Balgruuf the Great ch 49 preview (Patreon)

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The Soldier

Life goes on for the ordinary soldier.

Harald awoke to the sound of the morning crow. Groggily, the Nord sat up his cot. Immediately, his mind flooded him with alarms to get dressed, get ready, and get moving. Such was the life for soldiers such as him, the many men and women that donned the brown and yellow of Whiterun. Still clad in his morning clothes, he would stand to his full height and march to a nearby table where a bowl filled with cool water sat. He would lean in slightly, splashing the water on his face and cheeks. Others would have preferred warm water but for Harald, the shock of the cool water was far more effective in waking him up than anything else he had on hand.

Suitably awoken, the brown-haired Sergeant had followed Balgruuf all the way from Cyrodiil. He went into the war a bright eyed youngster and he left it a different man. When Tribune Balgruuf offered employment to any man that wished to follow him back to his Hold, Harold was one of the many who took the offer. Civilian life...it did not agree with him. He had spent a few months poor, no suitable job could be found for him in Whiterun. He was however good in whipping men and women into shape and the good Tribune, now High King, needed a use for it.

And his talents, he so readily gave.

He would first change out of his sleeping gear and put on long pants and  a padded yellow arming shirt, up to the length of his knees. Fitted, he would put on a fine mail hauberk, shiny ringlets of steel joined together, worn over his shirt and pants, warm socks hugged his feet, lamellar boots worn over. A steel cuirass would next be worn over his chest, with lamellar shoulder plates providing ample protection for his chest and lamellar bands protecting his hands. Fully kitted, he turns to his armor rack where his weapons were, a long lance and a Nordic steel sword. He would not use them for today, however. He would walk forward and grab his other weapon, a 3 feet long staff.

Harald would step outside, staff in hand. Outside, his fellow sergeants were already doing the same as him. Decanus, Durakh, and Florian.

"Best of luck, terrors of Greymoor," Florian started, earning a snort from the others.

"Perks of the job, Flor. Perks of the job," Durakh said as they all walked their separate ways. Harald's path lead him into a far room where numerous men and women stood at attention before their beds, hands clasped behind their backs and golden yellow arming shirts hugged their frames.

Harald took in a breath. "My name is Sergeant Harald, the man who is going to turn all you sorry sacks of mammoth shit from manure to soldier."

The men and women inside bristled, each one a variety of their own. Most of the new recruits were Nords, some Imperials here and there as well as a few Dunmer and curiously, a lone Altmer. She bristled under his gaze, finding her strangely familiar for some reason. He shook his head and returned to pacing around the room. "There is no room for bigotry here in the High King's army. The High King commands me to turn you all into soldiers and I will. There are no Men or Mer here, you are all nothing but the dirt under my boot. There are no snowbacks, darkies, mongrels, or goldenrods. You are dirt but in time, you will be soldiers. I will be hard to you but I will also be fair. In these months, I will be your worst enemy but you will learn from me and when your survive your first, second, and third battles, you will thank me. The only thing your mouths will be saying until you leave is ''Yes, sir!".

He would stop, twisting around to turn to the recruits. "Is that understood?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

His eye twitched. "Sound off like you're Shouting down Old Hroldan!"

"SIR, YES, SIR!"

He halted before a thin and lanky Dunmer, black-haired and scared. He used his staff to correct the Dark Elf's posture before staring down at him. "What is your name, scumbag?"

Despite the obvious fear in his eyes, the Dunmer answered. "Recruit Arvel, Sir!"

"I don't like that name! From now on, you are Recruit Doorknob!" He leaned in. "You like that name?"

"SIR, YES, SIR!"

"I warn you, they don't serve kwama eggs and sujamma in my Canteen, you get that?" 

"SIR, I GET YOU, SIR!" 

A low snort came from somewhere within the ranks. Harold went very still, turning around. "WHO LAUGHED? WHO'S THE DAMNED FOOL THAT JUST SIGNED HIS OWN DEATH WARRANT?" 

The assembled recruits did their best to hide the all too obvious look of fear in their eyes. Harold rounded up down, privately enjoying the fear. All part of the process from turning them from sorry sacks of horse dung to sorry sacks of horse dung that could fight and hold their head high. 

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The Farmer

Farming was a hard job. One would have to wake up so early in the morning, attend to the tasks of keeping the animals fed and watered, the crops looked for disease and insects, and so much more all within the span of the day. It would be easier for a richer household whose coin could afford them the services of extra hands at the farm. For smaller households, it was significantly harder to nearly get anything done. 

But that was if they used the old ways.

The sun had long since shone above the sky now, its light shining down at Kleppr's small farm. It was nothing much, a house to shelter him and his family, a barn for a few cows and chickens, and a plot to grow vegetables and potatoes in. But it was his and that was all that mattered. Being a former Legionnaire who had served under the now High King, he was granted land to do with as he pleased and he was going to make use of it. 

Oh, it was absolutely difficult, farming not being as simple as he thought. But he was willing to learn and in time, he had labored hard. Still, it was hard and he and his wife had to do everything themselves. Then one day, a man bearing the High King's seal gave to him a few trinkets that just made his everything easier. 

He whistled an old Legionary song as he pushed along the cart of wood and metal across his field. Two great wheels pushed it along, underneath it were blades that picked up black rich soil long hidden under grass and frost. As it went along, a funnel deposited seeds into the ground. This process would be faster with a horse, Kleppr knew, but his wife was off into Whiterun on some business and thus needed their horse. 

Kleppr did not mind doing the work himself. An active lifestyle left him and active body and the idea of growing old in his deathbed did not exactly sit right with him. 

And so he worked, happily moving along, memories of the dead long since behind him now. 

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The Clerk

Decimus felt a wave of exhaustion hit him. He shook his head and reached for the mug of coffee on his table. He brought the invigorating drink to his lips and in a few seconds, he was just as ready and alert as if he woke up. There was some manner of cheating there as he would make his drinks with a few drops of a stamina potion but no one needed to know that.

Setting the mug aside, he turned back to his table and took in a breath. Picking up one paper, he took a glance at it and carefully checked its contents. Another report from the fabricae, informing them about the latest batch of goods they had made. Spades, pickaxes, mining helms, workboots. He snorted. That was perhaps the worst kept secret in the Whiterun bureaucracy but no one needed to know that. As far as those working and pushing paper, Whiterun was rapidly churning out nick nacks and machinery like the Dwemer cities of old. If anyone would look into their data and papers, they would only see nothing but that.

He recorded down what the paper read and set it aside and taking in another one. He glanced at the paper and squinted.

"Looking real hard at the paper there, Decimus," his co-worker spoke up. "What seems to be the issue?"

He shook his head, putting the paper down. "It's a report from one of the fabricae in the west. Someone had went in and smashed one of the machines that's being used there."

"Which one?"

"Oh, the one they use for the cloth? For the Tundra Cotton?"

His co-worker nodded in understanding. "Ah, that one." He shook his head. "What can you do? That thing churns out more fabric than the home looms of their wives."

Decimus did not say anything, glancing down at the paper in his hand. He sympathized with the weavers on their loss of income but speaking strictly as a government worker, he didn't really care more for them. If they wanted to blame someone for their loss of income, they ought to take up their complaints with the Aedra for granting Whiterun plenty of strong rivers that now house fabricae. He didn't mind those and the the nick nacks they produced. His wife certainly loved the excess cloth that could be brought cheaply. The High King's soldiers and the Emperor's legionnaires needed more clothing too. The fact that Tundra Cotton's magical resistant properties was just simply a  a happy side effect and not sewn into their clothes for any specific purpose.

"I think this ought to be sent up the chain, this is not our thing to worry about," Decimus said, setting the paper aside.

"Already on it," his co-worker declared.

A/N: Consider this filler before we get down to the main thing. The plot is going to kick up soon. 

And to give you an idea what it will be like. 

Tell me, lads and lasses, are you familiar with the 95 Theses?

EDIT: Added a little something, as a precusor for the next chappy hehe.