Chapter 2: Choosing a Side
4E 201, 6th of Rain's Hand
"Anya! Wake up! Sun's out, you're going to be late!" Came the loud, energetic voice of a young man brimming with enthusiasm and excitement, his fist pounding against the surface of a grey, wooden door coated with straw and ropes. Behind the closed door rests a young woman sleeping, pale as Secunda's glow with fiery auburn-red hair long enough to pass her shoulders. She tiredly rubs her healthy brown eyes with a squeaky yawn, finding some strength to crawl out of her cosy bedsheets to dress herself. "Anya, get up! Come on, you'll miss their arrival!"
"I'm up, I'm up! Just... Let me get dressed please." The youthful woman politely asked the voice behind her door, sighing as her soft cherry-red lips curve into a happy smile. She combs her petite fingers through the freshly awoken scarlet mane to ensure nothing has begun to knot, revealing her soft features and sharp cheekbones, the visage of a young, beautiful woman with an admirable future ahead of her. She seems keen for the circumstances that the younger man demands her presence for, looking around her comfortable bedroom for anything out of place, perhaps a habit of hers. Humble and quaint, she boasts a wooden dresser, wardrobe, a bed with green linen sheets and a simple chest to store her valuables. Approaching the wardrobe she reaches for a middle shelf, pulling free a yellow-golden robe that flows smoothly around her arms, soft as silk with a clean, vibrant shine to the fabric. She clears her throat after donning the lavish robes, walking towards the dresser only to kneel down before it. Closing her eyes and clasping her hands together, she quietly utters a prayer to the totem resting atop the dresser: A shrine to the Goddess of love, Mara. The personal shrine stands a small height of thirty centimetres, a circular structure ridden with overlapping curls of stone hidden behind a four-point cross, each tip facing a direction. Amidst the centre of it all is a sculpture of the Goddess herself, a feminine face between the circular body and cross combined as if she were the heart of the Shrine, much like how the Goddess' servants pride themselves with spreading the word of love through Her teachings, perhaps they too seek to be the heart of those they meet and touch with kindred sermons of respect and peace. "Live soberly and peacefully. Honour your parents, and preserve the peace and security of home and family. Above all else, be good to one another. Bless you, Lady Mara."
Her prayer complete, Anya finally opens her door only to find the young man impatiently standing outside of it, he bore a great resemblance to the lady even down to the same shade of auburn-red hair. One swift glance and immediately it became obvious the two were twins, lest the Gods elected to cast their faces together on different bodies for divine amusement. "I'm awake Alain." She utters softly, smiling at her brother's affinity for the coming celebrations. "They''ll be here soon Anya! We're going to see them! Do you think the Emperor would be there too?!"
"I don't think the Emperor would come up from Cyrodiil all the way to Whiterun just to watch an Imperial Garrison arrive here."
"What about General Tullius?! Come on, I want to see the leaders of the Imperial Legion! They just -have- to recruit me, I'd be the best Legionnaire they'd get!"
"I'm sure the Battle-Borns would miss you dearly little brother." Anya quips with a smile. "Come on, let's go to the gates." She suggests, every word spoken from her lips echo with a serenity seldom encountered in Tamriel, least of all in Skyrim. Perhaps it is due to her love for Lady Mara that Anya's behaviour and personality is that of a good Samaritan, always wanting to help those in need and to spread a gospel of care and companionship to those around her, to try and sway thoughts of violence and strife from the people she meets, Ulfric's war has caused enough senseless death and destruction as it is.
The duo descend their narrow stairs, greeted by their parents who seemingly are already prepared for the arrival of the Imperials: Anya's father sporting a fine brown overcoat with tanned seams decorating much of the garb that compliments his loose but clean, healthy brown head of hair. Both Anya and Alain resemble their mother quite closely, clearly favouring her blood when the day of their birth came for she proudly dons crimson hair like her two children, albeit much shorter and neatly cropped into a bun. She has dressed similarly to her husband with the exception of a fur mantle wreathed around her shoulders as fine epaulettes befitting a noblewoman. The father glances to his son, furrowing his brows in a manner of confusion and disappointment, speaking in a bewildered tone, "Alain... What in Stendarr's name are you wearing?".
"I'm not going to dress up fancy for the soldiers father, I'm going straight to their Legate to prove my worth to the Empire!" The young son boldly claims, though his garb could indeed be improved upon: A mere linen shirt tucked beneath an apron and commonplace brown breeches, he bore the appearance of a man who lived his days as a Blacksmith's apprentice, as opposed to the Imperial Legion recruit he sought to be. "You won't impress any Legates looking like that." His father claimed, shaking his head with a condescending tut that only a parent could deliver without scorn from its recipient. "Just you watch father, I'll order a sword from Adrianne! She'll forge me a weapon to practice with!"
"You have never held a sword in your life Alain. Calm your horses lad, the Legion's going nowhere." The boy's father reverted to a consoling tone, wishing the boy would restrain his near insatiable desire to fight in the Empire despite being fresh-faced to the horrors of war. Such is the norm for young men who seek glory and valour, the concept of serving the Legion or liberate Skyrim as one of Ulfric's Stormcloak Rebels proves to be propaganda within itself, fight like a true Nord or go to Sovngarde for your bravery shown in the field of conflict. Impossible for Alain to heed either call however, for he and his family are Bretons.
The family open the doors of their home to the streets of Whiterun's Plains District: Merchant stalls are blooming with business in a compact line throughout the district, every cobblestone slab in the ground is covered with men and women browsing for naturally harvested or expertly hand-crafted goods. Hunters selling fresh game, jewellers advertising exotic pendants or rings imported from all across the surface of Nirn, the list is endless. Excited chatter litter the streets with whispers and conjecture sprawling uncontrollably throughout the citizens of the city. Scorching sunlight dominates the morning, the people of Whiterun chatter about the impending garrison of Imperial Legionnaires to grace their fine, humble city under instruction of General Tullius and Jarl Balgruuf the Greater. The family of Bretons wade through the crowds, eagerly seeking to watch the soldiers arrive with pride in their hearts, for this family believe the Empire is the best hope for Skyrim's chaos to finally abate, ending the conflict once and for all in order to face the true threat to freedom in Tamriel...
At long last the Breton family of four arrive at Whiterun's main gates, surrounding their fine city lay the ancient battlements of white stone that stand tall as monuments of endurance this great city has maintained over the course of history, a feat that will only repeat itself if and when the Hold is subject to sieges and battle once more. Crowds of citizens and Guards alike line up outside of the gates to welcome the arrival of the Imperial Garrison, until an orchestra of carriage wheels and horseshoes clash against stone silence is the dominion of Whiterun, save for the flickering fires that light up the main gates in bulky, durable braziers. "Ambroise!" An elderly man's voice yells out, causing the Breton father to turn his head to the right, looking upon the gentleman calling his name. "Olfrid Battle-Born. Good to see you friend." Ambroise says with confidence, offering a friendly smile as well as his hand, of which the Battle-Born patriarch gladly shakes with a hoarse chuckle. "Good to see you and your family here on this brilliant day. Patriots to the Emperor, every one of us here." The clan's elder claims, turning his attention to Ambroise's wife. "Belene, lovely to see you my dear."
"Olfrid, wonderful to see you again." Belene says with sincerity, smiling at the Battle-Born patriarch. Olfrid then turns to the twins Ambroise stands beside. "Alain and Anya, I see so little of you two, I hope you are doing well?"
"Yes, thank you sir." Anya replies gently with a polite smile adorned on her soft features, though any attempts at further discussion ends when her twin counterpart leaps at the opportunity to discuss Imperial patriotism with the city's biggest Legion fanatic. "Olfrid Battle-Born, it's always a great honour speaking to you. I'll be joining these Legionnaires one day, I vow it!" The declaration simply made Olfrid chuckle, if not without a dry tone due to his aged vocal cords. "Hah! Excellent news my boy. You grew up to be a smart young man, seeing the hope of Skyrim's future within our glorious Empire! Pay no heed to those... Filthy Stormcloak lies, or those foolish beggars in the Gray-Mane clan!"
"Yes, I'm sure Alain will be a fine soldier one day." Ambroise laments, despite the prideful words his tone is all but confident for the boy's aspirations, nobody seemed to heed his concern however as all attention waned from social conventions to the horizon, for a bellowing horn echoes throughout the Hold with distant clanking of steel and cartwheels. It took no time at all for the garrison forces to arrive, adorned in silver regalia and Dragon symbols etched into the breastplates, breathing the essence of the Empire with their uniforms alone. The sight of this sizable garrison awed the bystanders as the Imperials were greeted into Whiterun with citizens yelling and praising the arrival of the Emperor's Legion. Auxiliaries and Legates alike all smiled with pride as they waved to the warm reception. Many Bretons were among the soldiers' ranks, Nords too filled the uniforms of the Emperor's predominantly Imperial military might passing through to Whiterun city, on their way into the city's districts.
"Hey, how do you feel about this?" Leaned in one Auxiliary, deep in the centre of the arriving forces to speak to his rider compatriot, a toned and confident woman if her facial structure and posture when riding a horse is any indication. Her heavy Imperial Legion armour is adorned with a golden ribbon fixated to the breastplate, indicating a higher rank in the Legion that complimented the crimson kilt that covered the soldier's armoured thighs. Indeed, the ensemble of the Imperial Legion boasted a fusion of combat readiness and sophistication, eloquently wading through the battlefield with grace and dignity. She turns her head towards the Auxiliary, keeping her helmet firmly on her head. "Keep quiet Auxiliary. We are still on duty." She boldly states, turning her attention forward to follow the rest of the garrison before her. Swiftly the units all come to a halt as the Legate leading the brigade orders the men and women to disembark. The citizens that gathered to watch them slowly depart and return to their lives and careers, while Imperial soldiers enter the city and settle in, allowing the commanding officer to confer with the Jarl. The same cocky Auxiliary approaches the Quaestor woman who now removes her helmet with a deep sigh, glad to be relieved of the damned thing and allowing her deep scarlet hair to flow gracefully in Skyrim's wind, cut at the back with an angled edge, appearing as sharply trimmed crimson daggers for hair. The light of the sun shows the woman's natural beauty and defined features: A bold jawline with pronounced cheekbones giving her a precise, chiselled expression complimented by gorgeous emerald eyes contrasting pale skin bequeathed with soft freckles throughout her flesh. She shakes her head slowly and looks at the Auxiliary, instead of dismissing him however she smirks and shakes the boy's hand with a friendly chuckle, releasing her authoritative tone for a much more friendly and sociable demeanour. "So?" The man asks, reiterating his previous question. "I've only ever been in Skyrim four times, all of which were spent consulting in Solitude or overseeing military shipments." She laments, gazing around at the rolling plains of Whiterun Hold, the simplistic beauty of a lone Keep entrenched by ancient stone walls that even now hold their might against the machinations of conflict and the danger of Dragons soaring through the skies. Her eyes take in the enthralling wilderness stretching for miles, smiling as she looks to distant trees beyond the tundra. "I like it. Simple is better sometimes."
"Wish I could say the same, I hate Whiterun. Smells of cow shit all the time."
"Yes... That tends to be the case when you wander through farmlands."
"Doesn't mean I have to like it." The younger man's quip only makes the scarlet-haired woman shrug as she begins to polish her longsword, a razor sharp piece of art moulded from steel to be an instrument of the Emperor's will, either through the hand that wields it or the blade itself plunging into the Empire's foes who might dare to foolishly stand against progression.
"Hey Zedrick, Celina!" Another voice cries out, a Nord Auxiliary whom sits besides the two as they discuss Whiterun and their newfound homes. "Did I miss much?" Asks the Nord soldier, looking between the two currently seated. "Nothing really. Going on about how appalling Whiterun is because of cow shit."
"You mean -you- were." Celina swiftly corrected the nitpicky man. "Hah. This is your typical noble turned soldier here. Silver spoon stuck up his pompous ass all his life."
"Quit it Ortis!" Protested Zedrick, only for the Nord to continue berating the boy as Celina sighed with an uninterested look in her face. It did not take much effort from her at all to slip away from the squabbling boys without being noticed. Celina gripped her sheathed sword, finding an empty area outside of the gates to train in peace, coming to a small lonesome oasis of water and a glistening tree growing from the centre of it. She spends a moment with her head held high to the heavens, closing her emerald green eyes to utter a prayer to herself. "Serve and obey your Emperor. Study the Covenants. Worship the Eight, do your duty, and heed the commands of the saints and priests.
Above all else, be good to one another. Akatosh guide me." Immediately after concluding her prayer, she lunges her dominant right hand onto the leather-bound hilt of her longsword, wrenching it from the scabbard that shielded the majestic blade. Moving into a rhythm, she slashed and plunged the blade at empty air, each manoeuvrer causing sharp hisses to ripple through the air, a song of steel worthy of a warrior maiden blessed by the Gods to heed the call of triumph that awaited the Quaestor.
Further training Celina pursued, stylishly twirling her body with her arms raised, gripping the hilt of her blade with both hands. She practices her footwork, pacing her strafes and lunging steps before bringing the blade overhead to deliver a metaphorical crushing slash to an ill armoured skull. She immediately follows the vertical slash with a rising diagonal slice, twisting her torso as if she were expertly dispatching one foe only to gain the upper hand and decisive victory over another interloper seeking to strike from behind, the coward's repertoire. Sweat began to form beneath her arched brow, the grip on her blade tightened, the fury in her swings grew more ferocious with every slice into the wind, battle-ready fervour heightened with every step taken in her practice routines. Focused to the letter, Celina set loose an unbridled crescendo of strikes and flurries to the imaginary foes. "You can't join the Legion! You listen to me right now!" A voice echoed through the woman's mind, plaguing her every movement, haunting her even in sweet solitude. "You will not amount to anything like your whore mother!" Celina began to grunt aggressively, her eloquent combat prowess shifted into a barbaric assault, without direction and gradually losing precision to the point of unpredictable carnage. Woe to the rebel who confronts Celina in this state as she begins to perform her combat techniques with impressive speed and ferocity. An outsider beholding this strong, confident woman would merely see vigorous training regiments, but to Celina she battles demons not from the Realm of Oblivion but her very psyche. Within her mind the echo of a hand forcefully pressed into flesh resonates in her head, with the passing words "YOU WILL OBEY ME!" creeping into her focus before she ceases it all with a plunging strike to the soil beneath her. Silence. The melody of a foe vanquished, or a forlorn peace before pain's inevitable return? Celina takes a moment to catch her breath as she stands and pulls the longsword out of the ground, wiping off remnants of grass and soil before she returns to camp to drink something cold.
"Anya, good day to you!" Smiled Danica Pure-Spring as Anya entered the Temple of Kynareth, to which Anya politely smiled back with her sweet as rain voice soothingly returning pleasantries with the hooded Priestess. "Kynareth smile on you, Danica. Do you need my help today?"
"Your timing couldn't have been better, two of the Guards have sustained wounds recently and I already have a patient under my care. Could you see that they're tended enough to sleep well tonight?"
"Of course I will." Answered Anya, who immediately proceeded to a nearby cupboard to gather some medical apparatus, such cupboards were found scattered around the Temple which largely consisted of stone beds and space for worshipping the Goddess of the Winds, patterned windows allowed the light of the sun to illuminate the Temple in scattered god-rays, beautifully so. Danica approached her with a cautionary tone to her voice. "Gjalder's one of them. I know how you feel about him, but regardless of personal feelings our duties as Priestesses come first." Anya sighed and nodded, maintaining her gentle, innocent tone of voice. "I am a Priestess of the Divines first, Danica. I will not let my personal feelings get in the way of a soul in need."
"I know." Danica said, smiling. Anya nodded to her softly as she gathered what she needed to treat most wounds the Guards frequently require mending: Bowls of fresh water to rinse out bandages, tongs to aid in the unfortunate removal of arrows and a clean needle with string and scissors for suturing injuries. Anya approached the man she spends many days being gawked by, Gjalder Iron-Blood. A Nord full of pride and no sense for respecting anybody who isn't a fighter. Handsome, to be sure, his flowing locks of golden hair sway magnificently with every step and his strong, squared jaw certainly succeeds in drawing in women who seek a capable man in their lives. "Anya my rose, how fortunate I am to be tended by such a radiant beauty such as yourself."
"Hello to you too Gjalder. Can you please show me your wound?"
"Of course, it's here just... Just above my hip." Gjalder said with a grimace, though despite gritting his teeth through a sharp strike to his side, the Nord insists on maintaining his bravado, taking every opportunity to stare into Anya's soft features as she tends to his wound. Anya procures a linen bandage to replace the man's dirty fabrics, dousing the older wrap into a bowl of water. "We were patrolling in the north-east reaches of the Hold... Then out of nowhere, a group of Bandits jumped on us Anya. They came out of nowhere, armed to the-" Gjalder halts his storytelling as Anya washes out the wound with clean water, pat-drying the man's toned and muscular abdomen of excess moisture. "S-sorry..." She mutters, despite her feelings against his unwanted advances she cannot help but regret any and all pain he might feel from the wound. Truly, her servitude to Mara is one of genuine sincerity with firm, adamant beliefs in the Divines. "Hah, have no fear my rose. I can take a few hits!" He boasted, much to the dismay of Anya who found him as impressive as a wet carrot. "...There we were, surrounded by about... Six of them, to our three. Common bandits who were up against Whiterun Guards! We could take them, and we did! We took them out with ease, especially me. I got four of them to the ground before one got a sneaky stab in with his butter knife." Gjalder happily regaled his story of valour and prowess, all the while Anya inspected the washed out wound, which has fortunately ceased to bleed.
"This might feel uncomfortable Gjalder, I'm going to suture your stab wound."
"Fair Priestess, nothing is uncomfortable with you." Gjalder says, looking directly into Anya's eyes as she rolls her own, reaching for her needle to begin suturing the man's wound. Carefully puncturing the lowest edge of the wound, Anya methodically pulls the needle through the flesh to connect the beginning of the process. Gjalder winces and looks to the handiwork in progress before his eyes settle upon Anya's beautiful features, captivated by her youthful grace and innocence. "Anya, can I ask you something?" Gjalder asks, in a much more serious tone than his previous cocky attitude. Anya raises a brow, startled by the sudden shift in atmosphere. "Uh... Of course, what is it?"
"Why don't you like me?"
"Excuse me?"
"I'm capable, I can provide, I'm easy on the eyes, I've got a good home in the Winds District, I serve our City Guard to protect Whiterun... Yet you reject me. Why?"
"I... Can we not talk about this right now, please?" Anya said with caution, swallowing nervously. "I-I don't want to be distracted while stitching your wound." Gjalder, fortunately, nodded and allowed her to complete the suturing without any further questions. Anya let out a heavy sigh of relief as she finished with the suture, reaching for the scissors to cut off the excess string. "You're mended, but please rest for a few days until any stiff sensations have parted, okay?"
"Of course." Finally reasonable, Anya took the opportunity to depart and clean her used apparatus in a nearby water basin, thoroughly wringing the bloodied bandages to drain them of grime. Nervous about his serious line of questioning, she pauses in her tracks to catch her breath, contemplating the severity this could possibly impose. Will he resort to blackmailing her for her hand? No, surely he wouldn't do that she thought, yet a fear could not help but manifest itself as malicious, conniving plans to thwart Anya's happiness in favour of this Nord gaining a young wife for himself. She shook her head, trying to rationalize her thoughts until one came into her mind: Why is she even thinking this deeply to begin with? Paranoia for a simple, albeit serious, question by a man smitten with a pretty lady? Whatever the answer, she has another patient to heal before the day is out.
The next morning.
4E 201, 7th of Rain's Hand
Heavy, wooden doors groan with an ancient roar as Celina accompanies her commanding officer and another Quaestor, all of whom enter the gates of Dragonsreach, the grand imposing fortress crowning the city of Whiterun. Home to the legendary fable of Olaf One-Eye capturing the fearsome Dragon Numinex within the very same halls the Imperials walk through. It is hard not to admire the history of the Keep, symmetrical stone pillars surround the interior with expertly woven tan carpets cushioning the heavy soldiers' boots, adorned with golden tassels and trims that reflect the colours of Whiterun's insignia. As the trio of Imperials ascend the stairs, they behold the famous hall of Dragonsreach: Perched aloft the Jarl's Throne is the eldritch skull of the Dragon Numinex, a historical relic of times past where mythos was reality and heroism filled the stomachs of every able-bodied warrior capable of heeding the call of northern steel. A Dunmer woman clad in leather raiments, armed with a finely sharpened steel longsword approaches the trio of soldiers, speaking to them with a gravelly tone layered with authority. "State your names." Fortunate that the guests are trained Imperial soldiers, for the Dunmer's cold stare and fierce demeanour would send any young whelps running to the Throat of the World. She bore crimson orbs for eyes engulfed by serpentine markings etched into her grey flesh, a head of orange-red hair simply swept backwards to avoid obstructing her vision. The intimidating woman keeps a hand coiled around her hilt, staring into the souls of the Imperials. "Legate Quentin Cipius. The Jarl is expecting me." The grizzled Legionnaire responds with an equally confident tone, maintaining his dominant posture though it did nothing to phase the hardened Housecarl. Her blood-red eyes scan the party accompanying the Legate with a judgemental stare, as if discerning their valour and skills before a man's voice resonates behind her. "Irileth, give the man some room."
"Of course, my Jarl." The Dunmer states, back stepping to the side of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater whose presence is signalled with a unison of boots clambering and the grinds of iron shifting against uniforms as the Whiterun Palace Guards all stand at attention at Jarl Balgruuf's arrival. The Jarl could easily be spotted in a crowd: Dignified golden hair flowing down his nape with a golden circlet as his crown embedded with a ruby as bright as embers, a rough long goatee beard shrouding his chin but most importantly, the regalia of a Skyrim Jarl which bears royalty and finery upon one mere glance. Soft ocean blue and tree bark brown cloths eloquently fold together into this sophisticated garb with symbolic golden patterns and weaving building much of the robe's design.
"Welcome to Whiterun, Legate. How many men did you bring?"
"Enough men to combat a siege with the supplies to boot."
"Good. Let us discuss the matter at hand." Jarl Balgruuf wastes no time in planning Whiterun's protection, the shadow of war looming closer and closer by the day and he knows too well Ulfric's intent to show his army's might. He escorts the trio of Imperials beyond the Throne, ascending a set of meticulously clean and tidy stairs to begin a War Council. A regal, elegantly carved and painted table rests between two bookshelves, holding only a large map of Skyrim upon its surface. Legate Quentin circles the table and looks to one of his Quaestors. "Flags." He commands, following swiftly the Quaestor procures a pouch from his bandolier containing a set of twenty small flags: ten of which are red and the other ten blue. Quentin takes them and begins to dot them across the map to Skyrim, putting five of the blue flags in the south-western reaches of Eastmarch, close to the Whiterun border. One blue flag is then placed directly south of Whiterun City, a location that in the real world would be visible immediately after exiting the city gates. The remaining four flags are spread out around the singular flag before the Legate then begins to speak. "Our scouts have reported a large force of Stormcloaks headed to Whiterun, armed with catapults."
"Damn it!" Jarl Balgruuf hissed, slamming his fist onto the table showing the man's infamous temper that he became known throughout the Holds for, as well as his deep respect for traditions. Celina, having never met the Jarl of Whiterun before remains slightly startled, but her composure is that of steel refusing to bend or waver. "Haven't the walls been through enough?! They barely stand as it is!"
"They are bringing carriages loaded with clay pots and oils. Ulfric intends to use flame over stone."
"So... He wants to take my city with the walls intact. The carnage on the citizens... Irileth!" The Jarl beckons his Housecarl over, whom dutifully stands at attention by his side. "Make sure we have ample water reserves to combat the flames, keep a detachment to do this."
"No flames will scorch this city my Jarl, I swear it on my life."
"Good. Ulfric will NOT have my city. Not while Balgruuf the Greater sits beneath the Dragon! Cipius,what else have your scouts reported?"
"Much of the soldiers are armed with battleaxes, some have blades and shields but many of the rebels intend to bring pain rather than defensive equipment. Stormcloak soldiers are ferocious but undisciplined. They're unpredictable except for one tactic: They'll take any chance to prove themselves a 'true Nord', whatever that means." The Jarl scoffs at the Imperial, recognizing the cultural indifference of a man who has spent too little time in Skyrim to understand the Nords and their ways of life, what honours they hold dear and the significance of valour. "I'll be prepared for them." He simply comments. "Jarl Balgruuf, it is wise if you take no part in the battle, your presence here is-"
"Do not command me in my own Hold, Imperial! A true Nord never shys away from a battle. I will defend my Hold with strength or Sovngarde take me! I'll not stand idly by when a usurper burns my home and slaughters my people!" Irileth smirks, knowing too well the antics of her Jarl. Celina too cannot help but smile in admiration for the man's fervour. 'Quite a man, what a shame.' She thinks to herself with a brief, sly grin before she resumes her composure. The Legate begins to speak but ultimately, is swiftly cut off by the Jarl's stubborn nature once more. "What about those 'Companions', they cou-"
"Absolutely not. You puffed up Imperials spend too much time around silk and not enough around your own people! The Companions take no part in the war efforts, their position is delicate here."
"I can retract my men if you wish, return to our silks..."
"No! No. The Stormcloaks must not succeed. They cannot have Whiterun."
"Of which we can agree." Quentin finally states an agreement with the fiery Jarl, as the battle plan will soon commence, he turns to Celina whom has spent much of this meeting as a mere escort. "Quaestors, gather a squad of trusted soldiers. I want two ambush squads, one to manoeuvrer around the Stormcloak's camp to disable the catapults, another hidden within the city. The off-chance that they breach our lines and lower the drawbridge, we cannot let them push further than that. Celina, you stay here in the city with a contingency of your best men. Prepare fortifications at the gates as much as you are able. Castus, you gather your best. When the Stormcloaks arrive, wait for Masser's light and then infiltrate under cover of dark. Do what you are able to make sure the catapults do not rain fire over the city."
"How long until they arrive?" Jarl Balgruuf asks the question that plagues everyone's mind. War is coming, but the suspense of preparing for it may be too much to bear for the men and women about to risk their lives. "The enemy draw closer to Whiterun's eastern border. We will see them tomorrow."
"Not even a full day... We had better get started." Balgruuf nods to Irileth and both she and the Quaestors depart from the War Council to prepare for the siege that is to come.
8 hours before the Stormcloaks arrive.
"Idolaf!" Alain shouts, approaching the Battle-Born whom readily prepares for the approaching skirmish between Stormcloak invaders and the might of the Imperial Legion. Finally, a chance for the Battle-Borns to take up arms themselves against their sworn enemies, the terrorists that threaten Skyrim's stability. Idolaf, a young and stocked man with broad shoulders and tough skin, luscious blond hair graciously swept backwards. He looks to the younger Breton, smirking at the Legion enthusiast. "Alain, good to see you."
"Are you going to fight?"
"Absolutely. A chance to sink my blade into those filthy Stormcloak savages."
"I want to fight too! Give me a weapon! Please!" Idolaf laughed derisively, though a moment of sizing the boy up he ceased his mocking tone, the determination was clear in the Breton's eyes, a tempest of civil duty that he hadn't seen in anybody inhabiting Skyrim since he saw his own reflection in the lakes. An arrogant perspective to be sure, but little blame can be pinned on him for his Clan is old, rooted in history, well respected, brimming with coin and success. "Alright. You want to fight? Here, take this." Idolaf loosens the bindings on his Imperial longsword's scabbard, removing the sheathed blade from his raiment to offer Alain the weapon. The young boy gasped and gulped nervously, but excitement overwhelmed him and he eagerly reached for the weapon, running his palm over the hilt bound in thick leather. He bestowed freedom to the steel that cried for a worthy hand to wield it, releasing the blade from its scabbard. His eyes grew alight with awe, now feeling more like a man of the Legion instead of the boy who aspired to serve it. "It's a good weapon Alain, practice with it. We'll make a Legionnaire out of you yet." Idolaf said in an encouraging tone, causing Alain to laugh, taking a few practice swings to develop a feel for the weight of the weapon. Naturally. Alain has had little practice so the weapon proved to be a heavy addition, the Breton struggling to keep his feet still as the weapon carried him with each swing.
"A little heavy for you, isn't it?" A woman's voice asked the Breton from behind. He seemed almost captivated by the serenity of her voice, turning around to see Celina standing before him, hands placed upon her hips as she had been watching Alain practice with the sword. "Oh! Sorry ma'am, I-"
"Sorry for what?" She quickly responds, causing Alain to stumble and stutter in his vocabulary, what exactly was he sorry about? Nervously trying to respond only for Celina to smirk and do the deed herself, saving him any further embarrassment. "How much practice have you had with that?" She asks him a rhetorical question: One glance at his mediocre swings is enough proof to know it's his first time ever wielding a weapon, at least a real one. "I- It's my first time, ma'am."
"Quaestor Artoria. You want to serve the Legion, is that it?"
"Yes ma- uh. Quaestor Artoria. I do!"
"Not tonight you're not. It's going to be a battle for the city as I'm sure you've heard the Jarl announce. You are not admitted to the Legion young man, we cannot have citizens in the crossfire."
"But-!"
"No buts lad. I'll be happy to see if you are worth the recommendation but for tonight, stay indoors. Barricade your home and brave the night with your loved ones. This is not a day for recruitment." Before Alain can respond, another young woman's voice rings out with panic and shock. "ALAIN!" The all-too familiar sound of his twin sister makes him stand on edge, knowing her distaste for violence. Seeing him wielding a longsword and speaking to an Imperial Legionnaire must send shivers down her spine that in turn cause the ends of his hairs to flare and ascend upright. "Alain, what are you doing here?! I've been so worried about you! Please pardon my brother ma'am..." She sheepishly utters, though Celina makes no effort to comment on the young lady's words, for she finds herself staring into the pale beauty's delicate brown eyes, admiring the sight of the kind lady before reality beckons her once more. "Ah. It is nothing to worry about, Alain here is your brother?"
"Yes, my younger twin." Celina finds herself smiling at Anya again, the Priestess this time notices and shyly smiles back, looking down towards the floor. "Pardon my rudeness, I am Quaestor Artoria, though Celina is fine."
"Anya Vanne, my brother is Alain."
"Anya, a pleasure." She says, taking a moment to inspect Anya's robes to quickly identify her as a Priestess. "A Priestess of the Divines? Is the temple aptly stocked for medical supplies? We have much in our supply carriage should the Temple require it."
"Oh, you are too kind Quaestor Artoria... Thank you, we have been managing but any help to the Temple is deeply appreciated."
"Anything for a fellow servant of the Gods... And please, Celina will do." She says gently, gradually losing the commanding tone of an Imperial soldier for that of a kind and considerate woman donating to the Temple of Kynareth and its graceful Priestess, who refuses to vacate her thoughts. "Alain, you should get back home now. Mother is worried about you."
"Fine, I will... Farewell, Quaestor Artoria." Alain offers Celina a respectful bow before he runs off through the stony streets, finding his way back home. With just Celina and Anya left in one another's company, Anya takes the time to apologize for her brother, her tone remaining shy and hesitant. "I'm sorry if my brother bothered you at all... He is very keen on joining the Legion."
"I noticed." Celina responded softly, her emerald eyes anchored onto Anya's humble brown irises, smiling sweetly at her. "He's a good lad, from what I can tell. You don't need to apologize for his patriotism to our Emperor, though I am curious about his sister." The statement made Anya blink, blushing faintly as she swiftly looks to the floor nervously. "W-what about me?"
"A man keen on fighting in the name of Emperor Titus Mede II and yet his twin sister shows no sign of it, instead opting for the peaceful life of a Priestess. What forged your faith may I ask?"
"Oh... Well... I wanted to help people's lives. There is so much death and sorrow in Tamriel, I wanted to show kindness and happiness to the people of Whiterun, as the Gods decree. I hope that my work is successful..."
"I believe it is." Celina confidently states, glowing with a kindred smile that in turn makes Anya smile shyly, her cheeks a flustered pink. Celina sighs and her smile fades as she speaks out. "I must depart to inspect the fortifications. I trust a woman like yourself has much work in the Temple to oversee?" Anya stuttered faintly, both perplexed and off-put as she asks "A... A woman like me, Celina?" to which she receives the answer "A kind and caring soul." a statement that only heightens the smile Anya bears, glowing with a radiant shine of happiness at the friendly, caring conversation between the two women. "Yes, I do... I hope we meet again, Celina. It has been a pleasure."
"Truly... May the Gods look kindly upon you Anya." Celina yields a gentle nod before she turns and parts from Anya, retaining her tranquil smile as she proceeds to oversee barricades and infantry placements to protect Whiterun from siege and assault. Anya walks toward the Temple of Kynareth, with questions and curiosities anew plaguing her mind. 'A kind and caring soul' echoed throughout her thoughts and she was oblivious to the deep, treasured smile it brought to her lips each time the words circulated in her mind, guided by the memories of Celina's sharp, bold lips that beckoned her memories with each passing second.
3 hours before the Stormcloaks arrive.
"Zedrick, what do you think about the ladies of Whiterun?" Asks Ortis, glancing between Celina and Zedrick as the trio sit by a campfire sampling warm soup as Skyrim's daylight gradually bleeds away to allow Masser and Secunda to dominate the approaching night. Dusk has yet to rise, allowing orange shades of fading light to bathe the environment, enough to detail the surroundings by a crafty scout: The three have encamped themselves atop a small rocky hill that surrounds the raised drawbridge that leads to Whiterun's entrance gates. Battlements are filled with archers and walkways obstructed with wooden, spiked blockades to deter any charging enemies. In the dim light the white stone the city shares its namesake with looks to be an exotic ivory, ancient foundations that have withstood the test of time for centuries. Their endurance is to be tested once more as siege and warfare loom closer and closer. "Well. I consider myself a gentleman, a respected Imperial... However, I have noticed the gorgeous maiden in the Temple of Kynareth."
"Ahah! The red haired one?"
"The very same!" Celina bears an expression of utter distaste, silently polishing her blade and gradually looking more and more irked as these men discuss the serene woman she met previously. "Gods, what I wouldn't give to have her polish my sword, you know?" The two men laugh casually at their banter, only for Celina to hiss her disapproval with a venomous tinge felt in her voice. "She is a Priestess of the Divines! Do not sully her name with your disgusting desires!" She callously states to the men before departing for her own privacy. Ortis and Zedrick look to one another confused, shrugging their shoulders with indifference. "What got her britches twisted?" Ortis asks bluntly.
"Don't ask me. Maybe she's jealous because it's not her we're admiring?" Zedrick laments, unable to conjure any other reasons for the woman's foul mood.
"Would you?" The Nord takes the chance to put Zedrick on the spot, smirking at him.
"What?" He asks, confused at Ortis' question.
"Would you court Artoria?" Asked with a sly grin from the unkempt Nordic man.
"Oh. Well.. I uh..." Zedrick begins to blush and stutter, nervously looking at the fire and distracting himself with a frantic sip of his hot soup, shrieking quietly at the burning sensation on his tongue. "Agh! That's hot!"
"Don't change the subject! You -would-! You've got a fire for Artoria haven't you?" Ortis asks loudly, laughing at the embarrassed Imperial as he nervously chuckles and denies the accusation. "What! No! She's our Quaestor, don't be stupid! Just stop talking about this!" He commands, though the Nord only finds further amusement at the Imperial.
Celina meanwhile, walks up to the Battlements rife with Whiterun and Imperial archers at attention together, unified by their duty to fend the great city against the rebel Stormcloaks. Commander Caius stands guard beside the row of archers, inspecting their defences from above the entrance to the city that soon would become a battlefield, the rustle of townsfolk browsing the visiting Khajiit caravans or the clanging of horseshoes exchanged for roars of carnage and blood to soak the soil, staining the ground with grim reminders of man's need for chaos. "How are the men?" Celina asks the Commander, whose face is unfazed for the approaching strife. He bears a vertical scar below his left eye with a receding hairline of dark brown shades, adorned in the Whiterun Guard uniform – a chain-mail jerkin with fur boots padded in leather, all shielded by a yellow-golden drape to signify Whiterun's colours – with the exception of no wrist guards and no shield. Armed only with a steel longsword, the confident and brave veteran even now out-classes the younger men in his charge. Age has thus far failed to hinder the soldier who rushes head-first into the fray, the defence of Whiterun and its citizens being his top priority at all times. Rushing into the enemy to ensure they dare not step foot in his beloved city is surely one way to protect the citizens of his home. "They are ready for the Stormcloaks. Some of them even hoping we're outnumbered."
"Hoping we're outnumbered?" Celina asks. "Yes. So there are more bodies for them to cut down." Caius specifies, holding onto the hilt of his blade. "I see... Confidence we can use, but bravado gets soldiers killed. I hope it's the former." Celina states, but her attention is forced to gaze over the walls of the city, eyes reaching the Temple of Kynareth's rooftops in the distance. She sighs wistfully, imagining far more interesting and meaningful ways to spend her night than waiting for the onslaught of a power-hungry rebellion. Longing to meet her again, that crimson enchantress that has stolen her focus with her disarming smile and tender looks. Shaking her head, Celina makes her way through the defenders and enters the city through a stairwell that leads to the battlements. Waiting at the foot of the stairs are a squad of six Imperial soldiers who salute her arrival. "At ease, soldiers." Celina commands with respectable authority, allowing the Imperials to relax at her presence. "Here is the plan: We will act as a dual-force. If the Stormcloaks somehow lower the drawbridge outside and get inside of the city, we are to cut off their advance here at the gates. The inner bridge will be their entry point with possible flanking at these stairs. I want an archery position stationed on a rooftop to catch any ranged combatants. The rest of us will harass them at the gates as lethal distractions as the reinforcement squad at the Keep charge them. If we hear news that the battle is ours, we will reinforce the city entrance and drive them out. Any questions?" Her squadron remain silent, satisfying the Quaestor. "Good. Stock up on whatever supplies you need, when they arrive we need to be ready to vanquish as many as possible. Gods watch over you."
Celina raises her brow as the sound of marching boots resounds behind her. Turning to face the source of this noise, she is bewildered to find Jarl Balgruuf and his men armoured and ready for battle. The Jarl definitely stands out amongst his men, sporting a regalia of valiant steel plate armour polished and ready to be coated in Stormcloak blood. His armour is bulky, yet precise in design with decorative swirls and etchings that resemble gusts of wind washing over the land, a fur kilt is attached to the waist of the raiment and also protects the opening of the boots for the combatant's comfort. Balgruuf chuckles and comes equipped with his steel war axe and a longsword sheathed at the waist, much to the surprise of Celina. "My Jarl, what are you doing out here?"
"Hah! You think because I govern Whiterun that I would slither into my Keep and leave the glory of battle to my men? No. I am Jarl Balgruuf the Greater! This Hold is my charge and I will personally see to its security!" The stubborn Nord boldly states, his fiery demeanour is enough of a tempest to awaken the long-dormant Draugr from their ancient slumber. "There is no convincing you, is there my Jarl? Very well, we will face the Stormcloaks together, but your survival surpasses all."
"No. If I am to fall tonight, then I'm taking as many Stormcloaks to Sovngarde with me as possible." Celina sighs to herself, despite her growing admiration for Balruuf she cannot help but think to herself: 'Men. Why are they so irrational...'
Anya looks out of the window in the Temple of Kynareth, concerned for the men and women risking their lives in order to protect the peace and sanctity of their fair city. She slowly lowers herself to her knees, assuming a prayer position in the centre of the Temple, surrounded by fading light shining through the Temple and exquisite stone forming a beautiful floor beneath her humble form. Her soft eyes close and her palms come together as she prays aloud for her city. "Under Stendarr: Be kind and generous to the people of Tamriel. Protect the weak, heal the sick, and give to the needy." She pauses in her prayer before continuing. "Under Arkay: Honour the earth, its creatures, and the spirits, living and dead. Guard and tend the bounties of the mortal world, and do not profane the spirits of the dead. Under Mara: Live soberly and peacefully. Honour your parents, and preserve the peace and security of home and family." She again pauses, thinking deeply on her family, the duty of caring for Alain and keeping him out of trouble, always watching over her younger brother. Ultimately her efforts to keep her friends and family happy even through the difficult times where sorrow and misfortune rule the day. "Under Zenithar: Work hard, and you will be rewarded. Spend wisely, and you will be comfortable. Never steal, or you will be punished." Her thoughts pan to the work her father put into his merchant store, the creation and selling of Breton artwork and sculptures made Ambroise Vanne a successful entrepreneur with her mother and brother helping him. He retired early back in High Rock, yet he yearned to live in peace in Skyrim's rolling tundra with his beloved family. "Under Kynareth: Use Nature's gifts wisely. Respect her power, and fear her fury. Under Dibella: Open your heart to the noble secrets of art and love. Treasure the gifts of friendship. Seek joy and inspiration in the mysteries of love..." Anya then briefly found herself remembering the delightful discussion with one Celina Artoria, fondly recalling her exotic pale skin, adorable freckles and the intriguing scarlet hair, the flame-kissed beauty invaded her prayers and her thoughts to the unknown pleasure of the young Priestess, who smiled deeply to herself before she continued praying. "Under Julianos: Know the truth. Observe the law. When in doubt, seek wisdom from the wise. Under Akatosh: Serve and obey your Emperor. Study the Covenants. Worship the Eight, do your duty, and heed the commands of the saints and priests. By the Eight Divines, be good to one another. Blessings of the Divines upon us all."
Her prayers concluded, she stood up and arose with a relieved sigh, confident that the Gods will watch over her city and protect those who call it home from the horrors of war. As she turned to leave, Gjalder Iron-Blood blocked her way after quietly following her into the Temple. "Hello Anya." He quickly says. Uncomfortable with this unannounced visit and impolite appearance, she quietly returns his attitude with saint-like manners and kindness. "Good evening, Gjalder. Could you kindly let me pass? I must return home."
"You're not going anywhere until you tell me right here and now what you don't like about me." Anya blinked, upset by his aggressive tone and demanding nature, she tries to maintain her polite behaviour but it serves little use as Gjalder continues to oppress and harass her choices. "I... Gjalder, it's not so simple as-"
"No! I am a good, hard-working man and you are a beautiful young woman. Life is so short, we are destined to be wed! So why do you reject me?" Anya begins to be visibly and emotionally saddened by his forward approach, pleading for him to ease his intentions. "Gjalder, please! You're frightening me, please let me go home."
"I want an answer Anya! Nobody in Skyrim is as flawless as you, just at least give me an answer!" She stutters and begins to show distress, clearly his intimidating nature has affected her but the oblivious Nord shows no signs of even noticing her discomfort, wanting only an answer to his rejected advances towards the innocent woman. "I... I can't answer that Gjalder, I'm sorry. I'm sorry..." Gjalder narrows his brow at Anya, realizing he likely won't get an answer out of her even when he presses her into a corner. "Fine... Be like that. This damned city deserves to be lost to the Stormcloaks. At least then -true- Nords will live here, not mindless morons and harlots!" His insulting rant is cut short as Anya, during an emotional torrent raises her palm to slap Gjalder across the cheek, silencing the heated Nord with a harrowing strike into reality. He looks to the young woman, whose eyes have grown red and tears fall down her cheeks as she storms past the man, now stood still as he realizes the hopelessness of his crush. Sighing in defeat, Gjalder walks out of the temple angered and disappointed after Anya tearfully heads home, insulted and offended by a man who claimed to have loved her, but his behaviour really showed that he wanted one thing from her which failed her definition of love, but selfishness with no regards to her heart's desires.