[Sheila Reyes]

Prologue...

4E 181

The air was cold in Whiterun on that cloudy autumn morn. The smallest of snowflakes floated infrequently down to the soil, melting very quickly upon contact. Smoke rose from the chimneys and forges of Whiterun as hearths burned to keep the cold at bay. But none of this, not the snow, or the smoke or the biting air was given much heed by the group standing outside of the Longstride Manor, one of the more prominent buildings in Whiterun’s Wind District.

Having seen his forty-seventh winter, Targon was starting to truly show his age. His hair and beard were more grey than brown now, the lines in his face more prominent, his height slightly diminished. The only thing that remained unravaged by time where his eyes. He had been born in the dead of winter, and he had the eyes to match; cool, stormy grey. But the weight behind them suggested that they had seen great horrors and much, much death. Their focused gaze lay upon the man before him.

Unlike Targon, who wore the colours of his house – a grey surcoat and darker grey cloak with a heavy fur mantle – the young man wore the red of the Legion, his tunic slightly exposed under the dull glint of his plate and mail. It had been many years since a Longstride had worn Legion red. It was a sight that despite himself, Targon never thought he would see.

He could still remember the humility that had entered Jon’s eyes when he gave him possession of Sunstrike, their most precious family heirloom, the sense of responsibility. The blade had been wielded by Targon’s father, and his father before him, and so on right to the first Longstride, who’s deeds were long forgotten, but who’s body still lay within the catacombs of the Longstride Crypt. Targon had seen it; something about his son had changed in that moment. No longer was he the defiant youth he had once been. At seventeen years of age, and now baring the family blade, he was now a man, a man who looked back at him now as almost an entirely different person.

Few words were spoken. Targon tracked his eldest son’s gaze, and he knew when he was looking at Ned, who at sixteen years of age, would be joining the Legion in a year’s time. He was the quietest of the Longstride boys. Or at Bjorn, Targon’s brother, who stood a little further back, similarly weathered as Targon. To these two he gave a reaffirming nod, and the pair returned in kind. Then Targon saw his gaze fall upon Aedan, the youngest brother, looking up at Jon with teary eyes, but trying to keep a brave face like the rest of his family. Jon cracked a kind smile and ruffled his little brother’s hair, a small grunt of amusemant escaping his lips. The young boy of ten managed to return with a fleeting smile of his own.

It was then that he locked his gaze with Targon’s. Jon was just taller than Targon, though the older Nord had once been as tall in his younger days. With braids in his lengthy hair and a beard forming around his jaw, he looked the part of a young warrior. Even though Targon’s face remained stern he felt a massive swell of pride at the sight of his eldest son.

“May I have your blessing, father?” Jon asked, also trying to remain stoic. At this, Targon’s eyes softened, and he took a few steps toward his son and placed his hands on strong shoulders.

“You will always have my blessing, my son.” he said quietly so that only Jon could hear him. His eldest son returned with a smile before turning back towards his heavy coal steed, the young wood elf Vanion passing it into Jon’s care as he swung up into the saddle. Beyond them, further away were other legionnaires on horse; more of Whiterun’s young lads recently signed up in the Legion, off to their first deployment. Jon acknowledged them for a moment before looking back at his family.

“See you in a year Ned.” he said, looking at the middle brother. “I’ll try to leave some enemies for you.”

He winked before nudging his steed into a trot to join the other legionnaires. Targon watched as his son rode away with Sunstrike sheathed at his back. That blade had been to Cyrodiil and back many times, always in a different hand. Now it would be making the same journey again. He watched as Jon was slowly obscured by smoke, until he disappeared from view as he turned a corner and was gone.

Nothing was given away in Targon’s expression; not the immense pride for his son, the sinking feeling in his gut, the pain that Freya – his wife, Jon’s mother – was not there to witness it, nor the horrifying memories of war that flashed before him. None of that shone through bar perhaps a glint in his eye. Targon placed a hand on the shoulders of his two remaining sons who stood either side of him, though whether it was to comfort them or comfort himself, he didn’t know. All he knew was that they placed their hands over his own, and for a long moment the three stood there, still as sentinels in the smoky dawn.

***

It was night time when Targon entered the study. The room featured a large bookcase, a comfortable armchair in one corner and a writing desk opposite it. Though it was a good room Targon didn’t like its placement; he felt it would make a better servant’s quarters, and that most of the items could be moved downstairs to the war room, which still had plenty of space. Rather than build upwards, the Longstride manor was composed of a grand hall above and then two levels of rooms below ground. The lowest level of the manor contained the war room, armoury and treasury as well as storage. The second level, nicknamed “the Den”, was partially above ground, the rooms featuring narrow windows just below the ceiling, though from the outside they appeared to be just above ground level. The Den featured rooms for the Longstride family, their servants and their household guard, as well as the study.

Immediately, Targon took note of a few books sitting on the floor – Aedan’s work to be sure, as he was prone to leaving them there – and bent down to pick them up. As he did a piece of parchment slipped out of the pages of one of the books. Targon placed the books upon the writing desk, not taking his eyes off the parchment. Slowly, he stooped over and held it at arm’s length; his eyes were still quite sharp and he had no trouble seeing the image.

Scrawled and shaded, the sketch depicted a group of men and mer, standing together in their armour. Each one was unique, their likenesses captured perfectly, and he recognised every one of them. Slowly, Targon moved to the armchair and sat down, continuing to survey the drawing. It was an image that he hadn’t gazed upon in years.

It was then that he felt the weight of someone’s gaze upon him, and he turned to see his youngest son peering around the door frame. He recoiled slightly when Targon’s gaze fell upon him, but he then emerged entirely and faced his father.

“Hello, father.” Aedan replied sheepishly.

“It’s late.” Targon said “Why aren’t you in your bed?” Aedan only replied with the shrug children give when they don’t want to lie but are forced to offer an answer. Targon simply sighed, before his face softened and he motioned with his head to come in. Aedan slowly entered the room and clambered up into his father’s lap.

“That’s you!” he exclaimed, pointing at the image.

“That’s right.” Targon nodded, moving his gaze and matching with the young drawn Targon, who met it with stern determination. It was at the same time harder and more innocent than what Targon’s gaze had become. “That’s me when I was younger.”

“You haven’t changed much.” Aedan observed. That drew a chuckle from the aging Nord, though as quickly as it appeared it was gone.

“And who are they?” Aedan asked, gesturing at the others. He heard the trepidation in his youngest son’s question.

He knew that the servants said, what the household guard said, what Jon and Ned had said; Don’t ask Targon about the war. While it was not something he was keen on discussing with any regularity, apparently people had interpreted this as some sort of internal struggle. Targon knew the war had changed him, there was no doubt, but he wasn’t entirely sure how. Whatever their reasons, the topic had been made off limits, even though Targon had made no such command.

“They’re part of a unit I served with.” Targon replied “During the war.”

“They were legionnaires?” Aedan asked. Targon placed a hand on his son’s shoulder.

“They were more than that.” he stated “They were heroes.”

“And you knew them?” Aedan’s eyes were aglow with fascination. Targon looked back at the drawing, seeing the faces of those he’d served with, faces of those who had gone through Oblivion with him. And some who never came back.

“I trained them...”

[carly mcdonough]

AUXILIARY: THE RP

4E 172

Targon Longstride... Whiterun Muster Field...

It had been a warmer summer than was usual in Whiterun Hold. The rivers were flowing faster and wider due to the increased snowmelt. Herds of elk and mammoth roamed the plains in greater numbers than had been seen in living memory. Crop was also bountiful, and from Rorikstead to Riverwood and everywhere in between, the hold was full of life. For nature did not care for the wars of men and mer, did not care if the people of Whiterun Hold could appreciate her bounty. It seemed strange to them that nature should be so kind while on the other side of the Jerall Mountains and the Reach, the nations of Cyrodiil and Hammerfell were being mercilessly assaulted by the Aldmeri Dominion. While the Thalmor had yet to reach Skyrim, the war to the south and west could definitely be felt.

Targon reined in his steed as the group crested a hill. Nestled between two rocky bluffs, the muster fields covered quite a large swath of land. Hundreds of little tents dotted the space, divided by laneways to allow large groups to pass through them. As the midday sun shone upon them, Targon guessed that there were close to a thousand people within the encampment, likely more. He turned back to look at his entourage; Valorin sat astride his mare to Targon’s left, to his right sat Commander Godwin, the commander of the Legion garrison stationed at Fort Greymoor. Behind them was a small group of legion cavalry, about thirty in number; Godwin’s men who were acting as Targon’s escort. With Fort Greymoor about a day’s ride away, and Whiterun a little more than two, it was reassuring to have them nearby.

“Wasn’t there a ruin here?” Targon asked, turning to Godwin.

“There was sir, but they needed it cleared to make more space for the camp.” the golden haired Nord replied. “We’ve since reused the stone to make archery ranges and drill squares.”

Targon nodded in understanding before spurring his horse forward, the others following him. They crossed the golden fields of grass until they reached the camp’s perimeter, featuring a low wooden palisade with a gap to let them pass. It was more a fence than anything else, mainly to keep wild animals out and prevent any horses from wandering off if they got free from their pickets. Targon and his entourage rode through the gap and down the main laneway, receiving salutes from the few legionnaires on duty, who stood around the palisade and at intervals along the laneway. Outnumbering them were the recruits, who for the most part were sat by their tents, wearing little but their legion tunics if they had them or otherwise simple attire. Few of them wore their armour or had weapons at their side.

Targon surveyed them all sternly as he rode past them, many of them looking up at him with caution, interest and in some cases awe; the sight of a giant of man with a massive greatsword at his back, longsword at his side and bedecked in an officer’s armour was sure to stir something among the green recruits. Aside from his considerable height, word of Targon’s victory in Colovia had been spread throughout the Empire, to boost morale of both the soldiers fighting and their families at home. In Skyrim, particularly in Whiterun Hold, he was very well known. For many of the recruits, it would be the first time they’d ever seen a Legate before.

Targon’s group was soon hailed by an Imperial in heavy legion armour, gesturing for them to halt. When they reined in their steeds near him the man spoke.

“Legate Targon, sir.” he saluted “Quaestor Maximus Attica at your service. I’m to help you get settled in.”

“At ease Quaestor.” Targon replied “How many men do you have stationed here?”

“One cohort sir. Mostly to keep the recruits from fighting and to assist in any demonstrations, along with any other aid you require.” Maximus reported. “Shall I lead you to your tent?”

“Very well. Lead on.” Targon nodded, and the group slowly followed after Maximus, their steeds at an easy walk. The main laneway swept sidewards and upwards towards one of the rocky bluffs, and Targon could see a few significantly larger tents sitting on a shelf above the main encampment. It was to these that Maximus led the mounted sortie. Once at the top of the path, Targon dismounted and passed Praetorian’s reins into a waiting legionnaire’s hands while Valorin did the same. Godwin and his riders remained on their horses.

“Sir, this is where you will be staying.” Maximus replied, gesturing to the largest of the tents and then a slightly smaller one next to it “And that one is for you, Commander.”

Valorin nodded while Targon moved over to the edge of the shelf so that he overlooked the entire encampment. He could hear horses whinny to each other, smell the iron and steel and smoke. Beyond the sea of tents there were open fields, drill squares and archery ranges; virtually everything needed to train an army.

“Shall I leave you to get settled in, sir?” Maximus asked. Targon turned his head and nodded.

“Thank, Quaestor.” he said “Commander Godwin, you are also dismissed. Thank you for the escort.”

“I shall take my leave then sir.” Godwin replied, giving salute before spurring his horse into a trot, his unit following after. Targon watched them for a moment before heading over to his tent and crossing the threshold.

He slowly removed his helm as he took stock of the interior. There was an armour rack in the corner of the square room, a writing desk and chair for him to go through any paper work required, complete with blank parchment, inkpot and quill. Nearby was a chest, likely for the storage of any paperwork he needed to hold onto. The floor was covered in furs. Another flap revealed his sleeping quarters, just behind the main room, which contained a very large cot for him to sleep in and a chest for any other belongings.

As Targon placed his helm on the rack and took a seat behind the writing desk, observing the space from a different angle. Valorin entered soon after, his helm still tucked under his arm. For a moment the pair said nothing, until:

“Farmers.” Valorin said. Targon looked up at him then. “Farmers, farriers, merchants, miners, tailors; these are no soldiers.”

Targon nodded in agreement, but added “Not yet.”

“Aye.” Valorin replied, “Not yet.” Targon reclined in his chair for a moment, as though mulling over his next decision.

“Tell the Quaestor I’m ready to make my address.” Targon stated. Valorin dipped his head in salute before turning on his heel to tell the Quaestor of Targon’s order. The Nord used his solitude to think.

One year. That was all he had. One year to turn these thousand recruits into soldiers. Further, they had to be proficient in not just one but several combat roles. It was an ambitious undertaking. General Jonna however, had faith that Targon could get the job done. He only hoped that her faith wasn’t misplaced.

Soon, the notes of northern horns filled the air, and he could hear the sounds of activity as the camp came to life. He waited for a moment until Valorin reappeared at the tent’s entrance.

“Sir.” he nodded, and Targon rose to his feet and exited his tent. As he looked out over the encampment, he watched as the thousand or so recruits were all herded towards a large open field that featured a wooden stage so that one could address many. With his second at his side, Targon proceeded to walk down the sloping path towards the rest of the encampment, mostly out of sight of the recruits. By the time he reached the stage the recruits had all been rounded up and were standing about, clearly wondering what was going on. There was great levels of discussion among them. At the edges, the legionnaires of the Quaestor’s cohort stood still. As Targon ascended the stairs to the rear of the stage and came into view, the sound slowly died, but leaving an air of tension as the recruits regarded the giant of a man that stood before them. And when Targon began his address, his words could clearly be heard by all, as though Kyne herself was carrying them to their ears.

“I am Legate Targon Longstride.” he began “You are here because the Empire needs you. As we speak, the Aldmeri Dominion sends its armies against us, in Cyrodiil and Hammerfell. Some of you came here willingly. Some of you had little choice. Some of you come baring noble names, some no names at all. None of that matters now. You are part of the legion.”

Targon paused for a moment. He surveyed the hundreds of faces that stared back at him.

“For the next year, it will be my task to train you, to mould you into the soldiers we need you to be. You will be drilled in fighting, both on horseback and on foot. You will learn how to track and scout. You will learn how to operate siege equipment. We don’t need you to excel at one thing. We need you to be capable of doing everything. Your training will begin tomorrow.”

He paused again, looking out at the sea of faces. All them his responsibility.

“Welcome to the First Auxiliary. Dismissed.”

[Felix Walde]

Akamon Leki

Whiterun Muster Field, Skyrim

4E 172

"Welcome to the First Auxiliary. Dismissed."

Yeah, by Tall Pappa this is no welcome. This is prison only befit for peasants and commoners. I can't believe my father went behind my back and forced me into the Legion of all places. Well the only good note of this great cacophony is the women. I guess it isn't too bad as long as I have a Legion wench to warm my bedroll at night.

Akamon stood there with a disgusted face. Many around were going back to their stations and getting ready to prepare for the start of their training which was going to be tomorrow morning. A lot of the recruits were to no surprise Nords, considering that Skyrim is where the First Auxiliary was formed. Adjusting his Legion armor, Akamon sighed and sat down on the ground.

By Leki's naked blade, it's cold. Shivering Akamon thought back to his days in Hammerfell. Such is the irony. After all of these years, when Akamon was finally away from home he realized what he took for granted. All of the spending money his father gave him, all servants bringing him food at his call; and all comforts afforded to him as a noble, all of that was gone. Now he had to, whether he liked it or not, learn what is was like to earn a living, despite it being rooted in warfare. I'm a noble of the Crowns, I'm better than these... simpletons.

Muttering under his breath,"commoners", Akamon got up from his wallowing, and started to walk towards the camp.

[Shannon Lockwood]

Dum

The hard packed dirt was cool against the soles of his feet. Dum took a deep breath of air and enjoyed the scent of tundra flowers and moss. The sky was a clear blue above them, but over a nearby mountain a cluster of small clouds was floating peacefully. Dum had been entertaining himself by trying to decide what they looked the most like. At first he thought they looked like a bunch of cauliflowers, just like the ones stowed under the tarp of the large wagon in front of him. Now he was entertaining the thought of the clouds being some of the many sheep he had cared for back home. Sheep floating around in the sky? Dum smiled to himself and readjusted his grip on the old burlap sack he was carrying.

The heavy cart came to a stop in front of him.

“Boy!” his Master shouted from the driver’s seat.

Dum hesitantly crept up along the side of the large wagon. The shackles on his right wrist dragged a length of chain along the ground as he walked. He came to a stop once he reached the front and looked at the city of tents at the bottom of the hill.

“That is your new home, boy.” The man sitting high above him in the driver’s seat pulled a key from his pocket and reached down to unlock the shackle from Dum’s wrist. “You will follow those Imperial idiots when they ride off to Cyrodiil and you will get cut down like the filthy animal that you are.” He spat on the ground in front of the young boy, missing his feet by a few inches. “If you by some twisted miracle survive the war, stay as far away from Brittleshin as you can. If I hear that you are back in Skyrim I will come and kill you with my bare hands. Understood?”

Dum nodded his head vigorously. His Master had made that speech many times during the four days that they had been traveling the road from his home in Brittleshin. He rubbed the skin on his wrist where the cold iron had been chafing and biting.

“Now go down there and get out of our lives.”

Dum glanced up at the man. “P-please… can I have m-my bag?” he asked nervously.

“Hm?” his master glared at him before he remembered. “Ah, you mean this bag of trash?” He pulled a small bag from his pocket, rattling the contents within.

Dum eyed him hopefully and held his hand out.

There was a brief pause before the old man drew his arm back and tossed the bag in a long arc down the hillside where it landed in a patch of grass. “Go!” he commanded and gave Dum a sharp kick to the shoulder.

Dum regained his balance and began running down the hill towards the camp, stopping on the way to fetch the small bag and stow it away in the bigger burlap sack containing all of his belongings.

He did not dare to stop and look back to see if his Master was still there. The tall tundra grass whipped against his shins as he ran. Two men wearing red clothes eyed him as he came jogging towards the entrance they were guarding. “New recruits sign in at the table up ahead” one of them mentioned before losing interest in the boy and turning his attention back to the scenery. Dum clutched the burlap sack nervously and slowly stepped inside the gates. He stopped and looked over his shoulder to the top of the hill where he had come from. The wagon was gone, and so was his Master. He was on his own now.

The table that one of the men had mentioned was a few yards up ahead. Three men wearing the same red clothes sat behind a long table with stacks of parchment and pots of ink sin front of them. Dum approached them slowly and one of the men caught his eyes.

“Name?” the man asked.

“D-dum.”

The man began writing on an empty line. “And your profession?”

Dum clutched the bag tighter. What was he asking about?

“Your job. What do you do?”

“Oh. I do sheep.”

One of the other men gave a loud snort and turned away to stifle his laughter. Dum wondered what he was laughing about.

The man with the parchment sighed and scribbled down a few more words before pushing the parchment across the table and held out the quill. “Sign your name here. If you don’t know how to sign, make an x-mark.”

Dum took the small quill in his hand and bent down. He looked at the spot where the man had pointed and carefully placed the steel tip on the creamy parchment. The quill scratched against the paper as he slowly spelled out his name the way his Mother had shown him many years ago.

D-O-M-I-N-I-Q-U-E

The letters were sloppy and drooping down at the end. The ‘N’ looked more like an ‘S’ fallen on its side and the ink had seeped into the parchment creating a stain covering most of the ‘E’. He did not like how the quill felt in his hand. It was much better to draw with a stick in the dirt.

The man pulled the parchment back and raised an eyebrow at the clumsy signature. “Welcome to the Legion.”

Dum wandered further down the wide road. There were people all around him, some wearing the same red clothes as the men he had met earlier. Some people stared at him when he walked by, and Dum hurried past while keeping his eyes on the ground in front of him. He saw an empty spot by one of the tents and he hurriedly made his way over there. He did not want to get in the way for all the people walking around.

He crouched down and sat in that spot for a long time, silently watching the people walk by. He stayed like that for a long time before an odd sound rang through the camp and a mean-looking man in a weird iron dress walked down the street ordering all the recruits to gather up. Dum jumped to his feet and followed the crowd.

They were all gathered in front of a large platform, packed together with a line of men in red acting like a fence to keep them all in place. It brought Dum’s thoughts back home to the sheep in their pen. Slowly the pvssyr around him died down, and a man the size of a barn walked up on the platform. Dum stared in amazement at the man, barely registering the words he was speaking. He knew that there were giants in the Hold, but not in a million years could he have thought that they could be that big.

Eventually the giant stopped talking and the crowd began moving again. Dum remained in his spot, staring at the platform.