» Wed Apr 03, 2013 11:08 pm Chapter 1:
The sound of wood creaking filled the room below deck, but neither of the two in it seemed to notice. They sat and laughed a little for themselves.
“You know, Radd,” said one of them. He was a large man with blond hair and a friendly, if a bit rugged, face, and a walrus mustache to boot. Clad in armor made from iron, with a warhammer of the finest steel at his feet and warpaint on his face, he looked a bit intimidating. “I never did finish that weasel off. He decided to run and fell on a rock. Didn’t even have to lift my arm to finish the contract.”
“Heh,” Radd shook his head with a smile. Unlike the other man, he had dark hair and instead of a walrus mustache he had a thin goatee. He didn’t wear warpaint either, so his pale skin was more obvious. “Sjoring, you are an idiot.”
Sjoring looked at the man that sat with him in the room, his eyes rested on the Imperial insignia on the armor.
“Of course,” he smiled jokingly. “But brother, what does that make you? I mean, you are the one who gave away your free will to the Imperials.”
“Ah, shut it, Blondie,” Radd shot back. They looked at each other in silence for a moment, before they broke out on laughter. Not for any particular reason, other than the absurdity of the whole thing.
“So, you never told me why you joined the legion,” ‘Blondie’ said after a while. “You just came home wearing that ridiculous Imperial armor one day, telling the world that you had bended over for the Imperial authority.”
“What is there to say? I prefer a bit more steady work, and the pay is good. Not fond of begging patrons to hire me over the next random warrior he meets in the bar. I have more dignity than that.”
Once again Sjoring and Radd broke out in laughter. They had been like this the entire trip; insults back and forth, followed by just brushing it of as humor. Anyone who could hear them would think of them as idiots, though that was the norm anyway. Most people assumed they were morons, because of their very visible ancestry from Skyrim. Nords were known for being skilled warriors and mercenaries, not for being scholars and the like.
“Hey, keep it quiet in here! I am trying to sleep,” a man with slightly darker skin opened the door and stared at them. Notably shorter and smaller framed, he took a step back as Sjoring got to his feet.
“Or else what? You’re gonna talk me to death? Maybe haggle for a compromise? Get lost, Cyrod, I don’t care if you are kept awake. By the White, it is the middle of the day.”
“I’m sorry for my brother’s harshness, captain,” Radd had gotten to his feet and put a hand on Sjoring’s shoulder. “We’ll try to keep it down.”
“Make sure you do, Hard-Heart,” the Imperial slammed the door behind him. His footsteps died down almost as fast as they came; he couldn’t have gone further than a room or two away.
“What is wrong with you?” the Nord in the Legion armor stared at his brother. “Why do you need to act like that towards anyone who gives orders to others?”
Sjoring just shrugged his shoulders and sat down towards the wall. Radd’s fancy for authority, even in their childhood, had been an annoyance. Sure, he still cared for the guy and they usually got along nicely, but whenever this came up? Might as well go to bed and avoid the fight, or just be quiet for a while.
“So,” Radd took the hint and dropped it. “Why not stay in Skyrim? You did well as a mercenary back home, so why come to Vvardenfell with me?”
“Why not? Vvardenfell is still a frontier. The need for hirable muscle should be pretty high.”
“Yeah, if you’re willing to work with a Guild you can earn a living in Vvardenfell, but a free-lance mercenary from Skyrim? The Dunmer aren’t going to fawn over you, and the Empire passes its contracts to the Fighters Guild.”
“Bah, the Guilds can rot in Oblivion as far as I care. I told you already, I don’t want some jerkwad telling me what to do and when to do it. And don’t give me some line about the Fighters Guild being less strict than the Legion. The Imperial Cult is less strict than the Legion and I wouldn’t want to take their orders either. Just… let it go, will you? I’ll be fine.”
Sjoring closed his eyes and laid his head back against the wall. He intended to ignore Radd for as long as he wanted to talk about his.
**
“Hey, Blondie,” Radd’s voice yelled from outside the door, as far as Sjoring could tell. He must have fallen asleep. “Get up, Sjoring, we’re here. Get on deck, we have to write ourselves in in the Census and Excise officers papers.”
“What?” he mumbled to himself. “Oh right, that.”
The Imperial office of Census and Excise. The money launderers and thugs working on behalf of the Empire to take the money from the provinces and put them to use in the Imperial city. Or, to be fair, that wasn’t always the case, but it still happened. That money should be used locally to keep the cities and villages going, not to feed fat Cyrods with too much money already.
He quickly made his way to the deck and was greeted by a bright day. Buildings in typical Imperial style were everywhere, located in what appeared to be the outskirts of a swamp. Radd stood with some other Legionnaire, a Redguard from the looks of it.
“Let me be the first to welcome you to Vvardenfell, Sjoring,” the Redguard smiled and held out his hand. “But don’t expect the welcome to be as warm as the one you get here when you reach the Dunmer settlement.”
