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He sat that, sharpening his sword in the gleam of the campfire. Fuck were winters cold in Skyrim. Brutonius wished he had thought of that before attempting to cross the border. That was in the past now, months ago, and he was already enlisted—it was too late for regrets. The legionnaire couldn’t remember how many people he had killed in his previous life, that is to say his previous service. His superior officers always had it out for him, though he was never quite sure why. He was just young enough to have fought in the great war, around fourteen or fifteen, old enough to hold a blade. He had made Legate back then for his service, having ‘fought with valor and courage’ according to his old general, albeit bitterly. They blocked him from transfer and promotion. Brutonius was even placed in the useless backwaters of the empire time and time again just to keep off the front lines. He would be more useful there, is more useful there.
His blade made a raspy, metallic shink with every stroke of the whetstone in hand. The man was by no means new to the army, he had already fought in numerous battles. He did his best to keep track, for respect’s sake if nothing else, but with the chaos of battle he lost track. Several dozen at the very least, perhaps a couple hundred? Months of warfare had taken its toll on more than just his body. New scares were forming, physical or no, but he was used to that by this point. What he wasn’t used to were the grey hairs creeping into his hairline. It was a damn annoyance and highly unappreciated. They ratted him out to most everyone he met if he weren’t donning his helmet. Brutonius often was though and he made due with that. He was getting too old for the soldiering life and he knew it. This was to be his last conflict, perhaps his last battles. If he lived, he could always find something else to live for. If he died, well, he had prepared for the eventuality a long time ago, perhaps at far too young an age. Maybe the legion would finally give him his gods be damned pension like they promised when he first signed up. He only did it for his mother. She had passed long before now, as had most of his war buddies from ‘the Great War’. Sounded pretty on paper. It was oblivion in reality.
Before he had fought only for coin, now he fought for a cause, to make a difference. Age had stoked his patriotism, he’d be damned if he’d sit by and let the Stormloaks rip the empire piece by piece. That wasn’t their intention, no, but that was no excuse for all the blood shed, leaving a trail in its wake as the empire only weakened. Sometimes he’d imagine the Thalmor sitting back at their fancy, gilded tables and the stupid humans squabbling amongst themselves. Brutonius had always hoped they were next on his own personal chopping block, but he realized that would be a young person’s game by the time it came around. His joints ached, his vision blurred, and his joints wouldn’t dare bent as they would in his youth. No, they’d only greet him with a series of pops and cracks and crackles. The enemy probably got their fair share of smirks and laughter at him, this old man apparently stumbling on the battlefield, only to be cut down not too long after. Each skirmish, battle, and everything in between had taken their fair share of abuse out on his poor sword. The same one from thirty years ago. Quartermasters would offer him new steel wherever he went. Each time he simply shook his head, thanked them, and continued on his way as he regaled to them about how a trusty blade should never be discarded. It was no small hope that it would survive this ordeal too.
Of course, he had to enlist under a false name. Being Brutonius Arellius was technically a crime of ‘desertion’. 'Acelles' would have to do for the time being. He was upfront about being a criminal though, or at least a former criminal. Ultimately, he knew that General Tullius wouldn’t care because he needed all the soldiers he could get, and from his reputation, Brutonius had gathered honesty was the best policy. He had nothing else to lose at this point, so why not? The gamble paid off and was slapped into some armor the next day. Auxiliary. He had tried to convince the General for a higher rank due to his previous service, but with the new name there was no way to verify that service.
Still, he climbed and climbed through the ranks, one battle and fort after another. He was soon to make Tribune even, if the hints of officers were anything to go on. Perhaps this focus on rank was a distraction. He gave a light chuckle to himself, thinking about how his comfy position had probably softened him. War was grittier than the bards would have you believe. It wasn’t noble, or heroic. It was brutal and harsh. It killed any it pleased. The legionnaire had seen more than a few good men and women fall in combat, and he was sure to see more. He already had. Skyrim’s civil war raged on, seemingly no end in sight.