-|[ Show No Quarter ]|-
Author's Note:
- Interesting fact number one; Harley actually doesn't belong to me, he is the wonderful creation of ~Norsemungandr. I'm just... putting him to good use, shall we say.
- Interesting fact number two; the name "Hermanus"actually means "Army man". Fitting, Ne?
"The soldiers that didn't come back were the heroes. It's a roll of the dice. If a bullet has your name on it, you're a hero. If you hear a bullet go by, you're a survivor."
- Bob Feller
-[| SnQ |]-
| Part I : Legate of the Second Cohort |
| Chapter II : Honourable Protectors |
Although he can't recall as well as he would like, it strikes the Legate to realise that there was once a time where he was unaware of what war actually meant. That there was a time where he was unable to hold a sword correctly, never mind how to stab someone just below the ribs so the blade would refrain from getting jammed. It seems like a distant memory, all those years before the Imperial Legion. Now, after all these years, it's barely a flicker of recognition.
Thirty years on the battlefield. It's little over a lifetime.
Quintillus himself was only thirteen years of age when the Great War had begun. Back then of course, the Empire was riled, angry, and they all went in expecting nothing but a small invasion, perhaps a summer of war before the Dominion's inevitable surrender. Back then, Imperialism had been pretty much commonplace and everyone would shout and gloat and tell great stories. He did not get called up, of course, but Barney Quintillus had grown up with the Imperial Legion's oath on the tip of his tongue and he had a spirit of a fighter. He had been pretty big for his age, developed the physical elements of manhood faster then his peers, so in his eyes, he was ready.
Because the life of a soldier couldn't be much worse then a bartender's son, right?
Indeed, Barney Quintillus had joined the Imperial legion without so much as a second thought. Thirteen years old, and he had no other purpose in his eyes. After all, who wouldn't want to die for their Empire?
Well. Skip forwards thirty years and Barnabas only has to return to Cyrodiil to see that, in the civilian world, they were all as naive.
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
With the creeping rise of the sun, swift ocean winds blow gently through the barren streets of Solitude, drifting through the cracks in the inn's doors, developing into a dull draft that swirls around in it's own individual cyclones. It's just turned early winter and little deciduous foliage there was in the first place has just finished shedding itself free of leaves. It's this coastal air that adds a distinct chill to the local area - in fact, until noon when the sun is at is peak, it's much colder in comparison. Thankfully however, this chilling bite is kept at bay by the Winking Skeever's spitting fire, so it's closer to here that they sit. Directly beside the flames so they can keep warm, but hidden away in order to avoid those damned questioning civilians.
"Well old boy," Legate Adventus Caesennius grumbles, "Sounds like a really bad do." he's a man's man, Caesennius, however with a certain flair that is typically unseen with soldiers. Manicured, but Naugahyde-tough. He's half interested in a mug of ale and half interested in brooding, collapsed up against the table heavily, chin propped up against his palm.
He's actually the better off out of the two, because his equally ranked companion is far more worse for wear. Quintillus decides to sit slouched against the back of his chair, ignoring his half glass of Cyrodilic brandy in it's entirety in order to completely concentrate on brooding. He's not in a good mood; he has not right to be.
Barnabas Quintillus had arrived with his decimated Century half a day ago, the gates of Solitude had opened up and the questioning faces of the Civilian populace had acted as their welcome. It's nothing but unwarranted attention. In fact, to anyone who is involved, it's a bloody curse. First it was that whole mess in Helgen and now it is this. The Legionnaires involved are having to deal with all the questions, the speculations, the rants and the patriotic comments close to constantly since they've arrived. One man had the gall to call them 'Comrades' and really was the limit. Quintillus had retreated to the inn before he could lose his temper. Unfortunately, he's still in his armour - or rather, what remains of it - and his bandaged wounds are on show again, so all the questions are in full force.
You know, those men in a footman's uniform don't have to deal with it. Sick a few shiny bits of metal on him and apparently, Quintillus is a sodding celebrity.
With a noncommittal noise of irritation, Quintillus shakes his head. All he really want's to do right now is return to the castle. However, right now, he's not one hundred percent sure where he stands - and he doesn't like that. That's unnerving. On one hand, he's very much desperate to return, to fall back into the uncomfortable but familiar embrace of Castle Dour and it's constant military presence. Yet on the other hand, he's downright terrified of doing so. Terrified of the General, not because of what happened, per say, but well...
"I've got my Centurion's blood on my hands..." Quintillus slowly brings his hands up to rest against the tabletop as some kind of evidence, while intending to be a metaphorical statement, it's also quite literal. There's crusted blood under his fingernails still. "I don't..." He sighs, "I don't know what to think about that." He pauses, attempting to assemble that whole sentence in his head. The whole thing tastes sour on his tongue, it's foreign, wrong and Quintillus shakes hsi head abruptly again, running his good hand through his hair. He's lost men before, but that was to the Elves, or to the Stormcloaks.
Not to... not to animals.
It's just another thing to think about and at this moment in time, Quintillus wanted nothing to do with idle comprehension. He just wanted to sink back into the regimented routine of a soldier. Not pondering, just doing. Acting, reacting. Following orders. It's what he's here for.
Caesennius exhales through his nose slowly, regarding his drinking buddy with a appraising eye. "By the Eight..." he takes another swig of his drink "Was it that bad?"
Following the other Legate's example, Quintillus raises his own glass slowly, carefully, as not to agitate the wounds on his torso. "The attack, or the aftermath?" he then replies, in the corner of his eye, he spots one of the working girls leaning further against the bartop, attempting to listen in, or something along similar lines. He scowls.
This makes Caesennius shrug and he ignores the curious glances as they are sent in their direction, "I'm not sure."
A period of silence follows the comment and Quintillus diverts his gaze towards the window. The hours of early morning have brought along a drizzle, light raindrops ping down against the stained glass, sliding down to fall against the windowsill that rests just beside the Legate's shoulder. The wood is damp, slightly rotting in the corners and he can feel the draft through the rips and openings in his armour. It's details like this that make this place pretty uncomfortable, but the drink is good.
With that in mind, Quintillus downs the rest of his. It's good Imperial stuff - heavily taxed, but Quintillus has access to these things with his position as Legate, and it's one of the few luxuries he often abuses. Cheap knockoffs simply won't cut it for him, he doesn't know how the others do it. Smirking, he traces the rim of his glass slowly.
Guess the war had managed to slay one demon.
"So old boy, what happens now?" Caesennius asks, he's just ordered another mug of ale, one of the barmaids pressing it down before him gently and with this, laurel green eyes flick away from the window and fixate on the other Legate's face. Another hesitation, and both men consider their drinks again.
Only Caesennius takes it up, Quintillus just frowns instead. They can't talk about it here - spies and all. That, and some part of Quintillus simply doesn't want to. "I'll be reporting to the General later this morning."
"And then?"
Quintillus shrugs, "I don't know." he looks down at the table, at the small droplets that had slid down the side of his glass, from where he had shrugged to hold his glass. "The fifth has a few weeks of leave."
This makes the other Legate frown, and he lowers his mug for a moment, considering. "Only a few weeks?" he asks, "Only a few- half of them were, well, half dead, old boy."
The reply comes quicker then Quintillus originally expected.
"We are at war, Caesennius."
The reminder is unnecessary too, but it stirs something within the two Imperial Legates. It's not their place to think about such things, they have orders and they will follow them. The war is back on, as they say. Reachmen or not. There are still the Stormcloaks to contend with... and the locals.
It's about time that they realised it, Quintillus supposes.
They sit in silence for a long time. Often then not, they do not speak other then what is considered necessary. It's something that nobody really understands, well that being said, a few people do. Rikke and the General, Harley and all the other veterans too, they all understand - because a lot of the time, they are the same. They have nothing to talk about, and as terrible as it sounds, it's a relief for them all. He doesn't want to talk to Caesennius, and Quintillus being Quintillus, he's certain that Caesennius doesn't want to talk to him either. It's not out of dislike, not at all, it's just that they share a lot of things that are bound up in so much pain that it's simply easier to ignore it all.
They don't have to talk either, don't need to. Quintillus and Caesennius are like brothers in the respect that they can sit in silence and be completely comfortable in one another's presence.
Caesennius finishes his drink and immediately orders for another one. He's on leave at the moment, three days in and apparently, he's decided that he's going to spend it in here. So he continues to drink to his content. Quintillus however decides that it's much better to keep to a strict minimum. One drink in good company is enough and he shakes his head in silent decline when the barmaid returns to their table. Reporting to the General, intoxicated, would be a bad idea.
Time drags on slowly and the sun persists in rising over the nearby rooftops, it's since stopped raining and the sounds of chatter pools outside. When they both glance upwards again, the rays of light are much thicker, people begin to enter and another working day rolls forwards.
"Best get going," Quintillus mutters, downing the last dregs of his drink and standing carefully. "Now you take care of yourself, Adventus."
"And you too, old boy, take care." Caesennius stretches his hand out and they shake firmly, though as Quintillus pulls away, there is a hesitant lasting glance. Gods, who knows - perhaps that would be the last time they ever shake hands. You can never be too sure of anything in times of war, after all.
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
Quintillus is in his element when he's on the battlefield - but not for the reason most people think. It's not because he's a soldier, but rather, because he's a stratagist.
A few years ago, a passing politician noticed Quintillus' inherit intelligence, his ability to look upon a scenario, a puzzle and work backwards from the end result, to discover the original truth, no matter how shrouded in mystery it may be. She couldn't help but compare it to his work with the Legion, stating that the two jobs - the work of an investigator, and the work of a strategist - are alike. That he uses both of these processes to help him work.
Personally, he thinks her wrong.
A investigator sees an end to the means and they do not require a rival to work; they can achieve their greatness without any assistance in the slightest.
A strategist does none of the above, because a strategist is only capable of moving forwards. As a strategist, a tactician, Quintillus does not solve puzzles - if anything, he creates them. When he's stood in a map room, stood behind an evaluation desk looking over his advancing men or fighting with said advancing men - he only sees a means to an end. He needs a rival to achieve his greatness - one who is a equal, or someone greater in skill. Nothing is ever earned from defeating a weaker opponent.
In his opinion, a strategist and a investigator is the core of a duel between two individuals. One presents a puzzle that the other must solve.
Quintillus knows they are alike in many ways - but he is never both at the same time. That would create more problems then it would solve; instead of working against his enemy, he'd be fighting against himself. Within the Legion, he is required to work with an overwhelming desire to achive victory. That's how war works. He does not see puzzles, in the Legion, he sees battlefields. He will find a way to achieve victory with the very best strategy he can think off, regardless of how limited his resources are.
But, Quintillus is still a thinker - and when he doesn't have a battle to win... he can't help himself.
He can't help but notice that Solitude was far different then the rest of Skyrim.
If anything, the life of a soldier is a diverse one. You march from place to place, area to area, continent to continent, province to province, spending months away from home - or, if you're Barnabas Quintillus, twenty odd years.
That's what they say, the recruiters. Join the Imperial Legion, travel the world, meet interesting people.
... and then, often enough, kill them.
But that's not the point.
Quintillus himself had seen numerous places, towns and villages. The majority of them had been within Cyrodiil's own boarders, least the Thalmor ever tried to attack again. Indeed, after spending many a year there, the Legate remembers Cyrodiil whether he cares to like it or not.
Solitude reminds him of Cyrodiil. He notices the little details as he walks through the city, the links - the similarities. Typically, it is very much a Nordic city, yet at the same time, it's infrastructure, it's people, it's sheer vibe - it's so Imperialist. It's heavily influenced. For the Imperials, it's a taste of what they consider home, but for the Nords, it's a taste of the Empire that they're part of. Honestly, after thirty something years, it startles him how little everything has changed. It's all the same attitudes, the same responses and ideals. Even in Skyrim, everything is so damn similar to the Cyrodilic Empire that it makes him sick.
Quintillus doesn't like Cyrodiil, home province or not. It's civilized and safe and grand and it remains so at consistency - but it's all the same. Filled with the same nameless, faceless generic degenerates who will likely smile and wave and pretend to understand. They call them heroes.
He's not a hero.
"No need to congratulate anybody for killing anyone." He had told his father, gritting his teeth and standing in the ceremonial dress uniform of a Centurion when he grudgingly visited for his uncle's burial close to twenty years ago.
He had repeated that very same line to his then-Legate when he had returned to the ranks, and she had just shaken her head.
"I know."
He doesn't like Skyrim any more then he does Cyrodill either. It's uncivilized, and dangerous, tedious, frustrating and cold at the best of times, but, when he takes a step back and puts it all into perceptive, it fits. These Nords are a stubborn, zealous lot who hold their expectations and customs with a sort of fire he can't understand, but a lot of them, they understand. The Great War left a lot of refugees behind - and he's not talking about the people who lost their homes to catapult fire or raiding Justiciers. No. A lot Skyrim's kinsmen know the hardships of war and they will either hate you, despise you with all their heart, or they will accept you for it. But they will never love you, glorify you for bringing war to their homeland, no matter how you appear.
Quintillus as a general rule, decidedly dislikes most things, but he'd be lying if he ever said that he didn't have some form of fondness for this horrible, terribly mediocre province.
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
All of the creeping worries from earlier began to fade the closer he drew to the Fourth Legion's headquarters; the formerly disused military keep known as Castle Dour. He doesn't exactly know why, but he takes a form of comfort in the strict order amalgamating around him, the tall dull walls, the matching tents packed together side by side in the parade ground. This feeling only intensified when he moved inside, the doors opening for him as he marches purposefully towards his intended destination. This Castle's décor, like most buildings occupied by the stringent Imperial Legion, just screamed of military order. The hallways were bare aside from the essential torches providing light, the barracks in the opposite wing would be stark - clean for the impending threat of inspection and all the other rooms were boring to those who did not know how to make the best out of little. The only decorative element was the occasional banner - a reminder of who you are fighting for. If it was useful, it was kept, if not, it was discarded, re-homed to a place were it would. It's this sense of need before want that Quintillus found pleasing.
Because it's closest to his own quarters, the General often tends to matters in one of the smallest of map rooms and it's here that the Legate finds him. Compared to the rest of the keep, this room is warmer, brighter too thanks to the recently lit candles, but it bore the same initial impression of order - despite actually being far from it in general appearance. The table and even some of the chairs are littered with papers, many of which have yellowed with age but others where freshly pressed, neatly ordered and piled amongst the chaos. As he walks by, Quintillus notes that one of the candles is giving of a smell unfamiliar to him and it's unpleasant, but he does nothing about it. Instead, he stops at a respectful distance away from the General, glancing coolly at his Praetorians, who walk off to stand amongst the General's own security.
General Tullius does not acknowledge the Legate straight away, but rather continues to lean against the table, lent up against his knuckles, engrossed in a few papers spread before him.
The General is not a big man, in fact he only just reaches past Quintillus' shoulders, but right here, right now, stood in that armour, he's completely and utterly in charge. Despite the hour his uniform is perfectly immaculate, hair pushed forwards, combed into a typical conservative Imperial style, but, Barnabas being as observant as he is empathic, he picks up on subtle details that a lot of other people just ignore just on instinct. Despite the attempt at spotlessness, when the General looks up, he notices that man's eyes are dark, ringed by faint shadows that practically screamed a recent string of sleepless nights.
Again, he does nothing about it; he just slowly adjusts his stance. "General Tullius, Sir." the Legate greets, clicking the heels of his armored boots together and sending a fist into his torso, just above his heart. The man in question simply straightens ever so slightly, nodding in the way of silent acknowledgement. His posture softening, Quintillus glances around, idle confusion bubbling up when he notices that she's not-
"Rikke will be joining us later, I expect." the General suddenly grumps, waving a hand idly and eying the Legate with an unreadable look on his face. "She's taken one of her centuries to the Pale. I'll assume you weren't informed."
At this, Quintillus nods. The General has already read the written report regarding the Reach and he knows from experience that the following events can only go in two ways. One, the General will decide that it was indeed the Legate's fault and dress him down, getting in his face and challenging his judgement. Or, the second option will be that he doesn't know who to blame, or what to think and he will hear him out, wanting a fresh perceptive on matters. Quintillus wishes for the former - it's predictable, understandable. Right.
But, the slight slouch in the man's posture gives Quintillus all the evidence he needs. "Report, Legate." the older man orders quietly and the Legate shifts nigh on uncomfortably. "How many men?"
Because that's all it comes down too, really. How many men dead, how many letters sent home, how many helmets passed on to the next of kin, how many reserves that have to be pulled in to fill the ranks afterwards.
"A total of fifty six men," Quintillus replies, but his voice turns out to be nothing more then a hoarse murmur. So he swallows hard, grimaces and speaks louder. "Fifty six men, Sir."
The General blinks, then hardens his jaw.
"That, was the Forsworn."
There is a moment of silence and the Legate involuntary runs a hand over his face, knocking his helmet and sending it jerking to the left. One of the panels on the cheekpiece smashes into his nose, so he rips the whole thing off, disturbing his hair, before settling it on the table gently. Although neither man speaks, he can hear the unspoken concern. If a bunch of half-witted savages could do that much damage...
"Marcius' report suggests that the Fifth Century's original camp never saw any hostilities. Likelihood is, they saw us retreating form Karthwasten and decided to do something about it."
The General folds his arms.
"I don't see this becoming a thing, at any rate." Quintillus answers the unspoken question.
It seems to satisfy Tullius at any rate, because he looks back at the table. "And the Fifth's original camp?" there is the slamming echo of the doors being shut, followed by the faint scruff of Imperial leather boots unexpectedly catching on the flagstones underfoot behind them. Aside from that slight noise, there is almost nothing to distinguish them by. But, it was a sound that both men know well – noiseless feet walking towards them.
"Dismantled as soon as I gave the order, the support corps have been move to Third. They'll join them when they move back to Solitude during the rotation. After that, it's just a matter of awaiting further orders."
The shadow of a person moves across the room, just towards Quintillus' left.
"Good. Have you seen the reports on White-" The General suddenly stops, glances up properly, chin jerking upwards. "Soldier." he suddenly greets and there comes a faint click of boots, shortly followed by another sound of a fist slamming into armour. Only this time, it's quieter - more controlled. There is only one person who General Tullius will willingly, in the sense of a gruff form of fondness rather then mode of identification, call 'Soldier'. Leaning forwards against the table and pulling a sloppily rolled up map towards him, the Legate turns his head to eye the condensed, baby-faced version of Tullius standing there.
"General, Sir." Harley Tullius, formally known as Hermanus Gaius Tullius II, better known as General Junior to Quintillus, replies. Stood in the armour of an Optimi Viri Sagittarii, he has his composite bow slung over one shoulder and curls a protective hand around the lower limb glancing at Quintillus as he does so, nodding. "Legate Quintillus."
The boy, well, he's not a boy anymore, not really - he's twenty now and Quintillus has to grudgingly admit, he's something of a looker too. He remembers how both his parents were, back before his mother died and Tullius succumbed to all the physical elements of twenty solid years of stress. Basically, there wasn't a more handsome couple in the whole Fourth Legion. Usually it's details like this that the Legate chooses to ignore and that, coupled with the fact that those years were some of the hardest, it's a wonder that he can remember what they were like at all. Harley favors his father more then his mother. So much so that it's downright terrifying. In fact, the only thing he's inherited it seems is her crystalline blue eyes and gentle demeanor. Give him a few years, and he could pass for the General's ghost.
But Quintillus isn't exactly running a beauty contest here, so he has absolutely no damn clue as to why General Junior is stood in the map room, when he's supposed to be a few hundred miles away with the rest of his Contubernium.
"Junior." He shifts slightly in the way of greeting, bringing his gaze over the boy and fighting a grimace. "And how are you?"
Harley just shrugs. "I'm well, thank you Sir."
He's lying, that, or he has a very different view on the definition of 'well'. From under the dark shadow of the Coolus-Manheim helmet there are bruises, scrapes. His bottom lip is split on the left hand side and although the Legate can't see the rest of his body, everything under the boy's neck being covered in the dark leather's of his uniform, he assumes that it's a similar picture. Something's given him a good beating and it must surprise the General because he suddenly bounds towards him, completely forgetting his role as the big bad General and grabbing his progeny's jaw, jerking it upwards. "What happened to your face?" he then demands, it's calm, with a mildness far more ominous than his usual snippiness.
Just like that, everyone else in the room feels pretty strongly that they'd rather be somewhere else.
General Junior doesn't move a muscle. He's not frozen up and Quintillus can tell from a mile off that he's not scared, or really that angry, but something in his manner has changed. He's always acted a little odd around the General - always, but recently, it's been far more noticeable. A different brand of... something. Usually, whenever Tullius crosses the line from superior towards actual parental territory, Harley reacts in a way that's pretty unconventional, but now...
It's turned into this quiet but unmistakably heavy power struggle. So much so, that something is going to give one day, that, Quintillus is pretty certain. He also has the distinct impression that he'll be the lucky one mopping up after that certain something does, even though he really doesn't want to, at all. It's not really his job to go around solving the boy's apparent daddy issues, but then again, Quintillus doesn't really know. He guesses that, with him, it kind of is. It defiantly would be, if anything happened to Tullius.
He doesn't like that.
But, he doesn't like a lot of things, and he can't say he blames either of them for it. It's not a scenario you can just fix with a snap of the fingers. Harley is desperate for something, anything, from his only remaining parent, a father he's been devoted to for pretty much all his life, who despite loving his son pretty desperately, hasn't been able to provide it because he's also one of six Generals trying to hold a crumbling military together - that because he's so wrapped up in it all, that he can't relate to his only kid, even if he tried.
Sometimes the Legion has to come before your family. Not always, but sometimes.
Guess, 'Sometimes' happens a bit more frequently for them.
Slowly, Harley backs down and sighs, deflating. "There was a bit more then old bones and cobwebs." he says, bluntly and wrenches his head back. The General lets go, backtracking a little and fixing his son with a particularly nasty sort of look. Harley is not fazed in the slightest. "The Dra-... The Auxiliary, she was sent ahead with crown. I'll write it up as soon as I have reported in."
"Yes," The General mutters, though with the news that they've reclaimed... what was that he said? A crown? The fiery aggression has cooled considerably, leaving him if only slightly riled. Tullius forces out a sigh, "Yes you will. Get those-" he waves in the general direction of his son's face, "looked at first, Soldier." Harley doesn't argue, but simply clicks his heels again. "Dismissed."
Quintillus doesn't hear or see him go, but he does feel Harley's absence like some kind of relief mixed with sudden emptiness. Instead, he meerly watches as the General griamces, leans up against the table again and clenches his hands. One look at the ashen, scunched up expression is all it takes before he twigs something up like the genius he is. Snapping his gaze down towards the map before him, the Legate reaches forwards and picks up a small red flag, twirling it around between his fingertips. "If Ulfric plans to move on Whiterun, he's even dimmer then I originally thought." he glances upwards, rubbing his lower jaw gently and the General fixes his gaze onto the Legate's own.
It doesn't take long for him to get distracted.
"Rikke seems hellbent on insuring me that he's raised enough men to attack."
Speak of the devil, said Legate Rikke comes in soon afterwards, eyebrows raised. She glances at Quintillus and it's clear that she's heard about the events in the Reach because she slams a hand into his upper shoulder, letting it hesitate for a few seconds before walking on. "You've seen the evidence sir. Every day more join his cause. Riften, Dawnstar, and Winterhold support him."
"Obviously." Quintillus grumbles, but he goes unheard.
The General hardens his jaw. "It's not cause, it's a rebellion."
"Call it whatever you like, General." Rikke half mutters, pulling her helmet off and shaking her hair a little. The dirty blonde braid is half falling out, clearly she's seen recent action. "The man's going to try to take Whiterun."
Quintillus' gaze snaps between the two of them, then at the map, then at Rikke again. "Jarl Balgruuf-"
But Rikke cuts him clean off, "-refuses the Legion's right to garrison troops in his city."
"Yeah," Quintillus agrees, "But he also refuses to acknowledge Ulfric's claim."
This makes the General grunt and he stands bolt upright, throwing his hands upwards. "Well, if he wants to stand outside the protection of the Empire, fine. Let Ulfric pillage his city." at the sound of this, Rikke looks as if she's just been smacked in the face. Quintillus meanwhile stifles a surprised bark of laughter and lowers his head when two sets of eyes lock on him.
"General-"
Tullius just scoffs. "You people and your damn Jarls."
"Oh, wow." Quintillus smirks, though quietly enough that neither of them hear him. While this is all very amusing, he doesn't want to get drawn into it. He'll probably make a fool of himself, as he often does when it comes to politics.
"Sir? You can't force a Nord to accept help he hasn't asked for."
Tullius just slams the palm of his hand down against the tabletop, "If Ulfric's making a move for Whiterun, then we need to be there to stop him." despite the force of such an action, he's voice is calm. "We aren't exchanging pleasantries, we're preparing for an inevitable invasion." fixing his gaze on Rikke, he hesitates for a few seconds before making his decision. "Draft another letter with the usual platitudes, but this time share some of your intelligence regarding Ulfric's plans."
"You should embellish it," Quintillus adds unexpectedly, making both of them frown at him. "You know, make it seem like it's his idea."
It surprises them both, because usually he stays out of things like this. Completely. Sticking to the outskirts and only coming in when he's sure that he won't mess anything up. The General purses his lips, "Well. Aren't we adventurous?" he mutters "Never knew you had it in you."
To save face, Quintillus just leans forwards, his voice lowering "Perhaps you can take me to court next time, hm, Sir?"
That particular statement makes the General snort and Rikke rolls her eyes.
"Not on your life, Legate."
-[| Show No Quarter |]-
A few hours later and while Quintillus is looking over recent insurgent reports, there comes the sound of someone thundering down the steps. Alarmed, Quintillus' two Praetorians glance upwards, their hands slamming against the hilts of their swords. The Legate himself doesn't move, he's facing away from the doorway and to spin around would only pain his wounds further. That and he's been in the Legion for thirty years, he knows a Legionnaire's boots when he hears them.
Though he will admit, they sound... different, somehow.
Looking for any indication as to who it may be, the Legate frowns at the General, who gives off of those long, suffering looks that clearly says 'Oh, here we go again' and slowly stands up from where he was sitting. By the time he gets to the table, he's clasped his hands neatly behind his back and he's expressionless. It's that kind of look that Quintillus, being the old soldier that he is, recognises from his earlier days. The General is trying to set an impression. Trying to get across that he's not a man to be trifled nor messed around with. That he's a busy man, with important matters on his mind and therefore, doesn't take kindly to his time being wasted.
"I've got it!" It's an arrogant statement, chirpy with a level of unfamiliar that's beyond painful. Quintillus blinks, gives the General a look and then clenches his teeth.
There isn't even an "General Tullius" or even a "Sir" when the Auxiliary enters. Instead she just comes bounding in with her arm stretched out, something that immediately puts both the Legate and all the Praetorians in the room on guard. Only a few seconds later does he realise what said object is, or rather, he knows that it's blunt, so he's willing to allow it. Through the gaps in the cloth she has wrapped around it, he can see the dirt, alongside a lot of bone. Why, he has no idea. The General goes take it and as he does so, he gives his Legate a glance. It's a test of said Legate's usually unwavering obedience that he doesn't just go storming up to the girl ranting and raving.
And she is just a girl.
Rough estimation puts her between around twenty to twenty three winters at most, a little older then the Legate's youngest sister, perhaps. She's not tall, especially for a Nord but then again, Quintillus isn't the best person to compare heights - he himself being well over six foot when a lot of Imperials are generally in their middle fives. She's not as thin as a lot of her kinsmen either, a bit of a bruiser - well fed too. Enough to be a threat. Quintillus begins to run through a series of estimations and calculations and it's during this that she turns to him. She has freckles, he notes idly, alongside a certain... fire, in her gaze. One that the Legate remembers getting knocked out of him during training. His eyes narrow, scanning her face again.
He could have sworn...
The General deliberately walks into his peripheral vision and the Legate inclines his head, "Auxiliary." he greets, doing well to keep his voice neutral and out of sheer panic, he adopts the General's earlier posture.
Hesitating, she looks his armour over and nods at him. "Legate," she eventually replies and after a few seconds of tense silence, hastily adds the remaining word. "Sir."
Barnabas inclines his head, she doesn't salute, but he's never been one for making his subordinates salute. It's a sign of respect and trust, at the end of the day.
Then it hits him. He's defiantly seen her before. The General realises that Quintillus realises and turns towards the Auxiliary with a small grump, "Well. Excellent work, soldier. I have to admit, I had my doubts it even existed." He gives Quintillus a pointed look as he passes to stand at the head of the table. "Did you run into any any trouble?"
She was at Helgen.
She was a prisoner, at Helgen.
"Got a bit bashed around, but it was nothing we couldn't handle."
The General glances at the crown again, peering at it suspiciously, as if he's unsure if it will simply fall apart or suddenly rear up and bite him in the face. Quintillus meanwhile stalks off to one side of the room, luckily, she doesn't seem to recognise him and he steps around the table, pretending to busy himself with his maps so she won't get the chance to. As far as he is concerned, she's not a soldier. Therefore he can't predict her behavior. So, he'll just retreat to the sidelines and observe until he knows enough information to proceed forwards, after that, it's just a matter of planning accordingly and remaining seven steps ahead.
He should have been doing that back in the Reach.
Grimacing his eyes shut, the Legate slams his pile of reports onto the table with more force then what was strictly necessary. He has to get over that.
"That's what I like to hear." The General mutters, his arms are folded over his torso and he scrutinises this... Dragonborn carefully. She's not a soldier, but he made her an Auxiliary because he doesn't want her to be.
She's to young to be thrown into a civil war as a fully fledged Legionnaire, if the Legate is any indication as to how they end up. He's a bloody good soldier, yes - an exemplary tactician and combatant, but that's where it all ends. The Empire needs more then soldiers, he knows, and the reports he's had written up on her suggests that she's also friendly with the Jarls of this bloody country. It's an added bonus he doesn't want to loose.
"Now then... I need someone I can trust to deliver a message of great import to Jarl Baalgruf of Whiterun." The General seems to hate himself for saying this, because he starts it off hesitantly and he grimaces when he finally grits the words out. Quintillus raises an eyebrow at him, but otherwise says nothing. Taking the finely pressed letter from Legate Rikke off of the table, the General walks towards her. "We have it on good authority that Ulfric has raised enough men to attack the city. The Jarl, however, refuses the Legion's support..." he goes to hand it to her, "This missive should convince him." but he takes it away at the last second, holding it closer to him, eyes narrowed. "Be aware soldier, these documents contain sensitive intelligence for the Jarl's eyes only."
She nods, heavily, like a damn child. Quintillus rolls his eyes.
"Don't worry, I'll make sure he gets it."
"Good, now. Dismissed."
The girl hurries off in a whirl of oversized Nordic steel plate and unmatching Imperial shin boots with the General's - reluctantly offered - letter to the Jarl of Whiterun. As soon as she's rounded the corner and he hears the door slam shut, Quintillus takes a step back, considers his general pissed off scale... and settles on a good two-thirds up.
And then he explodes, because if the Legate is anything when he's angry, it's not smart.
"ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE?!"
The General raises an eyebrow, and then, his own voice. "I beg your pardon, Legate?" Putting his hands up in surrender, the Legate then points towards the direction she just left in.
"She's a prisoner!"
"Yes."
"Wh- and you've trusted her wit-"
"Legate, sometimes we've got to take chances."
"With the whole sodding war!?"
"Apparently."
Slamming both hands over his face before something in his head bursts from all the frustration, Quintillus sighs, then groans, then shakes his head.
Suprisingly, the General just half sighs. "I knew you wouldn't like it." but then he points towards a map, more accurately, at the Stormcloak camp in the Reach. "I want that camp wiped off the map, I've assigned you temporary command over Rikke's first cohort. In order to move supplies and reinforcements to Markarth, we need it doing soon."
You do your job, I'll do my job.
Quintillus gives him a long suffering look and keeps it up for a good few minutes before buckling. Leaning over the table with a grunt, he pulls the map towards him and plucks that particular blue flag off the map, spinning around throwing it into the nearby fire.