26th of Rain’s Hand, 4E208
When Gaius woke, it was to a thrumming headache and the sound of screaming. Not the best of combinations, even on the best of days. "Thrice-damned booze," he groaned, rolling over in bed, not awake enough—or coherent enough, at least—to fully appreciate the panicked sounds of the city. The one night of drinking had turned into nights, and now it was becoming a regular occurrence to spy is burgundy-and-brown form at the Merchant's Inn on busy nights, laughing uproariously with complete strangers
Then there was a thunderous boom, and even the legendary hangover currently afflicting him couldn't really stop him from noticing it. He turned lethargically in his bed, looking out of the window. His eyes shot open. Lack of coordination notwithstanding, he bolted up, already mouthing a prayer. Dwemer. There are Dwemer in the Imperial City.
Contrary to popular belief, Gaius was not thick, nor did he have a poor memory. He very distinctly recalled exploding a mysterious device in a Dwemer ruin, sending a beam of light high into the sky with enough force to explode a mountain. It wasn't much of a stretch to imagine that this was a direct result of that. Burden of responsibility weighing heavily on him, he did his best to ignore the headache and dry mouth, putting on his armor at record speed and hoisting Empire's Aegis from the mantle where he'd let it rest. "Helena," he called, "stay inside, and stay safe!" There was no answer. His blood immediately jumped, and he dashed to the door to find it hanging open. The spear Helena had accosted him with on the first night was gone.
"No," he muttered, a drone that slowly grew into a bellowing shout, "no, no, no, no, no!"
Ripping a proudly-displayed mace from the wall, he bolted into the streets, looking on in horror as Legionnaires, some that he had trained with and known since he had been scant an adult, were unceremoniously butchered on the mechanical blades. His mouth morphed into a small 'o' of shock and terror for a brief moment. But only a moment. He roared, barreling down at the sphere and launching himself bodily at it. Though the mace was unfamiliar in his hand—he'd always been a swordsman—his rage fueled him, pumping liquid adrenaline into his blood as he pounded away at the Dwarven metal like a demented blacksmith. No more than a minute passed before it lay dismantled on the cobbles before him.
"This is my home, you curs!" he shouted at the ships in the sky. "You don't belong here!"
With that, he launched into a brutal slaughtering-spree through the city, bringing down spiders and spheres as best he could while doing his best to stay away from the massive Centurions and—as evidenced by the dripping of water off of his shield that had been the only thing to save him from some very nasty scalding—not entirely succeeding. It was as he was breathing heavily, hastily bandaging a cut in his mace hand that had gotten into the of his gauntlet, when he heard a sound from behind him and whirled, already prepared to cave in the metallic shell of whatever was creeping up behind him with the shield. He barely managed to throttle the blow, in fact, in time to stop it from caving in Alim's skull instead.
He stared at the man, breathing heavily with wide, rage-filled eyes, before slowly lowering the slab of metal, breathing a long sigh out. "So, the Dwemer."