Jarl Balgruuf the Greater sat in his chambers, a look of worry etched across his features. He reflected on the events of the previous hour.
A Breton had arrived in Whiterun, seemingly in a great hurry and in need of an audience with the Jarl. The guards took the babbling foreigner and half restrained; half dragged him to Dragonsreach, where he was forced to his knees and commanded to be out with what it was he needed to say.
The man had grovelled incoherently for some minutes before Balgruuf had gotten any intelligible words out of him, and what the Breton had said was… distressing.
After disclosing that he was being pursued, Balgruuf thought it wise to place the man under protective custody – in a prison cell, lightly furnished.
Across from Balgruuf his steward – Aventus Avenicci – sat at a desk. The sound of ink being scrawled on paper filled the room as Aventus wrote with each intricate loop, each dot, hyphen and detail that made up the written version of the common tongue. He wrote a report of what had occurred that night.
"Reflect for me, Aventus," Balgruuf said quietly.
"Soon, my Jarl," Aventus replied, still writing on the page.
Some moments passed before Aventus lowered his quill and sighed.
"What did the Breton say, Aventus?" Balgruuf said. "Reflect with me. Refresh my memory."
Aventus cleared his throat and took up the paper he was just writing on. He opened his mouth to begin speaking when Balgruuf raised a hand, signalling for him to wait.
"Only the important details," he said.
Aventus gave a slight bow. "As you wish, my Jarl."
His eyes darted across the page before him, extracting all the information that would be necessary whilst leaving out the smaller details that really mustn't be said, but protocol dictated be written.
"The Breton spoke of bandit camp up in the mountains," Aventus spoke. "Near the old Nordic crypt: Bleak Falls Barrow."
"A bandit camp is hardly anything to worry about," the Jarl grunted.
"Indeed, Jarl, but the Breton insisted that this camp wasn't like any other you'd have seen. There was order, rules, a clear and distinct leader. The bandits would be taking residence in Bleak Falls Barrow, but the leader is said to refuse risking the life of his man against the draugr. He left the tomb alone and set up camp outside."
"So he has some degree of honour and respect for his men. There have been bandits like that in the past."
"No, sir, not like him. Most bandits exert the will with force, battle, strength of arms. This leader is said to have risen to his position with subtlety, subterfuge, and the spoken word. Diplomacy! Can you believe it."
Jarl Balgruuf sat up straighter, the look of worry deepening. "Tell me more about this leader."
"He's an Argonian," Aventus stated. "A vampire, too. He is said to have ties to the Thieves Guild and the Dark Brotherhood, though we're unsure what these ties are. The Breton said he doesn't even carry a weapon. It's never been seen. He is not afraid of his own men, nor is he afraid of an attempt on his life."
"Why would you be with ties to the Dark Brotherhood?" Balgruuf grunted.
"Indeed, my Jarl."
"So what is his name, then?"
"He is simply known as Ti'laan, my Jarl."
"And how big is the force he leads?"
"Over forty, though more are said to arrive every other day."
The Jarl paled slightly. "A bandit clan of forty? It has never been heard…"
Aventus nodded, sharing the Jarl's worry. "This Ti'laan is nothing like we've ever seen, my Jarl. He is honourable, respectful; he pays his men fairly for the tasks they do in and outside of the camp. And that's not even the most worrying part."
"What is?"
"His men respect him. He trains them, feeds them; chances are they're all richer now than they've ever been. That's enough to make any bandit follow you without question. Ti'laan is cunning, careful, and at times cruel."
Balgruuf raised an eyebrow. "Cruel?"
"The Breton told us that there are strict rules within the camp. Men and mer who break those rules are met with harsh and often torturous punishments."
Balgruuf nodded. "Fear. It is another element of leadership. I just never assumed it would go hand it hand with honour." He sat in silence for some moments. "What does the Breton say about their force?"
"It appears to be strong, Jarl," Aventus read from the parchment. "There seem to be different 'classes' within the clan. Ti'laan controls warriors, mages, thieves… everything."
Balgruuf resigned deep into his own thoughts. He closed his eyes and sighed.
"There is one other thing, my Jarl."
"Yes?"
"Ti'laan's lieutenant."
"What about him?"
"He is an Orc. Heavily muscled, with a disfigured face. Scars, blind out of one eye, missing an ear, all on the left side. He wields a battle axe, the likes of which none of the bandits have ever seen. It is said he made a deal with Clavicus Vile."
"You do not think he is…?"
Aventus' mouth was in a hard line. He simply nodded his head.
The Jarl let out the breath he'd been holding and sunk deeper into his chair. "If this Ti'laan has gained the loyalty of Guraag the Bleeder then he is not to be underestimated."
"No, Jarl," Aventus said. "What do you suggest we do?"
"Send a force to the bandit camp to assess the situation. No more than a half-dozen men. We need to know what we're up against, and we need to be discreet about it."
Aventus bowed. "At once, my Jarl."
He made to leave the chambers, and upon opening the door was met face-to-face with one of the city guard who had raised their fist to knock on the wood.
"What do you want?" Aventus said sharply.
"Is the Jarl in?"
"Of course he is."
"I must speak with him. It's urgent."
Aventus opened his mouth to retort when Balgruuf interrupted him.
"Send him in, Aventus."
Aventus hid a scowl and stepped to the side, gesturing for the guard to enter the chambers.
The guard did so and bowed as the Jarl rose from his chair, all composure regained.
"What is it you wish to tell me?" Balgruuf asked.
"It's the Breton, Jarl," the guard started. "We made to check on him after the half-hour, like you commanded, but when we entered his cell…" He trailed off.
"Well?" Balgruuf said urgently. "Out with it!"
"The thing is, Jarl," the guard took a breath. "He's gone."
It was dawn the following morning when Emrik dragged a beaten and bruised Breton back up to the bandit camp at Bleak Falls Barrow.
He heard the shout of the lookout and the bustle of arms being gathered. Emrik raised his hand in a gesture of peace, and the air somehow seemed to relax.
Two bandits ran down the steps and gathered the Breton from Emrik, relieving him of carrying it. Emrik looked to Ti'laan, who simply nodded. Emrik knew the gesture meant praise, and that he could rest easy. And he did so, sitting near his friends and comrades at one of the fires.
The two bandits brought the deserter and forced him to his knees in front of Ti'laan.
"There's no need for that," Ti'laan said, waving a dismissive hand. He got his hands under the trembling Bretons armpits and hoisted him to his feet.
"There you go," he said, patting the man on the shoulder.
"Please don't hurt me…" The deserter said weekly.
Ti'laan raised a non-existent eyebrow. "Are you scared?"
The deserter nodded his head furiously.
Ti'laan looked to Guraag, who gave a wolfish smile.
The bandits had all stood and gathered, watching with scowls on their faces and bloodlust in their eyes.
"Don't be scared of me," Ti'laan said in the Bretons ear. "Be scared of them."
The Breton looked at the mass of bandits and, feeling the malice radiating from them, averted his eyes, gazing once more at the ground.
"As you can probably tell, we don't take to deserters well," Ti'laan said quietly. "They're not… trustworthy, shall we say."
"Are you going to hurt me?" the deserter asked.
Ti'laan took a mocking step backwards. "Well of course! I need to show my men what happens to deserters. Especially those who escape to civilization and presumably tell the main power of our existence!"
"I… I never…" The Breton started, but his eyes betrayed his lie.
"Ssshhh…" Ti'laan said, brushing a finger over the Bretons lips. "It's only a punch. One hit. No weapons, no poisons, no magic. Just a punch."
The Breton hesitated, but then swallowed and nodded understanding.
Ti'laan smiled. "Ok." He then addressed the gathered bandits. "Should we show him how we treat deserters here?"
There was a roar of approval.
Ti'laan grinned a wicked grin. "So be it."
He pulled back his iron-gloved arm to deliver a punch. And he did so, his hand striking the deserters chest. There was a crunch and squelch, and then a wet and thick snap as Ti'laan wrenched his hand from the Bretons chest, pulling the mans' heart with it.
The look of shock and pain was painted on the now dead Bretons frozen features, and it was the last look that ever graced his face before he tumbled down the steps into the rabble of bandits, who cheered with bloodlust and cruelty.
Ti'laan tossed the spasming human heart off the side of the mountain and watched it fall until it was just a red snow flake in a sea of white.
Guraag took a place beside Ti'laan.
"Toss the body off the side of the mountain," Ti'laan said calmly. "But not before bleeding him dry. I want a cup of his blood."
Guraag smiled cruelly and descended into the rabble of bandits. Ti'laan took his seat and shut his eyes.
He breathed the cold air deeply as the sound of Guraag's axe and splitting flesh filled his ears.
