Of Warriors and Soldiers

[Darruk gro-Khazgur]

Whiterun


The rain was neither a drizzle nor a torrent, just a sopping grey annoyance across the sky, lending its dismal quality to the ground below and all it touched. The normal shabby sprawl of the capital of Whiterun Hold looked a little more glum by association. Every time Centurion Darruk gro-Khazgul was recalled to the city, it was a loathsome experience. It made him feel restless and caged within the crumbling walls the Nords clung to for more symbolic security than practical purpose.

Clad in his Imperial steel lorica, the Orc could feel eyes turn to meet him even as people tried to either go about their business or find some shelter from the rain. As he walked through the plains district, Darruk saw a guard questioning a man about a sweetroll theft. It all seemed so absurd, knowing that a war raged beyond this place. No thoughts of Ulfric Stormcloak seemed the trouble the men of Whiterun. No, it was a service burdened with pastry capers. When the Stormcloaks eventually vied for these walls, and Darruk had to believe that it was a matter of time before they tried, how much could these local Nords be relied upon to hold the line?

Continuing with his trudging, Darruk ascended to the cloud district, past the old buffoon who seemed never to rest his incessant braying at the foot of the statue of Talos. The old coot even seemed to get a little louder when he locked onto the non-Nord in his midst, and it took more than a little discipline not to roughly shoulder-check the rabble-rouser as Darruk passed. Even for those who didn't acknowledge the pantheon as an assembly of nine, Tiber Septim (who the Nords called Talos in their misguidance) was a deeply revered figure amongst all citizens of the Empire. The braying jackass would never understand that you could respect the Father of the Empire without deifying him. Tiber Septim, were he alive, would hate to see the discord his cult now caused, and the rifts they carved in his mighty empire.

Shaking the introspection from his mind, Darruk continued up the steps leading to the great keep of Dragonsreach. The guards at the doors threw them back, admitting him entry. In the distance, he could see wise Jarl Balgruuf keeping court, but the Centurion was not here to see the Jarl. His duty lay in the room adjacent, where a familiar face in the lorica of an Imperial Legate waited on him, with a table full of baskets. Darruk didn't need to examine the contents that lay within.

"What am I to do with all of these, Centurion?"

The orc officer stood at attention after a "Salute, Legate", a curt clapping of a fist against his armor as he extended a bladed right hand forward before dropping it to his side. He knew better than to answer Quentin Cipius's obviously rhetorical opener.

"A dozen such heads in a fortnight from your cohort's patrols, and not a one of them filled with anything useful to us. You keep the realms of Oblivion fat and happy with these dead rebel fools, but this war won't be won by price of blood alone."

Cipius held aloft one severed stormcloak head by its tuft of damp and matted hair, gazing into the grotesque face with distant contemplation before letting it spill back into the basket with a wet impact.

"Perhaps the aim is that we shall adorn Whiterun in some grotesque decoration? A sight only Molag Bal would smile on."

Darruk stirred restlessly, shifting his weight on his feet slightly as he eagerly awaited his Legate to arrive at a more constructive dispensation of orders.

"What would you have of me, Legate?"

"Bring me men with names and battle plans in their heads, Centurion. Not young dogs barely out of boyhood fit only for a headman's axe. Do you think it easy for me to accept these without practical end? These are Nords we're killing, in Nord land. Jarl Balgruuf will not long accept blood simply for blood's sake."

Cipius sighed, growing tired of dressing down his subordinate, and knowing the fault lay with him as well.

"I propose a new stratagem. One that requires some quantum of guile from you, Darruk. There are many skilled men with a sword in Skyrim, perhaps most of all in Whiterun itself. And there is a group that knows that calling of battle well."

"The Companions?" Darruk replied intuitively, to which the Legate nodded.

"Any fighter worth their mettle seeks their admission here, or at least their advice. Both Imperials and Stormcloaks alike respect their old and storied history. I think it is time that we cast our attention there, to see what murmurs we might uncover."

Darruk was curious and his heavy brow knit.

"You believe the Companions to be in league with the Stormcloaks?"

"No, no..." Cipius waved dismissively. "They are quite simply above the notion of taking sides outright. It has never been their way. Nevertheless, I believe if we are to discover a decisive edge against the Stormcloak menace in Whiterun Hold, it will come through the Companions. Therefore, I want you to investigate them. This is no base interrogation. You must be discrete in your methods, and respect their ways, no matter how strange they may be."

The Centurion nodded.

"It will be done, Legate."

[Clark]

The road from Solitude to Whiterun had been long, but not so bad in the back of a carriage. Clark spent most of the trip devouring a set of books Sybille gave to him, not least among them, Bound Sword, a spell that would summon a spectral-looking one-handed sword into whichever hand he used to cast the spell.

"Mages have no need for steel," Sybille said. "Still, with the right training, you can use your Bound weapons to eventually trap the souls of animals and the like. Save yourself from casting Soul Trap all the time."

At that, Clark spent the entire trip with his legs dangling off the back of the carriage, reading when there was sunlight to see by, or practicing Bound Sword if it as wet or dark out. There was just one small problem.

"I don't know anything about sword-fighting!"

Luckily, there was a one day lay-over in Whiterun. Clark knew from the other travelers in the carriage that the city was home to the legendary Companions, all strong swordsmen and women and known throughout the land for their skill with blades and other such weapons. Once the carriage parked itself outside the Whiterun stables, Clark hopped off and went directly to see them. Now he stood at their doorstep, wondering who to speak to first.

"Um, who can I speak to about learning to fight with a sword?"

[Darruk gro-Khazgur]

"You?"

The question was with honest incredulity as Darruk also approached the heavy oak doors of Jorrvaskr. The Breton standing at the entrance had asked the question to himself apparently, as if summoning courage before opening the door to enter. He had the look of a bookish squire, hardly the sort that would seek a life in steel. Still, it was a question Darruk was familiar in answering. After all, he'd made something of a career in turning boys into men. But that was under the Imperial system. The Companions seemed to be something else entirely. A loose knit society of warriors, already tempered by first blood and war stories.

"You might be in the wrong place, boy."

[Clark]

Clark turned to see who answered him, and fought not to blanch when he did. "Perhaps. But the warriors that make up the Companions are the spiritual descendants of the 500 Companions of Ysgramor. I don't want to join them, really. Just learn some basics. They'll take on nearly any job that necessitates swinging a sword. I figure for a handful septims they can teach me at least a few things. I'm not soldier material.I just want to learn to make the most use out of this spell."

The College Novice shook out his left hand. Grasping a ball of purple-black energy, he focused on it. The ball stretched and twisted with the sound of displaced Oblivion energy until at last Clark was holding an ethereal looking longsword.

"I figured since this was possible, I might consider how best to use it."

[Darruk gro-Khazgur]

Being a novice to the destruction magics, Darruk was at least familiar with magic in practical use. He didn't blanch and head for the hills like some paranoid Nord. Instead, he took a half step back to give the same respectful space to anyone who would brandish a weapon. The orc watched Clark hold the ethereal blade, then looked at the man to see if he was serious in his intentions. He certainly seemed so.

"You're holding it wrong."

He raised a hand in offering to help correct, then suddenly hesitated, not sure if he could correct physical deficiencies in wielding a bound sword. While magic was certainly known to him, conjuration was a school of it that he had not delved into.

[Clark]

Clark looked at his hand. He thought he was holding it right--that is, gripping it by the handle rather than the blade. Still, Clark if there was one thing Clark did know, it was how to be an excellent student.

"Show me."

Clark pointed to the weapon at Darruk's hip. "You do it, and I'll mimic you. But if you don't mind my asking, why are you here?"

[Darruk gro-Khazgur]

The Centurion's gladius unsheathed, and the lightly oiled edge sang a bit as it cleared the scabbard. He held the blade in up to allow Clark to inspect.

"Keep your grip close to the guard, where the balance is best. Your blade is larger, so you must be mindful of keeping control of it, or..."

Reaching up slightly, Darruk met Clark's blade with the edge of his own, and suddenly forced the blade from its ready position with a gentle pivot of his wrist.

"...you will be undone."

The demonstration would be enough for a simple first rule, and Darruk parted his blade, returning it to the scabbard.

"Control your weapon like you would control your arm or hand. There is much more, but that is the first rule."

As for Clark's question, Darruk considered it, opting to reply with evasive truth.

"I come for knowledge, just as you."

[Clark]

"But not on how to fight."

The College mage didn't mind the Empire. He understood the Stormcloaks' feelings about Talos, but it was Ulfric's act of aggression that left the young Breton without parents. Still, he wasn't just going to throw his lot in with the Empire. Clark just wanted to learn.

Clark adjusted his grip on the sword. "Well, shall we see if the Companions can help us?"