"[b]Cold. I don’t know why anyone would want to live in a place this bloody cold."[/b], replied the Imperial, eyes back to his book after a quick glance at Drelas. Somewhat rude.

It was a statement Drelas agreed with, but from the demeanour and body language shown in the response, he decided to not pry further and leave the surly soldier to his book. The Dunmer swigged the last dregs of his ale and immediately glanced around looking for a barmaid to refill his empty tankard. As he did so, his ears picked up a muttering coming from his right flank. From the Imperial. The words were not meant for him, clearly, and as Drelas listened it became clear that it was words from the book that were being uttered by the young man - and not in the way that one reads aloud to themselves when mulling over something.

No, the mutterings were ones of an illiterate. And to think that the Imperials were meant to be more civilised than their Nordic brethren! He gave some fleeting curious glares at the Imperial, to confirm his conclusion. Though never long enough to allow him to truly notice, but perhaps long enough to give the impression of being judged. Which of course he was. 

The Dunmer must have looked for a second too long, however, as the Imperial suddenly stood up and announced his retirement to bed. Whoops. Hopefully Drelas would not be later counting on him to save his life tomorrow. The silver lining, though, was that there was now a mostly-full mug of beer-like liquid up for grabs, which Drelas quickly took advantage of.

Almost on cue, the barmaid finally found Drelas' empty mug and offered to refill it. The dark elf nodded, ensuring to allow his impatience to engrave his face as he did so. A mer's tankard would never dry up in a Cornerclub. Imperials that couldn't read, and Nords that couldn't keep their drinks flowing. The world has truly gone mad.

Drelas spent the rest of the evening to himself, for the effort of engaging with other fellow patrons was wearing thin after the tense encounter with the drunk Nord and the brushing off he experienced from the Imperial. He people-watched and listened to conversations of revelry, of curiosity, and of fear. Each had their own means to deal with the coming battles that loomed over the Legion and the soliders within. Everyone know what tomorrow could - and would - bring for many, often regardless of skills or experience or talent for the arts of war. 

He heard nothing too significant beyond a few rumours of the Legate (how his Voice could shake mountains, how he killed 12 elves before his eighth winter, and how he has ruthlessly deals with insubordination and cowardice), and how many treasure-laden ships were at the bottom of the Sea of Ghosts (such rumours surely existed in any body of oceanic water, Drelas thought).

With little entertainment available in the tavern besides more mediocre ale, Drelas decided to call it a night and called for his tab to be paid the next time the barmaid came round. He asked if there were any rooms available, but there were none available that she knew of, and this would likely be the case across the city. After a bit of wandering and attempts to negotiate somewhere sheltered to sleep, he decided to give up. It looked like he was sleeping rough tonight. 

Defeated, and slightly tipsy, he meandered his way to the refugee camp outside of the city and brushed past soldiers from all stripes and walks of life, but paid them no mind. He found a patch of unoccupied haybed and slumped into it after de-equipping his gear, not taking long to drift off to sleep despite the cold. At least the ale helped with that. 

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The morning went well, for the most part. It wasn't by any means pleasant - the food provided by the camp was barely adequate, there was the omnipresent Skyrim chill in the air and the march was as joyful as one could expect. But it wasn't going [i]badly[/i] in the context of things.

And then the arrows started flying.

Drelas was an Auxilia and was therefore a bit removed from the grunts at the vanguard of the Legion's formation, but the chaos that erupted was felt throughout the ranks. Instinctually, and most likely due to the training he went through in the Imperial City, he raised his shield to protect his vitals from the incoming projectiles. This reaction no doubt saved his life as he felt the impact of several arrowheads bounce off the steel embroidery. He froze there for a while, the only thought in his head being 'protection' as barked orders and reactive commands were smothered by haunting screams and squelches of penetrated flesh.

His mind found room for musings of how he found himself here, and then he remembered that he never wanted to be. What fool would volunteer to participate in this brutality?!

The barrage seemed to pause for a moment, allowing time for the Dunmer to peek over his shield at the skirmish that lied before him. The Imperial forces were all over the place, any semblance of organisation and tactics were shattered by the effective ambush. Drelas had only just clocked who they were being ambushed by - Thalmor, of course. Trust his luck to come across the deadliest of foes in his first battle within only hours of arriving in Skyrim. 

His fellow Auxilia that were next to him no longer were, and Drelas found himself solitary and therefore easy pickings for archers. No wonder his shield was a magnet for arrows, it was a miracle that he wasn't dead already. He hurriedly moved to a group of Imperial forces that had banded together in solidarity, ensuring to keep his shield above his head and torso towards where (he thought) the enemy archers were. As he joined the group, he found no time to engage to understand the plan or tactics before they were descended on by a squad of Thalmor counterparts, weapons raised. The Imperial cohort readied themselves in turn, and Drelas took a few deep breaths before focusing on his assailants. 

He could almost feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins as the gold in the Altmeri eyes became clear to see. Drelas' mind was simultaneously blank of all thought and yet acutely analytical of the approaching threat. The elven swords glimmering in the sunlight, the recently crimson red snow crunching underneath moonstone boots, the evident conviction in the faces of the Thalmor soldiers. All of that came to a head as the two parties engaged.

Drelas raised his shield to counteract the predictable first strike of the Altmer that beelined for him, and responded with an equally predictable thrust towards the abdomen of his aggressor, who had backed off just in time. The Thalmor soldier initiated another strike with his sword, which Drelas again blocked and risposted, this time with a forehanded slash followed by a backhanded one, to keep his opponent at bay. The two exchanged blows a few more times, to no avail for either. Drelas took momentary glances to his comrades for any assistance, but noticed they were equally as busy as he was. 

The longer this stalemate went on, the more chance that Drelas would get an arrow in his neck. He had to try something to end this quickly so he could refocus on defending himself from projectiles instead of being tunnel-visioned into fighting one Thalmor soldier. As the Altmer lunged in once more, the Dunmer did something very unorthodox indeed - he threw his shield towards his foe with a backhand, releasing the grip to see it clunkily flung towards the centre-mass of the incoming elf. It was not a throw meant to be deadly, or even harmful. Merely a distraction.

And one that worked a charm. The Thalmor, clearly not expecting such a reckless move, was caught half-catching the business-end of the shield as Drelas tackled him with the tip of his sword into the stomach and then the force of his body, piercing a gap in the Altmer's armour and landing on top of him, the two locking eyes as they hit the mud and snow. Drelas could almost see the life leave the Thalmor's as his removed his sword and stood up once more. Realising he was exposed with only leather armour to protect him, he searched the ground frantically for the shield that had been so vital to his continued existence on Mundus. Seeing it behind him, he rushed towards it to be secure behind it once more.

As he crouched to pick up the shield, Drelas felt a sudden warmth in the side of his right thigh, followed by a surging pain as the dark elf cried out. He flipped his body around so the shield was on top of him, and shuffled backwards away from where the pain had come from as he scrambled to his feet. His eyes darted across the scene of battle and the treelines, but found no sure sign of his attacker. He then looked down to the source of his anguish, and saw a horizontal streak of red on his thigh. But thankfully, no arrow stuck out of it. The archer must have only grazed his leg.

But, lesson learned - don't throw away your shield when there are archers pummelling the battlefield.

Not long after that had sunk in, Drelas learned another lesson: Don't stand around thinking in the middle of a skirmish.

Sheer speed of reaction allowed Drelas to turn and block an incoming mace with his shield, but was unable to stop the kick to the chest that followed and had sent him on his hind. Winded and bruised, Drelas could do little more than look up at his attacker - a much bulkier Thalmor footsoldier than the last, and clearly more skilled in combat. The Dunmer winced as he expected the final blow, but only blood spatter connected with him. A steel sword poked through the throat of the Altmer brute as he crashed to his knees attempting to cover the rushing blood loss in vain. 

An Imperial soldier was revealed as responsible for the blow, but before Drelas could offer his gratitude, the Imperial's own neck was a cushion for an incoming arrow. Drelas' saviour collapsed over the Thalmor solider he had just killed mere seconds ago, and Drelas stared in shock at what just transpired. But not for long, as he once again got to his feet and (quickly, this time) scanned the battlefield. It was still chaos, of course. The group that we was previously alongside was either dead or gone, and he noticed that some of the Imperial forces had mustered some form of counterattack, led by nobody other than the Legate. He also couldn't help but notice an extremely tall Dunmer that followed closely behind.

The pain in his leg dulled as Drelas ran towards the assembling Imperial contingent. If he was going to survive this, he'd have the most chance alongside the legendary Ingjald of Stuhn. Drelas hoped the rumours he heard in the Winking Skeever the previous evening bore some truths.