Different people have different lots in life, that's for sure.
Some people go to the officer's academy. They get promotions. They get commissions. And then, they get all of the benefits that track's entitled to: servile underlings, wielding influence over others, easy access to easy marks. All the stuff that puts you on the easy road to a life worth living. And you'd better believe that once those kinds of people get off a gods-forsaken ship after weeks upon weeks of getting thrown around in the north ocean, they get to go up to the tower to wine and dine whatever petty megalomaniac decided to claim this frigid rock to be his domain.
Then there were men like Hrisskar, shin deep in the mud, swating away blackflies, drummed straight out of confinement and out to crabkill.
Hrisskar saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Shuffling in the silt where a dirty creek fed into the brackish ocean was a mudcrab. It was a small one, no less than a month old. It was hardly even mobile. Hrisskar pivoted himself, centering his wight on the uneven ground. Then, he thrust his spear at the creature. The tip easily shattered its carapace, the hard shell sundering and snapping along almost geometric lines. The unsuspecting crab shrieked and flailed for a couple seconds before it died, sinking below the filth. Poor bastard.
Not many people sign on to the Imperial Legion planning to wind up on crabkill. Were Hrisskar a young man again no doubt he'd resent the work. But he has no longer a young man, and he had spent the last few years of his career on the Bitter Coast, which was as boggy a post that you could find north of Argonia. You learn quick what jobs are bullshit work and which ones actually matter. Early on, he stayed up into the early hours of the morning, drinking with some green recruit who had more pimples than common sense. The boy, half asleep and fully drunk, left the tradehouse to piss. He wasn't paying attention to where he was stepping.
The crabs knew, though.
Before the kid knew it a crabclaw had gotten his foot, shredding the leather of his boot and the flesh of his ankle. His bones buckled and snapped under the vice of the claw. He screamed like a struck pig.
He didn't die that night, though. The nightwatchman saw to that, killing the crab and dragging the poor fool back to the tradehouse. It was the last night Hrisskar saw him, though. He was loaded off on a strider bound for the city the next morning, where a proper temple healer might salvage something of his foot. If the healer succeeded, the kid would've come back to his post. He never turned up. Hrisskar never heard from him again.
Different people, different lots.
Still, he learned a lesson from the bloody business, which was even if it felt beneath you, somebody had to kill the crabs. Hrisskar hadn't branched out enough on this assignment to know who he could pawn off the work to. Not yet. But one day he would, though, and he'd no longer be the one in the mud.
As he yanked his spear back, he trodded deeper into the muck. Then, the sound of a splash, up ahead. The insects surrounding him flew off, their buzzing silenced. The sound was too big for a crab. He wasn't alone.
Hrisskar took a step forward, looking closely for whatever it could be. Then, he did notice a figure, standing in the fetid mists. He pulled his spear close to him and started moving towards them, as quietly as he could in the mud. A native? A smuggler?
The figure started to turn in the mists. Hrisskar licked his lips and narrowed his eyes. Legs bent, arms at the ready, he took a step closer. He pulled back his spear. Then, a voice called out from the mists.
"Hoy there, Hrisskar!"
He felt a wave of relief, as well as irritation. Artoria.
Emerging from the fog was the mud-streaked figure of Gaea Artoria, who seemed in good spirits despite it all. "How's the hunting, eh?" she said, wiping her forehead with a filth laden hand that left her brow less clean than when she had started, "Get any big ones?"
"I don't keep count," Hrisskar said.
She shrugged and fetched a waterskin from her hip. She held it out as an offering, but Hrisskar shook his head. "You need to pay attention to where you're going," he said as she started drinking, "I thought you were some kind of bandit."
Artoria swallowed her water. "Oh yeah? Guess I should, now that you mention it. Hunting them's our job, I guess."
I guess. Normally, Hrisskar would chalk that up to the woman's overall inattentiveness. But her ambiguity over what her mission actually entailed was surprisingly common among the soldiers. The men the boat picked up on Vaardenfel were told that their new fort would be a deterrent against smugglers trying to slip ebony and skooma under the nose of the Imperial Dragon, focused on controlling the reasonably active western sea lanes. But the soldiers from Frostmoth said to the man that they were here to serve as the northernmost garrison in Vaardenfel, projecting power east towards the wilds. Imsin, of course, never clarified this. Hrisskar couldn't tell if she either didn't understand what her soldiers were concerned about, or if she just didn't care.
Hrisskar looked Artoria up and down. She was a tall and well built woman, for a Cyrod. Very good in a fight, from what he gathered. And had at least a few vices that she took no pains to hide. All promising signs. He snorted deeply and spat in the mud. "So, what got you sent here?"
Gaea stopped drinking for a moment, caught unawares. "Huh?" Gaea said, "Uh, a bureaucrat I guess."
She wasn't good at playing dumb, either. Good to know. "It's fine. No one's going to judge. We're all here for something. And it's not like I killed a man, or anything. Listen," he said, spreading his arms open with a well-practiced air of familiarity, "I got fingered for running a shakedown ring. The captain said I could go to the cells or go on a reassignment. I chose the latter. Then I got sent here."
He had hoped for a better reaction from Artoria than he got; she half-opened her mouth in a confused grimace. "So, you squeezed gold from people? Are you, what, proud of that? Why'd you even say something like that, eh?"
A rush of anger surged through Hrisskar's head, but he forced himself to stay cool. "What I'm saying is that we can all be open. I'm asking why you're here. There's no use hiding these things. No one's sent to Ald Redaynia who didn't get something black on their record. Word has it that Oritius was a cultist. Hell, Bologra killed a man. I figured I'd get your own take on what sent you here. Better to hear it from you yourself than hear through gossip."
Gaea maintained her skeptical expression, then gave a crooked half-smile, "I really don't know what you're talking about. Cap'n just told me one day I was getting a new assignment. And so I went. Don't got some conspiracy explanation for you. Hells, worst demotion I got was buying some flin on Sun's Rest."
Hrisskar snorted. Didn't see much point in her hiding her past now. But, perhaps, she didn't need to lay herself nice and open to him. Not just yet. "As you like. But we all know why we're here." A drop of blood dripped off the end of Hrisskar's spear, splashing and dissolving into the water. "You know, Artoria, we could all use some friend, up here. You could stand to know some people from the Morrowind legions. And I could use a woman like you. How'd you be interested in some scratch, beyond whatever scraps they pay us? A little coin, on the side?"
The words came first as a surprise to Gaea. She blinked, figuring out what he was implying. Hrisskar was began to suspect that he had moved too quickly, but then she broke into a big, spontaneous smile. She had a nice smile he thought, despite himself. Almost made her look pretty. But then, her words. "Never gonna happen, Hrisskar," she said, poorly trying to cover up her condescension. She put her waterskin to her hip, turned, and gave him a jaunty wave. "Good luck with the crabkill, yeah? Hope you spear a big'un." Before he could speak, she walked into the fog
Hrisskar had no response. The flies buzzed around him, and the breeze rustled the sickly rushes of the bog. But all he could hear was the blood rushing through his head, once again, and this time he could barely control his rage. Stupid bitch. He felt his spear trembling in his hand. Filthy whore. She thought that she could disrespect him? Did she know who he was? Did she know who he'd become?
The great Nord saw something move from the corner of his eye, and he thrust at it, fiercely and without thought. Crab, something else, no matter. But it was just the water churning the mud, and now his spear was lodged deep in the filth. He pulled at it, but it was stuck.
He closed his eyes and took control of his breathing. Fine. He wouldn't need Artoria, or her little friend Lusius, or any of the damn Frostmoth clique for all he cared. It was better this way. Hrisskar steadied himself, began to pull steadily, and promptly recovered his blackened spear.
They were all drawing lines in the mud to show where they stood, and one day Artoria would be among the many who'd regret not casting in her lot with him. He turned, looking for more crabs to kill. That day will come sooner than she thinks.
G.,
While I was originally slated to handle the analysis on this dossier, I now think it would be better if it were to handled by you.
As I had mentioned in our last meeting, I'm of the opinion that "Hrisskar" is unlikely to be a historical figure and I instead reckon him to be some kind of composite character, representing the less savory elements of the enlisted legionaries. It's not a good use of my time to spend further time researching him, and it wouldn't be a good use of the Spymaster's time to review such idle speculation.
Frankly, the reason I had wanted to handle this chapter in the first place was to look further into the Legion's objectives in the Sea of Ghosts. It's obviously important that the Frostmoth Legion and the Vaardenfel conscripts did not have the same description of the expedition, a point that Townway belabors here. But, as you might've guessed, I've made little headway on this angle so far. Most of the official documents regarding Imsin's command have been either destroyed or misfiled. Including the ones that ought to have been in triplicate.
Hrisskar's assertion that the soldiers assigned were troublemakers is something I don't have any real parallels to draw upon. I'd want to call it too contrived to be historical, but it seems too specific and too integral to the plot to be an entirely artistic invention. If this somehow were the case, you'd think there would be even more of a paper trail for this operation in our classified sections. And yet, nothing.
It's suspicious. Yes, many records were destroyed in the Red Year. And yes, between the Oblivion Crisis and the Interregnum it's hardly surprising that the copies in Cyrodiil would be lost, too. But this was a rather sizable operation, consisting of mustering two different garrisons, shipping a considerable amount of materiel through the Inner Sea, and —
But none of this is your area of expertise, is it? I'm indulging in the professional equivalent of talking to myself, aren't I?
Back on subject, the whole section is very stylized with a superabundance of voice. I'm sure you'll have lots to cover. I'll handle the logistical aspects in a separate dossier after reviewing a few more archives. Please submit a completed dossier by the end of the month.
And if you need an extension, please let me know promptly this time? The project itself already has a undeserved reputation of lacking seriousness. Being punctual is quite literally the very least we can do.
For my Gods and Emperor,
L.