Hey, hey you." a voice called out. "You're awake, guards sure worked you over."
He heard a voice, a voice that belonged to a man sitting across from him with shoulder length blonde hair, and looked to be in his late twenties. "I told those Imperial Soldiers that you weren't with us, but they grabbed you like that thief." He indicated the thief who sat on the edge of the wagon.
"Damn you Stormcloaks," retorted the thief who had tried to robbed him. "Skyrim was fine until you came along, the Empire was nice and lazy until you came along. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could have been halfway to Hammerfell by now."
David Kelly listened to the conversation in silence trying to digest what he was hearing. 'Skyrim, Empire, Hammerfell?' The names meant nothing to him. He still wondered if he was somewhere in Montana, the eastern half maybe if their accents were any indication. With the braid the man across from him wore, he looked like a few of the fair-haired Montana tribesmen he knew from the lands outside Regis.
The voice of the thief snapped him out of his thoughts. "And damn you for getting us caught!" He glared at David.
"I remember that you were the wanted man." David snapped back the thief.
"You stand with us, or you stand against us, we're all brothers and sisters in binds now thief." The blond soldier in leathers spoke.
"Shut up back there!" a raspy voice spoke up to his left. The man was driving a wagon of some sort. At first glance, his attire marked him as one of Caesar's Legion, a second look at the man's back, and he realized something was off.
His armor actually looked like real military grade armor, and not the spoils of some sporting goods shop that had an overstock of Arizona Cardinals jerseys. The next thing he noticed, was the back of his shoulders. There were no marks on the armor to indicate the mark of the Legion. That and the fact that none of the soldiers referred to him as a profligate yet.
When they arrived, he attempted to flee the scene, knowing what the Legion would do if he was taken alive. He didn't count on the scouts who were hiding on the other side of the river, who were waiting for someone audacious enough to swim to freedom.
Against the squad of Legionaries, he was easily outmatched. Half-naked and armed with only a nine inch bowie knife, David had killed two of their number, before they could get close in. A few well placed hits on the upper body had rendered him unconscious. Now he was on a wagon bound and thankfully clothed, but still bound at the wrists. Now, he had nothing but the clothes on his back.
He found himself taking a second look, and realized that the wagon was drawn by a horse. 'A horse?' it had several years, since he had seen a horse, much less ridden one. Now he was really confused. First, he thought he was somewhere around Montana, or in Idaho country, but then the Legion showed up.
Now he couldn't help but wonder if he was in Colorado. They already occupied at least half of it, and was the last place he'd seen enough horses to outfit a small army. Then again, if the air was any indication, maybe he was somewhere up Canada way, or even the Dakotas if the Black Hills were anything to talk about. The vegetation also happened to be thick as his surroundings in many places.
"What's his problem, why did they gag him?" The thief gestured to the man who sat next to him. David immediately recognized the man by his strange furs. To him, they were strange, because he could not place exactly, what animal the furs came from.
"Watch your tongue," came the disdainful voice of the blond. "That's Ulfric Stormcloak you're speaking of, the true high king."
The Thief's eyes widen from shock. "Wait, that's the man who used the voice to murder High King Torygg." David realized that he was looking at the thief's arm. His eyes widened. Last time he was conscious, he put his knife straight through that arm. Looking at it now, nobody would believe that a nine inch knife almost held him to the ground like a tent peg.
David suddenly thought of the chunk of ice that had struck his leg. The mere thought of it made his leg feel cold. Though it still stung when he tried to move, the wound had mostly healed.
"The Jarl of Windhelm, and the leader of the rebellion?" The thief let out a deep breath, "If they captured you..." He broke down with the realization of something David had yet to understand. "Oh gods, where are they taking us?"
"I don't know where we're going," the blond answered. "At least Sovngarde will be waiting for us. Our ancestors. Feasting. Mead."
"I could really use some mead about now." The thief muttered under his breath.
"Where do you call home, thief?" That blond asked the man.
"Why do you care?" the dark haired thief retorted.
"Because, a Nord's last thoughts should be of home." The Blond explained in a stoic, matter of fact tone.
The Thief was quiet for few moments before speaking. "Riften, no matter what, it's my home," came his reply.
David's head poked at the mention of Nords. Not long after he fled to the relative safety of Yellowstone, he remembered swapping tales at campfire with a drifter who came from the desolate ruins of Minot in the Dakotas, a place now settled by a tribe known as the Nords.
His eyes were not focused on the conversation though. He was far more interesting in the settlement that came into view.
It was fortified with a wall that had been constructed out of stone without the benefit of heavy machinery, and braced with roughly hewn logs.
"General Tulius, the headsman is waiting," a voice rang out as they neared the gate.
The words stumped him. It wasn't just because their plans were being spelled out for him, but also because it felt so much like Caesar's Legion and yet it felt so different like everything else around him.
"Shor, Mara, Kynereth, Dibella, Ackatosh. Divines please help me." The voice of the thief carried in the classic prayer of a condemned man to gods David knew nothing about. For his part, he felt strangely calm about the whole ordeal. Then again, this wasn't the first time, he'd been driven to his execution.
The wagon carried them through the gate, and he saw a town within composed of timber buildings, thatched with grass hay. The wagon train up ahead, followed a road that along the left.
When it came time for their wagon to follow the rest, he got a good view of several figures on horseback.
One of them who was clad in a rather ornate piece of armor screaming his rank for all to see, had his back turned to the procession.
"Look at him, General Tullius the military governor, sitting that horse like a preening rooster." The soldier spat at the utterance of the general's name. "And it looks like the Thalmor are with him to. Damn Elves."
'Elves.' That was interesting. He had no clue what to make of that. The wagon creaked on in silence.
"Helgen," the blond soldier spoke to himself. "Used to be sweet on a girl from here once. Wonder if Vilod still makes that mead with the juniper berries."
The soldier looked around as he continued his monologue. "Funny," he shook his head in sadness. "When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."
Behind him, David could see a parade ground of sorts come into view.
"Who are they daddy," called a young boy behind him. "Where are they going?"
"You need to go inside, little cub." An older voice belonging to an older man he could not see countered the boy. For an instant, the words chilled him to the bone.
"Why? I want to watch the soldiers," rebutted the kid.
"Inside the house, now!" The adult was having none of it.
"Yes papa," came the boy's tired reply.
A hard female voice yanked him back to the situation at hand. "Get these prisoners out of the carts, move it!"
David brushed his hand against the wagon, and noticed that a spike in the wood was loose. With a light amount of effort, he ripped the spike out, and hid it behind his arms.
"Let's go," the Blond gestured to the thief beside him. "Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."
David absently wondered as to what faith the others held to, as the four of them took turns disembarking. So many strange religions, sprang up after the bombs fell. In the four states, there was the worship of Mars. In Utah, some isolated communities cultivated sects of Mormonism that would have been unrecognizable by the pre-war Mormon authorities, to say nothing about Christianity in general.
"I'm not a rebel," came the voice of the thief. "You've got to tell them, this is a mistake."
"Shut up, out of the cart now!" he heard the woman's voice again. This time, he was able to get a good look at the officer. If he was confused earlier, then now he was completely lost.
The armor looked very much like that of a centurion, but it didn't look like a loose collection of welded together scrap metal. It was a purpose built suit of armor. That paled however, to the fact that the bearer was a woman. She was tall with a swarthy complexion, and a sour look on her face.
"Step towards the block, when we call your name, one at a time," her voice grated. Despite everything, there was something amusing about the manner of it all. As the began to unfold, he went to work on his bonds with the spike.
"The Empire, and their gods damned lists," muttered the blond beneath his breath.
"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm,"the voice came from a stocky man with a hooked nose, who was maybe a few years older than him. In one hand he gripped a large clipboard that was cradled in his arm. In the other hand, he wielded some comically oversized feather as though it were a pen. "Guilty of treason and regicide, sentenced to death."
Without any more prompt, Ulfric Stormcloak simply walked away.
"It has been an honor Jarl Ulfric," spoke one of his men with clear reverence.
"Next in line," barked the bitch in centurion armor.
The blond stepped up to face them. "Ralof, of Riverwood. Proud son of Skyrim." The soldier, didn't even wait for the calling of his name.
"Stormcloak, guilty of treason, sentenced to death." The clerk spoke wearily this time with a tone of pity.
He gestured to the thief in front of him. "Name," called the clerk.
"Lokir of Ivarstead, and I'm not a Stormcloak!"
"It says here that you are, sorry." The man holding the list addressed Lokir, Flokir or whatever the hell his actual name was, with an air of indifference.
"You're condemning the wrong man to death, and it doesn't even bother you," the thief snarled at the man with the quill.
"I'll save my sympathy for the deserving, gutter rat." The clerk gruffly replied. Lokir glared at the clerk.
The man wasted no time in making a run down the road.
The officer screamed for him to halt, but the call fell on deaf ears. She then called for archers, who stood at the ready. 'People with bows and arrows,' He noticed. They unleashed a few arrows, one of which hit the thief.
In a way, he wondered if the damage would last. Whatever the fellow was, he had a healing factor that honestly made him jealous. Thousands of caps worth of cybernetic implants and some grossly amoral medical experiments in the Big MT were still not as quick a healing broken bones as his must have been.
"Does anyone else feel like running?" The Imperial asked.
The clerk though then turned his attention to David. "Wait you there, step forward." David stepped forward, and made sure that the skirted clerk got a good view of his face.
"You there. Who are you?"
David thought of all the times he had spent in Legion territory, before the battle for Hoover Dam. All the shit that he had pulled from Mesa Verde to Fortification Hill. Even then, he was somewhere at the top of the Fox's hit list.
"The name's Dickus, Biggus Dickus." He smugly replied.
"Is that some sort of joke," growled the woman.
David shrugged mockingly, "Mister and misses Dickus must have thought so. I guess they wanted their boy to have the baddest legion name possible."
"I'm going to see to it that the headsman takes your head and your dickus!" the swarthy bitch shrieked the words out.
"What's all this about!" a well tanned man in general's finery with hair that marked him as a fifty something, stepped into the scene he had created.
The clerk spoke first. "He gave his name," he pointed to David, "as Biggus Dickus." With no small amount of self control, the clerk with the hooked nose did his best not to laugh as he filled in his commander.
It was not good enough, a muffled sound escaped his lips and the general was on him in a moment.
"What's so funny about Biggus Dickus. I have a great friend in the Imperial City named Biggus Dickus."
The sound of laughter came from the condemned ranks of the Stormcloaks.
"Silence, traitors!" His voice was like a frayed brahmin whip.
"See lady, its a popular name," David chimed in.
The commanding officer turned his head, and looked at him with scorn. "There is only one house in Tamriel with the right to the name of Dickus, and you are not part of it. Even if you were, you sure as Oblivion don't look like Biggus."
"Looks can be deceiving, muscles suit." Another round of laughter rang out and filled the parade ground with reactions ranging from the nervous snickering of a few crimson man skirts, to the booming laughs that came from the Stormcloak braves.
"Hadvar, add impersonation of nobility to his charges."
"Yes General," the man put down his quill, and snapped a salute. The motions were familiar, but in another break from what he expected, he did not hear the man say "Ave." As crazy as it sounded, he was really starting to wonder if they were simply a group of wannabee legionaries. He pushed the thought away immediately, remembering that Caesar would would stop at nothing to integrate such a tribe unlike the White Legs.
The General turned on his heels, and the clerk named Hadvar returned his attention to him. "Wait until Biggus Dickus hears about this," muttered Tullius under his breath.
"I'm guessing that you're from Daggerfall, Breton. Fleeing from some court intrigue? I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to High Rock." There was that word again. He wondered if High Rock was local speak for the Rockies, just as he wondered where Daggerfall was supposed to be.
"Let's go with that," he shrugged.
He thought of burial, in the case that it actually came to that. What would his tombstone say about him, if by chance he was buried in a marked grave with whatever name he was using last. He thought about the name he'd used in heading west through the hellish landscape of the Grand Canyon with the Legion's quickest hot on his tail.
Wasn't a bad note for him to end on all things considered, 'Here lies Biggus Dickus.' It had a nice ring to it.
"You'll put Biggus Dickus on my headstone right?" The threat of death so far did little to phase him, but then again he'd suffered to many close calls in the past year not to laugh at death.
Hadvar pursed his lips, trying not to show any emotion. "No promises."
With some detachment in his voice he read out the charges. "Stormcloak, guilty of murder, treason and impersonation of nobility, sentenced to death." David couldn't help but notice a hint of disbelief in the clerk's voice. "Follow the captain, prisoner," Hadvar did not dare say the name out loud.
The captain walked past the unorganized mass of Stormcloaks and Legion troopers. His eyes followed her until they settled on the general. 'For an army of wannabee Romans, they don't seem to understand much less care about the ranks of Caesar's Legion,' he thought about about his captors and not for the first time.
"Ulfric Stormcloak, some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his King and usurp his throne." The old man in the ornate armor railed against the gagged chieftain, who supposedly could kill people with little more than his mouth. "You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace."
No sooner than the general finished, the roar of something far off filled the air. All around him, looks of unease took form on the faces of the legionaries.
"What was that?" Hadvar asked nobody in particular. The sound was like no animal he had heard before.
The commander answered the question that must have been on everyone's minds. "It's nothing. Carry on."
"Yes, General Tullius," the woman turned to another feminine figure in brown robes. "Give them their last rites."
The lady took a step forward, and lifted her hands over her head in prayer. "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved..."
"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with." A Stormcloak with muddy red hair stepped up to the headsman's block. 'Not a bad way to go considering what the legion usually did with prisoners,' he grimaced.
"Come on, I haven't got all morning." The captain eased him onto his knees, and then planted a boot on his back.
The prisoner on fell face forward on the block, and glared at the hooded man in black. "My ancestors are smiling on me imperials, can you say the same?"
The headman simply hefted the large two handed ax, and brought it down on the neck of the condemned like it was a just a section of dried pine. The head flew from the rest of the body with the sickening sound of steel cutting bone.
"You Imperial bastards!" An angry female voice called from the crowd.
He heard "Justice," and "Death to the Stormcloaks," from others. From their voices, he judged them to be locals.
"As fearless in death as he was in life." Ralof the Stormcloak, muttered aloud for a few to hear.
A pair of Legionaries stepped up for the thankless task of removing the headless corpse.
"Next, the imposter in gray!" The armored bitch pointed at him, when they were halfway out of the parade ground.
'Almost there,' David let out a deep breath before slowly walking over to the block.
Before he could take a step, that strange far off roar came again.
"There it is again. Did you hear that?" Hadvar asked aloud to any who would listen, and this time just a little more worried than the last.
"I said, next prisoner," cried the unrelenting hardass.
"To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy." Hadvar spoke in a calm, soothing voice that would have instantly landed him a job at a meat packing plant in the NCR operating a slaughterhouse.
Two steps in, he starting whistling the tune of an old hymn, he'd learned in his childhood. He'd learned somewhere around the ruins of Leadville once, that many in the Legion believed downright silly things about anyone who preached the gospel.
After Graham's literal fall from the Legion's graces, the absurd and sometimes violent beliefs held by the leadership gave way to brutal persecution in Legion territory of anyone believed to be a Christian. Hell, even knowledge of the New Testament could be a death sentence (or the Book of Mormon for that matter), as Caesar tried harder and harder to entrench the gargantuan lie that was the Cult of Mars.
Part of him felt that it was a good way to go, a symbol of closure. If he was honest with himself though, he just wanted to see how many people would it would piss off.
Halfway there, he started singing when nobody seemed to get it.
"I'll fly away, oh glory
I'll fly away in the morning
When I die, hallelujah by and by
I'll fly away"
He stopped at the foot of the block, where he got a better view of the officer. Her complexion, had visibly darkened, and she looked ready to pop a vein.
"Any last words, imposter?" The rough voice of Tullius bellowed at him. He turned to face the block, and prepared to make his move. "Say my name!"
"What in Oblivion is that?" he was caught off guard when the general's voice suddenly shifted focus and ignored him.
"Sentries! What do you see?" The speaker had lost focus for the opening he needed.
David shifted his stance and his position. His arms ripped the now flimsy binds apart.
Time slowed to a crawl as the centurion, captain, wannabee, future breeding slave, or whatever Caesar would have called her, looked back in his direction in time to be on the receiving end of a ranger take down. His right foot hit her knees, and knocked her on her armored ass.
He pressed the attack, and came on her. With one swift motion, he drew her blade, and settled it against her throat.
"Don't just stand there kill that thing!" The hoarse voice of the general screamed to his troops.
David surveyed his surroundings, and could see chaos unfolding. Stormcloaks were running in every direction while the legionaries drew their weapons and completely ignored them. All the while, Tullius was furiously barking orders to his aides.
An explosion came from behind him, an explosion of sound. It shook the earth, and brought even more chaos to the scene.
David stole a glance at the source of the noise. What he saw left him at a loss for words.
"Uh oh." It was all David could mouth as a warm sensation blossomed from his thighs, and trickled down his bare legs.
Not even West-Tek or the Big MT could have made something this evil.
Author's Note: With all the possible legion jokes (Caesar's Legion vs Imperial Legion), there's no way I could write this without the Life of Brian reference. Especially given the fact that my first playthrough was an Imperial named "Biggus Dickus." I also like to think this would be hilarious if played in Caesar's court.
Also, if you like this story, be sure to favorite, and/or follow, but most importantly drop a review (seriously I live for this stuff) telling me what you liked and what you want to see in the story.