Mori Pro Imperio: The Story of Pliton Calleius

I was tired beyond comprehension after the spell wore off, but I needed to get going. I ate some food from the kitchen, took my gold back, and left the inn.

I mounted my horse, which had eaten its meal, and galloped off towards the stables outside Bruma. It was starting to get dark; I was beginning to get worried that I might have to steal another horse.

By the time I got to the stables, it was well past sunset. I knew no one would be there. I sighed, and found a saddled horse inside the stables. I led my horse into there, and took the other horse out.

I climbed onto that horse, and galloped off.

There, I thought, nothing to it. There was no one there who could’ve seen me.

I was well away from Bruma when the moon rose, signifying it was around midnight. I kept the horse going towards the border; towards freedom.

I whipped the horse, making it go faster. I needed to reach the border as soon as possible. I was already crossing the foothills of the mountains marking the border between Cyrodiil and Skyrim, so I knew I was getting close.

I kept the horse going as fast as it could, but I couldn’t muster enough magic to keep it going like this for a long while. That spell really took it out of me; I needed some sleep.

I decided to take camp in a patch of woods to spend the rest of the night. I almost fell asleep immediately.

My dreams were nothing important, usually just about the cold of Skyrim this time of year. After I began to think of Skyrim in the winter, I begin to think about the Battle of Solitude.

And so my nightmare began.

I was right inside the gates. My blade was bloodied by dozens of Stormcloak warriors. Our javelins had long been thrown, and we were fighting with our short swords. Stormcloak onager rounds and flaming arrows rained down every half minute or so, and the Stormcloak wave of men would not stop.

I had cut one down, and bashed another with my shield. I stabbed her in the chest, and looked her in the face. She took off her helmet, and I saw I had stabbed Twilight.

“Why?” She asked, “I trusted you, Pliton.”

Right then, her face changed to Chrysalis’. She laughed maniacally, and kicked me back. She had two of her own swords. She attacked me relentlessly. I could barely block most of her attacks.

All it took was one slash against my side, and she had broken my meager defense. She was cutting me apart, and I was letting her. The searing pain, Gods, the pain!

Before I knew it, I was on the ground, and Chrysalis was standing over me. Her face again turned into Twilight’s.

“Pliton,” she said, tears running down her face, “Help me.”

I awoke with a start. The sun had risen, and the horse was nibbling on some grass. I had soaked through my undergarments with sweat, and my heart was pounding inside my chest.

I breathed deeply, and got up. That was one of the most disturbing dreams I had, and I knew it.

I mounted my horse, and galloped off for the mountains that marked the border between life and death for me. I went faster as the hills became larger, until finally, in mid-afternoon, I was on the beginning of a mountain road.

It was deathly cold up there, with winds buffeting the horse and myself. We braved through it though. I was determined to not stop until I entered Skyrim.

I could almost smell it when I was high up on the mountain road. With icicles forming on my lower lip and eyebrows, with winds blasting cold air underneath my armor, I could smell it. The warmth of a good bottle of Black-Briar Mead around a fire, the smoke from a forge, the sweat of an honorable warrior, I smelt it all.

The sun was going down when I began my descent into Skyrim. My flight from Cyrodilic captivity into Skyrim was nearly complete. With this freedom, I would fight, fight to rescue Twilight. I would also fight for Equestria, which had become my new home since Skingrad was leveled.

I would especially fight for Rainbow Dash, who was still in a coma. I needed to find a way to wake her, to bring an end to Fluttershy’s suffering. I made this my personal mission: to fight to save my family.

Oh how weird it sounded when I first called them family. In the little time I knew them all, I knew I had found a family, one that cared for me, not one that begged me for every septim I earned. A family that loved me earnestly, not my month’s pay. A family that loved me for who I am.

It was in the cold of those Skyrim mountains, that I died, and was born again. No more was I Pliton Calleius the Imperial; I was Pliton Calleius the Equestrian!

When I had left the mountain road, I could clearly see the moons in the sky. I lit a fire, cooked my food, and went to sleep, knowing that my quest in Skyrim had only just begun.

When I awoke, I broke my fast, and mounted my steed. I trotted along the Nord roads, until I found a small town in the clearing. It bordered a river, and had a sawmill working. I could also smell a smithy.

I cantered towards the gates, until I was stopped by two Stormcloak guards.

“Halt,” a sturdy Nord man asked, “Who goes there?”

“Pliton Calleius of Skingrad.” I replied, “I come in exile from the Empire; I wish to find and help Jarl Ulfric.”

“You may pass, Imperial.” The Stormcloak replied, “But know you are outside the Empire, so your laws don’t apply here.”

“Talos be praised!” I shouted, which compelled them to open the gates.

“While you’re in the village of Riverwood,” the man said, “You are under the protection of Ralof, Captain of the Whiterun Guard. He is stationed here at the moment; you can see him in the Sleeping Giant Inn.”

“Thank you,” I said, “I’ll be sure to see him.”

The Stormcloak only nodded. I tied my horse to a tree, and walked inside the walls.

Riverwood was small, only a few houses, an inn, a smithy and a mill. I was immediately drawn to the smithy, where the blacksmith was hard at work.

He looked up from his workbench when he heard me walk up the stairs. He wore a red shirt, with a burnt black apron and black pants. He had blonde hair slicked back, and a full beard on his chin. It connected with a bushy moustache, and his eyes were very inviting.

“Hello, stranger.” He said, shaking my hand eagerly, “My name’s Alvor. We don’t usually get travelers here in Riverwood. What can I do you for?”

“I just need a new set of armor and a few weapons.” I said, “What can you craft?”

“I can make you a set of Steel Armor.” Alvor replied, “And a matching Steel Sword and Shield. Anything else?”

“I’d like a bow too,” I said, “Can you make a crossbow?”

“Ah,” Alvor said, “That’s a tall order. It will take me a few days up to a week to make it all. Of course, I have to ask, how much are you willing to pay?”

“How would three hundred septims do you?” I asked.

“Too low,” he said, “How three fifty?”

“Three fifty?” I asked, taken aback, “Never. Three thirty.”

“Three forty five.” Alvor replied, “I’ll need some supplies shipped in from Whiterun.”

“Three thirty seven septims.” I offered, “Final offer.”

Alvor leaned on an anvil, and held one hand to his beard. He stroked it casually as he though it over.

“Alright,” he said, “Three thirty seven septims. Now, where did you get that armor, boy?”

“The Imperial Watch in the Imperial City.” I said, “I was framed for a crime, and I needed to escape the Empire.”

“So Skyrim you chose, eh?” Alvor nodded, “It might get cold up here, but you won’t regret choosing this over the Dominion, eh?”

“I also want to find the Dragonborn.” I said, “I need to share conversation with him.”

“Last I heard he was in Windhelm.” Alvor said, “Helping Ulfric take the city back. Bloody useless if you ask me, letting the Daedra roam free towards Winterhold and Whiterun. Though I think the mages will keep Winterhold safe, and I trust Ralof to protect Whiterun.”

“So you know Ralof?” I asked sitting down on a chair.

“Oh, I’ve known him since he was a boy.” He said, “His sister, Gerdur, runs the mill here. Their family founded Riverwood, you know?”

“Interesting,” I said. “So, do you support the Stormcloaks?”

“Watch what you say, boy.” Alvor said, “They’re everywhere. Here, let’s take this inside.”

He led me into his house. It was a quaint little house. It had a fireplace, a cooking spit, a table, and a few beds. There were also stairs leading down into a basement. Alvor led me into the basement, and locked the door.

“Do I support the Stormcloaks?” He asked himself, “No. I do not. My nephew, Hadvar, fought for the Legion during the Civil War. He died in Solitude though. Good man. You knew him?”

“Oh,” I said, “Yes, now that you mention the name. We were guarding the gates when the rebels stormed through. He was run through by a spear though.”

“Damn shame.” Alvor said, “Anyways, the Stormcloaks also persecute former Imperial sympathizers. They haven’t robbed us because I would shut down the forge, which would cripple them.”

“I see,” I said. “What else do they do?”

“They have spies everywhere,” he said, “Making sure we worship Talos outright, and support High King Ulfric.”

“Shame,” I said, “What did you think when the Legion liberated Whiterun?”

“I thought we were saved.” Alvor said, “That those five years would wash away with Imperial leadership. But when you left without a trace, and the Daedra appeared, I lost hope.”

I felt that this conversation was over. I put a hand on his shoulder, and said.

“Look, Hadvar was a good man. I knew him well, and he died well. Now, I’m going to speak with Ralof, I need to find Ulfric. Where he is, the Dragonborn is.”

“You’re right.” Alvor said, walking up the stairs, “I’ll get started on your armor. Don’t leave Riverwood until I give you the armor, and you my payment.”

“I understand.” I said, “I’ll be at the inn, if you need me.”

He nodded, and led me out of his house. I wandered across the road into the Sleeping Giant Inn.

When I walked in, I found a Nord bard singing the song “Ragnar the Red.” I walked up to the bar, and talked to the owner.

“What can I do you for?” He asked, outstretching a hand. He had thinning, long brown hair. He had dark eyes, and wore a simple shirt and pants.

“My name’s Orgnar.” He said, “And welcome to the Sleeping Giant Inn, is there anything I could do you for?”

“Could you tell where I could find Ralof?” I asked, “I need to speak with him.”

“Oh he’s down by the mill.” Orgnar replied, “He’s helping Gerdur while he’s here in Riverwood. It’s behind the forge.”

“Thank you.” I nodded, and walked away. As I passed the bard, I tossed him a coin.

“Thanks,” he smiled, “You look like someone who’s seen faraway places.”

“As far as Stros M’Kai,” I replied, “Beautiful island. Shame it was crawling with Daedra.”

I opened the door, and made my way over to the mill. I saw two Nords exchanging conversation. One was a woman with swept back blonde hair, while the other, a man, towered over her. He had flowing blonde hair and a beard.
He turned to me as I approached.

“What do you want, Imperial?” He asked, “We don’t see much of you here since Ulfric’s been in charge.”

“Simple,” I asked, “I want to know where the Dragonborn is. We have some, history dealing with the Daedra.”

“Alright then,” He said suspiciously, “Wait, how do I know you’re not a Legion spy?”

“Because I deliberately walked up to you and asked you where he is,” I replied. “Would a spy do that?”

“Well,” he paused, “No. Well, my name’s Ralof.”

“I figured as much.” I said, stretching out my hand. He shook it, and I said, “Pliton Calleius, I’m ex-Legion.”

“Really,” Ralof asked. “Why’d you abandon the Legion?”

“Long story short,” I said, “I was accused of a crime I didn’t commit in Stros M’Kai.”

“Okay then,” Ralof said, “Now that we know each other, I guess I can tell you where I last heard of Ulfric and Stronghand. Last I heard, they were based in Kynesgrove. Planning to take back Windhelm. Though they could be anywhere in North Skyrim by now.”

“Thanks,” I said, “That’s all I needed to know.”

“Are you just passing through?” The woman asked, “Are you planning on staying awhile?”

“Forgive my sister, Gerdur.” Ralof said, “She needs some help with the mill. She’s been, shorthanded, since Faendal left.”

“I’ll be here for awhile.” I reassured her, “I’ll work. The blacksmith nearly ran my coffers dry with his prices.”

“Oh,” Ralof said, “You mean Alvor? Yeah, he’s known to push the envelope. He’s had few customers lately, so he tries to get as much gold as he can.”

Ralof looked around, and said, “Well, Gerdur, I must be heading back to Whiterun. I need to help bolster the Guard’s numbers. Don’t want it getting sacked, again.”

He looked at me jokingly, and walked off.

“So,” I asked Gerdur, “What can I help with?”

“Well,” Gerdur said, “We’re far behind our monthly quota. We need to send five hundred pounds of wood to Whiterun, but we have only three hundred and the month is ending soon. I need you to head up to the mill, and start chopping that wood.”

I nodded. It was simple enough, cut wood. I walked up, and lifted a log onto the sawmill. I pulled a lever, and the log moved towards the saw, and was cut in two.

I worked at this for hours, until the sun went down. When I came into the inn, I was tired and hungry. I ate my fill, and fell onto my bed.

I was really beginning to like Riverwood. The quaintness, the small number of residents, it was different than Skingrad. A difference I liked.

Okay, so finally he’s in Skyrim! I’ve had him nearly everywhere else but Skyrim, but Pliton is now back in Skyrim. It really wouldn’t be a Skyrim crossover if it wasn’t in Skyrim now would it? No, it would not. And don’t worry, he’s not going to be in Riverwood forever either, I’m going to have him back in the fray with the Dragonborn soon enough. Next chapter: Pliton takes the next step in finding the Dragonborn, but what awaits him on his path to Windhelm? Find out in the next chapter! Please leave a review to tell me what you think! And, as always, until next time, farewell!