The Gold Helms of the Legion

[JoeReese]

Hi all,

I am going to try to build on this. It started as my character bio, but I enjoyed writing it so here goes. There may be some language and there will be violence.

This first section was posted already on the character bio thread in the main discussion. I'm putting it here, to serve as the framework of the build. Bear with me, and any/all criticism is appreciated.

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Rahn is a Nord in his thirties. He was found as an infant, raised by a grizzled old veteran widower, and still doesn't know if he has family out there, nor does he care. The three people who meant the most to him are dead. His father figure, mentor, and best friend, Wuulfgar, passed peacefully while Rahn was away in the Legion. The locals later told him Wuulfgar's last words were of him, filled with pride and concern. His wife, a delicate flower in appearance, but with soul of iron, died during childbirth along with their son. She had smitten him with but a glance, two years prior in Solitude, become the center of his world with the warmth of her smile, and later the warmth of her arms. She was the driving force behind Rahn's every move, surviving to look upon her again, or to bring glory to her in his deeds. For their deaths, despite his many requests and appeals for leave, Rahn was again away in the Legion. It marked the end of his Legion career, and he has seldom looked back.

Rahn owed the Legion, of course, as he owed Wuulfgar. Of this, he was acutely aware, but there the similarities ended; for Wuulfgar had raised him out of compassion, with no expectation of payment. The Legion had used him, as the Legion uses all who serve them. He owed the Legion indeed, but so the Legion owed him. Rahn and a few others were the types of soldiers on which the Legion could always depend, and depend it did. He was moved from place to place, sometimes in the span of only a few days, solving one problem or another, only to be sent elsewhere to do it all again.

Rahn and his companions were special troops, trained in, and very good at, surreptitious movement and low key attack. The Legion had taught him well. Experience had taught him even better, and to Wuulfgar he owed his ability to grasp those lessons. Wuulfgar, a gnarled old veteran, whose valor and skill were well known, had raised Rahn as a soldier. He was neither intellectually nor culturally rich, but for that he relied on other villagers, bartering hard work or protection in return for their teaching Rahn. What knowledge he could bestow, he did like no other could. Rahn grew into a solid, strong man, enlisting in the Legion with a skill-at-arms far beyond his peers. Wuulfgar had been best with one-handed weapons and shields, and so too had Rahn.

The Legion taught Rahn in a way Wuulfgar could not, by blood. Gone were the wooden dummies and the gentle sparring sessions, for the Legion's chief instructor was experience. In battles large and small, Rahn learned the practical side of Wuulfgar's teachings. Some of his lessons were elementary, others painful, but Rahn survived them all and grew to become a warrior of minor legend within the Legion.
As he rose in rank, so rose his responsibilities, and Rahn soon found himself in charge of the guard detail at a large Legion installation.

He took a personal interest in the performance and welfare of his men, drilling them regularly and seeing to their needs. He led from the front, asking nothing of his men that he himself was unwilling or unable to do. His men soon learned, much to their chagrin, that this was not to amount to the easy life they allowed themselves to expect. But with time, practice, and a fair and consistent disciplinary hand came a sense of pride and a cohesion unknown in other units, many commanders of which indeed later began to mimic his methods. Rahn and his men began to enjoy a reputation for their cool-headed efficiency and honor. It was by this reputation that their legacy, Rahn's legacy, was forged.

Rahn was one day summoned to report to the commander, where he learned that a caravan of settlers on their way to a large mining camp had been accosted by Thalmor troops. Most had been killed, but two of the miners' wives and several children had not been found among the bodies at the scene. Imperial investigators discovered the body of a Thalmor warrior some distance away, believing him to have been dragged away from the scene. The mining camp council had appealed to the Legion for help. Because of the White-Gold Concordat, the Legion didn't dare ask, much less accuse the Thalmor, though their affinities for kidnapping and torture were common knowledge.

The chief investigator lectured over a parchment map of the area, pointing out the one location he felt would be ideal to hide captives, were he in the Thalmor's shoes. Rahn expected a rescue, but that was not to be. He was told quite bluntly that there was no way for the Legion to help these people, without risking a new war. The commander left no room to mistake the fact that he agreed with the investigator, and a seething Rahn was sent from the room.

Later that night, the commander appeared in the guardroom alone. He had been drinking heavily, something Rahn had never seen, and his anger was unbridled. Alone, drunk, and with unconcealed hatred, the commander ordered Rahn to "go and flay every last one of those pointy-eared bastards, and to Oblivion with that cursed Concordat." With conflicting thoughts and a sense of professional dread, Rahn and his men prepared to carry our their dubious orders as best they could.

In the morning, the Commander had awakened to two undeniable facts, a terrible headache and his imminent arrest. This sense of doom pervaded his waking thoughts for the better part of a week, but no arrest came. Several days later, he was disappointed but not surprised to see a Thalmor representative in his office. Swallowing his dread and setting his iron expression, he strode through the door and slammed it behind him, too-gruffly asking what the Thalmor needed from him.

In the moments that followed, Rahn's career path was laid, as the Commander listened to the Thalmor agent's rather sheepish request for Legion assistance in apprehending four traitors to the Dominion. These traitors, the elf explained, were prison guards at a nearby Thalmor facility, who had squandered the trust of their comrades, murdering the entire staff and absconding with several criminals and Thalmor weapons. The icing on the sweet roll came when the embarrassed elf approached the map and pointed to the precise location, to which the Commander had dispatched Rahn. The Commander quickly, if falsely, assured the elf of the Legion's cooperation and hurried him on his way. For the entirety of that sleepless night, he had pondered the miracle of Rahn.

Three days later, Rahn entered the Commander's office and unceremoniously laid a Thalmor hood and an elven dagger on his desk. He saluted the commander stiffly, his eyes glinting with pride, turned on his heel and left. Not a word was exchanged. That same day, the Commander received an unsigned scroll which said only "Thank you." Inside it, but not attached to the parchment, he found the wax seal of the mining company and the tips of four elven left ears.

From that day forward, Rahn and his men were no longer a security detail, but something much, much different. Thus began the untold, oft unknown, story of the Legion's Special Troops, the Gold Helms.

Oh yes, the Legion owed Rahn indeed.

 

[JoeReese]

Chapter One: Wuulfgar​

Rahn made his debut one blustery day, in a small village outside Solitude. No one knew where
he came from, whose child he was, or how he came to be perched on the ledge of the village
well, but there he was.

It was a small village of less than forty people, most of whom were the wives and children
of soldiers stationed at Castle Dour. There was little work and little money. What
food there was came from their own small gardens. There was minor trade among the
residents, some of whom were skilled in basic trades, and there was the Legion pay,
what of it actually made it home. It wasn't enough. Existence there was crude at best.

When Rahn was found that morning, wrapped tightly in a ragged blanket, the fate of this
unknown infant became the subject of a considerable debate. Several of the
villagers wanted to send Rahn off to the orphanage in Riften, while others sought to
take him to Solitude and turn him over to the Jarl, and one even suggested simply leaving
him there, on the well, to live or die at the Gods' discretion. None were willing to take on
the responsibility of another hungry mouth. Life was tough enough as it was.

Fortunately, the villagers were not without wisdom in that they were aware of their own
subjectivity. As such, they decided to seek the counsel of Wuulfgar. Two village children
were sent to fetch him at once, from his lonesome cabin nearly a mile away. Wuulfgar
rarely made appearances in public, prefering his own company to that of others, but that
in no way diminished his reputation as a wise judge of circumstances. Wuulfgar had
"seen it all" during his time in the Legion, and the villagers knew he would reduce this
to its simplest and fairest options.

Almost an hour later, Wuulfgar strode into the "Inn," a tiny hall which served as the
village's meeting place, tavern, inn, library, hospital, and various other purposes. Even in
his advanced age, for he was well over fifty, he walked erect and with purpose. Though he
had retired from the Legion over a decade before, Wuulfgar still wore his armor and was
never without his sword.

Wuulfgar heard the villagers' arguments about Rahn. He knew none of them could afford
to raise another child, but he did not like the idea of shipping the boy off to the Riften
orphanage. He'd heard a few tales of that place, none of them good. Wuulfgar looked
Rahn over. He seemed healthy, his skin soft and dry, his cheeks pink, his eyes bright
and full of intelligence. In fact, it seemed to Wuulfgar that, as he inspected Rahn, so Rahn
was taking measure of him, deciding in his tiny mind whether Wuulfgar was a friend or a foe.

It was discomfitting, something Wuulfgar had experienced only rarely these past years, but
also intriguing. He had been in the Legion since he was sixteen years old, serving steadily
through his forty fifth year, retiring only after being seriously wounded in battle. In his time,
he had followed and he had led. In doing so, he became intimately familiar with what he
called the 'soul of a warrior.' In Rahn, he thought, this soul was not only present but
impatient, seeming to burst forth from every seam. Wuulfgar walked into the "Inn" prepared
to help decide the fate of a child, someone else's problem, but he left a different man.
Unwilling to ship Rahn off to that filth hole in Riften, and all too aware that any Jarl would
do just that, Wuulfgar made a decision which surprised the villagers nearly as much as
it surprised him. He came, a lifelong soldier, unwed and alone. He left, a father.

Wuulfgar raised Rahn as he "raised" his soldiers, hard. Rahn had been named after Wuulfgar's
first commander, a tough, iron man, the living embodiment of the God of war, and a man
who commanded the whole of Wuulfgar's respect. Rahn's upbringing reflected this clearly,
spawning an inside joke among the villagers, that Rahn was 'forged, not born.' Wuulfgar
knew of their musings, he knew much of what he wasn't told, but it did not displease him.
He found it amusing and, in a way, touching. Rahn, by then in his teens, was too busy
to care.

Like the villagers, Wuulfgar was a man of introspection. He knew what he knew, and
he knew what he didn't know. He spent not a moment teaching Rahn how to read,
write, or calculate, for he knew those were not his strengths. For that, he relied on
a few different ladies of the village, trading odd jobs for their hours of instruction. As
Wuulfgar tinkered on broken wagons and farm tools, sowing and reaping well into the
dark hours, and dragging game into the village on a near daily basis, Rahn learned
all the things a boy should know and which Wuulfgar could not teach him.

When not being enlightened by one villager or another, Rahn spent his time learning
what Wuulfgar could teach him...and teach he did. From his first upright steps, long
before most boys were exposed to the military arts, Rahn's sponge brain was absorbing
volumes of the truths, and tricks, of war. As Rahn grew, his joyful, innocent toddling
about the cabin became careful, purposeful shuffling, during which Rahn was in full control
of his balance and his center of gravity. Through Wuulfgar, Rahn learned how to walk
noiselessly, by rolling his feet from heel to toe. He learned to use shadows, foliage,
and even light to conceal himself, and he became adept at it. By the time Rahn was
twelve, Wuulfgar himself had difficulty locating him, if he did not wish to be found.

As soon as he thought Rahn understood balance, Wuulfgar taught him to break it.
He taught Rahn how to wait for his opponent to move, sensing his point of balance,
and then to take it from him, never allowing him to regain it.
His instruction founded in Rahn an understanding of how men stand and fall, and how
they fight. As he grew, and Wuulfgar's training progressed to the weapons of war,
Rahn knew the mechanics of the human body and he knew how to disrupt them,
as Wuulfgar had learned years before. Wuulfgar had been a swordsman, winning his
fights with a sword in one hand and a shield in the other. As it was that style of
fighting Wuulfgar knew best, it was that which he taught Rahn. Armed with crude
wooden swords and shields, Rahn and Wuulfgar sparred daily, though Rahn
often had to wait for him to rest. Wuulfgar was in exceptional shape for his age, but
that age was unwilling to be ignored.

Still, age and fitness are but a part of war. Strategy, tactics, and experience
(read: dirty tricks) often decide the outcome of a battle before the first blade
is drawn, and Wuulfgar resolved to ensure that Rahn never forgot that crucial
combination, reinforcing his lessons with welts and bruises as befitting one who
misjudged his opponent's attack. As Rahn grew more adept with his weapons
and armor, the tools of his very survival in Wuulfgar's judgment, those injuries
became less frequent. But, once in a while, complacency would rear its ugly head
and Rahn would fail to raise his shield, or thrust when a parry was in order, and
a new reminder, perhaps the first form of homework, would appear.

In time, Rahn's strength and aptitude grew beyond Wuulfgar's own abilities,
a bittersweet occasion for any instructor, at once shamed by their student's ease of
thrashing them and proud of their student's ease of thrashing them. Wuulfgar
realized that Rahn needed exposure to new opponents, stronger, faster, and with
different tactics than Wuulfgar. Once a week, he loaded Rahn into his wagon and
they would ride to Solitude, where he would regale the young soldiers with tales of his
martial adventures and Rahn would spar with the young recruits, trouncing them thoroughly.
Occasionally, Rahn would even spar with experienced soldiers, with Wuulfgar shouting
directions to him as he fought. He did not defeat them all of the time, or even most of the
time, but he defeated them enough.

By the time Rahn was of age, he was already well known and welcome in the halls
of Castle Dour. The day after his birthday, for which he was fed cake and mead
at the "Inn," Rahn rode for Solitude, where Wuulfgar watched proudly as his unexpected,
adopted son enlisted in the Legion.

 

[JoeReese]

Chapter 2: Father, thy name is War.​

"Middas, 6th day of Last Seed, 4E 200

Father,

We have at last arrived in Cyrodil, and will begin training first thing tomorrow. They gave me my own
armor but it's nowhere near as grand as yours. It's leather, light enough, but it doesn't seem like it
will stop a rock, let alone a blade. I wonder if I can ask for metal armor like yours.

I'll not write much tonight, as the trip seemed never to end and we are exhausted. The food is
terrible.

With deepest respect.

Your son, Rahn."


Wuulfgar beamed as he read the letter, his pride in his son tugging the corners of his mouth
upward with every word. Of course, he worried for his son as well. Things weren't getting any
safer out there, even for the Legion, lately. That fool in Windhelm was brewing trouble for the
whole of the Empire, and Skyrim seemed poised to take the brunt of it. If things didn't change
soon, it may well get as bad as Nords fighting Nords. Wuulfgar grimaced and slowly,
involuntarily, shook his head. Silently, he prayed to Talos that his son wouldn't begin his
career as a soldier by fighting his own people.

It had been almost a month since Rahn wrote the letter, which had only now reached him,
thanks to an old friend from his Legion days, whose son was an Imperial courier. He wondered
how Rahn was faring in training. He hoped Rahn would remember the things he'd taught him,
and he hoped they hadn't changed too much since his day.


In fact, Rahn was having a hard time. It wasn't that he had forgotten his lessons, or that
he was inept. Rather, Rahn was very good at fighting. Unfortunately for Rahn, he was aware
of that fact. Imperial combat instructors had recognized in Rahn no small amount of
arrogance. He soundly whipped his fellow recruits nearly every time he sparred. This
resulted in Rahn being made to spar with the instructors themselves, all of whom had the
advantage of combat experience over Rahn. They gave no quarter, with their wooden
weapons, all of which were still quite painful when they struck, and Rahn was reduced to
deciding whether to lose painfully, or to suffer the repercussions of besting them.

In once such encounter, Rahn defeated his instructor with such speed that it astounded
the veterans and they coerced him into teaching them the secret. As Rahn and the soldier
circled each other warily, Rahn practiced what his father (that was how he looked upon
Wuulfgar) had taught him about breathing regularly and scanning with his eyes,
to avoid fatigue and tunnel vision. As the man circled, Rahn took note of his posture,
back straight, leaned slightly forward, with his legs bent in a semi-crouch. Each time
the man would close for an attack, either real or feigned, he would move his back foot
forward to allow for the swing of his blade, but his legs would stay bent at both the knee
and the hip. When he entered for the second time, Rahn quickly raised his shield high,
as though he was preparing to fend off a high blow. As the instructor shuffled forward to
take advantage of Rahn's 'mistake,' Rahn abruptly chopped downward with his shield,
ramming the edge into the crease between the man's thigh and hip. Holding his shield
in place, Rahn forced him downward and backward, breaking his balance and
preventing him from regaining it. While his opponent stumbled, his attention now
directed toward staying on his feet, his own weapon and shield dropped slightly, and
Rahn met no resistance with a strong thrust to the center of the man's armored
chest. With this, Rahn became something of a minor celebrity among his fellow
recruits.

In tactical and strategic matters, Rahn sailed far beyond his peers. During a particularly
boring lecture on battlefield tactics, it occured to Rahn that the balance of an opposing army
ebbed and flowed in much the same manner as the balance of the man at its head. Its
movements could be likened to the motion of a single human body, every attack like the
swing of a sword, every defensive maneuver like the raising of a shield. Once this dawned
on him, Rahn realized that if he could sense the shift in balance of an opposing force as
he could a single opponent, he could disrupt it. As he could block a sword with
his shield, he could defend against an attacking force, and he could strike with his own.
Rahn began to think of entire companies as his sword, battalions as his shield. Through
intelligence reports, he would "watch" the activity at his enemy's depots and hubs,
deducing their next move the same way he would watch his opponent's knees and elbows
for telltale signs of movement during a spar. Simplified to the movements of one man,
the concept of battlefield tactics became childs play to Rahn.

And so it went, until Rahn and his companions were abruptly roused from their sleep
by their unit commander. There, in the pre-dawn chill, they were ordered to pack their
gear and ready themselves to march.

 

[Harc]

Great story! Love the detail and the focus of character building in it!

 

[JoeReese]

Thanks Harc. There's more to come, but it's been hectic around here. Every time I get a chance to write, something happens, or I'm so far gone that I fall asleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee...

 

[JoeReese]

In re-reading it, I noticed I have been focusing on the things he's good at so much that I have neglected the things he sucks at. He's really not going to be infallible or god-like, just a very lethal soldier.