(AN: Yes, this title is VERY creative. Enjoy)

The Road to War

The military had changed Servius Crixus from the brash, trouble-making young boy into a hard, loyal and duty-bound soldier. But there were some things that even the rigors of camp training and the horrors of war could not fully erase, even for one of forty-five years. The infamous Battle of the Red Dog Pass had left an indelible mark on Crixus' self-esteem and confidence in his ability to command. He had been thrust command at the last minute, and more men of Claxitus' legion fell during that one long, cold week of battle than had during five years under General Claxitus. Each slain man was a failure on his part as a leader, and with so many failures up against him, Crixus feared that being in charge was something for which he was not cut out.

These thoughts ran through his mind as he galloped north on a horse towards Solitude. It had been a while since he last reported in and if the rumors of troop movement at Fort Dunstad was true, he would have to perform his duty to the Empire. He only wished that General Tullius would look kindly upon him and give him a lower rank: maybe a cavalry soldier or a scout. He could ride and his archery skills were second to none, despite what Aela the Huntress might have said.

Two days were nothing for the stout-hearted Servius Crixus, who had traveled this way before. Now he went swiftly upon the plains of Whiterun without fear: most of the people there were too smart to be housing any spies beyond that crazy spiritual man and the way to Solitude via the plains was faster than going through Hjaalmarch. The first day he encountered a pack of wolves in the plains to the north-west of the city of Whiterun. They nipped at the legs of his horse, but after a few arrows and felling two, they backed off. Though the horse escaped with nothing more than a few scratches on its legs, Crixus did not want to lose his horse from another attack, especially at night. When dusk came, he found a shallow cave in the mountains to the north, tied up his horse to an old stump just outside, then went to sleep.

There were no wolf-howls all that night. If Crixus were still as faithful as he had been in his youth before the War, he would have thanked the Eight for keeping the wolves away the rest of that night. When morning came at last, he heard the gentle snorting of his horse: another thing he would have thanked them for. But he also heard another sound nearby, something loud, like the bellowing of a trumpet. He had heard rumors of elephants, mighty creatures living in the jungles, forests and savannahs of Hammerfell; with thick, leathery skin, four legs like tree trunks, a snake-like nose, ears like two wide sails and massive tusks sprouting from their mouths. He had never had the privilege of seeing one, though those in Claxitus' Legion who had seen them told him about the sound they made: loud trumpeting fanfares as their heavy feet shook the ground.

Looking out the entrance of his cave, Crixus saw in the distance a sight that would stay with him for the rest of his days. Under the sun, rising high above the Velthoi Mountains to the east, he saw something that must surely have been an elephant, but seemed to even belie the rumors he had heard. Standing almost twelve feet tall at the shoulders, these elephants did not have wide, sail-like ears nor thick leathery skin: the ears seemed rather small, relative to its massive size, and they were all of them covered in thick coats of reddish brown hair. There must have been at least five of them, with two being rather smaller and, Crixus assumed, young. But what was even more fascinating, apart from these massive yet peaceful moving mountains, was the fact that they seemed to be like cattle being led to graze. Their shepherds Crixus saw walked alongside them, two man-like figures that were almost as tall as the beasts they were tending. Even at that distance, Crixus knew what those shepherds, clad in loin-cloths and skirts of animal skins and carrying weapons made out of large bones, could possibly be.

He had heard the legends of the giants of Skyrim. Along with the Snow Elves and the glacial tribes, they were among the first peoples living in Tamriel when the Dwemer first appeared: they were in fact the ones that called them 'Dwarves', which name stuck with the Dwemer even among the other races with whom the Deep Elves stood more or less equally as far as height. Despite most of the stories about war between the Nords and the giants, the very best evidence indicated that the giants were nothing more than itinerant hermits, tending the herds of mammoths across the tundra of Skyrim. It was even said that the giants had a semblance of intelligence, leaving some scholars to ponder if the giants were descended from mer rather than men.

Here were the giants, and those hairy elephants Crixus concluded were their mammoths. So great a sight was the herd, the hairy mammoth coats glistening golden-brown in the light of dawn, that Crixus had to admit, without stipulation or exception, this was the one moment in his time in Skyrim where he saw no danger, only beauty.

The rest of his journey was not so fortunate. A bright, sunny morning was quickly replaced with rain clouds which brought a storm down upon the plains of Whiterun. Crixus galloped north-west as hard as he could, trying to keep the rain out of his eyes. Nevertheless, the rain pouring down made progress slow. It was late afternoon, finally, when Crixus left the hold of Whiterun and was making his way towards the Karth River. Though he had lost some hours in the storm, he was determined to reach Dragon Bridge, the town on the banks of the Karth River guarding the only road into Haafingar hold, before nightfall.

As it was, night fell before Crixus arrived in Dragon Bridge, forcing him to spend the night at the Four Shields Tavern. In the morning he arose bright and early, paid for his room and sped off towards Solitude. He arrived in good time, getting there before another rain-storm broke upon the city from out of the sky. Despite the rain, Crixus returned to Proudspire Manor, the manor-house Elisif had given him, and went for his armor and uniform. He would be doing battle again in the name of the Empire soon, and he had to get his orders while in uniform. He got dressed by himself, not caring whether or not that foolish Nord girl Jordis was still here or not. He had to do the business of grown men and had no time for her foolishness.

Once suited up, he ran the rest of the way through the rain to Castle Dour. The courtyard was deserted, but when they saw his uniform, the guards let him into the keep. He was not soaked, but wet enough to be uncomfortable. After shaking his head and adjusting his sword upon his sheath, he walked into the war room, where General Tullius and Legate Rikke were waiting.

"Servius Crixus reporting for duty, sir," he announced, saluting proudly.

"Oh, you're back," the general returned. "Just in time. We're marching on Fort Dunstad." So the rumors were true, Crixus mused. "I would have sent you a message, but, since you were last sent into enemy territory, it wouldn't be wise to do so. But now that you're here, I'm sending you to the battle."

"At last," Crixus said with a smile. "What are my orders?"

"The legate will fill you in," General Tullius replied, gesturing to the young Nord woman as he left the room. Legate Rikke, meanwhile, called Crixus over to the table, where a large map of Skyrim lay upon the wood. She was pointing to something in the southern Pale, in between two large mountain ranges.

"Dunstad was an old Imperial fort built during the time of the Septims," she began. "It used to guard the mouth of Heljarchen Valley, but was abandoned during the Oblivion Crisis. According to our...scouts in Dawnstar and Whiterun, there used to be bandits in that area. Now the rebels are moving to take that hold."

"Why?" Crixus asked.

"If the rebels take it," Rikke continued. "They will be able to prevent our troops from defending Whiterun from the north. Ulfric's tightening the noose; he's preparing for the attack on Whiterun. We cannot let the rebels reinforce Fort Dunstad."

"Why not just burn the fort to the ground?" Crixus asked. "Don't we have any battle-mages in the Imperial Legion?"

"Taking Fort Dunstad will prevent Dawnstar from posing any real threat in the region," explained the legate. "At best, they would have to suffer a long march through the marshes north-east of Morthal, and I don't think even Ulfric is dumb enough to try that. Skald the Elder might be, but Ulfric is most certainly not that dumb."

"Right," Crixus nodded. "So, where do I go next?"

"We're sending a detachment to our camp in Hjaalmarch," she stated. "That will be our staging ground for the attack. I'll be leading the assault and you'll be going with me."

"You?" Crixus scoffed. "You're a woman!"

"I'm a Nord," Rikke stated through clenched teeth.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Crixus chuckled. "Haven't you noticed that there aren't that many women in the Legion? There's a reason for that, don't you think?"

"Just what are you implying, soldier?" she asked.

"Nothing," Crixus replied. "I'm only telling you that maybe war isn't your place."

"And what is my place?" she retorted. "On my knees before you, your long-sword in my mouth? We Nords live for battle, and my experience and skill in battle are second to none."

"Really?" Crixus asked, a lookf of condescension in his voice. "Aren't you just some liaison for General Tullius? You don't have any place in battle."

"I am a soldier!" Rikke barked. "I do as I am told, and the General told me to join the assault. I think he can go a few days without me. We leave as soon as the rain subsides. I suggest you not be late."

Crixus grumbled, but could find no hole in her argument. He also was a soldier, who did what his orders were without question. If General Tullius told Legate Rikke to fight, then he would have to deal with that, no matter how much he didn't like it. Saluting the legate, he made his way towards the doors of the castle when there appeared a crimson-clad Solitude guard, pouring water out of his helmet as he stood in the open door, flanked by the two gate guards.

"Servius Crixus," the guard greeted. "I have a message for you from the Jarl. She says it's urgent." He produced a letter which, by the look of the parchment, was rather new, despite being slightly damp from the storm outside. Crixus took the letter and opened it.

Dear Servius Crixus,

The General informs me that you will be going with the Legion to battle with the Stormcloak rebels. To ensure that you return safely, I am ordering you to take Jordis the Sword-Maiden with you into battle. Have the quartermaster in Castle Dour outfit her with a uniform, but she is your bodyguard and huscarl. She must go with you.

I wish you godspeed and pray for your safe return.

Elisif Oyvidsdottir, Jarl of Solitude

Crixus groaned in frustration once again. He was being ordered to do as he would rather not. There was no need for a housecarl to accompany him: Jordis was window dressing and she would only slow him down. But, like as not, he was still a soldier. He carried out his orders whether he liked them or not without question. If the Jarl insisted that he take the window dressing with him, he would take the window dressing with him.

Hopefully, he mused. Those damn Nords will tear her to pieces in the thick of battle.

(AN: Another "travel" chapter, but with some pretty images with giants and mammoths. I don't know what to say about the reviews, though. I'm glad that somebody's reading the story, but yeah, from what i remember of The Dragonborn and the Lioness, i can honestly say that nobody really cared about Eirik except for me. I mean, why should anyone care about him? He's a Nord [and yet you call me racist?], he supports his people, he believes in something other than himself and he's not "interesting" enough. So yeah, what does it matter?)