John had apparently been pretty lucky, finding the Imperials out here. According to several men, they had only just recently cleared out the fort of bandits. Had John arrived before the snowstorm hit, it would have likely still been infested by all manner of cutthroats.
But now, for a few hours, he was at ease. It was a rare thing, being able to relax, even among soldiers. For all their suspicious glances, the Imperials treated him with a fair amount of respect, or at least indifference, perhaps sensing that he was no greenhorn to be trifled with. That, or word had already spread that he held a Daedric Artifact that he was delivering to the Vigilants.
Nobody with a good head on their shoulders wanted to deal with a Daedric Prince.
As the hours rolled by and the fort settled into the quiet hum of an encampment at rest, John couldn't help but feel the Blade's presence more acutely. It was as though it pulsed, not with any heat he could sense outright, but with a dark, low thrum that he felt in his bones. As though it were waiting.
Despite his tiredness, John couldn't bring himself to sleep, not just yet. He was frankly starving, and sleeping now would only risk never waking up again. He hadn't been able to eat, as doing so would have meant exposing his face to the elements. He hadn't exactly been in a position to do so, unfortunately.
With a sigh, he reached into his pack, fingers brushing over the last bits of jerky he'd rationed. Hard, tough, salty, and nearly completely frozen, it was hardly the feast he craved, but it would have to do. He tore into the dried meat, the salt scraping against his parched throat.
As he thought, his teeth numbed from the cold.
Still, it was something. It was enough to fill the pit in his stomach, though he'd have to get some more rations from the quartermaster before he left. Hopefully, they had more than just jerky this time around. Idly, he let the frozen water pack out of his bag and placed it near the fire. Soon enough, it had melted slightly, allowing him the first sip of - still very cold - water in a while.
After chewing through the last stubborn pieces of jerky, John stood and brushed the crumbs from his cloak. The quartermaster would likely have fresh supplies, perhaps even a warm meal if he was lucky, but he wasn't ready to ask just yet. Instead, curiosity tugged at him, nudging him to explore the fort itself.
In the past, such curiosities were quickly squashed. Engaging in them was not exactly in his best interests, especially when they usually involved a sprawling, international criminal syndicate. Trying to poke your head in those instances were the best ways to get yourself a trip down into the Hudson.
Now though, he was free to do so. Well, maybe not as much, since this was still a military station, but freer than the past.
John shook his head, dislodging the memories. The chill in the air was insistent, biting through the heavy folds of his cloak. With nothing but time on his hands, he got up and went further into the fort, following the quiet clinking of metal on metal and the occasional murmur of low voices.
He found himself back in the courtyard, the same one the gate he entered led into. Now that he was somewhat fed and watered, he could tell that, though the place was still technically outside, it was much warmer than the outside of the actual fort.
Magic, he could only surmise. Nords, for whatever reason, generally disliked using magic for combat. They saw it as an affront to actual, physical combat, exception being Restoration after everything was said and done. The Imperial Army was, thankfully, not just composed of Nords. They included anyone and everyone willing and capable.
That meant, they had no restrictions nor grievances against magic. Yes, John could guess that they used magic to keep the air warm without having to use large bonfires. Efficient, if he had to say anything about it.
The courtyard spread out before him like a canvas painted in shades of gray and brown, its stones worn smooth by countless boots and the passage of time. The fort stood solid and intact, a robust structure that had clearly withstood the tests of the elements. Jagged remnants of earlier fortifications had been replaced by strong, sturdy walls, their surfaces unmarred and steadfast.
The architecture around him was rugged yet strangely elegant. Much like how the Nords of Skyrim were.
John wandered closer to one of the quieter corners, where he spotted a collection of crates and barrels stacked haphazardly against the wall. Some were stamped with the Imperial insignia; others bore strange symbols that he vaguely recognized, their origins likely somewhere far off, perhaps brought in from distant provinces or captured towns. As he scanned the stack, his fingers brushed the rough grain of a half-broken crate. Inside, something rattled - a collection of metal parts, perhaps, or loose armor pieces.
"You interested, lad?" An older soldier, in somewhat of a different set of armor, approached him as John looked over the stack. An Imperial, the person, not the Empire itself. Olive-skinned with white hair, the man stood apart from the other soldiers. Unlike them, he was well beyond fighting age, though that didn't really mean much in Tamriel.
You needed to fight at every age, after all.
John nodded at the question. Truth be told, he wasn't. He was just satisfying the idle curiosity of his, why a random box was broken when everything else was so meticulously arranged. "Just wondering what's inside," he replied, keeping his tone casual, masking his actual curiosity about the man's past and the stories he might carry. There was a history written in the lines of the soldier's face, as deep as the scars he bore.
The old soldier chuckled softly, the sound reminiscent of gravel crunching underfoot. "Ah, a curious one, are you? Most young men these days are more interested in the shiny things," he said, nodding toward the glint of armor and weapons nearby. "But it's the broken bits that tell the real tales, lad. Each dent and scratch carries a story of its own."
John could relate.
The former assassin was, after all, the broken pieces that were mended back together, only to get shattered once again.
WIth a hidden shudder, John continued to nod at the soldier's words. To his credit, as good as John was at hiding his emotions, the other man was more than capable of realizing he was being just a bit rude, "Aye, but you didn't come over here to listen to an old man ramble, did you?"
Without waiting for a response, the broken crate was fully opened, letting a bunch of steel longswords, maces, and helmets fall out. Curiously, they were all a different design than those of the Imperials.
"Name's Alecian, Imperial quartermaster." He held out a hand for a shake, which John took, "Heard of you from the Legate, so I think it best I tell you before the rumors get out of hand. I believe it's anyone's best interest to be truthful to someone who's willing to deliver a damned Artifact to the Vigilants."
Alecian's words hung in the air, thick with the weight of unspoken histories and the bristling tension of a world that could turn hostile in an instant. John met the quartermaster's gaze, a careful mask of neutrality settling over his features. "I'm just passing through," he said, the words tasting like ash on his tongue. He was not here to discuss legends or whispered fears. "No need for rumors."
The older man chuckled again, a sound that seemed to carry the wisdom of countless campaigns. "Rumors have a way of spreading like wildfire, lad. You know how soldiers are. It's either fear or admiration that keeps them at your back, and I'd wager you've had your fair share of both."
John shifted his weight, feeling the chill of the stones beneath his boots seep into him.
"Plus, and I'll be honest with you, I have no damned intention of letting that thing fall into the wrong hands just because you were misinformed."
"...That's fair."
"Let's start with the basics. You heard of the Stormcloaks?"
"I have." John watched as Alecian separated the various weapons and armor. Spread out, you could clearly see the wear and tear on all of them. They hadn't been maintained, with chips and breaks all over all of them. However, that did not mean their make was any less. Had they been kept up, these blades would likely be better than most of the other weapons he'd seen in the fort.
"Good. But what you might not know is that they've recently been making overtures to Dawnstar." A shake of his head, "And worse is that Jarl Skald has been…more than receptive to them."
"Dawnstar is held by the Stormcloaks, then?"
That was worrying. The Stormcloak movement had been growing in leaps and bounds recently, having been the talk of the town back in Whiterun. That didn't mean they had any real staging area other than Windhelm, however. Most thought that it would be over soon enough, since even their leader, Ulfric, had been easily captured.
Though, the fact that a dragon had come in and broke the kingslayer out of Helgen, even unintentionally, was a bit of a point against that.
"I'm not saying that." Alecian shook his head in negative, "All I'm saying, the soldiers' are thinking that isn't it a bit suspicious that a bunch of bandits could get their hands on Stormcloak equipment this far west?"
It clicked. The equipment laid out in front of him was too good. Not something that a bunch of bandits could get their hands on, especially in the middle of the Pale.
"You're saying these weren't just ordinary bandits?" John murmured, piecing it together as his gaze slid over the scattered weapons. Steel that might once have gleamed now glinted with the wear of recent use, a dull, bruised finish on each blade that spoke not of skirmishes with mere travelers or villagers, but of organized clashes. It held the marks of men trained for more than theft.
Alecian nodded grimly, his hands resting on the hilt of his own sword. "We intercepted a group carrying Stormcloak marks weeks ago. Thought they might've been a scouting party, but they were hauling enough arms to supply half a town. Then we got here, and well, these damned 'bandits' fought like men who were once soldiers. Trained. And now, they're getting weapons and armor as if they've a forge and a craftsman working overtime. Something's rotten in the Pale, lad, and it's more than the snow."
John knew that it was dangerous out in the Pale, the snow made sure of that.
His jaw clenched imperceptibly, his mind already spinning over potential implications. This wasn't just another brush with danger, and it wasn't just the sword strapped to his back or his reputation. No, he was standing at the threshold of something greater, a pulse in his blood that signaled the inevitability of conflict.
The Stormcloaks, for all their propaganda, espoused values that directly meant that John would be discriminated against, as he was no Nord. While that normally didn't matter much to John, when that meant that he would possibly not be able to buy any supplies?
That was a death sentence in the Pale.
"Thank you for the warning." And he meant it.
"Don't thank me yet." Alecian made a grunt of effort as he lifted another crate, this one opened to a view of - surprise, surprise - more salted jerky, "Thank me by making sure you don't kick the bucket. Now, you need anything? It's going to cost you though."
John ended up buying more of the jerky, tastebuds be damned.
…
Commissioned by: brutalcrab
If you like what I do and want to support me, check out my P-atreon at P-atreon•com(slash)Almistyor.
And a special thanks to: FireRogueWolf25, brutalcrab and Tassimo.
