The Imperial City, Legion prison

  Autumn, 27th Last Seed

  Year 433 of the Third Era (3E433)

  "Name?"

  "Kaius Treblanus Desin."

  The sound of scratching was ever present in the tiny confines of the room. It wasn't loud, but it was persistent enough to set even the most stoic of soul's teeth on edge. For my part I stood perfectly still, ignoring the fluttering fear in my belly that had been a companion for so long it was almost part of me.

  At the sound and tone of my voice, the source of the scratching glanced up and studied me with experienced eyes. The quill stopped in mid motion, the ink staining the tip threatening to drip down onto the parchment underneath its point.

  The sensation of eyes upon me only lasted for a few seconds, and I forced myself to remain calm, staring over the head of the seated Centurion as he went about recording my details. The wall behind him allowed me to have an almost infinite source of distractions and was covered with dozens of tiny slate tiles hanging from a mass of hooks. Each bore a name, grouped together in towering columns that covered an area over five metres in width and two metres in height. It was a collection of the damned and condemned.

  Old, grizzled and hair slowly turning grey, the Centurion looked between me and the two towering forms of my captors standing a pace back from my sides. Dressed only in a ruined sackcloth I was indeed out of place between the pair of Legionaries of the Imperial Watch. In their scarlet cloaks and metal plate armours polished to an eye-watering precision, it was almost impossible to make us look even more unalike. The only thing that seemed to link us was the way that all three of us stood rigid, arms locked by our sides and eyes staring resolutely forward.

  Using short, sharp quill strokes he noted down my approximate height and weight onto the parchment, using my guards to assist his estimate. "Crime?"

  The Legionary to my right twitched, holding out another sheet of parchment that the Centurion reached out and took. "Desertion."

  Again the quill stopped its teeth-grinding progress across the sheet on the wooden desk and the eyes returned. There was nothing in the expression. No hate, no anger, not even disappointment as the eyes roamed over me once more. The gaze eventually came to rest on the Legion Brand scarring my right bicep.

  "Rank and Legion?"

  "Archer-Praefect. 8th Casta, 14th Legion."

  There was a sigh, but there was some measure of amusement from the man recording my details. Dressed in a simple scarlet toga and bearing signs of years of accumulated injuries it had been his declining years that had put him behind a desk rather than occupying a position in a shield wall. The chair creaked as he pushed it back and turned in place, staring for several minutes at the map on the wall that notated every major Legion posting throughout the bounds of Tamriel.

  "North-western Vvardenfell. Looks like... Fort Ironhand?" He muttered under his breath and shook his head with amazement. "Just how in oblivion's name did they manage to catch you?"

  Suppressing the urge to shrug, I kept my gaze to the wall above and behind his head. I knew exactly what he meant though. As an Archer I was unlike the majority of infantry that made up the Legion's ranks. I was, or at least had been a forester; one of the highly trained, highly skilled members of a military already famed for its discipline, skill and ability. Where the Legionaries fought in a wall of metal and meat and stabbed and killed with methodical precision; the foresters were the eyes and ears, the dismounted scouts and skirmishers. When the Legion marched through rugged and difficult terrain, the foresters would stalk in front of the cohorts and cover their advance with precise bow fire. During the rare times that the Legion faced an enemy either dumb enough or suicidal enough to face it on open ground, the foresters would form archer-cohorts behind the front line. There, protected in the depths of the formation they would fill the air with clouds of buzzing death. A hail of steel-tipped arrows would shatter and weaken battle lines before the metal-shod boots of the legionaries trampled them into the dirt.

  The foresters were also responsible for assisting the Legions in remaining supplied. Hunting, tracking and trapping would allow the Legions to live off the land to a surprising degree. Such skills had provided immeasurable assistance through centuries of warfare. I knew that the aging veteran noting down my details was surprised at finding himself faced with a forester. Especially one with my rank. For all intents and purposes I should have been able to simply disappear into the wild and never be found.

  A gauntleted hand, the outer portion of the hand and fingers covered with a series of interlocking metal plates reached out and grasped me firmly by the jaw. The metallic edges rubbed at my skin, but the leather gloves under the metal felt strangely cool. "He got bitten by a bloodsucker." Rumbled the guard to my right.

  The Centurion took a moment to study the healing bite marks in my throat, visible due to the rags that I wore. "He's not going to turn is he?"

  Clanking softly the guard released his grip on my face and shrugged. Then, thinking better of it he shook his head. "They picked him up at the gates to Balmora. The report we got was that he had stuffed the wounds with Chokeweed and Lichen. It's almost been a fortnight since they caught him as well."

  "Good. Wouldn't want you to miss out on your gods-ordained punishment now would we?"

  "What's the going rate for deserters at the moment?" Asked the guard to my left.

  "Usually hanging, although Tribune Tarvldyn has had to become more creative due to the recent increase of desertions. It's either hanging, a beating, or a swim in the Rumare."

  The feeling of fear grew stronger, and I couldn't help but feel a terrible unease at what awaited me. Two of the punishments were definite death sentences. Hanging was hanging, but a swim in the Rumare was one of the more ancient punishments within the Legion. Although it varied, it was usually as simple as tying the accused in a sack with their hands and feet bound before throwing them in a river or lake with some rocks for company.

  The beating however was potentially worse. It wasn't completely guaranteed to result in death, but being left to live out the rest of your days as a cripple was the best possible outcome. A squad of legionaries; usually fresh recruits would be chosen to beat the offender for five minutes with nothing more than their hands and feet. Anyone who appeared to be pulling their punches or holding back would receive a flogging as a result. If at the end of the time the accused was still breathing they would be released. In my first years in the Legion I had seen the punishment enacted. It was extremely rare for anyone to live through such an ordeal.

  Leaning over the parchment, the Centurion returned to jotting down more of my details. My rank, unit and posting was added to the sheet that represented little more than an epitaph. I had barely any family or friends outside of the Legion, and so with a death sentence looming in my immediate future I had no doubt to what awaited me. If I was lucky I would have a grave. Maybe.

  The choice of deserting had surprisingly been an easy one. It was not a pleasant place for a legionary to find himself. The northern winds would sweep south from the Sea of Ghosts, biting through even the most solid of furs and coats and making everyone's lives miserable. The only places that were colder was Solstheim to the north, and some of the postings in northern Skyrim.

  This life hadn't been improved since we had received our new Legate. One of the 20 commanders of the military might of the Empire, I had been unlucky enough to find myself in the exact fort where he had chosen to reside. Far from the prying eyes of Imperial bureaucrats he had forged a petty little kingdom all for himself. Five hundred legionaries and the dozens of support staff in the fort were his subjects. Fines, floggings and punishment details for the smallest of infractions, or even on a whim ensured that I wasn't the only one who considered making a run for it. Unlike most of the others, I was one of the few with the skills to make the attempt.

  As dangerous as a course of action desertion was, several years within the northern reaches of Tamriel had left those surviving legionaries such as myself just as dangerous. Patrols into the Ashlands were common, as were the running skirmishes against Ashlander Tribes resisting the armoured gauntlet of Imperial Rule. Other patrols and sorties against bandits were also common, as they were required to secure the supply lines not only for ourselves, but the various Ebony Mines scattered about the region. I had fought supernatural horrors, killed men and mer and seen sights that would've quailed the hearts of the obliviously content citizenry of the Empire. I also had the scars to show for it, mostly physical but there were plenty of nights that I was left sweating out the dark hours until dawn. In the rolling hills and plains of the West Gash and in the depths of the Ashlands I had also left several friends and comrades buried in the soil and ash.

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  "There's a request here from Legate Quintillius to hand him over to the jurisdiction of the 14th."

  The Centurion snorted and didn't bother looking up to the guard who held out a rolled up scroll. "Unless Quintillius is another name for Uriel or Tiber Septim then I say good luck to him." The quill continued on its path, stopping every few scratched lines to be dipped into the ink pot. "Only the Emperor in all of his wisdom can overturn Legion Law."

  Strangely enough I felt better at hearing the words out loud. A Legate was one of the most powerful men within the entire Empire, seconded only to the Emperor Himself and equal to the various Counts, Kings and Lords within the Provinces. But like all of the men and women in Tamriel they were bound by law, and this one particular law stated that all deserters, once caught would be returned to the Imperial City and face their punishment there. It was an ancient law, one that had been in place since the days of Reman Cyrodiil. Despite the logistical and administrative nightmare of such a law, the greatest military in the world was a stickler for details. If the Law stated that a deserter would be fed and transported hundreds of kilometres from where he was posted and captured – then by the Nine it would be done. As a result, and after a fortnight of seeing little more than the interior of a prison cart I had found myself standing in the heart of the Empire.

  I knew exactly why the Legate wanted me returned. The fear of being discovered how he was padding his wages from fining the men and mer under his command and slipping in his duties was ever present. It was this fear that had sent out his mounted Extraordinarii after every man who deserted his post. To my knowledge I had been the only one to make it further than an unmarked grave amidst the fungal forests of Vvardenfell.

  Being attacked and subsequently bitten by a creature of the night had definitely not been part of my plans. If it wasn't for the fact that I had been injured and stumbled into that patrol of Ordinators I would have comfortably disappeared. Although being captured had had allowed me a week or two respite from my journey to Aetherius as the Ordinators had taken me prisoner within full sight of the squad of mounted legionaries tasked with killing me.

  The muffled curse from the Centurion caught all of our attentions as he forced himself to rise to his feet and look over the series of slates hanging from their hooks. Normally charcoal black, they had been used and reused for so many countless years that the chalk stains had rendered them a pasty grey.

  "The Legion cells are full." He said, running a hand missing a pair of fingers through his thinning hair. The toga he wore did little to hide the fact that he was a veteran with all the injuries and wounds to show for it. Grey and somewhat faded, the Imperial Dragon branded on his arm revealed him as once belonging to the 8th Legion within Blackmarsh. The mottled scars across every part of his skin showed that he had once suffered from one of the terrible diseases that ravaged that region, and might have been the straw to break the guar's back in terms of being posted to the Watch.

  "Where do you want us to put him then?" Asked the guard to my right.

  The Centurion rolled his gaze down the slates showing the names of every prisoner and their allocated cells, mouthing each name as he went. The Imperial Prison may have been the largest in the Empire in a city containing over a million citizens, but every district had their own Prefaecture with holding cells. This allowed the Prison district to cater to the worst of the worst, and provided the Legion with its own section for military prisoners.

  "Bugger it. Just throw him somewhere in the south wing." A hand gestured vaguely in the approximate direction of the door. "I'll have to talk to Warden Largash but I doubt he'd even notice an ex-legionary in his cells."

  "Glad we're not having to fill in the paperwork." The left hand guard laughed as he pushed me towards the door leading further into the prison.

  "Laugh it up boys. Laugh it up."

  With not-too-gentle shoves to the spine they pushed me onwards, one standing close behind me with a discipline cane ready in case I tried to run or escape or fight back while the other led the way. Several passages from the Centurion's office lead in various directions under the Prison District but it was all too easy to tell that we were underground. No windows, holes or skylights allowed the sun to reach into this world of stone and wood, and only lanterns scattered every few metres let any of us see at all.

  It was damp, cold and reeked of sorrow and sadness and the sight of age worn stone was only broken by the plated forms of the various members of the Imperial Watch who acted as wardens and guards for both the military and civilian portions of the underground prison. By the time we had reached the prison wings the security had increased even further. Every door was locked, and manned by one or two fully armed and armoured members of the Watch. Each time we would be stopped, looked over briefly before guards would open the doors, closing and locking them as we passed.

  "This looks good enough for me." Muttered one of my jailors, as they both seemed to choose a door at random and nod to the single guard standing beside it. The passage we were in was the upper level of the South wing, and connected the dozen or more minor wings like the vacated root structure of an immense stone tree.

  The door thudded closed behind us, and I could hear the tell-tale click of the lock being set by the sentry. The sight before me was pitiful and left me feeling thoroughly depressed. The collection of prison cells within this passage of the South Wing were tiny, disused and almost completely empty. The smell of mould and moisture was overwhelming and was not where I would have even considered spending the last days of my life.

  "Oh look," crawled a voice from the nearest cell on the right. The clang of metal echoed hauntingly through the vacated cells as a Dark Elf pressed his face against the bars. "An Imperial in the Imperial Prison. I guess they don't play favourites, huh?"

  Although the bars of his cell door were too closely spaced to fit anything larger then an arm, he did his best to push his head through. For the most part he seemed content in twitching and staring with an expression bordering on insanity plastering his face as it was pulled even more taut by the iron bars.

  "Looks like you have a new friend." The laugh was shallow and I knew that both of my guards were more bored that anything else. "At least you'll have plenty of time to get acquainted."

  Flicking through the ring of keys that they had been given by the guard up the short flight of stairs, neither of them seemed to bother with taking me any further than the first available cell. Unfortunately for me it was the one directly opposite the glaring, twitching Dunmer and he watched without blinking as they found the right key, opened the door and pushed me in.

  "Make yourself at home." With a click the manacles were unlocked and I found myself rubbing absently at my wrists. "You could be here a while."

  The Legionary gave the squalid cell a brief glance, grunting something under his breath before turning and slamming the door behind him. Their duty had been completed, and I found myself wondering whether they would even tell the Centurion where they had left me. That was if they even knew what cell was now my home. While the threat of hanging or being beaten to death still hung over my future, I wasn't sure if I liked the idea of dying of disease or old age any better.

  With the door at the top of the stairs locked behind them, I found myself staring into the maniacal expression of my neighbour. "What?"

  A mouth full of broken, rotten stumps of teeth revealed itself in a face paled from years within the darkness. "Your own kinsmen think you're a piece of human trash." Hands with cracked fingernails gripped the bars tightly as he looked at me with madness in his eyes. "How sad. I bet the guards give you special treatment before the end."

  It was my turn to sigh as I looked about my new 'home'. "At least it'll be better than being stuck with you." I replied, taking note of the tiny barred hole to the surface barely larger than my head, the table and chair, slop bucket and the piece of furniture that was only a bed in name. "You and all your friends..."

  He laughed, cackling but without any humour or amusement. "Oh, a funny one I see. I might be locked in here but it's not forever." A finger encrusted with grime and filth stabbed in my direction as though it was a spear point. "But you? You're going to die in here, Imperial. Imperial criminal scum like you give the Empire a bad name you see..."

  Snuffling and snorting to himself, he turned away from the bars and was lost to the shadows. Only a handful of ill-kept lanterns were within the passage between the dozen cells, and they provided little illumination. What I found disconcerting other than my present company, was how the cell was not much different from my living arrangements in Fort Ironhand.

  The service also appeared comparable. For three days I sat in that cell, watching the tiny strip of light from the barred hole above my head creep across the floor and losing myself in the depths of my own thoughts. After the first afternoon the boredom was getting to me more than the constant tirade of spite and maliciousness from the bastard in the cell opposite. The taunting and insults would only stop when he was eating the gruel that we were provided, or some of the times that he was asleep. Even between snores he somehow managed to mutter and chatter away incessantly. While I soon learned his name, I had no clue what had left him locked away in the dark depths of the Imperial Prison or for how long. Judging by his appearance it was obvious that the years of captivity had left him bereft of his sanity and wasting away physically. Not that I had any concern or pity for him. I was more concerned of my own fate and the feeling that perhaps execution may be a better end.

  The fang marks in my throat were healing well and I didn't need to call upon the little magicka I knew to hasten along the process. They concerned me but not in the way that most people would have been concerned after being fed on by a vampire. My alchemical knowledge and skill of living off the land of Northern Vvardenfell had allowed me to find the correct herbs and ingredients to make a poultice. In years in the volcanic north I had seen my salves and ointments successfully treat everything but the Corpus Disease, and I knew that there was something terribly wrong with me. Punctured and twisted, the growing scar tissue of the creature's fangs were not the only wounds sustained in my desperate scrabble in the darkness of that cave.

  A rush of flesh and claws had fallen upon me in the darkness, and I had felt not only the searing pain of it latching onto my throat, but the jagged agony as it raked its talons down the length of my arm. Instinct had been the only reason why I hadn't been left a drained corpse on the rocky cave floor, and in seconds I had managed to gain the upper hand despite the way it had been latched to my throat. With blood pulsing from my neck and the creature grunting and slurping at the liquid, I had grasped my dagger and before either of us had realised, repeatedly jammed the blade into its ribs, ripping and tearing away at it until I had found its heart. I don't think that it had truly realised it had been killed, so intent it was to drain me of blood. The realisation had managed to reach its bloodthirsty mind, making it pull away with its face contorted in agony. As a result of its curse, it immolated and burned into a sorry pile of bones and dusty ash.

  Weakened from blood loss, I had practically stumbled into the Ordinators. They had taken one look at my state and the Legion Brand on my shoulder and had arrested me. They had been content with the way I had treated my wounds, confident that the way I had packed the bite with the slurry of crushed up herbs had killed the infection. I too had been confident, but as every hour and every day slowly passed the doubt continued its inexorable advance into my mind. The bite had been treated, but in the semi-darkness of the Imperial prison I couldn't help but run my fingers over fresh scars down the length of my left arm, and remember how the creature's blood had stained it and the injury as it had died.

  Bloodtide Rising.