CHAPTER 10: A STRANGE DRESS CODE
In which Our Hero joins the Imperial Legion and narrowly escapes flowery death.
Previous: Intermission 1

Solitude. It's a big city. Huge, even. That is, compared to the size of other "major" cities here. There are cities in Cyrodiil at three times this size. I heard that the city of Mournhold (official tourism bureau motto: City of Lights, City of Magic) is at least four times this size. I once went through the city of Wayrest in the Iliac Bay that I got seriously lost in for several hours because it was too damn big to navigate. But Solitude, capital city of Skyrim, with a population of less than one hundred, is considered a major city. I'm really starting to wonder about the intelligence of the local nord population.

Anywho, there's a lot of stuff here. The bard's college is here, and the Imperial Legion headquarters, which is why I'm here. On my left are a few shops, and on my right is a guy getting beheaded. Over here... wait, back up a bit. Beheaded? I question the crowd about this particular phenomenon. I'm thinking it's one of the forms of local recreation. They no longer do the Burning of King Olaf ceremony, so they've got to have weekly beheadings.

I'm told that actually, the reason he's being killed here is because he opened the main gate to the city, letting Ulfric Stormcloak out. So, to recap, a lowly guard performed the heinous crime of opening a gate when a Jarl, a ruler in the top echelons of the political system, asked him to. I get that everyone is a little pissed at Ulfric here, but... really? A guy DID HIS JOB and you're executing him for it? That's... broken, dude. Totally bogus. There's obviously something else going on here. Everyone is angry, and they need someone to blame. It can't be the high king, because he's dead. They can't execute Ulfric, because he's not here. So... get a scapegoat. A scapeguard, if you will. Fuckers.

I'm beginning to question my decision to join the legion, if this is that they do. I remember, when I first arrived here in Skyrim I was almost beheaded because they couldn't be arsed to do a little paperwork. But this goes beyond an uncaring and unfeeling bureaucracy, here... this is actual evil. Still, I guess it's better than the rampant sexism and racism prevalent in the other major local political party, so... wingnuts, here I come. Mace Raiden, Legionnaire.

As I walk through the city, I'm accosted by the regular crowd. You know, the crowd that apparently exists in every city in Skyrim? Here's the town drunk; there, a beggar. Over by that wall is an obvious criminal, and here's an asshole of a high elf being an asshole because all elves are assholes. There's a violence-obsessed nord warrior dressed in dead animal skins, and over here's an oddly effeminate breton espousing the virtues of the eight divines. This cookie-cutter approach to city generation is starting to get on my nerves, but I'm not actually going to comment on that because who knows if it'll upset the gods.

So. Castle Dour. Full of guys wearing skirts. The legion has a strange dress code. I've got to talk to Legate Rikke, but I can't right now, because she's arguing with General Tullius. Apparently Ulfric is planning on attacking Whiterun, but Jarl Balgruuf is refusing imperial aid, citing nord tradition. Tullius wants Rikke to send Balgruuf a letter, little knowing that Rikke is actually the illegitimate child of Ulfric who is not the real Ulfric but instead his younger sister who got a sex-change operation in order to carry on the family business, but Tullius is harboring a dark secret that he has recently confided in Elisef's steward who is actually her late husband wearing a disguise who didn't actually die...

Blurgh. Sorry, my brain just got taken over by the Soap Opera Episode Generator, pay me no mind. Actually, when you come to think about it, the entirety of my life so far has been dealing with politics in one way or another. Who gets to control the Eye of Magnus? Do we follow the Way of the Voice as the Greybeards want? Should the Forsworn regain control of the Reach? Should the Stormcloaks or the Legion take control of Skyrim? Should Talos be outlawed? Which Skyrim city should I personally raze first? Politics, with a side order of draugr and a sprinkling of banditry. Dragons to taste. Bake at 180 degrees for thirty minutes. Serves one.

While Tullius and Rikke keep spouting at each other, I wander the area, noticing yet again that there are no bathrooms in any of these high-class places, only in dank dungeons. It actually explains a lot about the political troubles of this land. Nobody can take a shit in comfort, so everyone's walking around fully constipated at all times. Makes 'em irritable.

Finally the two of them stop jabbering at each other, and I can petition to join the legion. Rikke seems hesitant. Apparently she didn't like that I followed Ralof out of Helgen, for which I cannot actually fault her. She decides to give me a simple little test to prove whether I'm legion material or not. I have to go and wipe out a band of bandits (so THAT'S why they're called bandits! They travel around in bands!) at Fort Hraggstad.

Um... really, lady? You want all ONE of me to go and wipe out a well-defended fort filled with murderous malcontents so you can garrison a troop of legionnaires there? Like, this is a job FOR the troop of legionnaires, let THEM do it and then move in? This... this is a suicide mission, isn't it. You're not just suspicious of me, you're actually hostile to me. What the HELL did I ever do to you?

I'd back out, but I'm thinking that this is my last option. I'm not so desperate as to go to that argonian guy back near the front gate and sink a ship for him; the criminal life is not for me. I haven't sunk that low. No, I guess I need to do this. Honestly, I'm probably capable of it. With my big fucking axe and heavy iron armor I can do it. Still, I'd like some help on this one, so... I guess I need to recruit a follower.

I head back out to the local tavern, because as everyone knows, the local tavern is where you go to recruit adventurers. The local adventurer-for-hire is a nord by the name of Belrand, a balding older guy who nevertheless seems quite competent. He's a spellsword, and can use magic and weapons equally well. He's fully equipped for battle and just itching to get out there and mix it up with some bandit scum. I cheerfully tell him welcome aboard, and he cheerfully tells me that he's ready to go, just a few pieces of paperwork to fill out, nothing major, and his fee is 500 gold...

Uh? FIVE HUNDRED GOLD? The local beggar asks me for one gold piece a DAY. 500 gold will keep you in food for the next YEAR, fucker. I'm not going to pay you a year's salary for a day's worth of work! Get bent! I'm paying you 20.

He stares at me for a minute, then quietly proceeds to explain his fee. Apparently, risking one's life being the companion of a guy heading into almost certain doom facing a horde of bandits in a well-defended fortress situated on a dangerous cliff's edge in the icy, troll-infested northland is worth more than a handful of gold. And then there's the roaming charge, too. I sheepishly hand over 500 gold, avoiding eye contact, and he magnanimously says nothing more about it. We're off to Fort Hroggstad! Or Hraggstod. Something like that. Onward!

The trip to the fort is relatively uneventful. We pass by an old nordic ruin, and the big white rock in my backpack starts yammering at me again, apparently THIS is its temple. Who knew? I'll be back soon, I promise. The only other things we encounter are a pair of trolls the two of us easily dispatch, a few bandits the two of us easily dispatch, a couple of wolves the two of us easily dispatch, a bear the two of us easily dispatch, a horde of spriggans the one of us easily dispatch while the other runs and hides and sucks his thumb, etcetera.

The fort itself turns out NOT to be a tough nut to crack. Sort of a soft nut. Pre-cracked, if you catch my drift. Belrand and I run through the place like an awfully sharp thing through a very soft thing, (I am a master of simile) and before you know it, the fort is ours! I walk out of the place loaded down with a dozen sets of bloodstained armor, a bunch of rusty iron hammers, axes, and swords, several bows, several hundred arrows, pots, pans, plates, trinkets, statues, books, ingredients, potions, food... the works. I'm skipping my way down the path, not a care in the world, and I stop to pick up a flower. Suddenly I can't move worth shit. My breath comes in labored gasps as I inch my way on my hands and knees down the trail, barely aware of my environment as a red haze obscures my vision. My joints creak under the heavy load and I swear I can feel my spine beginning to telescope. Desperate, barely aware of my actions, extremities going numb, I fumble in my backpack. I drop a single iron dagger, and I'm back up and sprinting down the path. I need to watch it from now on. That's a leading cause of death here in Skyrim - picking a flower and being crushed under the weight.

Anyway, it's back to Solitude to talk to Rikke, won't SHE be surprised when I show up alive and well!

Next: Chapter 11, Oath Of Celibacy... I Mean Fealty
Start at Chapter 1