(AN: Last night, while publishing two long chapters back to back, i also finished mapping out most of where i'm going with Crixus' story. Strange that i had both a massive amount of time in the story to do his things and therefore must needs spread the story out, but at the same time found myself running incredibly short on time as well.)

(Oh well, the gist is that this chapter was going to have something happen at Helgen [yes, Helgen. But not the dragon], but i decided to do something completely random, but to still feature Helgen just for shites and giggles. So here is my version of pre-Dragon crisis Helgen.)

An Unplanned Attack

In an instant, Crixus drew a knife from his belt and threw it at the elf's hand, holding the torch: he had just enough light to make his shot and no other option. Without light, he could make his escape and, from the roaring sound of water nearby, he rightly guessed that the Treva River bled down into a waterfall which cascaded off of the Rift plateau: jumping down there would be tempting fate. As soon as the torch fell, he darted off towards the southern end of the inlet. The current was weaker this far upstream that he felt he could be able to wade through near where the land vanished at the mountain's edge.

"Spread out!" he could hear the elf ordering from far behind. "Find the assassin! I want him brought to me alive!"

Crixus was now at the water's edge; the rushing waters were within inches from his boots. Though he had been fortunate enough to never suffer being in an Aldmeri prison camp during the War or endure their torture chambers, he had heard the rumors of the horrors that went on behind closed moon-stone doors. He would rather risk the water than let himself be captured, especially by the Thalmor. Into the water he leaped, hoping that he could reach the other side before he was caught. The current was much stronger than he had imagined, and it took all of his strength to keep from being swept downstream towards the waterfall. A good minute or two passed before Crixus' feet were not encumbered by the waters around him and he could slosh onward.

All night Crixus ran, fearing that stopping would be fatal. His horse was still tied up in the town of Ivarstead, but he dared not go back for it, not with so many out looking for him. On and on he went, passing through the wooded forests to the south of Ivarstead. Morning seemed so far away, for each mile in his cold, wet boots was just as hard as the last one. About midnight, he began to note the cold chill rising up around him. The warm, soft earth became cold and hard and he felt a gossamer-soft cold, wet thing touch his face: snow. He remembered his arrival in Skyrim: cold, wet and dangerous. Now he was walking towards the pass with soaked boots: his months in Llewynn Pass had taught him that being wet in winter made for a short life. But he had no shoes to replace the wet boots until they dried off. Frustratedly, he made his way in the dark to a large stone, hoping that it would give him some cover, and proceeded to remove his boots. Once they were off, he focused on the last bit of light he saw and conjured a ball of Candlelight to give him a little bit of light for the task ahead. Now with light, he tore off the hem of his cloak: his legs would have to go cold for a while. With this and a knife in his other hand, he cut out cloth swathes to wrap around his feet. It would not do at all, but this was better than nothing.

The later half of the night was spent trudging down a path that led uphill into the mountains. Ever and anon the cold winds whipped at Crixus' body, biting through his clothes and chilling him to the bone. The sounds of pursuit had long since faded into the shadows of the night, but Crixus did not believe that they had so easily given up the search. He had to keep moving: somehow or other, he simply had to.

While walking through the snow, he heard a howl somewhere in the distance. Summoning the Candlelight spell once again and drawing out a knife, Crixus went on warily through the cold dark. For a long while there was only the distant howling on the wind, but not a sign of paw or a glow of eyes in the dark. The night grew on and the road seemed to go on forever, yet still Crixus held his course.

Then, suddenly, the light went out. Quickly he summoned the ball of light again, but it was too late. In its glow, just beyond, he could see a pair of orbs low to the ground. There was a low growl, like the sound of a dog. Crixus shouted, but his voice died in the cold wind before him like a ghastly whimper. The growl intensified and then, nearer than before, he heard a howl. Suddenly a large white shape leaped out of the darkness. Crixus thrust his knife into the thing, then pushed it off of him. Two more attacked him at the same time, one biting into his left leg while the other leaped at his chest. With a mighty swipe of the back-side of his hand, he knocked the wolf back into the ground. With his right leg he kicked the wolf that was biting his leg, knocking him to the ground. In a moment, the other wolves would be upon him. Swinging wildly with his right arm, it was caught in the iron jaws of a wolf. His left hand punched the wolf's snout while he could hear two more panting as they ran towards him. The wolf on his arm balked with a yelp and Crixus' legs kicked back the other two wolves and he got back up onto his feet, his left leg still weak from the attack. The snow was stirred where the wolves were thrown, their paw-prints were everywhere, the ground where he struggled to find his footing was colored red with his own blood and nearby he saw the body of the one he had knifed. There was no other sign.

"Come on!" Crixus roared. "Is that all you've got? Come on, 'fatherland', I fucking dare you!"

Morning in Helgen. Though it had once been called a 'backwater hovel' by the Viscount of Bruma, the 'Gateway to the North' had, like Bruma, become more open to influence from Cyrodiil. There was a large Imperial presence in the keep at Helgen, of such strength that the Stormcloaks could not use the pass through Haemar's Shame to take Falkreath from the loyalists. Aside from the usual patrol of the garrison, nothing much happened in this quiet mountain town.

So it was warily that the Legion guardsmen on the gatehouse watched the frosted and bloodied ranger hobble his way into their town. Ignoring the glances, he found his way to a large long-house near the southern end of town: this was likely the inn. Above it was a sign which read 'the Helgen Homestead.' Crixus pushed open the door and slumped into the dark inn. Mere moments later, a man ran out from behind the counter and helped Crixus onto his feet.

"Road got you down, stranger?" he asked. "Oh well, it's no matter. As long as your coin's good, you can have one of the rooms here."

"Get off me," Crixus groaned.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but you can barely stand," replied the Nord. "And what are you doing with no shoes? Do you got a death wish or something?"

"Excuse me, Vilod," another voice spoke. "Let me help him."

Crixus was then lifted up by a man roughly his own height, clean-faced but with light brown hair. To Crixus' amazement, this man was clad in the garb of the Legion.

"You're with the Legion?" Crixus asked.

"Helgen garrison," the man returned. "Though I hail from Riverwood. Come now, let's get you a seat and some strong drink to chase off the cold."

The brown-haired soldier brought Crixus over to a chair and called for the Nord Vilod to bring him some of his spiced mead. The soldier walked over to another table and brought his trencher over to Crixus' table and shared with him some of his bread and soup. Crixus ate slowly and reluctantly, eying the man before him: he wore the colors of the Legion, but that he might have been a rebel who stole that uniform was not too far-fetched.

"What brought you down out of the mountain pass with no shoes, stranger?" the soldier asked.

"My boots were wet," Crixus stated.

"Well, they ain't now," the soldier returned. Definitely a Nord. "Here, I'll put them by the fire to warm them up while you eat."

"Why are you so concerned about me?" asked Crixus.

"The Legion ain't what the rebels make of them, friend," the Nord replied. "We're here to help Skyrim, not harm her. I live up to that, showing hospitality to all those I meet, not just kin-folk."

"Hmph," Crixus grunted. "And what's your name...friend?"

"Hadvar of Riverwood," he replied.

"Just call me Crixus," the Imperial stated. "Everyone else does."

"You're from Cyrodiil?"

Crixus nodded. "I'm also in the Legion."

"Well, then," Hadvar replied. "We should get you to the keep. There's plenty of beds there and our healers can have your wounds bound and our couriers send a notice to your legate, telling him we've found you."

"No," Crixus shook his head. "I don't want any of that. My mission is one that demands the utmost secrecy."

"There's no reason to be afraid," Hadvar smiled. "Helgen is a loyal town."

"And always will be!" Vilod announced as he approached their table, placing a pewter tankard on the table filled with spiced mead. Crixus picked up the cup and drank from it.

"I'll get you something to eat as well," Hadvar added. "We can talk once you've eaten your fill and rested from the journey."

Crixus placed the cup down but said nothing as Hadvar went his way to find Vilod. Just then he heard loud footsteps from the door. Turning his head slightly thither, he saw a massive Nord come waddling into the inn and take a seat that almost shook the inn. Whether it was man or woman Crixus could not tell - both wore long hair - but there was one thing he could definitely tell: this thing was huge. Not precisely tall the way that Torgrim was, towering almost head and shoulders above everyone, but more so as wide as a sload. In the sload-thing's hand was a long bow-staff and, looking the massive thing over, Crixus saw no other gear or weapons. He even doubted that there was an armorer anywhere in all of Tamriel that could have forged plate large enough to cover this mass.

As for what story he would tell Hadvar when he returned with the food? He did not want to tell him that he was recently in a rebel hold: that wouldn't go over well any way he put it. Nor could he tell him that he was going to Falkreath to report his success to the Dark Brotherhood.

At that moment, Hadvar arrived with a plate of food which he placed upon Crixus' table.

"Just a moment, friend," Hadvar stated. "I promise we'll hear all about what happened to you, just..." He looked over the cuts and wounds on Crixus' arm and leg. "...I'll send for the healer. Must do something about those wounds."

Crixus watched as the soldier made his way to the door, then turned to the plate. To his surprise, the plate was gone. He had seen it there a moment before when Hadvar brought it in, but now it was missing. Looking around, he saw the sload-thing waddling back to its table, his plate in its hands. Crixus rolled his eyes: he hadn't bought the food, so it wasn't his fault if this portly fucker wanted to steal it. He would simply use his own money to buy food of his own. Carefully he made his way up to the bar, as gingerly as his cold, injured left leg could afford, and sat down at one of the stools.

"Bartender," Crixus called out. "I need some food. A bowl of something hot, some ripe cheese, bread and pork."

"Ah, if only it were me break already," Vilod mused. "What I wouldn't do for a good loin of pork! Right with you, stranger!"

Crixus idled at the bar while Vilod went back to the store-room to bring out a clean trencher and the food as requested. Minutes later, he returned with a steaming bowl of soup with sliced eidar cheese, wholesome bread and salted pork on a platter. Crixus reached for his purse and placed the coins on the bar and Vilod slid the tray over to him.

Right before his eyes, a huge, pudgy hand reached out and dragged the trencher across the bar away from Crixus. Looking there, he saw the sload-thing had drank the soup in one gulp and was now face deep in his salted pork, which he had bought with his own money.

"Excuse me," Crixus spoke up. "I believe that was my food."

The large thing paid him no heed as it continued to devour his food.

"Excuse me, lad," Crixus interjected.

The sload-thing let out a massive, room-shaking belch, then turned to Crixus. "I'm no lad. My name is Katja."

"Whatever," Crixus replied, still unsure if this were a man or woman: it lacked the silhouette of either. "Look, you've taken my food, twice now!"

"I'm hungry!" bemoaned Katja.

"Then buy your own food," Crixus stated. "But don't go stealing my food."

"But I was hungry!" Katja repeated.

"Just like you Nords," Crixus groaned, rolling his eyes. "You think the world's your fucking oyster, that you can just take whatever you want if you want it!"

"You know, you're being very rude," Katja returned.

"Me rude?" Crixus chuckled. "You stole my food twice and I'm the rude one?"

"Look, just leave me alone," Katja replied. "I've been on a long journey from Hammerfell and I'm hungry."

Crixus scoffed. "Like you need anymore food."

"Go ahead, say what you want," Katja stated. "But I can out-eat anyone in all of Tamriel!"

Crixus chuckled. "Obviously. But how is that a feat worthy of praise, huh? I fought in the Great War, protecting ungrateful b*tches like you from the Aldmeri Dominion. Now that is praise-worthy."

"Go away and let me eat," Katja bemoaned. "You're such a dick!"

Crixus laughed. "Look, it's been a long few days for me. I've been on the road, attacked by wolves, and I need the food more than you do." At this, Katja turned to Crixus and placed half of the bread loaf topped with a slice of eidar cheese into her mouth.

"You know what?" Crixus asked. "Someone needs to teach you how to behave in front of your elders."

"You wanna throw down?" Katja asked, turning to Crixus. "Let's go, right here. All you can eat. Last one standing wins."

Crixus threw back his head in laughter. "Really? You'd expect me to fall for that? That's stupid! How about a real contest of skill?"

"Like what?"

"A duel," Crixus suggested. "I hear brawling is legal in Skyrim. Why not?"

Katja snorted loudly as she turned to Crixus. "Really? You want to duel me? I could squash you like a bug!"

"Size matters not," Crixus returned. "Like any other opponent, you can be felled just the same by an arrow or sword-wound to the heart."

"Look, if you two are gonna brawl," Vilod spoke up. "Take it outside. I just finished cleaning this place up after Gunnar Stone-Eye had that fight with the dark elf who tried to have his way with Hamming."

"Name the stakes," Katja returned.

"If you win," Crixus stated. "I'll buy you all the food you can stomach." He scoffed and added an aside. "Which would probably empty the larders here."

"And if you win?"

"You buy me breakfast," Crixus returned. "And you pay me the amount of both meals you stole from me."

"This is ridiculous," Katja dismissed. "If you're so bigoted that you'd rather I starve..."

"Starve?" Crixus snickered. "It would take at least a year before you starved."

"Alright, that's it!" the sload-sized Nord shouted, rising up from her chair. "I'm gonna make you eat those words!"

"Is food all you care about?" Crixus returned.

The large dark-haired Nord was crimson-faced as she waddled back to her chair and picked up her long-staff. Crixus limped back to the door, pushing it open as he made his way out to the door. Behind him waddled the large Nord, whom Crixus scrutinized with bemused disapproval. Aside from size, her only weapon was a bow-staff: though not to be wholly dismissed, there would be no piercing or slashing damage from that if he could avoid it. Whereas he had the prime physical form of a Legionnaire, even after twenty years as a prefecture, this Nord looked like the illustrations of sloads he had seen in books: massive girth with short arms and stubby, ineffectual legs. Mobility was on his side.

"Crixus!" Turning about, Crixus saw Hadvar with a healer behind him approaching the inn. "What in the name of the Eight is going on?"

"That fat b*tch stole my food," Crixus answered. "So I'm going to make her pay."

"Look, there's no need for this," Hadvar interjected. "I'll go back in and buy you something else."

"No," Crixus shook his head. "I'm not letting this arrogant little child go unpunished."

"Over food?" Hadvar asked.

"You'd never understand," Crixus stated. For some reason, he said that instead of what was really going on in his mind: that he would fight a Nord over something so apparently small as simply being a Nord. Hunger and being robbed were reasons enough, as was this young (so he felt from her tone) Nord's manners, but Crixus wanted to fight. Though it had only been last night since he last took a life, he hadn't had a decent challenge for his skills. Though on a normal day, fully rested and unwounded, this ignorant little ball of butter would prove no challenge, today was different. Crixus was wounded, exhausted, foot-sore and he was hungry: exactly how he was when he slew a thousand Altmer during the Battle of the Red Dog Pass, or so the rumors said.

This would be a challenge indeed.

"Are you ready?" Crixus shouted.

"Are you ready to be humiliated, straw-pole?" Katja replied. He then watched as she started waddling backwards away from him, with her staff in hand and eyes forward.

"What the fuck is she doing?" Crixus mused to himself.

To his surprise and amusement, Katja began a slow-paced jog that was supposed to be, he surmised, a run, with her staff raised in a lancing position. One end of the staff, the one which was pointed at Crixus, was planted firmly into the ground and then Katja leaped up...and came crashing back onto the ground as her staff broke in two. Crixus laughed as he walked over to his fallen foe, drawing out his gladius.

"Do you surrender?" he asked.

"Unfair!" Katja bemoaned. "That's never happened to me before! I call foul-play! Let me get back up and I'll beat you yet!"

Crixus chuckled. "I'd like to see you try."

Just then a handful of dirt came flying towards Crixus' face. One hand rose to cover his face while he felt his left leg swept out from under him and crash down painfully on to the ground. Gritting his teeth to keep the pain down, Crixus rubbed the dust out of his eyes to see his opponent flailing about on short, ineffectual arms and legs, trying to get back onto her feet. Crixus, meanwhile, was already on his feet, his eyes blinking through tears as he walked over to the struggling Katja, coming up around behind the head, and placed the point of his gladius against her thick throat.

"You're done," Crixus replied. "Now about breakfast..."

"Never!" Katja roared, flailing about on the ground.

"Crixus!" Hadvar shouted, running up to Crixus' side. "Come now, there's no need to fight."

Crixus groaned as he walked away from the large fat Nord, following Hadvar to where the healer stood on the side of the central courtyard out in front of the Helgen keep. With one last look behind him, Crixus saw the wide sload-thing slowly and clumsily push itself back onto its feet, then waddle back towards the inn.

"Dammit," groaned Crixus. "I could have gotten my money's worth out of that fat b*tch!"

"It's not worth it, picking fights with every traveler in town," Hadvar stated. "The Empire's image cannot afford to be smirched."

"But the Empire also stands for law and order," Crixus stated. "And I won't be robbed blindly like that."

"Ah, I like that," Hadvar stated. "A true warrior, fighting for law and order, just like the Legion. Not like them damn thieves in Riften."

Crixus halted for a moment, his blood running cold. How much could this ignorant, brown-haired Nord guess about him merely from first glance? He was not wearing the Cowl of Grey Fox, one of the fabled artifacts of the Thieves Guild, nor any gear that the others wore. So why did Hadvar bring up the Thieves Guild?

"What do you mean?" Crixus asked evasively.

"Oh, it's only that they rob people for fun," Hadvar stated. "Word's reached Helgen that they're growing large again." He chuckled. "I bet they would think twice about their livelihood as thieves if someone stole from them."

"I wouldn't think so," Crixus replied. "The Thieves Guild are a guild: they're allowed to steal, just as how the Fighters Guild is allowed to kill. Stealing from a guild is a crime."

"And a guild stealing from everyone isn't?" Hadvar asked.

"No," Crixus shook his head. "You simply don't understand."

"What's there to understand?" Hadvar asked. "They're thieves, they steal and stealing is against Imperial law. You know, maybe I was wrong about you. All this talk defending the Thieves Guild makes me wonder maybe if you're one of them."

"I serve the Empire first and foremost," Crixus replied.

"That's what I want to hear," Hadvar smiled. "Now come, let's see to your wounds."

(AN: I really need to go back to The Dragonborn and the Lioness and bring it up to scratch with the level of The Dragon and the Bear and this story. I mean, yes, i was kind of new to the Elder Scrolls lore then, but i'm getting better and now i can't write a single story without having a dozen UESP pages open for reference.)

(Concerning this chapter, i did get to have a little fun as well as show just how strong Crixus is. As I've said before, he's "army strong" but doesn't flaunt his strength the way Eirik does with wearing heavy dragon-bone armor and swinging a great-sword with enough strength to take off limbs.)