The temperate climes of Cyrodiil were not able to welcome Drelas for long. He had not long settled into the barracks that he was brought to before word arrived that he was to be shipped to Skyrim to join the war effort there, grim as its situation was. Supposedly, at least according to rumours whispered by the Legionnaires, Skyrim was a complete mess in that as soon as the banners of war were raised, every faction and their mothers crawled out from the shadows and took for themselves a piece of the Nordic territory each. The most dire of rumours spoke of things worse than Thalmor awaiting the Legion there, if one could imagine such a thing.

Before this, Drelas had arrived at the Imperial City a few weeks after being carted off from Morrowind. The journey, while uncomfortable, was surprisingly trouble-free and unremarkable. A small Dunmeri trading outfit had a route between Narsis and Nibeney, with a stop off at the capital for mass restocking and offloading before heading back north-east. Its owner was a snobbish and snooty mer, who spoke few words to Drelas - the ones that did come to pass were merely grunted announcements of resting or of setting up camp. More engaging were the mercenaries and the labourers who travelled with the caravan. Of those, Drelas spent his time with and got to know Bevdyni, a female dark elf from Balmora, the most.
 	She spoke of the fickle and fragile state of her city, which was once a Hlaalu stronghold of trade and commerce on the isle of Vvardenfell, but was now a frontier town at best. The Red Year had not been kind to her family nor any who resided there, but the reconstruction efforts had fortunately gone fairly well thanks to the pride and resilience of the Vvardenfell culture and the skills of the workforce - a labour that had clearly not enticed itself to Bevdyni. As the White-Gold Tower grew closer, Drelas had grown fond of Bevdyni, and caught himself oddly forlorn as she bid him farewell and disappeared into the city, right before an attachment of Legionnaires arrived to 'escort' him to one of the garrisons to sign what seemed like a book's worth of papers and essentially contract himself into a near-certain death by sword, arrow or fireball.

Perhaps this is what his father [i]truly[/i] wanted for his most disappointing son. Not to make connections, not to bring glory to the family name, but to be rolled into a shallow grave on some wretched battlefield.

As was not surprising for a soldier's life, the food was gruel and the ale watered down, and Drelas found the company to be drab and predictable. The enlisted were the expected mix - patriotic zealots mingling with terrified conscripts, overseen by dreary and stone-gazed officers ensuring that neither were acting out of turn. The Dunmer made no effort to engage with any of them, instead opting to stick to himself and consume his poultry rations with resigned disinterest. He had considered escape, but with the watchful eyes of his 'superiors' combined with what Drelas presumed to be heightened intolerance for insubordination as a result of the increased levels of conscription across the Empire, he reckoned an attempt wasn't worth the effort or risk. There would be opportunity enough for desertion, he mused.
	So drab company it was. Between the mealtimes, training and drills were the norm. Drelas was initially taught, forced as he was, to learn the fundamentals of sword-and-shield combat and archery in between. After the first couple of days, however, he was brought aside for special training as a scout. The reasoning here was his slender frame and 'elf-eyes' making him well-suited for such a responsibility, and so the physical conditioning was supplemented by theory on staying hidden behind enemy lines and how to survive on your own in the wilderness if needs be. It was a useful curriculum, at least - far more beneficial to know than being shown the right way to slash and thrust before being inevitably cut down unceremoniously like the insignificant grunt you are. 

Drelas had become accustomed to the routine until the rumours of deployment were confirmed the next morning. The next few hours were a blur as what seemed like the entire garrison was led through the city to the Waterfront, names were called from clipboards and soldiers were shifted to different vessels. Drelas' mind was with thoughts of home and nostalgia when he heard his name called out, he didn't quite catch which detachment he was to be part of, but he was gestured to embark on a chunky and blandly-brown vessel which he sheepishly shuffled over to after the captain had to bark his name once again with no attempt to hide his annoyance. 

The naval journey was no more pleasant than the overland one Drelas had not long since experienced. The hull was almost overloaded with stock, and the cabins even more overloaded with sailors and soldiers. Days turned into weeks, the only semblance of time was sunlight and moonlight glimmering through the shutters, for the deck was found to be most unwelcoming for anyone wishing to gawp at the outside world as Drelas quickly found out. 
	He came to learn that his immediate superior was one Antony Dallio, and Drelas found him a somewhat uninspiring man who nonetheless seemed to go out of his way to not be unpleasant which was at least worthy of appreciation if not respect. His newfound compatriots did nothing to disprove Drelas' earlier presumption of the qualities of the typical Imperial Legionnaire, at least not the ones he managed to get a good look at. On one particularly dark evening, he could have sworn he saw the silhouette of another Dunmer down a corridor, but dismissed the thought as he realised the figure was far taller than anything but an Altmer should have a right to be, and far bulkier than any mer could surely ever be.

The voyage become more stop-and-start as the weeks dragged on, with many of the crew having to do shifts to remove the ship from the trappings of ice and frost that threatened to leave them stranded in the frigid and chillingly hostile sea, to the point that Drelas grew to dread every time the ship rocked for fear that command would be issued. Eventually though, the famed Sea of Ghosts gave way to the landmark of Solitude, and Drelas could not help but gasp has he lay eyes on it for the first time. He was under the impression that Nordic architecture was crude and rugged, lacking the finesse of most other cultures. But the city atop the natural arch was truly a wonderful sight to behold, and once again Drelas was surprised by his reaction to an event that marked another step toward a surely doomed end. He shook himself clear of his awe and reminded himself of his situation as they sailed underneath the stone structure.

As the ship docked and the crew began disembarking, a familiar chaos of the organised sort erupted along the port in the shadow of the Great Arch. Orders were barked by grumpy officers, soldiers shuffled along the piers to where they were told to be, and arms and armour were unloaded and exchanged hands. Drelas himself came to possess a somewhat droll steel sword and clunky steel-lined shield, a basic hunting bow, and a set of late 4th-era Imperial-style lightweight leather armour that felt like it would struggle to stop a butter knife - Drelas hoped his inexperience in handling armour would prove him wrong. Finally, the young Dunmer was instructed to approach one last station wherein he received a worn telescope surely intended to be specialised equipment for his scouting duties should they arise, judging from the relative rarity of their issuing. Drelas donned his armour over his roughspun tunic, equipped his gear on the respective belts and buckles and slung everything else over his shoulders. After that, he was yet again implored to stand in a certain place in the formation that was built at the base the Western side of the mighty Karth.

The climb to the city itself was not easy, the difficulty of the journey exasperated by the pace that the Imperial higher-ups demanded the Grey Legion to maintain. Morrowind seemed like a flat plain by comparison to this hike alone (Red Mountain not withstanding), but then Skyrim was known to be the land of great and majestic mountains, unfortunately marred by the brutish and lowbrow nature of its inhabitants. It felt like hours had passed by the time they reached the imposing gates that had insofar protected Skyrim's capital from being overrun by whatever forces threatened to smother this side of the province, forces that Drelas would no doubt become acquainted with in the coming days. 
	He caught many glances at what seemed to be the commanding officer of the Grey Legion in its entirety - the decorated and ornated armour attested to that. A brute of a Nord, even by their large standards, his already broad presence was underpinned by his booming voice as he roared his threat of consequence to any notion of desertion that may stir within the ranks. Perhaps Drelas would have to withhold any attempts at escape for the time being.

The organised contingent soon devolved into a disjointed rabble as soldiers went their separate ways. Before Drelas could slip away amongst them, Sergeant Dallio approached and it became clear that those around him were not random troops, but were his squad. Suddenly, he made an effort to take stock of who surrounded him, but his attention was snapped back to the Sergeant upon hearing mention of pay. The loan-nature of it didn't matter to Drelas, what mattered what the financial freedom it represented. With money, he could find company was wasn't drab, he could at least enjoy himself before being carted off to his shallow grave - better yet, he could even use it to arrange a way out of this fate or explore the options available to him to be used at a more optimum time, when watchful eyes were relaxed and suspicions were beginning to falter.

Drelas was the first to approach to the Sergeant, perhaps a little too eagerly, to simply ask: "[b][color=ed1c24]How much?[/color][/b]".