.

Cadavera Vero Innumera
¤
Chapter II : Cohort Commander.

Since leaving Cyrodiil, it had been a fair few weeks since Aris had last awoken in any form of stronghold. Not those crumbling old forts dotted around Skyrim's landscape, were half of the men stationed there had to be accommodated in tents outside in the courtyards, but rather the massive, stone structures that were built for whole Legion armies. Castle Dour was one of those places - it reminded him of the Fourth Legion's headquarters back near Chorrol. In fact, the only major difference he could come up with was the change in climate.

Much like the headquarters, he hadn't liked Castle Dour. Mainly because it became immediately apparent that it was one of those places that would never grow on you. Perhaps, over time, he'd become familiar enough to be somehow comfortable, but Aris severely doubted that he'd be able to adapt to its oppressive nature. At least, not very easily. The castle was like a lot of the places he'd been stationed in over the years; clean, sparse and with an atmosphere that practically screamed of martial order. Despite its seemingly indestructible feel, it had at some point seen some action, perhaps a siege, or a bout of bad weather, because despite being thrust up on top of a stretch of mountainside a few once proud turrets closest towards the north-western side had since crumbled, giving it the faint impression of a dishevelled party hat. Moss clung to the walls in many places, dried out by the sea air, metal fixtures had rusted and the cobbled parade ground had been worn smooth with use.

Despite that, the castle still stood proud. Strong. Almost undefeatable in its pride.

Then, Imperial architecture is known for such.

For Aris however, his first thoughts upon awakening were not of appreciation, but rather of faint bewilderment and concern. He had expected to wake up facing the roof of his tent, to hear the clamour of Legionnaires and the faint barking of orders, to feel a weak breeze on his face. Instead, he awoke with his head buried into a pillow he didn't recognise as his own, with unfamiliar linens twisted around his legs and middle, with a solid roof over his head; he studied it silently, wide eyed and frowning.

Aris lifted himself up onto his elbows in order to look around the room, momentarily disoriented with his change in surroundings.

He'd been exhausted last night; he must have just gone straight to bed without getting a good look at anything. Stifling a yawn, the commander got out of bed, tugging fitfully as he disentangled himself form the clingy sheets. His quarters were slightly more spacious then what he was normally used to, but overall, did not differ much in appearance to his old room back in Cyrodiil. The decor just screamed of military order; plain walls, simple furniture, neatly ordered equipment - he does note with a small smile however that the directorial atmosphere was disrupted slightly by his cloak begin strewn carelessly over the back of a nearby chair. Aris decides to leave it where it was - if the general complains, the general complains.

Today they would be receiving guests at the Blue Palace. A rather peculiar situation, the commander feels. He and the rest of the Legion that had come up from Cyrodiil were only guests in Solitude, and yet, they were going to have guests of their own.

Padding over towards his trunk, he flipped the latches and lifted the top and started rummaging around for the shirts that went under his uniform. He'd just pulled out one when with a tilt of his head, he spotted a cabinet standing dejectedly in one corner of the room. Its alarming presence proved his suspicions, he really hadn't noticed anything last night. Out of curiosity, he folded the shirt over one arm and wandered up to it, tugging the doors open and frowning into the space.

Inside he found several sets of civilian looking outfits, no doubt meant for him, or someone like him, he supposed. It wasn't just limited to clothes, there was a few cloaks, fur lined things with the unmistakable Nordic cut and a pair of civilian boots. Thicker and heavier than that he was used to. They must be for when he goes on leave. Why else would they be in a soldier's living space? Regardless, none of them were really to his tastes. Aris was used to wearing outfits that were martial cut, or at a push, of some pseudo form. He didn't own many civilian garments, now that he thought about it; all of his clothing, unless it was a thick overcoat for cold weather or his sleepwear, was made to make him resemble a Legionnaire. It's just something he'd grown up with.

Not that it would matter either way; he'd be wearing his uniform regardless. He was on duty for one, and he'd defiantly feel more comfortable that way. Back to his things.

Not being able to speak frequently enough without causing himself some form of agony, Aris tended to lean towards the more visual elements of the world, when it came to personal appearance, and in everything else. He could map out a new area in his head easily, making it hard for him to get lost. He never forgot a face, even if the name took a little longer to sick, or if he never says it aloud. He had even taught himself how to sketch well enough that if he wasn't a soldier, it was widely considered that he'd be perusing the habit full time.

As a direct result, it distressed him when he wasn't correctly dressed. Of course, Aris couldn't help scratches or dents - that is what armour was for, after all, but he could help making sure that his uniform was perfect. Over his shirt and the knee-length trousers they had adopted ever since getting familiar with Skyrim's weather, Aris pulled on a slightly thicker, slightly longer over-tunic and then the decorative apron of leather straps that were, supposedly, there to make sure that his groin was protected - even though in reality, they wouldn't stop a sodding feather, never mind a Stormcloak axe. What followed after that was the leather armour that sat directly under his plate. A second layer of defence, as well as a functional set of padding that stopped his plate from chafing. Once this was suitably in place, he went back to the red under-tunic and folded it near his throat so it was sitting lower, before tucking it back in. Aris checked in the mirror to find that it covered the scars along his throat. Not required - but comfortable, for him. He didn't want people staring. The plate took slightly longer to put together; the thick steel that covered his shoulders, chest and back - and would defiantly stop a Stormcloak axe - was tedious to fit alone and often required soldiers to get help from their comrades in order to make it sit correctly, but Aris had been doing it long enough himself to get it right. He didn't want to trouble anyone.

The general for one approved of such self-sufficiency, even when he wasn't yet at the top of command, he had orderlies and household staff but often neglected them, often expressing the same 'if you want something done right, do it yourself' attitude. Aris' mother was less insistent on doing everything by herself, stressing that such staff were there for a reason. That it was ok to get help now and again.

"They're only here to do their jobs you know." He remembers her telling his father one time when he was little.

The general had simply looked up, huffing slightly. "In many ways," He had replied. "So am I."

That special brand of stubbornness was apparently hereditary too, much to his mother's everlasting exasperation.

Aris wouldn't have to wear his helmet as of yet, but he gives it a once over regardless, making sure nothing was amiss before retrieving his belt, pulling it tight and checking that the Imperial Legion's insignia was planted firmly in the centre. His sword came afterwards, the medium sized blade hung comfortably against his upper right leg, ready to be cross-drawn at a moment's haste. He checked again to make sure he was in order, titling slightly, examining everything. There was no glaring flaws. Good. Standing as straight as he could, he moved through the archway, past the barracks that housed his century before opening the door into his office.

This room at least was something he was used to, if a little bare at the moment. Aris hadn't done anything to add to it yet, but he can see in a couple of weeks, that it is going to become very cluttered very quickly if he didn't keep on top of it. He took a seat behind the desk and tried to get a feel of it, before placing his helmet aside and glancing down at the parchments already presented neatly on the desktop. Reports on the new auxiliary tent groups - he'll have to go and check up on them personally, preferably this morning at some point.

He made a faint noise of acknowledgement to himself as he started reading, recognising his second in command's handwriting immediately as he tried to push through the words with varying levels of difficulty. While Sejana's handwriting wasn't untidy, it was hard to separate a's from e's and she didn't dot over her i's, making them easily mistakable for l's. He's three pages in - and sprouting something of a migraine - when Caius knocks on his door, walking in soon afterwards. He's carrying more papers. "Sir, if you could just sign these." handing the documents to the commander, Caius also nods his head in thought. "- and you are to report to the general in half an hour."

Aris could only nod.

The documents turned out to be reports on the whole strength of his century, as well as preliminary briefings form Legate Rikke into what they'll likely be facing in the near future. Work for later on in the evening, at any rate. The papers he is to sign are simple deployment matters, he realises and moves over to grab his quill, signing his name numerous times over and only stopping to check the differences between each paper. Aris had been warned frequently over the past few years that you have to check before you sign - many times politicians and other officers had tried to sneak things in. If something you didn't expect or authorise happens it is likely that on the paperwork, your signature is the one that authenticated it, and if that's the case, then it's your own fault. It takes longer, granted, to read absolutely everything, but it never hurts to be careful.

Nodding as he hands those specific documents back, he rests his palms against the desktop. He still has to check up on his men. Though that could take a few hours in total. Grumbling internally to himself, Aris flicks his gaze up to meet Caius' and excuses himself with two subtle hand gestures, to which the tribune just nods at.

"Will there be anything else then, sir?"

Aris stopped reluctantly and thought, bringing his hands up soon afterwards.

'Her' and, then, sharply, 'Soon'.

"Very well, sir."

'Her' being 'Sejana' - Caius has known Aris long enough to know the potential double meanings behind certain words. An attribute in which the commander is grateful for.

Grabbing his helmet, Aris moved past Caius and made his way over towards his father's office. He might as well as set off now, he won't be able to get anything else done otherwise, and he can't do anything at the moment without knowing his new orders. Some part of him tells him to enjoy it while it lasts - he'll probably be swamped by orders in the near future when the war kicks off properly.

Aris shakes his head. It'll happen when it happens.

The general wasn't in his office, it turned out, but instead inside one of various war rooms. It wasn't as big as the one upstairs, but it was spacious enough to contain a large wooden table that was in a state of half organised clutter. The general himself was stood examining what looked to be a smaller scale map of some hold or another judging by the detail of the landscape and the lack of territorial lines, lent against his knuckles with a terrific frown upon his face. A brooding Rikke stood off at one side and it seemed that the only person who wasn't either scowling or frowning was Adventus Caesennius, the Solitude Legate, who offered Aris a small smile when the commander walked into the room.

Aris was familiar with Adventus - he'd been a soldier for just about as long as the general and had been a permanent sort of figure as he was growing up. He was like the brother his father never wanted and the uncle Aris secretly wished he really had.

The general looks up just as Aris stops, looking impassive as his son goes through the required salute. "I was just about to send a runner for you." the general frowns. "The matter of your missing third, fourth and fifth groups has been fixed - auxiliary troops from the Reach have been called in to fill the ranks. I suspect you'll want to introduce yourself."

He was starting to get sick and tired of nodding so much.

"They're not as trained as the Legionnaires you're used to." The general warns. "But Legate Rikke ensures me they are more than suitable replacements."

Rikke gives the general an unreadable look. "They are, sir."

The general just grunts, then immediately snaps his gaze to Aris' hands when he brings them up ever so slightly. Not entirely sure how to sign this, he simply makes a writing gesture with one hand and points to the nearest armed soldier - a bodyguard, who was standing sharply to attention. Usually only officers of his calibre are allowed to sign them on, but when it came to Aris' troop of soldiers, things often changed to suit his needs. Not that it was an issue here. He was occasionally mute for his own comfort, not illiterate. He'd be confused as to why, if they have indeed been written in without his consent.

"No," The general manages to give him a small smirk. "But I expect that's a matter you can get to later on - the documents haven't been drawn up yet."

More paperwork. Fantastic.

Aris grimaces and then, gestures towards his pocketwatch tucked under the plate of his armour and inside a pocket in his tunic. The general's brow lowers, and Aris taps it a few times.

"What if you're late?" Aris nods. "I wasn't aware that idle chitchat was on the list of things you needed to learn, much less observe. It doesn't matter - by the time you're finished, the meeting wouldn't have even started. You'd merely miss the introductions."

Although it went unspoken - or well, unsigned in his case - Aris was pretty damn thankful. He's not too keen on standing around like some kind of damn ornament; he's too much of a fidget to just stand there looking pretty. Drumming his fingers, folding his arms, twitching - a few of the many mannerisms of his that displease the general to no end. There are only so many 'stop fidgeting' and 'pay attention' warnings his father can give before he bursts an artery.

Really, everything considered, the man should have more pressing concerns. Aris thinks.

Of course, this too goes unspoken, for obvious reasons.

¤II¤

"Attention!"

Aris watches impassively as his second in command, Sejana, sends his men into a fit of action. At the sound of her sharp accent, the mistakable consistent anger in her tone and the sheer... violence threatened by her voice, they all jump away from whatever they were doing and move quickly over into the centre of the courtyard, standing to attention in neat rows. A recently practiced affair to the newer troops, Aris realises with a small amount of observation on his part. The Legionnaires that had come up with him from Cyrodiil were far calmer, already used to the idea of standing perfectly still, gazes locked forwards, faces expressionless.

From behind him, Caius gives the centurion a faint frown. "Do you wish me to translate, sir?" he asks, tone kept low so none of his soldiers could overhear.

"No." Aris replies and he grits his teeth ever so slightly. A spoken word.

Sejana stands before the soldiers, scowling from beneath her helmet and Aris tucks his hands against the small of his back, starting at the left hand side and slowly walking across, examining the lines of soldiers. Although none of them move, he can feel the change in atmosphere - so he tilts his chin up and pushes his chest out ever so slightly.

His throat was going to hate him for a week.

"At ease!" He barks, ignoring the sudden stab of displeased agony. His voice, all things considered, did not suggest any serious damage - his accent was still there, he could still shout, but it was rasping slightly, like an old man, even though his face was young. Resisting the urge to swallow, he turned around on his heels again and made his way back. The men shuffled obediently, standing with their hands behind their backs, their gazes fixed on him. A few of them look displeased. Aris doesn't blame them - he's young, a lot younger than some of them. Though he's not sure, Aris wouldn't think that a culture such as theirs would find it acceptable. Hardly old enough to be a man. Certainly too young to lead men.

He'll just have to prove them wrong.

"Is this-... what I am given?!" He demands, gasping in a harsh intake of breath and immediately regretting it when the cold air does absolutely nothing to soothe his throat, but rather, makes it far worse. He walks in silence for a few seconds, trying to get a grip on his voice without letting it waver - that would be embarrassing. "I, command the f- finest cohort in the Fourth Legion - and what have I have... been given? A group of uncultured, worthless, piles of horseshites!"

It's not in any way true, of course, but he's seen legates do similar things before. "I've read reports from Legate Rikke and if they weren't," He grits his teeth for a few seconds, forcing back the pain. "-damming enough from I see here - ladies, I'm not impressed." Letting out a quiet gasp, he blinks away the pain and puts on a straight face. Stupid, stupid, but making an impression on the battlefield - like he had wanted to do, was no longer an option. The men here needed to know he was in control now, they can't wait. "The Imperial Legion demands dis-scipline from its soldiers! It demands every last shred of energy and commitment-" Something hitched in this throat before he could try and say the next word and he was forced to expel his breath. This throat scraped and tingled with every new sound, getting worse with every passing moment.

He stops when he gets to the middle, standing firm just before his second in command.

"This blend of attributes is what makes the finest of soldiers, Auxiliaries - and this century is expected to be filled with the very... best." Idly, Aris imagined himself to be coughing blood before the hour was through. He'd have to drink every healing potion in a sodding ten mile radius to soothe the pain. "Look to the left..." He demands, watching as the startled auxiliaries do just that. "Now look to the right." They do and he lowers his tone ever so slightly. He's panting now, but luckily none of them seem very interested in the Centurion's apparent discomfort; the auxiliaries are placed in the middle of the line, almost, so they were surrounded by Cyrodiilic Legionnaires on two sides.

"These men, honest, trained Legionnaires of the Fourth Legion are... ready. They are ready to be led into battle against the Stormcloak rebels." He slams a fist into his armour, increasing the volume again and inadvertently making himself wince. "I am ready to lead my century into battle against the Stormcloak rebels."

Well, he won't be, if he has to stay in the healer's with a busted throat, but Aris lets that thought slide away.

"So of course, I've been given the most useless, untrained, hopeless specimens of underdeveloped auxiliaries of the lot." He starts moving again, bunching his firsts so tightly that he was sure if he clenched them any harder, his knuckles would break. "But we are Imperial Legion and to one trial, we shall now add another. No matter what obstacles that in our way." He shouts this part, suddenly grateful that his voice held firm, even if it was wearing out ever so slightly. Hopefully not enough to be that noticeable. "What are we, First Century...?"

"Imperial Legion!" The Legionnaires from Cyrodiil suddenly bark out, loud, enough for a lot of the other soldiers milling around and a few guardsmen to turn their heads and watch. They know what this is.

Aris nods. "An army is only as good as the men serving within it. You will be good soldiers, or you will fail and I'll be forced to break you down and build you up personally. Because now, you are -"

Close to the entire century shouts it out this time. "Imperial Legion!"

"Excellent!" Aris barks, but he rolls his eyes with a stifled groan soon afterwards. "Sejana, carry on."

"Yes, sir!"

Backtracking towards Caius, Aris turns around on his heels and just about stops himself from grabbing his throat then and there. It went better than usual, but it's in no way comfortable.

Although he had little hope of speaking normally, Aris had indeed come a long way, all things considered. His vocal cords were badly damaged, torn and improperly healed, so much so that it was at first, impossible for him to even speak, but Aris was stubborn - he had tried and tried and practiced until he very nearly shouted himself hoarse on some occasions. After fourteen years, he was now capable of speaking coherently, but by the Gods, would it hurt. It was one of the reasons why he relied so heavily on sign language, it wasn't worth it, he had been told time and time again, to keep on speaking when all it caused was unnecessary pain.

He had been told, that he should only ever speak unless it was vitally important - when he had absolutely no other option. It wasn't worth making it worse.

But as the Auxiliaries move with re-energized movements, Aris couldn't help the way his lips pulled into what felt like a permanent grin of triumph, something he couldn't control. They'll remember him - he'll prove himself completely worthy in battle, but he's defiantly made an impression. His throat was aching so much by now that he felt sharp slivers of pain shooting through the sensitive flesh, but it was a secondary sensation next to the grin.

"If you don't mind be saying sir, I think a trip to the healer is in order." Caius states idly, barely managing to keep the smirk hidden when he sees Aris' grin.

Letting out a half groan half wheeze, Aris nodded his head in agreement.

Then, he grabbed the base of his throat and shook his head rapidly.

"If you find yourself in the position that you have to, sir, I suggest you just let Sejana do all the shouting." Caius frowns. "Or, perhaps you should ask Legate Rikke?"

Aris shakes his head again. He can't do that - getting a legate to shout at your soldiers was the equivalent of a schoolboy getting his tutor to yell at a pack of playground bullies. He just hopes that it won't come to that again. Cursing under his breath, he tried to rack his brain for some kind of way around it. A lot of the Imperials under his command he can control, to some degree - they know him, enough to know that he's dependable enough, that he's worthy enough , but Nords... they aren't going to like taking orders from him of all people. After all, a lot of the Imperial's don't. They'll follow him, but they don't like it.

Aris is easy to recognise; he's one of the youngest senior centurions in the Fourth Legion and he could see that even now, a lot of them resented him. He'll have to go in hard and quick, establish dominance without it coming to any form of physical blows. The Nords might respect it, but it was unbecoming of an Imperial Officer. A good commander shouldn't have to make threats, never mind beat his own men to make a point.

He didn't want to shove people around. His father didn't have to shove people around to get what he wanted. Rikke didn't have to shove people around to get what she wanted.

Aris sighs, shaking his head. He'll just have to prove himself in battle. Hopefully, it will come sooner rather than later. Perhaps.

If he's lucky.