"Let it naught be said that no man is incapable of folly."
My father, Garold, died in the Great War. He gave his life for the glory of the Empire during the March of Thirst in 4E 172. He died a proud Legionnaire who had led countless others onto the field of battle to die honorably and spend eternity in Sovngarde. This is what I told myself over and over again when I enlisted in the Legion when I came of age. That it was what my father would have wanted. Back then, when I was too young to understand the reality of the Great War and why the Empire surrendered to the Dominion, I truly believed in my heart that I would eventually become like my father, and lead other soldiers to fight against the Thalmor.
I gave twelve years of my life to the Legion. I saw many men die. Needlessly. But not against the Thalmor. No, that would have made too much sense. I enlisted at the age of eighteen in the year 4E 188. My first official tour of duty was in Bravil. Skooma traffickers had waged war on the city and were destroying the peace. My legion was sent in to quell the violence, but it was already too late. I was young and naive, and I believed that this was a noble cause. To put to the sword anyone who would deal in skooma. Anyone who would dare violate the law and even consume skooma. It was in one of these many and violent skirmishes that I lost my eye. I ascended the ranks much more rapidly than even my superiors had guessed I would, and became captain of my own troop after barely a decade had passed.
But it was in 4E 200 that I saw what was wrong. Hammerfell had been free of both the Empire and the Dominion for twenty years, and they were clamoring for justice. They had been abandoned by the Empire, and had proved by themselves that the Thalmor could have been defeated, that the White-Gold Concordat had been unnecessary. I had a Redguard veteran under my command named K'avar. By rights he should have been captain, not me, but the General believed that he was too wild for a position of leadership in Cyrodiil. It was in the winter of 200 that K'avar's son was taken by Thalmor agents allowed to operate freely and openly within the Empire. Not only had his son been a soldier in the Hammerfell rebellion, but was also an open priest of Talos. I had met him once, and that man, though just as young as I, was guided by a passion and zeal that I had never before experienced. When K'avar's son was taken, he demanded that we go after and rescue him from certain torture and death. Being his captain, and sympathetic, I took the request to our General. And was denied.
I argued with my General for hours, and at the end of the day had been demoted. My troop was broken up and portioned off to other Legions. K'avar and I were forced to take extended leave, which meant we had essentially been dismissed from duty without pay. We stewed in the rebuilt Foaming Flask, a small tavern in what was once known as the Talos Plaza District of the Imperial City. It was there, over many mugs of mead, that we hatched our plan. The Empire had turned its back on its people, and allowed the Thalmor to rule in its name. We would take back K'avar's son, and go to Hammerfell, free of Imperial hypocrisy. It took us months, but we finally found that his son was being held in a small Thalmor garrison just outside of Bruma, to the north near the Jerall Mountains.
Cloud Ruler Temple, it had once been called, in the days of the Blades. Now it was rubble. Ancient architecture of an ancient people, destroyed by the Thalmor in the Great War. Perhaps my father had fought here. But now it was just a small fort, rebuilt upon the ruins and graves of the enemies of the Thalmor. And in there was K'avar's son. We had a few brigands and mercenaries with us, but they were no trained soldiers, and despite a well-laid plan of attack, they dissolved into anarchy almost instantly upon meeting with the enemy. A few of us managed to infiltrate the interior, and we quickly made our way to the dungeon. K'avar frantically searched for his son, only to find an old, blind elf in chains. The elder Altmer told us of K'avar's son, that he had been killed just a week earlier, and his body torn apart and fed to pit wolves. K'avar lost control. Two Thalmor Justiciars entered the dungeon then, and he frenziedly attacked them. He was nearly torn apart by their magics.
One Orcish mercenary and myself were all that remained at that point. The Orc, smarter than I had given him credit for, released the elfish prisoner, who aided us with his own magic. How I survived and escaped, I'll never know. The only thing I remember of the fight is toward the end, when one of the Thalmor and the Orc were dead, and I had weakened the other Thalmor, the old elf lay dying before me. He used the last of his energy to heal my wounds and to give me a small object wrapped in a filthy rag. I didn't have time to question him, and the last thing I recall is falling through rubble as a Thalmor lightning bolt exploded around me.
I awoke the next day in a refuse pile just outside the fort. My armor was damaged beyond repair and my sword, which I had carried and cared for through twelve years of Imperial service, was bent and useless. All I had were my clothing and a dagger. I made my way north until I found a road, and continued trekking north. In a daze, I remembered the rags the old elf had handed to me with his dying breath. I found and examined it only to find that it was an amulet of Talos. It must have belonged to K'avar's son. And now here it was in my sore, bloodied hands. A sign from Ysmir himself. I chose to venture into Skyrim that day. True, I was a deserter and a traitor, but my heart called out for home and justice. I had never before been to Skyrim, ancient homeland of my people, and so it was there that I set forth. I had heard of Ulfric Stormcloak and his rebellion, even down in Cyrodiil. Nords talk of these things amongst each other, you see. And so it was at the border that I was apprehended and placed on a carriage with the very man I sought...
