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Cadavera Vero Innumera
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Chapter I : The Arrival

The road became less of a secluded mountain trench and more of a well-used trackway the further north they had travelled. The Pale Pass was broadened by traffic and strengthened in numerous locations by long corduroys of logs in the softer places, but aside from these few things, it just as wild and treacherous as it was described way back in the First Era. 1E 2703. The Akaviri Invasion. Akaviri Commander Mishaxhi. Reman Cyrodiil. He has a soft spot for history; back home, there had been many reference books perched upon his shelves. This was just one favored topic among hundreds. As they ride among the developing mountainside, with large rock formations thrusting further and further into the sky, he can't help but think. Imagine. What would have it been like back then? The Army of Reman, how different had it been?

The Pale Pass was a busy road and saw many travellers. Worn down merchants with oddities and rarities; country folk driving shaggy cattle along. A band of gruff looking mercenaries. The occasional nobleman. Sometimes, a light-stepping hunter with obedient hounds at his heels. Nowadays however, it was the soldiers that most often made use of this road. Supply wagons, territorial patrols, the occasional courier - the road saw them all.

Today, it saw the Fourth Legion. Or, rather - it saw the First Cohort of the Fourth Legion. Trodding steady along at the same thirty mile-a-day pace which had brought them up from Colovia, the solid bulk of soldiers make their way towards Skyrim with unwavering determination. They followed a road that was slowly falling victim to overgrown foliage and grassroots. Officers at the front, footmen following behind. Even in these unfamiliar places, in foreign lands he's only ever heard about in books or seen marked down on maps, he is used to the orderly spectacle that is long-distance marching. The only difference now, however, is that he is no longer actually marching. With his newly instated rank, he now has the privilege of riding on horseback.

He's comfortable - intimate, almost, with the experience and despite being quite unused to riding for such a lengthy periods of time, he is able to drift away in thought. Perfectly content.

It's different, he thinks. Skyrim. They had informed him when they crossed the border into the Northern Province, it had been some time ago, but until now there hadn't been much of a difference in his surroundings. The world around him had not been entirely dissimilar from the rest of the trek; narrow road, tall mountains, cold weather. Now, however, with a warmth that only comes with a lower altitude and the creeping growth of sheer... green, he can't help but notice the differences.

The Fourth Legion is historically stationed in the Colovian Highlands. Always had been. It was a sparsely populated land - good for war games, and took up the majority of the western foothills. A charming untamed wilderness that one came to understand after a few months of living there. It held no secrets. The highland grass was long, he remembers, standing just taller than a Legionnaires' boots. Good, solid vegetation. The kind of foliage that survived wars; it wasn't delicate. Here in this hold however - Falkreath, the Legate had said - it is entirely different. It's filled with sharp hills, dense pine forests and is constantly blanketed in a fine mist that makes it seem almost seasonless. Filled with deception, it's dense and he never expected it from looking at a map, like the one that was draped across his horse's neck thought the better part of the travel. It was something that had to be seen with his own eyes.

And he's not going to lie, he is glad he has. Seen it, that is.

He rides at the head of the column, the cohort commander, situated alongside Legate Rikke and, a little further along, the general himself. Although he's tried valiantly to keep it concealed, he couldn't help the occasional show of pride as he rides. Either be it in the form of him straightening his shoulders when called or the sudden flash of a grin when he turns to look at the men following him; the delight from his first command was clear. A complete contrast to that of his father, who if anything, seemed almost burdened by the responsibility of rank.

Then again, while he certainly resembled the general, First Centurion Aristaeus Tullius wasn't much like his father to begin with.

The general hadn't bothered himself with Aris thought the journey. Even though they had been traveling little more than a few feet away from one another, the older man had made sure to curtly ignore his only son. It's not the first time, nor will it be the last he expects, and if he was being truly honest with himself, Aris was actually thankful for the distance set. It gave him time to think things over, to put everything into perceptive - because while he was prideful of his rise in rank, he was also downright terrified. His first campaign. They're going to war. Not those silly little spats that happened between the Counts and Countesses in Cyrodill, or the occasional public dispute when it came to taxes or the rebuilding effort. A real war. Battlefields and skirmishes - an actual enemy, like in the Great War, but worse.

He wonders if the general had expected this; why else would the older man suddenly be so distant? Not cold, per say, but almost... inaccessible. Perhaps his father was thinking about it too. Aris wasn't going to ask. He didn't want to.

While the general was giving him space however, Legate Rikke had been giving him her undivided attention ever since they crossed the border. Partly because it's her responsibility to tend to a new officer, partly because she enjoys conversation - even if it is one sided, and partly because Aris is young enough to be easily educated in the ways of Nordic culture without the trademark Tullius 'grouchiness' getting in the way.

Though the general made no outward signs of disapproval - he could practically feel the the glares directed at Rikke from here.

Aris snorts quietly to himself, shaking his head.

'Stop grooming my boy into a heathen barbarian, Legate.'

There's more to this then creating a simple understanding between them. Aris is kept away from the burden of unnecessary duty in order to focus on developing a firm sense of... well, a firm sense of intellectual and tactical qualities, he presumes. He'll develop into a leader on the battlefield, but there's more to a senior officer then running with a sword in your hand. It was during these tediously long afternoons in his father's war room, listening to the general and the legate bicker about cohort manoeuvres when he came to the realisation. The realisation that the Fourth Legion is unlikely to leaving Skyrim, victory or no. It leaves him with an uneasy feeling in his stomach. He's never not been with this group of soldiers. Even in his short and early days when he was training in the Academy, he was Fourth Legion and he hadn't even muttered an oath yet... not that he'd ever actually spoken an oath, but that wasn't the point. The idea of leaving them was... uncomfortable.

Oh, orders are orders of course and he'd follow them up until perfection, but he can't help the uncertainty. His promotion has only brought the matter to light. In a few years' time, he could be serving in quite a different part of the Empire, since a cohort centurion never often moved up all the way in the same Legion. It was practically unheard of, actually - it only ever happened straight after the war, when the ranks had been all but destroyed. No. He wouldn't move up all the way in the Fourth Legion.

All the way... from his present rank right up to that of his father's. Slowly of course, over time. Step by step. But not alongside the Fourth Legion.

This was also, up until the war, unheard of too. He had been told, time and time again, that this was an example of the old Cyrodillic manoeuvres. That before now, men had to climb the ladder on their own and not rely on their father's own military standing, but times were changing and Aris didn't have to be born before the war to see that. The Empire needs a future. In the past, it needed heroes. In this current present, it needs politicians, but if it was to have a future, then it needed men and woman to lead its armies. Young men and woman like Aris, the sons and daughters of prominent officers. Those youngsters who could be built up, built up strong and hard and ready, so when the Thalmor comes around again, they are facing an Imperial Army that is ready and waiting for them.

He's already developed physically - the Academy saw to that, at this point, he could probably take down most Orcs bare-handed. No. It was here with his first command that he'd grow into the role of a soldier, physiologically, like his father. Or die trying.

Scowling at his surroundings from beneath his helmet, Aris tightens his grip on the reins, making the leather gloves creak. Bring it on. He thinks. "Look ahead there - Helgen, in the flesh." Legate Rikke calls pointing up over the rise of the road. Aris came to the present with a jerk, indeed, the prospect of leading his own Legion in some distant war would have to wait; the reality of his first command sits before him. Leaning up on his saddle to get a better look, he blinks, mouth dropping open slightly. The town, Helgen, was more of a fort in general appearance - bolstered up, an Imperial fortification that had gradually succumbed to the needs of a civilian populace. Filled with solid little wooden buildings that huddled against cold stone watchtowers. They take the form of dark shadows, stark against an evening sky. From his position, he can see Masser and Secunda peaking up over the pines. The cohort will not be traveling into the Nordic town, but rather cutting across towards an Imperial bolstered fortification by the name of Fort Neugrad.

Aris looks down at his map again, from there... they'll follow the road into Whiterun Hold, turning east and continuing on until they reach Solitude. Three more days of travel, two, if on the last day they extend to fifty miles. When he looks back up again, he tits his head as he examines the faint bulge on the distant horizon. Glancing at Rikke, he turns to the side a bit more obviously so she knows her attention is needed. Once she looks at him with a sidelong glance, he points over towards the horizon, at the faint glowing mark.

"It is indeed, Capital of Whiterun Hold." She states almost proudly and the general makes a noise, but otherwise doesn't say anything else.

It's massive. Aristaeus notes, giving his map a final glance before rolling it up smartly and sliding it away. He wonders if it's as big as Solitude. Snapping over towards Caius Scaevola, his personal secretary and better translator, he tilts his head upwards so the man understands and then starts to move his hands accordingly. Caius stares at them for a few moments, nods and turns towards the Legate. "Is it as big as Solitude, Ma'am?"

Rikke thinks for a moment, turning her head away to face the declining road beneath them.

In the Legion she went by many names. The Legate. Tullius' Heavy. The Field Commander. The First Lieutenant. Rikke was her 'real' name, Aris supposes, but whatever her name, whatever face she happened to be wearing, she was a force to be reckoned with. Immovable and unconquerable, a 'True Nord' at heart as she commonly described herself - but of course, the Centurion held no embitterment towards his superior because of this. Only admiration. Rikke was the kind of soldier Aris wanted to follow. He's lucky, he thinks, that he does.

"It's commonly described as the biggest city in Skyrim, befitting for a Capital, I suppose." Rikke then says, turning her head to look at him again. "Whiterun is bigger in the sense that it's more... spaced out."

Aris snaps his hands up, Caius turns back towards the Legate. "Capacious?" He offers and she nods after a pausing to think, smirking at Aris.

"Capacious, but relies almost solely on strong outer walls for defence. Strong as they may be however, they do not hold the majority of Whiterun's agricultural land inside." The legate explained, watching the shape of Whiterun over on the horizon. "Solitude on the other hand is of an eminently defensible nature. Big, sprawling, but it's wall's cover everything worth covering." Then, with a smirk, she brings the conversation to a close, probably for his benefit rather than hers. "You'll see for yourself, of course."

Aris takes the time to try and imagine that, gaze flicking over to watch the road before them. The map he currently has of use is not very informative. Boarders between the holds drawn in harsh lines, all the major roads sprawled in ink and the insignia of each city drawn upon the parchment, but nothing to show the size or layout of each city, nothing to distinguish the size of each mountain to the other. He'd like to get his hands on one. A proper one. Yes, he'd like that very much. He's always had a strange fascination with maps and had collected them incessantly thought his youth. He recalls now, that the majority of them were old - the oldest spanning right into the late second Era. They were useless, all things considered, but they somehow appealed to him.

Fort Neugrad, Aris realised, also appealed to him, in an archaic, cold and depressing kind of way.

The road led straight down towards Helgen but the traveling cohort of soldiers turned away to follow a slightly less beaten, but more weathered, pathway of sorts. Once they got close enough, a few crimson cloaked Legionnaires on duty turned to look at the cohort as it swung by, a gaze that was reserved and intrigued, rather than that of hostile. The general passes through the gate first, spurring his horse into a faster walk, shadowed loosely on three sides by his bodyguards - big men, tough fellows, handpicked from a century of praetorians. Fort Neugrad was, for the time being, under the command of Salvius, one of Legate Rikke's men and a tribune turned centurion jockeying for the position of Primus Pilus in Skulnar's Falkreath cohort. The grey-haired veteran stood over towards one side, directly before the door that led into the depths of the fort, his jaw hardened as he examined the group of soldiers. He was a fine officer, Aris knew, tough, efficient and courageous. He was one of those Legionnaires that would maintain the highest standards of the centurionate to the very end.

He was, however, a downright horrible instructor. This Aris knows about indirectly.

With a muffled grunt, General Tullius raised himself up to stand in his stirrups, slipping one leg over the back of his mount and dropping to the ground with a solid thunk of shifting armour. The rest of them follow suit, and Aris grimaces when he realises how damn sore he was. He's no stranger to a horse, but riding for this long at this frequency was a novel experience up until now. Standing smartly, he watches as the general gives the fort a casual few glimpses from under his helmet. The Legionnaires already stationed here stand to gruff attention, the rhythmic clatter of fists slamming into Imperial plate acting as the final warning of his arrival.

A far younger tribune marches over towards them, stopping a respectable distance away and clicking the heels of his boots together. "General Tullius, sir." he greets and the man in question nods slowly, silently acknowledging the boy. "Orders for the remainder of the cohort, sir?"

Exhaling, the general gives the expanse around him another look. "State of the defences?" he asks, quietly.

"Well manned and well-conditioned, sir."

The general nods his head again. "In that case, have the cohort fed and bunked down immediately. I want them ready and able to move out tomorrow."

Another click of boots. "As you command, general."

"As for Salvius' lot, have the reserves clear the ground - set up tents for Rikke's mob and send for my secretary. Those are my orders for now, Tribune. Dismissed."

"Yes, sir."

Turning around, the general removes his helmet with a grimace. "Legate, tend to your men. Report in once you are finished. As for you, Centurion, you're with me. We have a lot to go through before we move out again."

Centurion.

Aris tries and fails to hold back the pang of satisfaction at the title. If the general had noticed it, he doesn't let it show, but rather waves the legate off when she salutes in temporary farewell. Aris turns towards Caius and gives him a similar wave, though the definition behind his gesture was slightly more different. He wouldn't need the man for this meeting; the general can understand him and even if he couldn't, they had paper in which Aris could write on. Communication wasn't going to be an issue.

Without a word, the general turns and makes for the other centurion, who meets them a quarter of the way there, saluting smartly at both of them. Technically now both father and son outrank him. It's a strange feeling for Aristaeus, considering how just a few days ago it would have been him saluting at both of them. Stopping to a tentative halt, Salvius gives Aris a nod, a gesture in which he returns.

"General, sir. Centurion. All quiet on this front."

"Good." The general grumps as he moves past the man, Aris is hot on his heels. When when they get further into the fort, he undoes his chin strap and removes his helmet, before tucking it under one arm and brushing his hair to one side with the palm of his hand, grimacing all the way. He didn't like wearing the odd, heavy helmet of a higher ranked officer. It was one-sided and tended to mess with his vision, as opposed to the simple steel things he was used to before.

Blinking into the developing darkness, his eyes ache as they struggle to adjust with the sudden change in light level. "I can't deal with the Stormcloaks today." His father grumbles darkly and Aris smirks in response. The general has only been in Skyrim for the better part of six hours. Glancing over his shoulder at Aris, he clicks his tongue and pauses, frowning. "I'm correct in thinking that all my paperwork is being securely stored, Salvius?" he calls to the lower-ranking officer.

"You would indeed, sir." Salvius nods. "It's... with your secretory, I believe."

The general grunts again, turning towards Aris. "Go fetch it for me, eh? Can't make plans without foresight."

Aris nods, as curtly as such a gesture could be before clicking his heels and turning off down the corridor. The general watches him leave right up until he turns around the corner, before moving back on. The room that was to be acting as his temporary office was unsurprisingly spacious, though ill fitting - it clearly wasn't a fort that was equipped for housing officers, but rather, from what Tullius had heard beforehand, a fortification used for housing prisoners of war. He had yet to see the prison for himself. Nor did he expect too unless it was necessary. The far side was where the battered desk stood and the general sat behind it immediately, planting his helmet to one side and unstrapping his bracers, which join the helmet soon afterwards.

Salvius hesitated obviously and in response, Tullius gives him a sharp glance. "What is it?" His voice was more clipped than usual, but things had been stressful lately, and it was likely to be a reoccurring experience.

"Just a question, sir." The grizzled junior officer lowered his voice, as if to hide his conversation from others, despite them being the only two people in the room. His bodyguards where positioned outside the door and unless Tullius suddenly started shouting for help, they would stay that way. "Is the lad alright? You get my meaning, I hope."

The general's expression doesn't lighten up, if anything, it gets even sharper. "He's perfectly healthy."

"Just I remember him back in Cyrodiil right before we left, sir. He sounded like he had a bad chest cold when he spoke. Couldn't say much - didn't say much unless he could help it, and well, I just assumed-"

"I trust your men will be ready for our departure tomorrow, as scheduled?" Tullius interrupts him clean, tone even, but forceful.

The centurion paused. "Well... yes, sir. Same can't be said about your own troops however; the rain may start washing out the roads."

Tullius exhales. "Just make sure to keep them intact until then, that's all I can ask for now."

"Ah, yes sir."

"That will be all, Salvius."

Shaking his head as the other Imperial clicks his heels and slams his hand into his chest with the dismissal, Tullius runs a hand through his hair, exhaling loudly. Out of all the things he didn't want to go through, that was one of the ones at the top of the list. He's just about exhausted all the air from his lungs when there is a sharp knock at the door again, and Aris returns with a reasonably large pile of parchments clasped in one hand. The general straightens himself up in his seat, watching as the younger man puts his helmet down on a relatively nondescript table and walks over to plant the documents down on the desk. He takes them without a word, shifting through them with a small frown.

Aris meanwhile picks out a spot to stand in, examining the room with a small tilt of the head. He doesn't seem to assume that anything is amiss.

"Well then, Aris. How was the journey?" The general asks after a few moments, and the younger man makes a face. His father had been there of course, so he knew how the journey had gone, but right here, right now, the general was simply asking to be polite.

It's something he's able to figure out pretty simply. There are numerous small signs, but it was how he was referred too that was the biggest giveaway. Quite simply, he's 'Aris' to his father and, now, 'Centurion' to the general. A simple, straightforward trend Aris has been familiar with ever since... well, pretty much forever. So much so, that he finds himself adopting accordingly no sooner than his father's words are spoken. Responding in a cordial fashion, if slightly reverent - as opposed to being strictly obedient.

Aris grabbed the backs of his legs and grimaced, and the General just snorts.

"Well, you better start getting used to it. If we are lucky, perhaps not straight away." Examining the room with a slow head tilt, the general frowns. "Those so-called Stormcloaks are likely to be cautious once rumours of our arrival begin to circulate." Glancing at Aris' raised eyebrow, his disgruntled frown turns into something slightly more serious. "We don't expect any immediate problems, after all, you shouldn't throw forces at an adversary you do not yet know, much less can predict. Even a genius like Ulfric should be able to figure that one out."

Aris nods, he knows this of course, but he took the lesson all the same. It's just a conversation at the moment. Though, the commander doesn't expect it to last much longer - they're busy men at the end of the day.

"At any rate, you can expect to be sitting in on a string of court sessions and social gatherings until the bastard decides to make a move."

His expression twists again as he tries to find a way of making his distaste in any way acceptable. In the end, he settles on asking a question, diverting the attention. 'How' and then, 'Different' he asks, even though Aris wasn't very fond of their own to begin with. Aside from the obvious barriers, he doesn't have the patience nor the passive aggressiveness required for a courtroom. He is like his father in that sense; with a gruff impatience that was better for battles with soldiers then that of wits. Though Aris definitely had more youthful turbulence, an air for mischief and the general knows it - hence the whole 'sitting in' thing.

The general has since come to the conclusion that he can curb Aris'... enthusiasm, simply by boring the living Oblivion out of him.

Aris wouldn't be very useful in a courtroom, at least, not without Caius, but he's going to have to learn the tricks of the trade sooner or later.

"I'm not completely certain." His father answers, but there's a sense of distaste in his words. "But from what I've seen so far, I wouldn't hold my breath when it came to these Nords." Leaning back in his chair, the general traces the left hand side of his jaw absently. "Of course, it's not just the Nords we'll be dealing with, but if we stamp down this rebellion quickly enough we shouldn't have to bother ourselves with the First Emissary's company more than a few times." Aristaeus huffs then and his father scowls, almost, as the centurion waves his hands downwards in clear distaste.

The general grunts in agreement, lip curling upwards.

"Just be sure not to advertise that around her, eh?" Aris can't help himself, he has to let the lopsided grin slip. "Regardless, pull up a chair, son - we've got a lot to get through before we win this war in earnest."