The armor rested heavily on his shoulders. Over seven centuries of packing it adjusted one to the weight, but not the burden. It weighed down the heart with the collected memories in every scrape and dent in the heavy steel. Weighing heavier than either, was the sword.

"Commander, the general will see you now." Stepping into Castle Dour one could hear every creak and shift of leather and metal inside the war room.

"General Tullius." The customary salute followed the honorific. The white haired Breton looked up from the map and actually smiled.

"Enough of the formalities, Tolandos. You've known me longer than I've been in the legion."

"It is only proper to refer to one of higher rank by their title." The usually uptight general rolled his eyes.

"Everybody and their engineers know that you should be a general."

"Unfortunately, the Emperor believes differently." If one were able to see the temperature, it would have dropped substantially in the room. Tullius's face fell.

"He believes you have the ability to command armies no matter what rank you hold. You've proved that to everyone's satisfaction in the past. No doubt that is the reason he sent you to me." Tullius clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder. "The Eight know I could use some help. These rebels are slipperier than a mad slaughterfish."

"So I've heard. Helgen was an unusual affair."

"Indeed. A dragon appeared from nowhere to burn down the town. We can only be thankful my men were successful in evacuating the town, if not the prisoners." A sour expression decorated Tullius's already lined face.

"Ulfric escaped, I take it?"

"Yes, him and his lieutenants. Dragons have been appearing all over the place. It has been a difficult time for the Legion. Now that you're here, maybe we can turn the tides." Tullius had a more hopeful air than in previous meetings witnessed by the senior officers. Today there was no one around that could capitalize on the moment of lightness in his mood.

"I'm afraid not, old friend." The Dunmer didn't spare the war map a glance, but pulled out orders from his pouch.

Tullius skimmed the bureaucratic pageantry to reach the heart of it. "You're retiring?"

"It was time. I've given my life to The Empire. It's time for me to pass it on." The Imperial just looked at him slack-jawed. Unresponsive of the world before him.

"W-what do you mean? You can't leave! The Empire needs you now more than ever."

"The Empire has lasted for as long as I have, and it will continue to do so long after I am dead. Which should not be long."

"Can you not save yourself?"

"The mage who helped prolong my life passed away."

"Surely there is someone else who can renew those spells." Tullius looked for another solution but the Dunmer shook his head.

"The spells cannot be tampered with by another mage. It ensured I would not fall suddenly in the Emperor's service."

Tullius stumbled back and bumped into the war table. A single soldier tipped over but the others remained in their position. "How long?"

"Six months? Two years at best." Tolandos picked up the fallen piece and examined it. Tullius leaned heavily against the table.

"What will you do?" The little figurine marking a legion in Falkreath was placed back in its position.

"Explore, learn. There are still a few scraps in these old bones." The Imperial smiled slightly. A smile that Tolandos returned. "Before my time comes. . . . I think I shall return to my homeland. It's been ages since I last saw the place."

Tullius straightened himself and walked around the table. They embraced in a hug that spoke decades of friendship and camaraderie. The old Imperial and the even older Dunmer remembered the good years when they were young and strong. They were still strong, but the lethargy of age had crept into their bodies. It slowed their bodies but sharpened their minds with years of accumulated experience. An equal exchange for a little wisdom.

"May the gods watch your path, old friend." Tullius stood back, assuming his business face.

"You as well, and luck be with you in the wars to come." Tullius allowed himself a small smile before executing his duty.

"As your commanding officer, I hereby accept your resignation. From this moment forth, being the fifth of Rain's Hand, you are relieved of your rank and duties. The Empire shall pay you a depensation for your service, as well as your retirement funds. I'll have the paymaster give you an advance. Surrender your orders and badge." Tolandos pulled his official orders from a pouch and handed them to his general. Pulling the badge of his rank from his cross belt, he weighed it a moment before flipping it in the air.

He caught it in one hand and presented it to Tullius. "I suppose the legion will want my sword and armor?"

"No. The legion will make due. You may keep your armor. It wouldn't do to disrobe a warrior." They shared a smile.

"There's a force of five hundred men currently in Falkreath. I left a captain in charge of Fort Neugrad, with orders to hold and fortify. Centurion Anderius and some of her men accompanied me. She'll no doubt wish to return to her command with orders."

Tullius raised a brow. "Centurion Anderius?"

"It was time. As far as I am aware she has completed her orders and is currently awaiting more."

"I'll be sure to issue her new ones. For now, old friend, let's find ourselves a drink. I'm sure we can persuade Rikka to come with us."

"Rikka's here. Well, we better prepare ourselves for a wild night. Nords usually have a better propensity for alcohol."

"That they do. Must be that stubborn constitution of theirs." They stepped out of Castle Dour and into the bustling city. The guards saluted their general and stood rigid as a ship's mast until the senior officers had passed.

"We'd better see the paymaster. Wouldn't want to end my first night of retirement asleep in an alley because I had no coin." They shared a hearty laugh about the thought. Soldiers that could see the two were confused. Where was their dour general and who was this laughing man?

"You? Sleep on the streets? Ha, you have enough gold ferreted away to make the Imperial Treasury look like a decorative fountain next to an ocean." They laughed again at the matter of truth and hilarity.

"True enough. Better to be drunk and rich, than an underfed, underpaid general with a mop of white hair." Tolandos ruffled his friend's hair. In that brief interaction, one could almost see younger versions of both men, walking and laughing in a city like this.

As they entered The Winking Skeever, the atmosphere fell silent. One table of legionnaires stood and saluted the officers. Tullius bid them sit before strolling to the bar with his friend.

"General Tullius, to what do we owe this most gracious visit?" The man behind the bar bowed slightly and offered a friendly smile.

"My friend here just retired, and we thought to honor the occasion." He jabbed a thumb at Tolandos who pulled a sack of coins from his belt.

"We'll take wine. The finest you have. Use whatever's left to pay for drinks. Next rounds on me!" Patrons and legionnaires alike cheered at the news. Pounding their cups to demand ale, mead, and the like.

They found a table near the back. A secluded and quiet part of the tavern. A woman dressed in Imperial armor strode over and took her seat. Salrina Anderius was an old soldier, and a close friend and known acquaintance of Tolandos and Tullius, respectively. They were old soldiers and had quite a few stories. Tolandos and Salrina traded them like cheap horses, Tullius preferred to stay silent, only pitching in when prompted and cajoled.

The evening rush had picked up, bringing a mix of merchants, craftsmen, off duty guards, dockworkers, and legionnaires. Rikka arrived soon after, following the strange rumors of a general drinking like a common soldier. The scene she stumbled upon was concerning in its obscurity and amusing for it as well. Despite that, she joined them and ordered a cup of mead. Safe to say, the flow of stories picked up after that.

None of them got really drunk, just enough to lubricate the pipes and make story telling easier. Slowly and quietly, a ring of legionnaires and guards gathered around to listen to the old soldiers.

They spoke of the disaster of Ionith, or Tolandos did while the rest listened. Salrina spoke of the good old days when the legion had some order. When spearmen held the line, while archers peppered the enemy, and cavalry thundered down from the flanks. Rikke even threw in her two cents on various tips and tricks of fighting one on one, in a shield wall, and how to kill a man silently. Even Tullius, when chided, spoke of his experience with the campaigns during The Great War.

They all spoke of those dreadful years. They remembered the days when the East Bank fell and the city was surrounded. When it fell they remembered. The campaign in Hammerfell, and its innumerable losses. Salrina and Tolandos remembered that vividly, having participated in the March of Thirst. Tolandos had visions of bloody swords and splintered shields at the Battle of Skaven.

Words conjured up another image of The Battle of Red Ring. Purging the Dominion filth from the streets of the Imperial City. How the enemy broke on General Jonna's shield walls from the north.

It was a long and storied night where everyone at the table shared memories of years long past. It was a good night, a loose night. They drank, they talked, and eventually, they parted for the night.

[-]

Tolandos woke early the next morning. Head pounding slightly and body groaning in protest. He met Salrina and her men at the gates, bidding his friend farewell and goodluck. She had orders to follow, and men to lead. There were still battles waiting for her in the deep valleys and steep mountains of Skyrim.

Tolandos still had his own fights as well. He'd promised a friend at The Bards College that he would track down a piece of paper. Supposedly, it contained a verse written by bard that angered King Olaf One-Eye.

An interesting tale. Likely more so since the burning of King Olaf was approaching. So, with a pocket full of money, armor ready, and sword sharpened, Tolandos hit the road. He felt as he hadn't felt in an age. His days before joining the Empire, roaming the open road and finding its many mysteries filled his soul. He may still wear the armor and sword, but they were now lightened as responsibilities left far behind fell from his shoulders.

[-]

"I'm getting too old for this." The draugr under his boot made a feeble attempt to grab its fallen mace, but was silenced by a spear thrust to its head. Tolandos looked up to see the ghost bard, Svaknir, finishing off another of the undead.

He ripped the spear free and pointed it at the ghost. "You better hope Olaf is through that door, because I can't keep going forever." The ghost gave a silent laugh before it advanced on the door.

A blast of magic kept them out until the bard handled that. It was an oval shaped room. Four draugr sat in thrones off to the sides, and at their head, sat a coffin. Richly engraved and looking very old. He sighed deeply, then stabbed his spear into the door. His helmet came off, leaving matted hair and a sweaty brow. He stood there, surveying the room and wiping his brow.

Adjusting the armor to rest more comfortably on his shoulders, he put on his helmet and gripped the spear. As soon as he stepped foot in the room the four dead started to wake. One mighty throw pinned a draugr to its throne and killed it instantly. An ebony sword danced from the sheath and spun with its partner.

The bard and soldier made short work of the other three. Then the casket broke open, and out stepped King Olaf One-Eye in all his war glory. Despite his withered body, the draugr still stood a good six feet tall. The ghost beside Tolandos shouted the first words to be heard from his mouth in centuries.

"Olaf, your time has come!"

A raspy laugh, like a whetstone running over a blade, filled the room. From his tattered belt, the draugr drew a long jet black sword. Ebony was a rare material and very view carried such weapons, but they were highly prized. Even among kings.

The ghost and soldier shared a glance before they readied their weapons. They circled the ancient king. The legionnaire's sword and the ghostly blade parried and weaved through a wall of blows rained down by the undead. Despite its ethereal quality, Svaknir's blade held against the ebon longsword.

Fus Ro Dah!

Lights danced in his eyes as he weakly pushed himself up. If the world would just stop spinning, he would get up and discover what had thrown him around. The blinding light left his eyes and revealing a terrible scene. Olaf was clutching his sword in one hand and the book in the other.

Svaknir charged, giving a ghostly cry. The black sword descended, swatting the bard's form away. The raspy laughter filtered out of the draugr as it stomped through a door behind the coffin. The ghost did not reappear. Tolandos slowly scraped himself off the floor and retrieved his spear.

The reanimated body of Olaf stood in a large circular room. In the middle, there was a staff planted on the floor. Carved runes were set in the opposite wall, surrounding a glowing red vortex. On the other side, an unknown landscape stretched in midnight darkness. The husk was slowly approaching the vortex. Despite being dead, its physical tells were still there if faint. It was going to throw the book through the portal and close it as quickly as possible.

Svaknir had still not reappeared and likely wasn't going to. Being struck by a large blade had unhealthy side effects on one's ability to avoid an early grave. Even more so if it was a soul trapped within a tomb. It took energy to stay tethered to the mortal plane, energy only collected from long years of doing nothing.

Olaf didn't have time to react as a shield slammed into his back, making him drop the book. Sliding the book behind him, he watched the portal closely, waiting for something to move in the inky blackness. Nothing did, so he turned to pull the staff free. He found himself being yanked backwards.

Landing heavily in such armor forced the wind from his lungs. To repay the kindness he jabbed the spear through Olaf's leg, pinning him to the ground. The black blade descended to meet the legion's shield. Tolandos's own ebony blade snaked out to deflect another blow. He rolled away and stood. Olaf was now firmly planted between him and the portal. Just over the tall corpse, a ghastly blue light was stumbling towards the center of the room.

The battle was fierce. The draugr still fought like a wild river current in spite of being pinned down. One sweep of the black sword soon parted the arm and shield. The next strike, Tolandos grabbed the withered wrist and pushed back. Long dead flesh still had power. Power given it by the return of dragons and a long forgotten pact to bind a spirit and soul. He couldn't kill dragons, but he could silence whatever magic bound this creature.

The draugr never felt a night black blade slide into its throat and out its head, the sharpened material slicing through old iron. With no binding force, the corpse fell to the ground and resumed its long sleep. On the other side, Svaknir was clutching the staff, waiting for his ally. Tolandos collected his spear and stepped forward.

Raspy laughter once again filled the air. Flaming blues eyes shone once again as the draugr rose from its apparently not so long sleep. Behind the ghost, dozens of other death defying nords were closing in. The ghost was flickering in and out of existence with barely a fingernail hold on the physical world. Svaknir looked from his sword, to the staff, and then to the man standing on the other side.

Looking around grimly, Tolandos hefted the sword and shield. He gave the ghost a nod. For an intangible blade, it cut through the iron staff like an enchanted knife through troll fat. The gateway sputtered in bright red flashes, then vanished in one golden burst. The hot, dry wind from the closure settled in the night air, crickets resumed chirping, and stars twinkled overhead.

Dry skin cracked and bones rattled. Dead hands ripped the spear free and tossed it aside. Olaf's legendary blade rose once again. The tired legionnaire gave the sword a few swings and advanced on the draugr.

"You should have stayed dead."

[ - ] ^

There was no blood, but there were oh so many breaks and bruises. Despite its legendary sharpness, Tolandos's armor had resisted the black blade's sting. That didn't make it any better than being swatted around like a deer under a saber cat.

The old man had dragged himself to a tree and sat down against it. Through the slits in his helmet the early morning sun tickled his eyelids with the dawning warmth. He opened them to see his fall foe. His shield had been cast aside in the battle somewhere.

Blade to blade it was a long fight. His sword was standing as a monument to his triumph, in the center of Olaf's chest. Somewhere in the shadows cast by the trees, Olaf's head sat with no blue fire in its empty sockets. Not exactly where the Dunmer expected to meet his end, but a good death nonetheless.

One more dawning. That's all anyone could ask for.

Sending a prayer to his ancestors, he closed his eyes and soaked in the rising heat.

We meet our next character and he fucks up Olaf One-Eye.

Not much in the way of news besides me getting accepted to a college. So, have a good day, night, whatever. Later nerds.