Baltafarian
I don't like surprises. I mean, not to the point that I despise it. But rather, I don't like them because I don't particularly enjoy the feeling of getting caught with my pants down.
For a few seconds, I was walking down the street. I suppose I should have been warned when the people behind me screamed and I could hear the sound of tires screeching then...silence.
When I woke up, I did not find myself in a hospital. But rather, inside a leather lined tent. Outside, I could hear the mulling of a camp and in the distance, I could hear the marching of boots on the ground. Groaning, I reached for a mirror and found myself staring into the eyes of a stranger. Then, I had a knee-jerk reaction as I fell on the floor, spasming violently, as information was thrust into my mind. Names, dates, ideas, concepts.
Everything.
When it was done, I realized who I was and where I was.
I was fucking Balgruuf, the Jarl you met in Whiterun. And now, I was an adjutant to some Imperial General in Cyrodiil and we were just...
Oh shit oh fuck.
We were in the middle of the fucking Great War.
I had no idea who the flying fuck sent me here but whoever did that was a giant fucking asshole.
The first three years I spent in the Legion was one of the most horrible things I ever had to experience. Not horrible that I disliked being there. It was rather fun all things considered and enlightening. The horror came from the fact that both the Legion and the Dominion was racking up war crimes faster than the Germans blitzing their way across Europe.
I...I've seen some shit. Some dark and terrible shit. The type of stuff that gives you nightmares at night. The High Elves were absolutely fucking brutal. There was a village we had to rescue and we found the villagers fucking staked. The ones who weren't were all brought and thrown into barn and were burnt alive. The fucking highlight of that episode was me sifting through the farm and finding two corpses at the end.
A mother and daughter pair. The mother looked like she was trying to comfort and shield her daughter from the fire around them.
The following days, and weeks after that, I did...things that I'm not particularly proud of. I won a title for my troubles though, Elfsbane. I got numerous awards and honors and gifts and all those trimmings. But no matter how much the Legion rewarded me, everything that I got was ash in my mouth.
My Legion fought all over Cyrodiil, hammering Dominion forces wherever we found them. During one particular deployment, my legion had heard that the High Elf general who had conducted that village massacre was nearby, taking cover behind a captured Imperial fort.
We set about besieging the Fort immediately. It took quite a while but we broke through the walls and the gate. It was quite the battle; our own mages trading potshots with Aldmeri battlemages. Legionaries and Aldmer foot duking it out in the streets and breaches. Due to my status as the son of Jarl, I also commanded a force of Nords that had been with me since the start of the war. I could not lead them properly as I had other duties in the Legion so I left it under the command of my brother, Hrongar.
They were the force that finally broke through the stubborn Aldmer lines, battlecries being chanted and battleaxes swinging. The Elves attempted to counter-charge but a cavalry charge lead by the General and by myself broke their weak charge.
We left not a single elf alive though some individuals took it upon themselves to do even more. Rape was a punishable crime in the legion but it did not stop some men. We found a few female high elves with their clothes or armor torn in quiet corners in the fort, thick white liquid in their mouths or other entrances. The rapists were found and summarily executed. First by having their dicks cut off then they were hung like a common criminal. They weren't the only executions though.
The High Elf general, a insufferable dickhead name Sennatar. We had him hung, drawn, then quartered. His parts were then sent to villages that notably suffered under him or had refugees whose relatives died under him.
That was a good day. Made even greater when I found an interesting prisoner deep inside the keep. A red-haired Dunmer.
She was in bad shape when I had found her. Scars and other injuries on her body, mostly on her back. Fortunately, she was not sexually assaulted as the healers I sent her to couldn't find any lacerations on any of her vital areas. It took a full week before I received a message saying that the elf had woke up.
Eyes red as rubies darted to me as I strode into her ward. I took off my Imperial Officer's helmet and held it at my side. I sported a clean shaven look. It was painful for me as facial hair IS the sign of manhood but I was in the middle of a war. I wasn't going to let some golden bastard John Wick me. As soon as the war was over, I was going to be growing my hair and beard longer.
"You are awake," I noted in my thick Nordic accent. The Dunmer was sitting upright on her bed. A white sheet was on her to cover her modesty and bandages were wrapped around her chest. She didn't say anything to me so I strode over to a nearby table and placed my helmet there. Pulling up a chair, I positioned it next to her bed and sat down.
Our eyes met.
"You...saved me?" the Dunmer asked softly.
"Yes," I nodded. "I found you half-starved and tortured in a prison cell. I am Balgruuf and I am a Tribune of General Aurelian. And you are?"
"I...I am Irileth," the dunmer said after a moments hesitation.
Ah. So there she was. And this was probably how they originally met.
"The Divines smile on our meeting, Irileth. So, tell me, what did you do to get treated like that?" I prodded her gently. The Dunmer bit her lip before she sighed.
"I was to assassinate General Sennatar for his atrocities. Many good Dunmer had perished under his hand and for that, my Guild demanded his blood." she said softly.
"And from the scars on your body, you failed, got captured, and were promptly tortured," I pointed out. The dark elf winced and glared at me. I stared back impassively, not backing down from the stare the woman was giving me. She looked away, her eyes full of shame.
"I'm sorry. That was harsh of me," I offered.
"It..It matters not. I failed and this experience...it is one of nightmares," she said with a shiver.
"So, what do you intend to do now?" I questioned. Irileth cast her gaze towards me. I raised an eyebrow, not particularly enjoying being eyed by the Morag Tong assassin.
"My...guild probably assumes I had died in Sennatar's prison. As far as they are concerned, I am dead. I have no where else to go," the assassin stated. My mind wondered where she was going with this.
"And?"
The dunmer smirked. "Perhaps...a stint in the Legion would be a breath of fresh air. Tell me, Tribune, are you looking for a nightblade?"
I sat back on my chair, my hand rubbing my non-existent beard. "Well, I have questions first."
"Ask away," she nodded. I held up my hand and formed a number.
"Firstly, what are your skills?" I asked.
"I am a nightblade. I'm skilled in Archery, in melee combat particularly with daggers and swords. I'm also talented in Destruction and Alteration," she mouthed off. I nodded, silently listing her abilities. She was an assassin through and through. No wonder Big B was so secure in Skyrim when he had Irileth as both his bodyguard and spymaster.
And well, my Legion and I did smash the shit out of a Dominion General. That was sure to piss off some people. I could use a nightblade to watch my back.
"Secondly," I harrumphed, getting her attention. "How can I trust you to protect me when I just met you?"
To my surprise, an offended look came to her face. "I am...I was Morag Tong. We were not just a band of murderers. We are a proper guild with a reputation to maintain! And I am offended that you would dare doubt my honor, Tribune. While I was a prisoner to Sennatar, I never gave him anything. I may be an assassin but I am a assassin with honor!"
At the end of it all, Irileth was heaving. Her face was the very image of righteous indignation. I held up my hands to placate her. "Alright, alright, I'm sorry. Precautions, you must understand. You being an assassin is well...questionable." I explained gently.
Irileth huffed. "You saved my life when you could have just left me in that cell. I was not important to you and you even financed this ward to help me heal," she gestured to her bed, her bandages, and the table which also had potions and other extracts that would help her heal. "I owe you a life debt and I will damned if I don't pay it."
"As I said, I'm sorry," I sighed. I thought for a moment for another question to ask but found none. And so, I made a decision.
"Alright. I'll take you under my wing. Normally, you'd have to go through the process of enlisting but ah, we are at war," I explained as I stood up from the chair, my free hand reaching for my helmet. "So, here's what's going to happen. You heal up first and when you are good, I'll put in a good word for you to Aurelian and have him swear you in. You'll be assigned to me and to me personally, do you understand?"
"I do," nodded the Dunmer, relief in her eyes. I flashed her a grin before I turned to leave. As I left, I put my helmet back on.
"Tribune!" Irileth called out from the bed. I stopped, looking at her over my shoulder.
"Yes?"
"Thank you...for saving me," Irileth whispered.
"It's what I do," I smiled. With a final nod, I marched off.
The Great War then dragged on to its fourth year. The Imperial City had fallen and the Legion was reeling from the loss. For most of the year, we had spent it in being a pain in the neck towards the Dominion's supply lines. I particularly spent it leading cavalry raids against the Elves. We would find Elven supply trains and attack them.
Unlike the other Nords of Skyrim, the Nords of Whiterun Hold were the best damn horseman Skyrim had to offer. With its flat plains, they were an excellent ground for cavalry. My favorite tactic to use against the Elves was to basically Mongol them.
We would attack and harass them. When they would charge, we would feign a retreat then have them go after us on a merry chase. Elven horses were fucking fast but Skyrim bred ones had more endurance. By the time they could catch up to us, the horses were dead tired. And so, we'd reel back and massacre the tired and disorganized horsemen.
We kept this way of fighting until finally, the fifth and final year of the Great war happened. And with that, the Battle of the Red Ring.
Fucking hell man. There's a reason why Imperial strategists fap to this battle.
After the Imperial City fell in the previous year, the Aldmeri Dominion thought that the Empire was on the brink. The Emperor continued to feed that idea to the Dominion and widely propagated the Legion to be on the breaking point. Then, the legions from Hammerfell arrived and they initiated a devastating surprise attack on the Dominion.
Meanwhile, General Jonna, operating a Nordic garrison from Cheydinhal fought their way along the Red Ring Road in an assault lasting two day. The Nordic Legions then linked up with the Redguard ones and together, we made merry havoc demolishing whatever Dominion forces we encountered. In the North, the Emperor was going to lead an army down south to be the final hammer to destroy the Dominion forces in the Imperial City.
Redguard legionnaires tearing through lines of panicking Aldmer. Nordic bersekers cutting through swathes of elves while Imperial legionaries chased through through enemy lines. Since the start of the war, my legion under Aurelian mostly spent it harassing Dominion supply lines, attacking smaller Dominion fortifications and generally being a giant pain in their golden elven asses.
But now, we were attached to the main force to retake the Capital. And fuck me, it was glorious. Before the walls of the Imperial City, we charged the elven lines. It was not just as though. With a scene reminiscent of the Battle of Pelannor Fields, thousands of Imperial horseman charged down the Dominion lines. At the head of it all was the Emperor, or rather the Unknown Hero masquerading as the Emperor. Only I knew that though. No point in telling everyone else about that.
In the end, the Imperial City was retaken and Lord Naarfin, the leader of the Dominion's forces, was personally slain by the Emperor's stand-in.
People sincerely thought that we had won a victory so vast that the Dominion had to surrender. I knew what was going to happen but it still did not lessen the bitterness I felt when details of the White-Gold Concordant came out.
Ah, no wonder everyone felt so bitter with the war's outcome.
Ceding Imperial territory occupied by the Dominion. Talos worship being banned.
Hrongar was beyond furious. General Aurelian trashed his command tent and I laid out my frustrations on a poor training dummy. But we couldn't do anything about it. Despite him being appointed by the Emperor himself, Aurelian was not particularly a giant in the legion compared to Jonna or Decianus. Hrongar and I were lower-end officers with few friends in the higher ups.
And so, we could only suck up the details and just be glad that the war was over.
As a consolation prize, many were showered praises and gifts and honours. But it all was bitter in our mouths.
With the war over, the Empire sought to de-mobilize. My legion was one of the last to be let go as Hammerfell righteously told the Dominion and Empire to fuck off with the shit Concordant and rose in revolt. Due to that, we were posted on the border with Hammerfell and was tasked with watching the border for any signs of Redguard invasion.
God, you should see the mood of the men and women when the Redguards rolled in victory after victory over the elves. It was so tempting to desert and join the Redguards in their fight. Believe me, some did. But before we could do it, a new legion had arrived to replace us and we were finally discharged from service.
Those were the last five years of my life and now, I was due to go home. I may not have been born there but Balgruuf's body ached to be in Skyrim, in Whiterun. I was not going to deny him and my own desire to be at a place I could call home.
At the beginning, I thought I would be trudging back to Skyrim with a satchel on my back. Instead, I was leading a caravan train with a cohort worth of people. There would have been more but Hrongar was still aching for adventure and so, he took our Nords to supposedly have merry fun around Cyrodiil but I was pretty sure he was taking the men to Hammerfell to join in the fight there.
The people who followed me consisted of men and women, Imperials, Nords, and Redguards, who had decided to follow me after I offered them a place in Whiterun. They were former legionnaires who had nowhere else to go. Their talents would be a waste if I let them go so I invited them.
While Tamriel might be resting after essentially the worst war to have graced the continent, I knew there was going to be more trouble in the future. The Skyrim Civil War, the return of the Dragons, the Dawnguard and Dragonborn storylines. There was going to be no shortage of trouble and conflict. Plus, the inevitable return of the great war.
Whiterun and Skyrim would have to be prepared. And as the next Jarl, I was going to do my best to make sure Whiterun would be a fucking fortress by the time the next events of the 4th Era would come. With my followers, they will be the key to establishing a newer type of force Tamriel has never seen before. With my wealth, I shall use on Whiterun and for establishing pillars that would support my rise to power.
I shall rise as Jarl and I will make Whiterun great again. If all goes well, Whiterun would be the mightiest Hold in Skyrim.
And when that happens, maybe I could even aim higher.
Whiterun used to be the capital of Skyrim, with it's central location and the seat of power of King Olaf One-Eye.
Twas the City of Kings.
Maybe...it could be so again.
Irileth
She knew that the homeland of the Nords would be cold. By her ancestors, it was infamous for such a thing. Thus, she prepared the necessary cloaks to shield herself from the biting chill. But despite her preparations, the damn biting frost still got to her. Well, they weren't exactly there yet but she knew they were getting closer. There was less green in the road, and more ice and frost.
Quickly, she tried to bury herself deeper into her fur cloak but no matter how hard she tried, she could still feel it.
Irileth let he mind wander, thinking that a distraction would be enough to get her mind out of the damn cold. And so, she thought about their journey and how far they had come.
They had set out from Chorrol, and followed the roads through the Colovian Highlands. While the Dominion hadn't given the north much attention, it still bore the scars of war. Along the road, they passed by carts carrying wounded veterans, or villages having fewer young men and women. For what it was worth, Irileth offered them silent prayers. The column moved with a quick pace, only stopping to either rest or eat. Along the way, the caravan found a few more souls eager to join them. Many were families who had been devastated by the war and found nothing left for them in Cyrodiil. They were welcomed, only after a lengthy search and questioning conducted by her.
Then, their roads led them towards Bruma, staying there for a few days to replenish their supplies and gather information on the road ahead. Apparently, the natives of Markath had risen in revolt and had even retaken the Hold's capital. There was conflicting reports but the Jarl and his family had managed to flee to Solitude. Rumors were flying if the Empire was going to recognize the natives or send a punitive force to recapture the city. Irileth hedge her bets that the Empire, too exhausted by war, would send a diplomat to the natives instead of a Legion. And apparently, goblins living in the border had become bold as of late thanks to the absence of Imperial patrols. Irileth was sure the goblins would be simple enough to handle
They took their time staying in Bruma for it was the last major city they would stop in before finally leaving for Skyrim. Some left to settle in Bruma but most were convinced that a life in Skyrim would be better for themselves and their families. When the third day came, they left the city and the unwilling behind.
For men and women supposedly discharged from the legion and returned to civilian life, they still conducted the caravan like one. Rigorous standards were still being kept and on occasion, they referred to one another by their old ranks instead of their names. By Azura, she was even referred to sometimes as Praefect sometimes. Old habits die hard, Irileth supposed.
Her time in the Legion was an interesting one. A far, far different experience compared to being a Morag Tong assassin. There were many in the Guild that wanted to join the war against the Dominion. Not exactly out of civic duty or any loyalty the empire, but rather, it was out of the simple fact that the Dominion winning would be terrible objectively speaking. Irileth did not know the exact details for she wasn't high enough in the guild but she had heard through the grapevine and through hushed whispers of the things that went behind the Dominion borders.
Villages of bosmer vanishing in the night. Altmer refugees being ruthlessly hunted by dark-robed assassins.
It seemed hypocritical of her and her former guild to be disgusted of the Dominion and the shadow government that controlled it but the difference between them and the bloody Thalmor was that they drew a line somewhere. The Thalmor were simply...monstrous.
Maybe she felt a little less guilty as she remembered the Dominion troops that died at her hands, considering what they were capable of and the numerous atrocities they committed. Balgruuf had decided her skills would best be used in skullduggery than fighting in the front lines. It was acceptable to Irileth as a nightblade would out of their depth in the battlefield. She allowed herself a small smile, remembering the amount of times she had assassinated many officers of the Dominion who thought they were safe in their tents, in their private chambers.
Her most memorable mission would have to be the time when she sneaked into and laced the water supply of a small Dominion camp with a subtle acting laxative that took an hour to take in. Then, Balgruuf and his brother led a charge into their camp. As the high elves roused to meet them, the laxatives kicked in and they all started discharging themselves in their armor and robes.
When Balgruuf pitched that idea to her, she found it one of the most insane plans she had ever heard. For a moment, she had thought the man a devout follower of Sheogorath. But she did her duty and she could not deny that victory had raised the spirits of the men.
And speaking of Balgruuf...
Irileth cast a quick glance at the Nord leading their column. Gone was his Imperial armor. Now, he was clad in the brown and yellow armor of Whiterun, his home. And, he looked to be deep in thought.
When they had first met, she thought of him as a standard Nord serving in the Imperial Legion; brash, rough, and full of boasts. His brother certainly was the type. As they served together, Irileth realized that her opinions of the man was based mostly on the popular image that Nords liked to cultivate.
Balgruuf had virtues that were common to his people. He was stubborn, prideful to a point, and possessing a sense of honor, something which Irileth respected. Then, there was the other traits. He was open, personable, and warm. He had a curious and...unorthodox mind. And unlike other Nords, he did not disdain magic, more fascinated than outright dismissing it. If she had to put it into a simpler manner, the man was damn infuriating mix of a thief and a warrior.
Irileth growled in annoyance, remembering the many times that her Tribune showed moments of great clarity and thought. Then, there were other foolish moments that made Irileth want to tear her ears and hair out of sheer frustration.
She swore that by the time he would be Jarl, she would have to ensure that he wouldn't embarrass himself or shock people. She wo-
Irileth stopped her train of thought.
When did he become her Tribune? And why was she getting so invested in him? Her time of the Legion was supposed to be temporary wasn't it? A moment of respite to figure out a plan of what to do next?
She took a deep breath to catch a hold of herself. She had made a name for herself in the war and had acquired a fortune from the loot she had taken and sold to monetary compensation for her service. She could leave whenever she wanted.
So why was she following an infuriating lump of muscle towards a frozen wasteland? As far she was concerned, she had already paid off her life debt to him. There could be plenty of work to be found in Hammerfell, what with them deciding to take on the entirety of the Dominion by itself. Or she could have went towards High Rock, what with its propensity for complicated games of intrigue. Surely, she could have found work there and be in a much more agreeable province than Skyrim.
So why!?
And so, she made her decision.
By the next time they would make camp, she would march into his tent and announce her decision to leave. While it was a bother, she could always take the road back and then make her way to High Rock.
Thanks to her status, she could enter his tent whenever she pleased. They had marched the road for most of the day before Balgruuf announced they would have to make camp. They found a suitable campsite that was large enough to host them and defensible enough the watched the roads, with the mountain at their rear to shield them.
She did not bother to pitch her tent. There was still enough daylight left for her to make her way back and find board in an inn they passed.
There were two Nords at the entrance, guards clad in Whiterun livery. She knew them, Ubbe and Ivar, and they nodded at her. She nodded back and opened the flaps of Balgruuf's tent.
And as usual, she found the man hunched over a table, stacks of books around him and his face buried deep in a curious leather bound notebook, a queer metal device in his hand. At first, Irileth thought that Balgruuf was carving something into the paper. On closer inspection, she realized that he was writing using that device.
Immediately, a deep and dark envy coursed through Irileth as she watched Balgruuf effortlessly jot something down on his notebook. Her right hand twitched in pain, remembering the countless hours she spent being his unpaid scribe.
She remembered the very first thing that he made her do after her swearing into the Legion and that was to sift through a small chest worth of correspondence and was tasked to reply to them. She thought that was it when he came back with another chest. And another chest. And two more chests.
Irileth was quite sure that for her work, she could demand him higher wages. Maybe after she said her goodbyes, she could ask for the money he owed her.
And so, she stood at attention, her hands clasped behind her back and waited for Balgruuf to acknowledge her, per Legion etiquette.
She waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
The sound of scribbling filtered through her ears.
She felt the beginnings of a scowl go appear on her lips.
"You're lovable when you are irritated, Irri," Balgruuf remarked from his chair. Despite herself, Irileth felt the beginnings of a blush form on her face. She was not adorable. She was a nightblade! An assassin! She did not do adorable. And that damnable nickname!
"I have a name, it is Irileth," the red-haired dunmer grit through her teeth. "And do not call me 'lovable'. I am not a pouty child. I am a grown Mer, with the skills of a nightblade. I. Am. Not. Lovable."
"Of course, Lady Not Lovable," Balgruuf replied infuriatingly. "I am pleased to meet you. I am Balgruuf, of Whiterun."
"Enough with your attempts at humour. You are a poor jester," Irileth countered, inwardly groaning at him.
"Ah, so why did you come to my tent?" Balgruuf prodded curiously. His face brightened. "Don't tell me you came here for my bright and dashing personality?" Balgruuf questioned, his head tilted to the side. Irileth resisted her desire to palm her face and her eyes dashed around the tent, looking for anything that could change the subject. Her eyes fell to the books that was on his side. She quickly scanned one of its titles.
"The Dwemer of Skyrim?" Irileth read aloud. Her mother had often told her stories about their most ancient enemy, how sacrilegious Kagrenac spelled the doom of the Dwemer by meddling in forces beyond their understanding. Personally, Irileth held no hard feelings towards the Dwemer. She respected and followed the traditions of her ancestors yes, but she wasn't so devoted as to hate a people she hadn't met in her entire life.
What interest could the Dwemer have to Balgruuf?
His eyes darted to the book and a small smile formed on his lips. "There's certain aspects to the Dwemer that are interesting to me. Have you read how Dwemer weapons are so strong, they can resist arrows, and that their swords are so sharp it can pierce through light armor as a warm knife does through butter?
Irileth shook her head. She had knew enough of the them thanks to her mother but not enough to teach her about their society. It could be a good enough read if she felt so inclined.
"Well, the secret to the quality of Dwemer steel is that their steel undergoes a process wherein it is heated at extremely hot temperatures, hotter than the average blacksmith's forge, and it is only possible thanks to their massive underground foundries," Balgruuf regaled with excitement. Strangely, Irileth found his excitement rather endearing.
"I was not aware you were interested in smithing," Irileth commented. As Balgruuf's spymaster, she had taken it upon herself to identify the characters of everyone that met him, even going so far as to jot down notes on Balgruuf himself. The man was a infuriating subject, for the lack of a better term. It seemed that every turn of the moon, there was something about him that remained undiscovered only to surface at a later date.
"Me? Interested in smithing?" Balgruuf repeated, surprise in his eyes. He quickly shook his head. "My interest only extends to its processes and applications. Though I agree it is a sturdy profession. I cannot see myself as a blacksmith though. I enjoy opening skulls more with my weapons thank making the weapons themselves."
Her lips thinned. There was that familiar talk in bashing the skulls of their enemies, how typically Nordic. Though she caught on to what he had said. Applications?
"And how would this Dwemer process be applied?" she found herself asking him. Balgruuf bid her to sit on a chair opposite to him and she did.
As she sat down, Balgruuf asked her an interesting question. "Imagine if a city like Whiterun could have a foundry just like the Dwemer forges. Imagine the benefits of such a factory, say for construction, for the production of arms and equipment, and generally, for the benefit of the common citizen?"
Irileth listened and her mind considered the possibilities of such a foundry producing steel the quality of the Dwemer. She had heard tales of how the Dwemer forges could pump out ingot after ingot only so long as they were fed ore. She imagined the price of steel would go down considerably as the process of smelting ore would be easier and there would be greater quantities for workers to shape according to their desires.
As if reading her thoughts, Balgruuf interjected. "Now, imagine a production process and pair it with mass produced steel. The process I am talking about is something that divides labor by breaking up the manufacture of a product into steps that are completed in a pre-defined sequence. An...assembly line." To further emphasize his point, Balgruuf took some books and arranged them accordingly. Irileth leaned closer, interested and intrigued as to where Balgruuf was taking the conversation.
"Consider the assembly of a wagon," said Balgruuf as he pointed at the first book. Irileth's eyes followed. "That book or line cuts the tree. The next line shapes the wagon. Then the next line works on installing the transmission. Then the next line works on installing the wheels. Imagine that if you will, Irri."
Irileth tried and pictured a group of men cutting down a tree. Then, the tree was taken to be refined by woodworkers. Then, the woodworkers passed the wagon to workers who would install the wagon's transmission, then the wagon was passed to those who installed its wheels.
"The process of manufacturing would be simpler," Irileth said slowly. Her eyes widened as she locked eyes with Balgruuf. "And thanks to the simple process, more goods could be made at a faster and cheaper rate!"
"Now, replace the wagon example I had you imagine with something like the production of arms and equipment," Balgruuf said testily. Irileth quickly caught on to his words and she imagined a massive assembly line of workers and skilled smiths producing weapons and armor at a record's pace.
She blinked and made her feelings known.
"You're mad," Irileth blurted. Balgruuf shrugged and leaned back on his chair, returning to writing something on his notebook.
"I don't want to promise anything though. The foundries are only a dream as the Dwemer are gone and so are their secrets, unless I meet someone who is intimately knowledgeable with their processes and could recreate it. Till then, tis a far off fantasy. The assembly line idea can be done, which is a relief." finished Balgruuf.
"Where do you get these ideas? You...are not consorting with Daedra are you?" Irileth questioned slowly. To her surprise, the man laughed.
"No, there is no daedra involved here. These ideas were all dreamed by mortals, in a place far, far away." he said wistfully.
"By the Dwemer?"
Balgruuf stopped writing and gave her a strange look. "Yes...of course. Let's go with that." he said with a shrug.
Silence returned to the tent. The cracking of a nearby fire and the scribbling on a notebook being the only sounds in the tent. Then, Irileth remembered her purpose there. She silently cursed herself for letting Balgruuf fill her head with his ideas. Clearing her throat, she spoke.
"Balgruuf. Listen, I-"
Before she could finish what she wanted to say, she winced as a ram's horn echoed from outside the tent.
"We are under attack! To arms!"
The two glanced at one another. Then, they sprang from their seats, reached for their weapons and rang out of the tent. As she left the tent, Irileth muttered every single curse she knew.
Fire flowed through her veins. Her sword strikes were violent and bloodthirsty. Her face was marked by narrowed eyes and a frown.
Her plan had been ruined. And out of all creatures to do it, it had to be damned goblins!
They were short but violent creatures that infested Tamriel. They were often at war with one another but it was not uncommon for the disgusting creatures to sally and raid passing caravans or camps. Now that Cyrodiil was still reeling from the Great War, the disgusting creatures would have sensed a golden opportunity for raiding as the Legion would be swept up in reorganizing itself.
She and Balgruuf had run out of the tent and found men and women rushing to the stockade. Even if they were out of the Legion, it did not mean they would have to forget the lessons they learned. It was standard procedure to construct a stockade everytime a Legion would camp and rest. While it wasn't as good as a stone wall, it would be enough to serve as a temporary barrier against their enemies and buy them enough time to rearm and regroup.
That was a few minutes ago. Now, they were in the middle of combat.
"Waguwaaawa!" the goblins in front of her screeched as they charged, weapons made out of bones in their hands. Irileth growled at the charging creatures and conjured a jet of flame from her hand, bathing the them in dark and orange flame. The goblins had no time to react to the incoming fire and were caught in the flames. The rudimentary leather armor and some bits of iron they were for protection was not enchanted.
They burned to a crisp, screaming and screeching as they trashed on the earth. The last one took a bit too long to die. Too long for her liking.
Irileth decapacitated it with her sword.
It would seem those were the last goblins to attack them as their camp roared in victory. Irileth did not join in the festivities, her mood soured by the damned interruptions. Immediately, men and women began sifting through the corpses, greed glinting in their eyes. She did not join the looting. She already had more than enough and it wasn't as if the goblins had anything of value to take.
Sighing, she knelt right next to a fallen goblin who had a horned helm. She the cut off the rags it wore below with her sword and used the rag to clean off the disgusting black liquid that was their blood. Her ears perked as she heard the sound of someone coming from behind her. Swiftly she turned and aimed her sword to the fool who tried to sneak up on her.
Bushy blonde eyebrows rose.
"I know you hate me, Irri, but this soon? After everything we've been through?" asked Balgruuf, his voice infuriatingly filled with humor. He stood tall in his Whiterun livery, his warhammer resting on his shoulder. She could see that he was holding something in his left hand but Balgruuf was keeping it out of her view.
Irileth's right eye twitched.
"I could have killed you, you damned fool!" hissed the Dunmer.
"But you haven't, so happy times," countered the Nord. Knowing that the blonde bastard would somehow find a way to twist her words or come up with foolishness, Irileth decided to leave it be, for now. Breathing out a sigh, she tossed the rag in her hand and stood up. Balgruuf eyed her with a amused glint as she sheathed her sword.
"This time, you are lucky. A few inches more, I could have sent you to Sovngarde," warned Irileth.
"Ah, but I am already in Sovngarde, when I have you with me," Balgruuf intoned in a singsong voice. Irileth grit her teeth at the blonde bastard who only laughed upon seeing her expression. The dunmer felt her cheeks warm in embarrassment. And only because she was embarrassed.
"Curse you Balgruuf. Curse you," she swore. The Nord shook his head, still chuckling. Then, his expression changed into a grimace.
"Tell me, Irileth, do you find this attack strange?" questioned Balgruuf. Irileth blinked at the suddenness of his question but she quickly caught on. She craned her head and examined the goblin corpses that were being pilfered by eager hands.
Goblins were known to attack and raid. But usually, they attacked convoys or caravans that were small and weak. Then again, Irileth had a low opinion on goblin intelligence. It looked rather suspicious that they would attempt to attack a clearly militarized and organized convoy like theirs but beyond wild speculation, she would have to chart it up to goblin stupidity.
"I do not," Irileth answered. "Goblins do attack travellers on the road, but only when their victims are weak. It's beyond me why they would attack us. I would not know, for I am not a goblin." Thankfully, Azira be praised. She continued. "Beyond needless paranoia, the likely explanation for why they attacked us would be simple stupidity."
She blinked when Balgruuf finally held out whatever he was holding in front of her. Her eyes narrowed when she saw what it was.
Irileth quickly took it from his hands and examined it. It was just as light as Elven weapons were supposed to be but with a sharpness that could behead a man in seconds. Immediately, her mind thought of possible explanations. Perhaps this was a weapon pilfered in the battlefield or was looted off a merchant's caravan? Or maybe it was simply a weapon that was passed down from goblin to goblin?
"Where did you find this?" Irileth demanded as her eyes met with Balgruuf.
"I found it off a goblin I killed. The bastard was holding it like it was the sword of Tiber Septim himself. Didn't stop me from carving its face in though," Balgruuf replied, a feral grin on his face. Irileth rolled her eyes. Nords and their love of violence.
Irileth made a few strikes with the sword. Her forms were graceful and lithe, borne out of years of experience with the Morag Tong. A few onlookers watched in errant fascination as she carved the air with swift strikes. When she finished, Balgruuf watched her with a bemused expression.
"Show-off," he muttered. Irileth flushed.
"I was only testing the blade!" she protested. The snort that Balgruuf gave made her flush even more. Grumbling, she tossed it back to Balgruuf who caught it mid-air.
"The presence of a single blade does not mean anything. It could simply be a weapon looted off the battlefield or a merchant caravan." Irileth speculated. That was true to her. While it was in her nature as a nightblade to be suspicious, she needed more pieces of evidence to be convinced of something before she made her judgement.
"But out of this cursed horde, only that single goblin, most likely its chief, had a single elven sword," Balgruuf pointed out.
"That does not mean anything. It could be a weapon passed between goblin chiefs," Irileth retorted, her hands crossed over her chest.
"We could have been attacked at any point in our road. Why now?" Balgruuf argued back. "You know how dangerous the Jerall Mountains are, and how treacherous the Pale Pass is. And we are rapidly reaching the border crossing. Why attack now so far from Cyrodiil? It's clear, Irri. We are being hunted."
Irileth had to admit that argument had a certain reasoning to it. It was quite suspicions that they were attacked right now when so many opportunities presented itself during their crossing. But Irileth felt that argument relied too much on chance to have any real weight.
"A coincidence, Balgruuf. Perhaps other goblin tribes were smarter than this?" Irileth gestured towards the dead goblins.
"Argh, why don't you believe me?" moaned the Nord. Irileth shook her head.
"Tribune, you are being paranoid." said Irileth, falling back to using his old title. In response, Balgruuf frowned, eyebrows furrowing.
"Tis not paranoia when they are out to get you!" the man argued loudly. Irileth rolled her eyes as she walked past the bemoaning Nord, eager to get a meal into her and sleep. Her body was tired from fighting and travelling. Her stomach growled and screamed at her to get some food.
Luckily, the camp already had food ready and Irileth ate a hearty potage of cream and potato that had strips of bacon and sprinklings of carrots and diced onion. She washed it down with a mug of ale. Satisfied, Irileth strode over to her tent, eager to sleep.
It was only then she realized that she hadn't pitched her tent. She remembered her eagerness a few hours ago, to announce her intention to leave and set her own path. And if those damn Goblins hadn't interfered, she'd be half-way to High Rock by now!
Grumbling, she moved to pitch her tent. Right now, it was too dangerous to travel as it was night. And since she would be going the opposite way by herself, she doubted she would travel without getting harassed by goblins or other creatures.
There was really no other way for her but forward. With the damnable fool named Balgruuf.
One month, or two, Irileth decided. She was going to stay with the blonde bastard for one or two months nothing more. By then, the roads would be safer as the Legion would no doubt be able to reorganize and send patrols to watch the road again.
And besides, her time with Balgruuf had been nothing but profitable for her. Surely, it wasn't a bad idea to stay with him for a little while and watch him rule his home. She had to admit a certain fascination with his ideas but only because it was unlike anything she had heard before and not because she was fascinated with the way he talked or pitched them to her.
After all, they were nothing more but associates, partners. Friends even from a certain point of view. And they were going to be nothing more than that, Irileth swore.
When she awoke, it was to the sound of the camp stirring. She exited her tent, yawning, and found men and women waking up to the sun rising. Already, she could smell breakfast being made. It made her mouth water as she could smell eggs and bacon being fried. A few hours later, and after a hearty breakfast, they broke camp and resumed their road to Skyrim.
Already, Irileth could tell they were getting closer and closer to the homeland of the Nords. The air was getting even colder than usual. She shivered on her horse, her fur coat being to bloody inadequate to keep her warm.
She blinked she felt a heavy and warm weight wrapping around her. She turned to find Balgruuf riding beside her, a bemused expression on his face.
"Next time, get a thicker cloak," admonished Balgruuf. "This is not the frost of Bruma. This will be the snow of Skyrim."
Irileth could only mutter her thanks as the cloak-less Balgruuf took the reins of his horse and galloped forward. Just as the Nord said, the cloak wrapped on her mad her feel warmer. And she was getting warm simply because of the cloak and nothing more. And she did not unintentionally take in Balgruuf's scent.
Eventually, the road became less treacherous and the snow-tipped peaks of the Jerall mountains became a distant memory as they climbed a steep road that gave her a good view of the horizon.
It was beautiful.
A land surrounded by mountains, but with green forests and winding rivers. A land of history, tradition, rebirth, and rebellion. Once the home of the Dwemer and long lost Chimer, now dominated by a race of Men whose resolve was strong, whose strength was unwavering. The homeland of the Nords.
Skyrim.
"They failed."
A woman snarled and promptly trashed her tent. Her table, her chair, her dressers. He watched with a set expression as the woman heaved and breathed. Then, she took a breath and sighed.
"Very well then. I knew using those goblins were a waste."
"It was your idea, niece." he helpfully reminded her. Green eyes narrowed at him. "Tch. Pack your bags, uncle."
"And so we will be going home?" he added good-naturedly. Inwardly, his heart fell when the woman growled.
"No! We will be going after that murderer! My father will be avenged!" the woman raged as she stormed out of the tent.
The man sighed. The things he did for family. For his people. "Very well, niece."
A/N: Crossposting my fic from QuestionableQuesting to here. For faster updates and scenes which are fully explicit, head over to QQ for extra goodies. For even fastest updates, check me out on my : /pastah_farian