefully off the dying beast at them. The spearman fell first, and after quickly doing away with his brothers, I joined the fray. I was forced to send at least a half a dozen more Nords to their deaths before reaching a bedroll. The fighting had lasted at least an hour, and the snow had let up considerably by then, but it still fell, and the cold still pierced you like a fucking dagger.
We all suffered wounds up to this point, but in that last skirmish, Faendal received a bloody strike to his calf from a Stormcloak's axe. He is put up in the medic tent right now. I spoke briefly with the legate, but she refused to give me my orders till I put in a few hours rest. It has been a long time since I have had a full night's rest, and I suspect it will be a long time still. But I've taken the precautions towards ensuring a few hours. My belly is becoming full of mead, and I have kept my longpipe burning for near half an hour now. I feel necessary to account for the belongings in my backpack.
Two pints of clear liquid, clearly marked "Do Not Drink! Fools Juice!"
Three small bowls of Dwemer-make, the first with four grams or so of sun sugar inside, the second has more-or-less the same contents, and the third holds at least three grams of tar heroine
Several small bags filled with my personal stash of cannabis and tobacco
At least a dozen assorted wine-jugs and bottles of mead
A small wooden box, which is carved with two sections on the inside, one a much tighter row, filled with about half a dozen vials (whose contents I will not record), and the other section is overflowing with dried, prepared strains of wild mushrooms and assorted mountain flowers
Some assorted jewelry and valuable gems
That is everything in the knapsack. My pack holds two changes of clothes and another cloak. The pouches on my belt hold potions and poisons that both go towards furthering my own life. I keep an Akaviri katana on this belt, in the unlikely event someone separates me from my saber. These are all the possessions I have with me, not to mention more then enough coin to fuel my endeavors, more than any of these poor souls I see around me have seen in the entirety of their lives, I think. Unlimited credit for those with nimble hands.
Up until this point, I have been gradually building my high with the buds and the liquor, but now I think I will take some of the heroine. I will fill both my nostrils and I will find sleep soon. For now my hand grows tired of writing.