» Sat Jun 23, 2012 5:44 am As some of my readers might be aware, I have taken it upon myself to edit and prepare for publishing among fellow Oculatus agents the personal archive of Clovius Lepidus, that much-lauded hero of the Empire that I had the pleasure to personally know. It has proven to be a difficult task so far; though I title it as an archive, these memoirs are, in fact, more of a collection of footnotes, sketches (some of them genuinely good and thus probably drawn by his aide Adalbert rather than Clovius himself) and journal entries, all arranged with an utter disregard for chronology that only goes to complicate matters further. I have, however, disseminated (after considerable struggling) this brief anecdote from the initial stages of his service, taking place before Clovius acquired his reputation for heroism - which, as he maintains, is entirely undeserved - and present to you here in the hope that it might prove of interest. Apart from this preface and the footnotes which, I hope, will help a reader understand some of the things Clovius himself considered obvious but which are decidedly not, these are the recollections of that famous Chaplain-Militant, untouched by civilized hands.
-Agent Elene Laviscia, Penitus Oculatus
Spoiler
1- Clovius was born in Bravil, although he tended to be ambiguous about it for whatever reason.
2- What Adalbert (and, after spending considerable time serving alongside Nords, Clovius himself) calls 'tea' here is nothing of the sort as we know it in Cyrodiil. Northern Skyrim tea is much stronger and could charitably be described as an acquired taste; I allowed myself to be convinced to taste it once by Clovius, and regret that decision to this day.
3- After the institution of the office of Chaplain-Militant, there was some debate whether they should be referred to as 'sir' or 'father' and their respective female equivalents. It was eventually decided that they belonged more to the Legions than to the Church, and hence, 'sir' or 'ma'am'.
4- At this point, Clovius had spent a little over a month in Skyrim, counting from his arrival to the Legion's chief headquarters in Solitude.
5- The short form of 'Chaplain-Militant' who, as I should hope the reader is aware, are the semi-religious officers of the legion existing outside the normal chain of command and charged with maintaining loyalty to the Empire and religious propriety - in other words, ensuring Talos is not worshipped in any way.
6- Clovius refers here to the Imperial Academy for the Furthering of the Arts of War and Worship of the Divines, which, alongside Chaplain-Militants, prepares Battlemages, Blackwatch Legionnaires and provides the prime recruiting grounds for the Penitus Oculatus.
7- A thorny, gnarled bush indigenous to northern Skyrim and, as far as anyone has ever been able to tell, void of any use except as a swear-word for the local Nords (and Clovius, who picked up certain Nordic mannerisms after spending long years serving in Nordic legions).
8- Clovius writes here with the benefit of hindsight. In truth, the Battle of Old Man's Stead (as this protracted incident would come to be known) was a close-run battle and correspondence between the officers involved suggests withdrawal was seriously considered at one stage.
9- Clovius is joking here - such barbarian punishments are beneath our glorious Empire and are not peformed. Beheadings are much swifter and more humane, so long as the executioner remembers to sharped the axe.
10- A deragatory term used by Legionnaires to denote Stormcloaks. Rather self-explainatory.
11- Once more, Clovius probably writes with the benefit of hindsight, since he could hardly have seen what weapon it was that felled the Legionnaire in the dark and considering the swiftness of the blow.
12- If this excuse sounds poor to the reader, then he would likely be correct in suspecting this is not the real reason why Clovius did not simply flee. Having had the chance to observe the two of them together, I can testify that he and Adalbert were bound by a peculiar friendship that may very well have already formed at this early stage of their respective careers and would account for Clovius staying behind.
1- Clovius was born in Bravil, although he tended to be ambiguous about it for whatever reason.
2- What Adalbert (and, after spending considerable time serving alongside Nords, Clovius himself) calls 'tea' here is nothing of the sort as we know it in Cyrodiil. Northern Skyrim tea is much stronger and could charitably be described as an acquired taste; I allowed myself to be convinced to taste it once by Clovius, and regret that decision to this day.
3- After the institution of the office of Chaplain-Militant, there was some debate whether they should be referred to as 'sir' or 'father' and their respective female equivalents. It was eventually decided that they belonged more to the Legions than to the Church, and hence, 'sir' or 'ma'am'.
4- At this point, Clovius had spent a little over a month in Skyrim, counting from his arrival to the Legion's chief headquarters in Solitude.
5- The short form of 'Chaplain-Militant' who, as I should hope the reader is aware, are the semi-religious officers of the legion existing outside the normal chain of command and charged with maintaining loyalty to the Empire and religious propriety - in other words, ensuring Talos is not worshipped in any way.
6- Clovius refers here to the Imperial Academy for the Furthering of the Arts of War and Worship of the Divines, which, alongside Chaplain-Militants, prepares Battlemages, Blackwatch Legionnaires and provides the prime recruiting grounds for the Penitus Oculatus.
7- A thorny, gnarled bush indigenous to northern Skyrim and, as far as anyone has ever been able to tell, void of any use except as a swear-word for the local Nords (and Clovius, who picked up certain Nordic mannerisms after spending long years serving in Nordic legions).
8- Clovius writes here with the benefit of hindsight. In truth, the Battle of Old Man's Stead (as this protracted incident would come to be known) was a close-run battle and correspondence between the officers involved suggests withdrawal was seriously considered at one stage.
9- Clovius is joking here - such barbarian punishments are beneath our glorious Empire and are not peformed. Beheadings are much swifter and more humane, so long as the executioner remembers to sharped the axe.
10- A deragatory term used by Legionnaires to denote Stormcloaks. Rather self-explainatory.
11- Once more, Clovius probably writes with the benefit of hindsight, since he could hardly have seen what weapon it was that felled the Legionnaire in the dark and considering the swiftness of the blow.
12- If this excuse sounds poor to the reader, then he would likely be correct in suspecting this is not the real reason why Clovius did not simply flee. Having had the chance to observe the two of them together, I can testify that he and Adalbert were bound by a peculiar friendship that may very well have already formed at this early stage of their respective careers and would account for Clovius staying behind.
That particular night I remember for the unbearable frigid cold that seemed to find its way through every hole in the folds of my coat as-yet undiscovered by me. Well, actually, not so much; every night in Skyrim was like this, as I had discovered to my misfortune soon after arriving to the Nordic north. The northmen themselves seemed to relish freezing their gonads off, but to a Nibenay-born such as myself1, it was frankly unbearable. Every gust of wind felt not unlike being stabbed; horrible to the point that I hardly noticed the peculiar shapes of the snowflakes gently drifting from the night sky.
In these circumstances, the imperturbable baritone of my aide seemed a gift from the Divines. “Tea2, sir3?” Matching word with action, the familiar outline of a military canteen materialised right before my nose, steam wafting invitingly from its uncorked neck. During my brief stay4 in the uninviting north, I had already learnt to appreciate the value of a warm brew out in the field, and thus wasted no time in snatching it.
“Thank you, Adalbert.” I managed to get out in-between taking in the warmth of the drink through large gulps, heedless of the fact it was still hot enough to burn my throat. My Nordic aide merely nodded, not at all disturbed by the fact his Chaplain-Militant was foregoing the dignity of the office for the chance at a little warming up. In my defence, however, I’ve seen countless milchaps5 stoop to worse in the unbearable cold, seeing as we were most of us in the same boat, having been filtered up into the unforgiving north straight from the Academia6 and the pleasant warmth of the Nibenay. Seeing as the Nords are considered religiously unreliable, all the mighty Empire can do is keep sending its brave and pious Heartlanders up into the icy claws of the Civil War to choose between freezing to death because the logistics nuts forgot to assign you a blanket or being hanged by the Stormcloaks for forsaking Talos.
Having relieved my aide’s canteen of a fair portion of its tea, I returned it to his infallible hands and focused again on the crunching of snow under half a dozen pair of boots – plus those of me and my aide. That, and wondering what the flek7 had made me abandon the warm confines of the cohort headquarters for the alleged excitement of a night patrol. A choice that seemed all the dafter for the possibility of stumbling into our Stormcloak opposite numbers or a surprise attack of some sort – a possibility that, as I would learn before the dawn broke, was only too real.
For the meantime, however, we trudged on in relative peace, ignoring the snow that had piled up to be ankle-high even for a Nord in places, as well as the distant lights and faint noises of fighting, the battle already more or less a foregone conclusion8. That served to remind me of a part of the reason for my presence on the little guided tour through the typical northern Skyrim countryside – to get as far away from the possibility of fighting as possible. Whatever the risks involved in stumbling around in the dark, all we could run into here was the odd Stormcloak forward scout or perhaps a stray flock of ice-wraiths who’d likely just continue circling their beloved Nordic rune-stones, paying us no heed. Much better odds than finding myself in a pitched battle with Ulfric’s bloodthirsty bunch of Talos-botherers, which was the likely result if our cohort was deemed necessary to reinforce the Legionnaires already engaged in what seemed to be an ever-escalating skirmish several kilometres north of where we currently found ourselves, or to spearhead a surprise night attack to dislodge the Stormcloaks from their chosen positions. In either event, as the cohort’s Chaplain-Militant, I would be expected to appear in the heat of fighting to hearten the men and assure them that the Empire has outgrown this silly concept of needing a god of war to fight one successfully. And provide a hasty field execution to whoever disagreed.
The fact I could execute whatever Legionnaire I saw necessary for betraying the Empire and its Divines was most likely why the six Nordic soldiers – the actual patrol, bolstered by me and Adalbert unexpectedly tagging along – seemed to keep to themselves and huddle together slightly in front of us. Thankfully, as far as I knew of them, none were too devoted to the ignobly discarded ninth divine, nor had I gone and done something as stupid as slating any of their comrades in the cohort for burning at the pyre9 yet. That was, as a matter of fact, a method of doing my duties that I detested – simply because there was no better way to ensure you’d be ‘accidentally’ stabbed when in the heat of battle or while returning to your quarters at night than pissing off half a thousand men trained in the use of weapons by killing one of their friends over a careless remark. Some of my more gung-ho colleagues might’ve disagreed with this sentiment, but I don’t suppose any of them are alive to argue the point today. At this early point of my career, I suspected it would’ve been much more efficient to give the common soldier the occasional pat on the back, pretend to care for their well-being and, if given the chance, even be ‘accidentally’ overheard grumbling about ‘the bloody goldenrods’ off the record; a suspicion that would be proven accurate during later years.
My ruminations over the method of maintaining morale and religious propriety most likely to ensure my continued survival were broken by the heavy hand of my aide grasping my shoulder. “Sir,” I found myself exposed to an unpleasantly large dose of his interesting mouth aroma – remarkably similar to the effect likely to have been achieved if something had crawled in there to die, leaving its rotting cadaver behind. Nevertheless, it was fortunate he stopped me when he did since, buried under my own thoughts as I had been (in the vain attempt to fend off the cold by focusing on something else), I almost bumped into the broad back of one of the Legionnaires, having failed to notice they had stopped and were now discussing something in hushed tones.
“Why’re we stopping?” To my satisfaction, my voice seemed to betray none of the apprehension I could feel twisting my stomach slowly, sounding instead faintly curious and possessed of that perpetual air of dignity that our tutor had beaten into us back in the Academia. It would not do, after all, for the voice of the Eight on Tamriel and the agent of the Emperor to his Legions to start quivering in his boots at the first sign of something out of the ordinary. Despite this, I checked if my shortsword hadn’t stuck in its sheath before wrapping myself tighter in the warm fabric of the coat. It never hurt to be cautious, I knew as much even this early in my career.
One of the Nords pointed into the distance. “Look there, sir.” It took a bit of squinting, but I finally made out the outline of a building in the distance, some ways off what I remembered was our patrol route as outlined on one of the maps of the local area I’d looked at in the warmth of the cohort headquarters. That particular map had failed to convey the piles of snow and the biting cold that lurked on the route.
“A building, yes, if I’m not mistaken.” That same Nord nodded his confirmation of my assessment, having obvious familiarised himself with the lay of the land over the past week or so that he’d been walking that same route while the Legion and the Stormcloaks butted heads over a bunch of snow and ice. “What of it?”
“Barluf here thinks he saw lights in it for a moment.”
I frowned. “Lights? But any freeholders here…”
“Are dead or gone by now, yes sir.” The Nord nodded again. “Which leaves our boys… or the Drizzlejackets10.”
The one he’d indicated to be Barluf saw fit to pitch in, having apparently seen I wouldn’t cut their ears off just for stopping for a moment. “That’s no freeholder farmstead, that.”
I scratched my head, knocking the fur hat I’d donned for the occasion off to the side slightly and exposing my ears to the freezing cold for a painful moment. “If not a farmstead, then what is it? There’s not much else out here.”
“It’s an inn. ‘The Meandering Goat’ or somethin’ like it.”
An inn. Things started making sense now, from the reason why Barluf had ‘seen a light’ to why the patrol always seemed to come back several dozen minutes later than it was supposed to, and perhaps a bit happier than you’d have expected half a dozen men to be after trudging through the snow in the middle of the night. No one had paid it any mind, shrugging the explanation that the going was slower than the official estimate suggested it’d be – almost always the case in any event, since official estimates seemed to go out of their way to be as far removed from the real world as possible – as an acceptable one. Until, that is, some halfwit got it into his skull that this was suspicious, and that there was a pattern to it all, and that the Chaplain-Militant should take an interest. I made some interested noises and agreed that this was a worthy undertaking, noting as I’ve already mentioned the chance to get away from actual fighting.
“Well, if there was a light,” I smiled knowingly, regardless of whether or not they’d make the expression out in the dark. “Then it would be a lapse in our judgement not to check what it was. The Divines reward the diligent,” Topping it all off with the sort of platitude soldiers expected from a milchap, I motioned for them to start on their way, matching word to action and setting off after them myself. As far as I was concerned, this was merely a chance to show that I was neither as thick nor as rigid as most of my colleagues unfortunately were, while also getting a bit of warmth out of the deal too. The reprieve granted by Adalbert’s tea was short-lived, and I was feeling more and more eager to shut myself up in some sort of structure – preferably one containing a fireplace – and not come out until the next carriage to the Nibenay was passing through. In other words, forever, since there didn’t appear to be much in the way of traffic between the rural reaches of Skyrim this far north and the Heartland.
“Where to, sir?” There wasn’t a hint of curiosity to my aide’s monotone voice – stoic as always, he accepted whatever changes in our course without question so long as I signed off on them; knowing where we were going was just something of a bonus. Unquestioning belief in my judgement was one of Adalbert’s numerous virtues (which, sadly, did not include oral hygiene).
“A short detour. We’re going for a mug of mead.”
A short detour it was, but not a particularly easy one. The inn itself – the Meandering Goat, if our Barluf was to be believed – may’ve been sitting on what passed for a road in northern Skyrim (but what seemed to me like a track of slightly depressed snow), but whatever path to it from our patrol route that the Legionnaires might’ve forged last night had long since been snowed over, and the going actually seemed to get worse before I finally felt the snow-covered stones of the road under my feet. At that point I felt rather in the mood to sit down, even for a short while, perhaps even going as far as having that mug of mead myself, and thus was forging onwards with renewed purpose.
The Meandering Goat was much like I’d imagined it from a distance, meaning rather unimpressive. A sturdy building of logs that seemed to be the primary construction material in the north, it had a only one floor as far as I could tell from its height, as well as a basemant – the doors to which, I noted in my instinctive search for objects to hide behind or run into, were dug into the ground by its left wall. A crudely crafted and just as crudely painted sign hanging by its door depicted what the author doubtlessly fondly imagined was a goat; to me, it looked more like some manner of daedroth, possessed of claw-like limbs for legs and an unholy mish-mash of white orbs, gnarled spikes and a disturbing red tentacle in lieu of a head. Perhaps that was the darkness taking its toll, but, as I later had the chance to observe, Nords are not a people overly troubled by accuracy in art and the sign may very well have looked as horrible as it seemed to be then.
Our little party stopped a slight distance from the building, remembering the necessity to put up a fa?ade of this being a military matter for my benefit. “Legionnaire Barluf,” Falling back on the only name I knew, I motioned towards the basemant doors that I’d already noticed. “Take four of your comrades and inspect the basemant for any signs of whatever – or whoever – may have been responsible for the light; failing to find anything, regroup in four minutes in this spot. I shall take the remaining soldier and inspect the interior of the inn with my aide.”
Nodding eagerly and performing a hurried salute as he rounded up four of his compatriots, Barluf set out to ‘inspect’ the basemant – and likely relieve it of whatever was left of its stores. If the owner of that fine establishment yet lived, they could not have been very happy upon their return, taking into account how many times the Legionnaires had already made that particular detour – and what happened just moments later. But I should not get ahead of myself.
Having thus rid myself of five of the accompanying Nordic soldiers, safe in the knowledge that they were too smart to get actually drunk, for my own part I intended to let the remaining Legionnaire search around for anything that might please him inside the inn while I relaxed for a bit with whatever brew Adalbert would find for me – and he doubtlessly would, given his talent in providing anything, even the unlikeliest of things, necessary for my and his comfort. The logistical nuts of the Legion lost a great man in my aide, but their loss was my gain, as I had the chance to witness many times during my career, when his dogged determination combined with the imposing authority of the Militant Church of the Eight that being my aide conferred upon him to make for incredible feats of requisition.
With this plan in mind, I decided it could not hurt to take point, an intention guided more by the desire to get out of the cold as soon as possible rather than any sense of heroism – which is both entirely foreign to me and would have been rather moot in that situation in any case, seeing as I hardly expected to run into any actual trouble. So I opened the door and was first into the inn, Adalbert at my elbow as always; the situation seemed so harmless that even I, who normally sought to place as many soldiers between myself and any potential threat as possible, figured it would be entirely safe. Which just goes to show how youth and inexperience were still stalking right behind me, hoping to get me killed and very nearly succeeding more than once.
The interior of the inn was pitch dark as we entered, void of both the snow and the stars and moons that provided us with some measure of light outside and leaving me only my other senses to get my bearings with. It didn’t take very sharp senses for me to realize that, just as I made my way further into the room in search of a suitable chair or other elevated surface to sit upon, I had stepped on something. The muffled grunt just moments later made clear, to my rapidly-growing horror, that it was actually someone.
I looked down in a mixture of fear and surprise, seeing the outline of a bulky, armoured figure beginning to drunkenly fondle about on the floor, clearly raised from his slumber by my careless treading. Noticing a shape that looked uncomfortably like a waraxe the likes of which I’d already had the misfortune of seeing Stormcloaks carry on the ground next to the hapless sleeper, I was equally as scared and surprised – but overtaken by instinct, which always seemed to have a way of saving me from the worst situations – as I pulled my shortsword from its sheath, wasting no time in stabbing towards where I instinctively knew the slit between the helmet and the chestpiece would be in a Drizzlejacket’s armour. Doubtlessly, the figure hadn’t even had time to wake up properly when I was treated to the satisfying gurgle and spray of blood.
“It seems we aren’t alone here, sir.” Adalbert’s baritone noted, still imperturbably calm as he pulled free his own sword in response to several more shapes rising from behind the bar, their bulk making it impossible to mistake them for anything but Nords even in the dark. Armoured Nords, at that, and I fancied I knew what colour their tunics were underneath that armour despite the fact I couldn’t see them.
“Does seem!” Seeing no point in keeping quiet now that we’d gone and literally stepped straight on a nest of Stormcloaks, I turned around on my heel, hoping we could just up and leave, and keep running until we hit Imperial lines again. Unfortunately for both me and him, the Legionnaire that had been left behind by his fellows to accompany us was still standing in the doorway, his shape all too clear against the faint light provided by the stars and the reflections off the snow – a fact that would prove his undoing as, with a silent whoosh, death swooped in to claim him in the shape of one of the throwing axes11 that Nords sometimes used in battle.
Realizing that trying to cram through the doors would certainly only lead to being stabbed in the back and strung up on a tree as the sort of example Stormcloaks seemed to relish making of me and my fellow milchaps, I hastily nudged Adalbert. “Close your eyes!” And, without stopping to see if he had, I did so myself and prayed to whichever of the Eight would listen and make my crash-course in the arcane worth it now, muttering the short incantation for conjuring a magical light under my breath.
The dim green glow penetrated even under my eyelids, but it was much worse for the Drizzlejackets, who hadn’t had the time to realize what it was I’d told my aide to do; adjusted to the pitch black interior of the tavern as they were, even the weak light of the Candlelight spell was blinding. “Go!” I shoved my remaining living companion forward, intending to make for the door and then – straight back towards the cohort headquarters.
Unfortunately, Adalbert appeared to have interpreted my command in a manner completely different from my meaning – doubtlessly, he heard what he expected to from a milchap, glorious servants of the Eight as we were, wreaking righteous vengeance on the enemy. Instead of running through the still-open doorway as was my plan, he leapt over the bar, shortsword poised to strike, aiming for one of the two Stormcloaks who had been sleeping behind it before we so inconsiderately interrupted their rest. Unfortunately, this left me to choose between taking on two Nords by myself – or leaving my aide to his certain death. And while I must profess that this second option did not seem unappealing, in the off-chance that the details of this incident were somehow to emerge, I would’ve lost any chance whatsoever of crafting a working relationship with the cohort’s soldiers and their officers12.
With this in mind, I rushed for the nearest of the two enemies Adalbert had left me to choose from, apparently the one who’d thrown the axe that had dispatched of the hapless Legionnaire – at least, judging from the fact he now stood unarmed, blinking in earnest to see through the dazzling flash that I’d used to confuse the trio. This split second was all I needed, my already-bloodied shortsword sliding satisfyingly through his padded shirt.
Unfortunately, by the time I had dispatched of the axe-thrower, the remaining Stormcloak had gotten over the brief inconvenience I’d thrown up to make an escape so thoroughly ruined by Adalbert’s overeager nature. And he was a big one – as far as I could tell at a glance, he was taller even than my aide, who was certainly not the shortest of Nords; I compared even less favourably with the mountain of a warrior and could swear he had at least a head on me in height, and the bulk to match. As all large northmen, he’d opted for a weapon that was his equal, namely a large and ornate axe that I could swear seemed familiar for a split second – before the coin dropped.
“Childslayer!” Feurgarth the Childslayer, to be more precise; disconcertingly, the nickname had been granted not because he slew children, but because he killed grown men in battle like kids. At least, as far as the stories went, and the reality seemed to match up; the axe was certainly as described, which was the only reason I recognized him. The fates seemed to conspire against me, dumping me in the same room as a nigh-legendary Stormcloak champion during what seemed like an ordinary patrol with a small pleasant twist.
“Elf-[censored] of a priest!” A nigh-legendary and fanatical Stormcloak champion, to boot, if his bloodthirsty grin – Feurgarth being one of those crazy enough to forsake the use of helmets in battle, presumably because none had been made to contain his swollen ego – was any indication. “I’ll kill you for the god you forsake!”
I had only a split-second before his helm-shattering axe swung down at me; not for the first, nor for the last time in my troubled life, I had the long hours of training with shortswords to thank for my hasty dodge, instinct rescuing where the conscious mind failed. But the Stormcloak did not seem overly troubled, simply pressing his assault with another swing. Against the frankly improbably large weapon (as it seemed to me then), the studded leather I’d donned underneath my coat was starting to look less than trash. At the very least, it didn’t constrict my movements as I ducked under the swing again.
“For Talos!”
“For crying out loud!” I riposted, jumping underneath one of the nearby tables and leaving Feurgarth to swipe at empty air.
“Stand still and fight like a man!”
“I’d rather be a living woman than a dead man!” Dubious wit – in my defence, I was under considerable duress at the time – was accompanied by a chair kicked at his feet. Even though the Childslayer stumbled for a moment, however, it did little to stem his advance for any length of time, as he continued forging onwards through the scattered furniture that I’d used for an impromptu barrier, while I continued to sink into depression over my chances of survival.
I ducked under the table again as his ornate axe came swinging for my head again, finding myself uncomfortably near his steel boots lined with fur. Thankfully, by the time he had the sense to kick, I had managed to roll to the side, doing my coat no favours and emerging with the width of the square table to separate us. The Nord snarled like some manner of beast, obviously irritated that his prey would not stand still and be chopped up.
Rather than waste time for similarly pointless sounds, however, I chose to improvise and shove the table at him with whatever strength I could muster, catching Feurgarth slightly off-guard as he had to focus on stopping the poorly crafted piece of wood for a change rather than making threatening noises.
The momentary distraction was all I required, being able to see what the Childslayer couldn’t. “Cheap tricks won’t save you, elf-[censored]!” He snarled at me still, and I had to concede that this Stormcloak was probably more annoying even than my old Academia tutor.
“No, but he might.”
Before the Nord had any time to consider what I’d said, the drawbacks of foregoing the use of helmets became amply clear, a chair connecting with his head with a satisfying crash as Adalbert finally joined our little tussle, having dispatched of his own opponent (and probably taken his time to get that mug of mead I’d promised him, judging by how long he took to finally save me). He appeared as impossible to excite as ever, sparing a nod of apology to me as I leapt over the table and plunged my shortsword into Feurgarth’s throat before he could get up – and I was entirely convinced that he shortly would if left to his own devices, a chair to the head meaning little when you had a skull as thick and empty as this one.
For a moment, the inn was silent, save for the sound of my panting, before the steaming neck of an opened canteen materialised before my nose again.
“Tea, sir?”
[At which point this section of the Lepidus archive comes to its abrupt conclusion.
The story of how Clovius (and Adalbert, but no one ever remembered his participation, much to Clovius' irritation) bested Feurgarth the Childslayer later spread and can be reliably said to have laid the groundwork for his future reputation for heroism. The Legionnaires Clovius dispatched to check the basemant, in case anyone's curiosity is piqued by their fate, bumped into an even larger group of Stormcloaks and fared remarkably worse.]
