Chapter 2:
The Trail That Remains - Aurielius
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(Unbound – TESV Skyrim OST)
The beginning of our great hunt was, as many, uneventful.
Mother had indeed seen the fires of Helgen, as had the Jarl and the town-guard, who immediately went forth to reinforce and help the city; my mother safely in toe to provide what healing she could to the townsfolk.
So Strikes and I had prepared to head off for the nearest villages and cities to warn them, but I had the idea to ask one of the guards if something was already being done on that front. Unsurprisingly, the guard was efficient as always and had sent out a rider to warn each of the adjacent Imperial-allied holds: Markarth and Whiterun. Unfortunately, politics got in the way of sense, as was often the case, and the Jarl had elected not to warn the Stormcloak-aligned Riften hold to the east.
It had seemed like the dragon was circling the province, letting all know of its return. So there was a chance, however slim, that we may encounter it in Riften, at the theoretical end of its little loop.
So by the will of Hircine, and for the sake of the people of the Rift, we elected to leave our home eastward-bound for the time being. It wasn't something we hadn't done before, hell, a few times my mother needed ingredients from such far-flung places as Morthal and Windhelm. They were new opportunities and territories to hunt, and it was good practice for if I ever wished to truly turn to adventuring for work. So Strikes and I weren't unfamiliar with travel, simply unused to being away from home for longer than one trip.
However, I had a feeling that we would need more than our wolf forms to stand a chance against this dragon, and normal weapons didn't count; that meant the College of Winterhold. The College though, meant that we would be gone significantly longer than one trip. So I was grateful that we would naturally pass by Helgen on our way east, for it would give me the chance to say goodbye to my parents one last time before being gone for Gods only knew how long.
Even so, it was with a heavy heart that Strikes and I rode up the steep western path to the still smoldering ruins of Helgen on the back of one of our family's two horses, a stubborn stallion named Sten after the guardian god of compassion and justice. Mother and father got irritated with the stallion's stubbornness more often than not, and since we needed a horse for traveling quickly with our equipment without rousing suspicion, I figured of our two horses, that I would take him off my parent's hands and coin. Still, the chance to say goodbye only made leaving a little less painful, and did nothing for my nerves.
It was well into the dusk of the 17th of Last Seed when I brought Sten to a stop a hundred or so paces from the legionnaires at an improvised checkpoint at the entrance to a small city of tents in front of the western Helgen gates. The tents were surrounded by a crude fence of spaced wooden stakes angled diagonally upward while the checkpoint in front of the tents consisted of a line of spike-barricades built of a number of the same stakes that surrounded the camp tied together in an "X" pattern. The guards at the checkpoint were a few legionnaires whose tall rectangular shields, painted in Imperial red, bore the towering bear sigil of the II Legion Bears. The Bears were based in Bruma, the only Cyrodiilic legion in Skyrim and ironically named considering who they were facing.
Staring up at the camp and the ruins of Helgen where my mother and father would be, I took a calming breath, my right hand reflexively falling down to grasp the hilt of the finely-crafted and honed imperial shortsword sheathed by my right-side as was traditional for the Imperial Legion. My father had gifted me the blade for my eighteenth birthday only three years previous in recognition of my manhood and how far my training had come. The blade had an imperial dragon embossed in a steel diamond in the guard and had a beautifully honed slightly leaf-shaped blade proudly engraved with my name in the fuller running down its spine. I carried the blade on my right side the way the legionnaires did, both because it was the way I was trained by my father and as a conscious choice for easy draw in very tight quarters. I stopped short of drawing and looking at the blade as I usually did, not exactly a good idea in front of a bunch of unsurprisingly nervous legionnaires, and withdrew my hand from the hilt for good measure.
Two of the legionnaires in the segmented plate armor and open helms typical of the professional Cyrodiilic heavy infantry started on their way down towards our horse as another stayed back and knocked arrows on their bows, but didn't draw. The approaching legionnaires then called out in a booming order as was standard procedure.
" Hail! Dismount your steed and identify your legion and rank militia!" The right-side legionnaire ordered. He had the front-to-back plain steel crest and standard legionnaire armor of a decanus, the leader of a contubernium or group of eight men plus two servants, elected by the contubernium members to keep the group in line and lead them in small-unit actions. The question wasn't anything I wasn't expecting though.
Strikes and I wore surplus legion armor of mail shirts and skirts with broad horseshoe-shaped collars of extra mail about the collarbone/shoulders along with bracers and shin guards; similar equipment to the archers warily eyeing us a short distance behind their plate-armored comrades. I wore an unadorned steel imperial open helm much like the legionnaire accompanying the decanus, but Strikes unfortunately had to make do with a custom-made plated mail coif with small plates of steel sewn overtop between and around her horns and muzzle to add a little solidity to the protection, her twin rows of horns atop her head making properly wearing any solid helmet impossible. Strikes had originally detested the coif because "it made her look like a horse", which was unfortunately necessary considering the facial structure of argonians, it did look like someone had taken a war-horse's plated mail head-piece and sized it for an argonian though. These days however, she actually liked the thing.
I pointed out one day that it wouldn't be hard to string some decorations of some kind through the mail and Strikes had gotten very creative with it: an array of burgundy strips of cloth were now linked to the mail via polished brass ring-links similar to the mail of the coif itself in a manner mimicking her now-hidden feathers, though the actual armor was made of steel. Strikes' rows of horns poking through the necessary holes in the coif combined with the array such that all-together it now looked almost like she simply had scales of mail and steel upon her head instead of some bulky coif, at least if she was facing the wind, but it was far better than nothing in both our opinion. Put simply, her coif was now a work of art to behold.
Aside from my blade and our armor, Strikes and I both carried spears on slings across our backs; we'd found the simple yet timeless long pokey stick to be as infinitely useful as so many others down through the ages against things perhaps a tad to big and nasty to risk getting in close to. We also both brought and I often carried a shallowly curved rectangular tower-shield used by legion infantry, for all intents and purposes we looked like legionnaires, militia at least. It was purposeful because the Imperial Legion used this set of equipment because it worked, for both inexperienced and veteran fighters, to allow them to kill the enemy while not getting killed themselves.
Strikes however, typically went without the shield in favor of carrying her favorite toy in addition to her spear: a rather fancy poleaxe with brass decorations and inlays we looted off a bandit chief who found himself and his lackies in the wrong part of the forest at the wrong time of night. The poleaxe was a combination weapon on a long, reinforced pole with an axe coming up just a head shorter than Strikes; hence the name. The poleaxe was more than just a simple axe on a pole as a battleaxe would be, in addition to the axe-head it also had a spear-head coming from the top of the pole and a hammer-head directly behind the axe-head. The weapon offered a truly amazing number of ways to maim, bleed, and slaughter anything that had the misfortune of attracting Strikes' ire. The many ways of gruesome injury the poleaxze afforded, Strikes gleefully used in as wide a variety as possible almost like a little challenge to see how creative she could get with sending some "worthy" soul to whatever pit of oblivion they belonged in. As the final piece to Strikes' bouquet of pain, my ferocious lizard lover carried an eight-flanged mace on her right where I carried my imperial shortsword, to really bash a message into someone's skull if they failed to get it after getting poked and carved a few times.
However, the problem with our choice of largely legion equipment was that it sometimes led to awkward problems like this: I now had to explain that we weren't in fact legionnaires without getting riddled with arrows as battlefield scavengers or spies.
Strikes voiced my own thoughts as she groaned from her place behind me on the enlarged saddle we used when taking one of the horses together.
" Great… here we go again…" Strikes groaned as we both did as ordered while the decanus and the other legionnaire approached. I then spoke with my head held high in confidence to lend a further air of legitimacy to my words, leading with the explanation rather than the fact since that tended to end up with us in a dungeon less often.
"My father's the tribune of Falkreath, the equipment's surplus. We're not legionnaires and make no claim to the honored name of Stendarr's legions." I called out as the decanus and company stopped for a moment and furrowed his brows suspiciously before he responded and kept walking towards us.
"Ready your writ of surplus then, and make no sudden movements or you will be apprehended or slain." The decanus declared and warned as procedure dictated and I breathed a sigh of relief despite the grim words, thankfully this one wasn't as suspicious as a couple we'd run into.
I reached into the satchel bag I kept at my back-left and pulled out the writ in question, enchanted as waterproof by the court wizard of Falkreath to avoid getting us thrown in the dungeon again after a rainstorm. The decanus and company stopped in front of us and the decanus' companion reached for Sten's reins to hold him.
To avoid another problem that had happened before, I slowly reached up and patted the stubborn stallion on the neck and spoke calmly to him.
"Steady Sten." I said, carefully using the exact same words I always used in situations like this, so the horse easily knew that the words meant everything was fine; if strange.
Sten huffed and snorted as he stamped at the ground in irritation but otherwise remained thankfully calm as I handed the decanus the writ and he looked over my father's signature and the seal of the legion upon it before looking up at me with a cocked brow and speaking.
"It's unenchanted?" He asked and I nodded in confirmation.
"Aye sir. I have a copy, you can send it off to the Falkreath administrator's office and it will be confirmed." I said. Enchantments did exist that identify the holder of an item as the legitimate owner and had varying effects if the owner was not, the cheapest being just an identifiable change in color of the seal, though where enchantments were concerned it was all relative. Enchanting anything for such civilian purpose as identification tended to cost more-or-less ten-times more than just having a copy, though it was useful if one needed expediency for some reason; we didn't. Items could also only be enchanted for any reasonable cost with a single enchantment alone, and after an incident involving a rainstorm, bad luck, and a sleepless week in Cidnah mine in Markarth, my family had prioritized waterproofing. Satchels couldn't just be enchanted to be waterproofed, there tended to be some manner of hole between the opening flap and the rest of the bag and enchantments couldn't simply create solid mass. So all in all it was a better use of our family's money to just have the writ duplicated and then both enchanted to be waterproof; identification wouldn't mean anything if the signature and seal validating the writ were smeared and waterlogged.
"I will. Are you a courier?" The decanus questioned further as he pocketed the writ, and I shook my head and responded again.
"No sir." I said as the decanus nodded and gestured to my satchel and horse.
"Then I'll have to check your horse-packs and satchel to ensure you have no more than the allotted two." The decanus said as I nodded and stepped to the side and behind Sten, where I could see what the decanus was doing just in case, we had another bad experience with a guard in Riften before and it wasn't something I cared to repeat.
The reason for the limit and inspection was because otherwise a criminal could just carry a bunch of forged writs and just run around as a "serial falsifier" for potentially weeks if not more as the various local administrator's offices in the hold capitals had to check and discover the false writs and report to each-other. The administrator's offices reported falsified surplus across holds and even provinces because falsified surplus was an imperial crime that was considered committed against the Empire rather than a single hold as robbery was, or even a provincial crime against a province like murder.
Lycanthropy is another imperial crime, another reason why I absolutely detested crossing roads in our wolf form and ensured we always transformed deep in the trees and well out of view of any settlement.
(May your Souls Take Flight – The Eagle Soundtrack / 0:00 - 1:45)
After a couple more thankfully uneventful moments, the inspection was over with and we crossed through the checkpoint into the camp walking Sten by his reins.
…I wished we were still dealing with the tedious inspection.
I had seen men and women die before, even killed them by tooth and claw in my wolf-form, but they were outlaws and the kill was generally quick; the screams also only came from one point. In the camp though… for not the first time I regretted the enhanced senses of my wolf-blood:
Sobbing townsfolk and blank-eyed legionnaires studded every corner of the many visible rows of white tents to either side of Strikes and I, some separately, others doing what the could to help and comfort each-other; irrespective of affiliation in this accursed civil war.
By one tent a Stormcloak woman helped a legionnaire missing one leg above the knee stagger towards the food line with a frown of displeasure yet a determined look in her grey eyes, and by another a gruff-looking imperial decanus gripped a younger Stormcloak with a burned half of his face by the shoulder and spoke a bit brusquely to him but in a way that seemed to harden the lad's remaining eye that was shining with tears.
Groans of pain and misery, cries of help and pain, and the sobbing of those left behind by as their loved ones passed to the gods surrounded and drowned me. Not only that, but as a wolf, the putrid broth of charred flesh, rot, and alchemy suffocated me even as the sounds tried to drown me. Even Strikes, normally so boisterous and always ready with a quip, even a grim or morbid one, loosened the straps and removed her coif out of both respect and a futile attempt to relieve her even more sensitive argonian nose as she pressed her lips tight and desperately pressed a hand to her snout while I soldiered through the scent out of what was probably a slightly backwards gesture of respect and solemnity as I too removed my helm.
Many lycanthropes had difficulty around people, and especially the scent of blood, but rot tended to suppress one's appetite. Furthermore, my inner wolf had unusually been tied with and meshed with my own spirit when I was but a boy; the incoherent mass of urges and instincts forming themselves around a soul that wasn't yet mature itself. So my inner wolf started more like a pup rather than an adult spirit with a mind of its own to tame. Thus, much like a puppy is much easier to train and tame than a starved wolf or stray, my inner wolf was similarly more cooperative, if not necessarily submissive; learning and changing with me as I grew so long as I both controlled and respected it. This and putrid broth of the camp's stench, combined with years of experience and a hunt just the previous night meant that my inner wolf stirred but ultimately did nothing more even as easy meat lay helpless in the tents around me, the same applied to Strikes for all the same reasons.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Instead, I felt the urge to help, but knew we would be here forever in that case. If we took "forever" here and didn't warn Riften, then another city or town would easily end up a pit of charred wood, flesh and sorrow. I only wished and had the time to tell my parents my intentions and say goodbye.
So I asked around the legionnaires where the nearest high officer was, for they would necessarily also know where my father was, and him likely my mother. They unsurprisingly pointed Strikes and I to the center of the camp where the officer's tents were located… what was absolutely nerve wracking was the fact that they had pointed me to General Tullius himself… to ask where the tribune was. Stendarr willing it would be quick, I felt it would be horrendous disrespect to waste the General's time with such a trivial matter.
Indeed, dead center of the camp, there was a large, closed and obviously more comfortable fur tent with the Imperial Dragon sigil pinned to a pole holding up its front.
As I approached, two II legion legionnaires standing at ready on either side of the entrance immediately rested their hands upon their swords and the one closest to Strikes and I on the right barked a query.
"Name, rank, and legion militia!" The guard barked dutifully as I gulped nervously and responded.
"Surplus, I need to speak with the Tribune of Falkreath. I was told to speak to the general about where he was, but if you'll point me to him I'll be on my way. I don't want to waste the general's time." I said, hoping to avoid annoying the general, he probably had enough to deal with right now.
Tullius' guards were unsurprisingly less lax than most of the other legionnaires and the one I was speaking to raised a suspicious brow.
"Who wants to know?" The guard asked, not unreasonably as I answered truthfully.
"His son, I'm heading off to the College of Winterhold… I probably won't be back for a while." I said honestly as the guard opened his mouth to respond before a very slightly nasally yet firm, commanding voice of sophisticated and slightly gravelly Cyrodiilic accent called from within the tent.
(The Ninth Legion – The Eagle Soundtrack)
"Son? Send him in, I could use a break anyway." General Tullius called from within the tent as my eyes widened in surprise and I turned to Strikes, who smirked in amusement at my expense and quipped.
"An audience with the general? I told you you'd be moving up in the world if you just got out of the bloody house." Strikes quipped, much too loudly for my tastes as the legionnaires chuckled at my expense while I dipped my head in embarrassment and glared at her out of the corner of my eye before straightening and dusting my mail off nervously. I handed Sten's reins to one of the guards after calming the stubborn stallion before stepping around the guard and stepping behind the closed tent-flap while holding it open for Strikes to duck in, taking solace in the normal act before turning to face the general.
General Tullius held his clean-shaven chin between finger and thumb as he stood tall behind a cluttered table in what looked to be a muscle-cuirass and bracers of possibly dwarven make embossed with the imperial dragon, along with an officer's skirt and short sleeves that were both lined with leather ribbons and a long, thick red cape with gold edges for the cold climate. The general appraised Strikes and I with a calculating gaze likely honed by years of experience both in the battlefield and in the court as I stood at attention and brought my fist to my heart in an imperial salute out of respect while Strikes… casually leaned back on the front post and crossed her arms under her breasts as she cocked a brow at the general as if daring him to say something.
My eyes widened as I stared in horror at her conduct, or lack thereof, for a second before I shook my head in disgust and turned back to the general and prepared to introduce myself.
I normally didn't care about Strikes' behavior, not as if I could ever make her change, but this was an Akatosh-blessed general of the imperial legion! Couldn't that cocky lizard be bothered to show a little respect just once in a while?
However, I was surprised when the general snorted in amusement and smirked as he brought his hand down from his chin and nodded towards Strikes.
"Your friend there has a point, you're not in the legion… yet. You don't need to salute me. You wear the armor well though." General Tullius said as my eyes widened in surprise at his easy dismissal of Strikes' lack of respect while he offered his arm and hand to shake.
I took the general's forearm firmly in my grip and shook it with a powerful squeeze in the customary warrior's greeting as Tullius nodded his head in approval. I might've tapped my wolf-blood a bit… I couldn't stand making an even bigger fool of myself.
"Good arm you have there…" Tullius started as I let go and he frowned slightly in disappointment. "…too bad you'll be wasting it prancing about at the college, your Father's told me good things about you. We could sure use someone like you in the Legion, we're always looking for more strong, capable warriors and battlemages…" Tullius said before nodding his head towards Strikes. "…same goes for you Miss, the legion doesn't care if you have skin or scales, only that your arm is good." Tullius commented and offered, a standard recruitment pitch that I couldn't help but smile at in a mix of pride at the recognition and legitimate respect for those who took it up, even if I didn't plan to myself for a variety of reasons.
"I appreciate the offer general, and it means a lot coming from you, but I'm afraid I must decline… for now anyway, I feel my time would be better spent becoming a better battlemage first. Right now I can hardly manage a couple lightning bolts." I declined politely as Strikes also spoke up from behind me.
"Not that I wouldn't mind cleaving some Stormcloak skulls, but I've gotta' babysit sparky here… and we've got other obligations to attend to on top of that." Strikes said along with a not-so-subtle reminder of Hircine's command as the general smirked in response and pointed lazily at her as he sat down in a chair next to the table before gesturing for me to have a seat and a similar one opposite him.
As I did so I set my helmet on the table as well.
"I like your spirit girl. Time's fast running out though, even if it may have slowed for a while with Ulfric having escaped again… had that traitor on the block when an oblivion-spawned dragon flew up out of nowhere." Tullius vented, throwing a hand in the air in frustration as my eyes widened in surprise and my jaw dropped slightly before I grimaced and nodded in understanding of his predicament… I'd heard from my father that the legion was closing in on Ulfric, but I had no idea they actually had the rebel leader on the block.
"We saw the thing too, one of the reasons I want to get better at magic: I doubt a couple lightning bolts would so much as tickle it. I'm… guessing you have no idea where Ulfric went considering you're still here at all?" I commented as Tullius closed his eyes, pressed his lips and shook his head slowly in suppressed frustration as he confirmed my suspicions.
"None, at least where we could still do anything about it. My men searched the immediate area but he covered his tracks well. I know he's probably headed back to Windhelm though, and if he gets there we'll just be back to square one. I have men on that trail but I haven't heard anything from them." Tullius explained as I pressed my lips in a bit of sympathetic frustration at the general's situation and nodded in understanding before the general spoke again with a tiny, grim smirk at the corner of his lips.
"You haven't seen a shaggy nord with blond hair, arms like a bear and a cloak made of one have you?" Tullius asked wryly as Strikes easily took the obvious opportunity to finish the joke as she lazily gestured out of the tent with her thumb.
"Seen about a dozen of 'em on the way here, which one of 'em are ya' talkin' about?" Strikes quipped casually as Tullius chuckled humorlessly and pointed similarly lazily at her with a flick of his wrist.
" That… That's the problem with this oblivion-spawned province. Everyone in this frozen wasteland looks the same." Tullius vented once more before shaking his head in exasperation as he stood up again and offered his arm once more, a clear signal that it was time to leave as I stood up and grasped it again and Tullius spoke once more.
"Your father's helping organize the rescue efforts in the keep, or what's left of it, and your mother's been going down the tent rows healing mind and body, helped get a few of my men back in shape." Tullius said as I nodded my thanks and spoke.
"Thank you for the help General, it was an honor." I said respectfully as I shook his arm and turned to walk out of the tent, only for the general to loudly speak up.
"Hey, boy." The general suddenly barked as I whirled around to see him leaning over his table with my helmet in hand.
I winced and paced forward to grab it before the general withdrew it slightly and walked around his table to my side and held it at chest height for me as I slowly reached out to grab it. Tullius set it firmly in my hands this time stared at me seriously before speaking again.
"I'm holding you to that offer boy, make sure you keep this on…" Tullius said as he patted the helmet pointedly and continued, still looking me in the eyes. "You're no good to the legion dead, son, I look forward to seeing you in Castle Dour in Solitude when you've made yourself more useful. I think you're solid and you're smart, there'll be a contubernium waiting for you if you arrive." Tullius said before he turned to walk back around his desk as my eyes widened for a moment; a contubernium right off the bat? It wasn't a large command, but if I joined the legion, Tullius himself claimed I would have one. I didn't think I was a particularly remarkable soldier by myself yet, whatever my father said, but I'd always been fascinated by strategy and my father had taught me a lot of things, I could do something with a command.
Then my brows furrowed as reality came crashing down again, a command was also a responsibility to both the lives of every single soldier under your command as well as to your mission, and sometimes the two conflicted and the mission came first…
There were reasons I wasn't planning on joining the legion: that was one of the big ones.
Was I ready for that kind of responsibility? My father said I would never know for sure until I tried, but he of all people also understood the hesitation: the military life wasn't for everyone, my father lost most of his entire legion and part of his contubernium in a rear-guard action for the Emperor and his legion in the Imperial City during the Great War against the elven supremacist Aldmeri Dominion, and he was still haunted to this day by it despite my mother's best efforts. My father hadn't actually wanted to join the legion in the first place, only the town guard "for the glory of course, and the honor to my family and town, giving back so to speak." Just before the Great War began though, he saw the lines in the dirt and knew that his hometown of Leyawiin would be one of the first crossed when things came to blows; so he joined up to try to do his part to keep that line from being crossed. Then after serving the legion through the Great War, my father decided not to leave; merely pulling some strings to ensure he was posted near Leyawiin first and then in Falkreath with his family.
Beyond that, one normally couldn't have a family shifting posting to posting in the legion, and I did want one.
Last but definitely not least, my inner wolf required frequent hunts to keep it as tame as I did… it would be almost impossible to just slip away from a legion on the march or a camp for hours at a time; the best case scenario was to actually be found out and somehow get an imperial pardon for my lycanthropy instead of just being sent to the block. However, there was still a chance yet, however slim, that I might come up with some other idea or simply have my hand be forced by something. So I finally responded to the general after what had been a short moment as he leaned back over the map and papers on his table.
"I'll consider it. Thank you again general." I said as I turned to leave before being turned around again by the general's voice.
"Alexander… your Empire needs you. Whatever you do, don't fail it." Tullius said solemnly before waving me off with a flick of his wrist.
(Hiems – Total War Rome 2 OST)
I simply nodded deeply in acknowledgement, lacking anything of appropriately significant solemnity on my tongue… though perhaps the nod was the best possible thing. Acceptance. Just genuine acceptance of my duty to my Empire. I turned out of the tent flap as Strikes followed behind me while I took Sten's reins again and we walked towards the Helgen gates; one of few things about the still-smoking ruin still standing.
We got not three paces from the tent before Strikes blurted out:
" Finally… it was getting stuffy in there, but maybe that's just officers for you." Strikes quipped irreverently as I whipped my head to glare at her as we kept walking and spoke, couldn't she at least wait until we were out of sight of the general's tent?!
"General Tullius seems like a good man. Couldn't you show him at least a little respect?" I asked a little hotly as Strikes was the one to respond calmly for once, if not respectfully.
"I'll give him my respect if he earns it. So far all he's done that I've seen is fail to catch one guy with an entire legion. I think you give yours too easily." Strikes criticized as I shook my head.
"He had a dragon to deal with. Along with the general chaos that a giant, flying, fire-breathing monster would cause to an unexpecting legion. It was Ulfric or the townsfolk, and Ulfric's on the run while there are a lot of townsfolk here. What does that tell you about him?" I argued as Strikes' eyes, softened and her contemptuously high nose lowering as she thought before her eyes hardened once more and she brought her head up to look at me.
"It tells me that he couldn't manage to do the job himself either. That sword of his just for show? Even if it was chaos, couldn't he have just rushed down there and finished the job? Ulfric was right on the block!" Strikes insisted as I shook my head in exasperation, seeing this was going nowhere. Practically the only way to earn Strikes' respect was to show her that you were worthy of it. Maybe it was her inner wolf, but she strongly believed in the philosophy of "action not words".
Nonetheless, I left off with one final counter.
"His troops probably weren't the only ones in chaos, everything went from completely under control to pandemonium in a second. Besides, you weren't there, maybe Ulfric faded into the crowd before Tullius could get to him, there probably was one." I argued as Strikes mimicked my own earlier exasperated head-shake.
"Believe what you want. The "good general" isn't getting an ounce of my respect unless he shows me he's worthy of it." Strikes declared as we fell into an uneasy silence for a moment before she piped up again.
"Besides, anyone that has to have muscles embossed in their cuirass has to be compensating for something." Strikes quipped, once more irreverently, though this time I couldn't help but smirk and shake my head in amusement before responding with a quip of my own as I leaned in towards her, in keeping with the back-and-forth we had going so far as I defended the general's honor.
"Point… or maybe his muscles embossed the cuirass?" I suggested dipping my voice a bit huskily to sell the point before pulling back as Strikes' eyes widened and she grinned eagerly for a second before she smirked and responded in kind.
"I'll believe it when I see it. He seemed to like me anyway, and after all "the legion doesn't care if you have skin or scales…"" Strikes quoted huskily, completely changing the meaning of the general's words in the process as I facepalmed and groaned.
" Gods please don't…" I pleaded as Strikes' smirk only broadened and she responded.
"Oh no… I've got a real nice picture in my mind now… might just have to try and get a peak at the real thing next time…" Strikes drawled as she picked her head upward thoughtfully. As I turned to glare at her again, for more reasons than one it turned out as my inner wolf stirred and growled, feeling that his pack was getting unruly. I pushed it down for the moment and responded simply.
"Strikes, if you try to seduce the general you're going to end up in the dungeon quicker than you could say "bad girl"." I warned as Strikes only grinned.
"Ooh… Am I going to be punished for being a bad girl?" Strikes drawled again as she leaned in towards me as I couldn't help a grin of my own… suddenly realizing what she was really fishing for as I shook my head in exasperation again, my inner wolf growling once more, but for a different reason entirely as I decided to let it out for a moment: I suddenly stopped, my hand snapping out and grabbing Strikes by the collar and pulling her head next to mine; Strikes' grin broadened.
"Insatiable lizard… you're getting unruly… perhaps you need a reminder of why I'm the alpha?" I growled huskily in her ear, knowing after a solid couple years of experience that anything less than some type of challenge or possession was nothing more than boring to Strikes; and she illustrated exactly her attitude with her response as she continued to grin and once more drawled as she challenged my claim.
"Are you?" Strikes challenged even as my grip dominated her.
"You'll know when I have you pinned to the bed under me." I proclaimed huskily, only for Strikes to suddenly cup both her hands together and bring them around from below in an arc towards my hand as she twisted away from me, easily breaking my hold on her in a standard unarmed combat move, it was a challenge.
"I'll believe it when I see it." Strikes declared before continuing ahead with a smirk and her head held high with nary a backward glance, stirring my inner wolf to growl in anger at her defiance, demanding that its unruly "mate" be put in her place. Unlike the beast within though, I grinned eagerly at the challenge.
One of the reasons both Strikes and I stuck around each-other for so long was the different variations of this challenge and response we had: I liked to impress, and she liked to be impressed. It was a constant show for Strikes, and a constant challenge for me, with a bit of competition sprinkled in to spice things up.
If it weren't for the practical concerns about willingness for a family, bloodline, and the vast differences in zealotry to Hircine, along with some doubt over Strikes' temper, Strikes and I might've already worn an Amulet of Mara together. However, as it was, that solid list of so-far near-irreconcilable and important differences that meant that we enjoyed each-other's company in every way possible, but struck a fine yet impermeable line where we went no further when the question had inevitably came up a couple times. Hence, we remained friends-with-benefits.
However, as I grinned and my eyes took advantage of Strikes' fortuitous position ahead of me, I failed to consider what horror would lie behind the gates of Helgen.
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