No sooner had they arrived in the City of Stone, Liudolf all but decided he needed distance between himself and the others. Too many judging eyes and quiet whispers, too much fear and whimpering. They didn't trust his intentions, and now they didn't feel safe under his watch. He'd ignored the Ash-Skin's statement, about the group dying easily. As much as he'd never confess it aloud, one look had made it painfully obvious. There were some true survivors amongst them, the kind that would do anything to stay alive, to keep those they care about alive. Assuming half of them cared about anyone at all.
He knew the feeling all too well.
"She started it. I finished it. Excuse me, muh-lord." He mock-saluted Solun, turning his back on him and leaving the tavern.
Still packed and armored, he walked the jagged and winding streets, taking in the state of Markarth. Something had the people shook, or more likely, they hadn't seen a mountain of a stormcloak who looked like he lost a fight with two bears and a wood-mill. Everywhere he walked, they looked, and he stared back at every silent, cowed passerby. Maybe the Sickness still had them all on edge, in spite of an occupying stormcloak legion, a mess of patrolling guards, and high stone walls built for the ages. Maybe they really were just weak and too scared of their own shadows to hold eye-contact. He might've been able to write it off if a little boy, not six summers old, hadn't stopped to point at him from an adjacent bridge, that same strange expression on his face, before scurrying away.
He listened to his gut and didn't chase him down. He'd have to find the boy later, in stronger daylight.
"Don't wash it off." Liudolf snapped, halting the orcish blacksmith in her tracks and earning her scowl. She'd readied a wet rag to clean the many dark blood spatters and dried dirt from the stormcloaks axe, namely the blade itself. It was badly chipped and, she suspected, hadn't been serviced in a long time.
"There something special about the grime?"
"There is to me. I just want the edge sharpened. No wiping, spit-shining, or polishing."
She scoffed, holding up the axe so its blind owner could see the damage he was causing. She ran a rough, calloused finger along the edge. "See these? That happens when you fight all the time and don't get your blade looked at after. Those will grow and spread, weakening the steel. One day you'll make a mighty swing and it'll shatter, then you'll get skewered and cut down like a damn fool. To avoid that, I have to reshape the edge and grind it down, which means it has to be clean, which means no dirt, rust, or blood!"
Liudolf palmed his forehead, not being in the city a half-hour and already his blood boiled. "Killing's my business, Orc. You mind yours and just use the damn grindstone! Be done with it!"
She'd wanted to retort, saying that was just like swinging it on a stone floor and praying it broke into a million pieces, but she thought better of it. She shoved the axe against his chest, with surprising strength that sent the massive nord wheeling on his back-foot. He'd wanted to use his "weakened" axe to lop her head off, and looked like he might to do just that, when she stepped aside. She gestured to the wooden grindstone, a smug look on her face. "Do it yourself, Nord. No one's stopping you."
Liudolf snorted and huffed over to the station, taking a seat on the tiny bench and flustering awkwardly as he positioned himself. After a minute of this, he hesitantly worked the pedals that brought the stone wheel tumbling to life, and smiled on his victory. Positioning the blade straight down and into the racing surface, he brought his axe to rest upon it. At first only a few sparks flew, emboldening his confidence and making him pedal faster, giving the Orc a smug look of his own. Then he heard a terrible and sudden snap, followed by a screech of angry sparks, and like that a whole section of the edge broke off, then another, and another.
He panicked and let go of the axe, watching it fall and slam and crash on the floor. The edge now looked like a set of broken teeth, with the many large shards scattered about the workshops wooden floor. Some had even fallen through the gaps in the planks and into the river below, evaporating all hope of retrieval. The orc bellowed out a laugh, guessing rightly that the captain had no idea how to service his own weapons, or simply didn't care to learn.
When she was done mocking him, and he looked red and ready to tear her throat out, she mocked him some more. "Some smith you make! I have some nails that need sharpening, think you could handle that?"
Liudolf lunged from his seat at her, and she brandished a heavy, curved emerald blade from her back-sheathe, holding it to him with remarkable speed. "Get. Out."
Liudolf stood there for Shor knows how long, chest heaving, sweat beading, and eyes filled with rage. When he realized his position, he started to calm down and slowly collected himself and his broken axe, leaving the open-porched shop as stiff as a board and hot with embarrasment. He felt the hard impacts as the metal shards rained down around him.
"Don't forget your steel!" He kept walking, not bothering to look back and refusing to satisfy anyone with a saddened look. He walked until he'd gotten tired, and sat on a stone bench, just shy of the Temple of Arkay. Combing slashed fingers through his short blonde hair, occasionally glancing at his mess of an axe. He chuckled bitterly to himself, reasoning that it at least looked more wicked now and surely would leave messier wounds in its wake. Either way, he wouldn't be taking it back to the smithy, that bald, tusked savage had no room for respect. He'd settle on renaming it, yes. Griever's Reach didn't seem to fit now, no, something more.. jagged.
"Hey!" He looked over, his careful naming scheme interrupted by a passing trio of patrolling stormcloak officers. A younger, lithe man approached, a corporal by his colors, a suspicious look on his face while his hand rested on his sword's hilt. For a terrible moment that nearly overwhelmed him, Liudolf actually considered killing the lot of them here in the open street, disregarding the dozen customs and laws he'd break to end what might've been another public shaming.
The corporal targeted him with a gloved finger. "You're Captain Agerssen, right? The missing fingers and, uh," He gestured to his own neck, indicating the rope-scar Liudolf had. "This. Kinda gives you away."
"Yea.. Need something?"
"Ah, apologies, brother." He extended a hand, which Liudolf took after rising to his full height. "Corporal Geirkum Engmahrsen, Thirteenth stormcloak legion, commanded under Colonel Wuukus Blackthorn. And you, sir.. look like oblivion's plops, no offense. Your axe looks like its seen better years.. Well, I'd hate to see the other guy."
Liudolf glanced back at the temple, and nodded. "Me too." He snapped out of it, realizing he was being held up in the street, and had places to be that weren't the middle of the street. "Wait-- Did you need something, or is this just some kind of welcome party?"
"Well, it's blind luck is what it is. Command has been trying to reach you, sir, for some weeks now. Heard your party would make due for Markarth and to keep an eye out for you. They need to discuss a private matter."
"What? What private matter--?"
"You're being recalled." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "It's about your case, the massacre in Eastmarch? Your men--?"
"I know about my own damn case! Shor's Blood!" He barked, causing Geirkum to lean back and the others to perk up. "It was all squared away and they took their damn time doing it, so what the hells do they want with it now?"
"I couldn't tell you, sir, I don't have all the details. All I know is they're revisiting it, and they need you to suspend any active service and check in, effective immediately. You'll have to come with us, Captain." He gestured to the Understone Keep, stepping aside to allow him clear passage up the way.
Liudolf sighed heavily, knowing all too well there was no getting out of it this time, no more chances. Today was it. He glanced back at the temple one last time, a long silence following. Time for that later, if there would be a later. With a begrudgingly complacent nod, he followed the escort up the cobbled street, soon falling under the shadow of the stone mountain of a keep.