Of Snow and Bone - Part Seven

23rd of Last Seed, 4th Era 201

When I awoke, the sun was low in the east. I had a simple breakfast of salmon and bitter tea, stopping at the alchemists to get a potion to cure my ills. Unfortunately she did not have one, though she did have the raw materials, and mixed one for me at a small price. Heading west towards Solitude, I was glad to be gone from Morthal; something about the town unsettled me, especially after lasts nights events. It felt good to be back into the wilderness.
The road to Solitude from Morthal was beautiful, and soon I was down out of the snowy regions. Oddly, along the path, a dog appeared, barking at me, running a small ways, and then barking once more. Out of curiousity I followed him, and was led to a small wooden cabin. The dog laid down beside the bed, on which rested a dead Nord; I presumed the dog's former owner.
A journal by the bed gave the dog's name: Meeko. His owner had succumbed to rockjoint. I patted the dog on the head sadly, and then slung his owner's body over my shoulder. Meeko barked at this, and growled, "It's alright, boy. I'm going to burn him." I said gently. The dog quit growling, but still eyed me suspiciously and followed me about as I laid his owners body outside, then gathered a good deal of wood for a pyre. I set the man's journal on his chest, and then lit the pyre beneath him.
Meeko watched sadly, the fire reflecting in his glossy eyes as smoke rose towards the noonday sun. I sat with the dog and watched, until the fire had burned down somewhat and nothing remained of the man but scattered ashes. As I set out, back upon the path to Solitude, the dog followed at my side silently. Perhaps it would be nice to have some company.

We travelled across a magnificent, ancient stone bridge, the likeness of a dragon's head set on an arch in the middle. On the other side lay a town; Dragonsbridge, a towns person called it. Not an original name, perhaps, but apt. A mist had settled over the town, making it seem cozy and sleepy. I stopped inside the inn for meat and mead, feeding Meeko the occasional scrap, and then we set north, continuing along to Solitude.
A crowd had gathered just inside the gates to the city, to witness the beheading of a man accused of helping Ulfric Stormcloak escape after murdering the Nords High King. I watched with a raised brow, and as soon as the execution was done the crowd scattered. Several went to the inn nearby, no doubt to discuss the beheading over mugs of ale.
I passed them by, and went to find the blacksmith, to see if there was anything useful. If I could find more Dwemer alloy, perhaps I could replace the rest of my equipment, and my shield was in dire need of replacement or repair. He had enough of the Dwemer ingots for me to forge both helmet and boots; I still needed replace my guantlets, however. Between the forging of the new pieces and the repairs on my shield, I worked till dusk.

I longed for a room, hot meal, and a bucket and cloth to wipe off the sweat from the smithing. The 'Winking Skeever' had all three, though at a steeper price than I would have liked, but the food was filling and the room was clean. As I stripped out of my armor, Meeko curled up at the foot of the bed, the sounds of a bard's singing could be heard outside. That Dragonborn song again.

Of Snow and Bone - Part Six

22nd of Last Seed, 4th Era 201

I awoke shivering violently, and quickly wrapped my cloak about me and threw more branches onto the fire, blowing life into the coals. Before long the twigs of the branches caught flame, and then the fire burst into life. I warmed myself, flaking some salt fish off into my pewter cup and making a simple boiling broth, the liquid warming me from within as the fire warmed from without.
The sky was covered in clouds again, a swift and heavy snow falling. Impossible to tell what time it was, though judging from the razor chill in the air, it was either very late or very early. The chill was always deepest then, although I was grateful for the cloud cover and snow. Clear skies were always the coldest, by far.

After a time spent warming myself and stretching cold-stiffened joints and muscles, I packed my gear, scuffed out the fire with a pang of regret, and looked about. The realization hit me like a warhammer; I was lost. No idea which way the path to Morthal was, whatever tracks I had left were obscured by the dark and the freshly fallen snow. I leaned back against a tree, battered shield in hand.
When I had come to camp here, I had set up my fire, and then my tarp. And when I had set my tarp, I had set the open side facing south, and had gone south from the path. Looking at the bed of pine boughs I had made to lay on have a fairly clear north-south line. With a smile, my feet took me north, and soon found the windswept stones of the path.

By the time I arrived at Morthal, the skies had cleared somewhat, but I could see neither Masser nor Secunda. Several men were arrayed in front of the Jarl's longhouse, armed against the night with torches. They spoke with distrust of the Jarl, and an unknown wizard. When I spoke with the man who appeared to be the leader of the band, he spoke vaguely of their Jarl's visions, a house that had burned down, and a wizard hired by the Jarl.
Not wishing to offend him and make myself unwelcome, I said nothing and headed to the inn. Perhaps the innkeeper would have more details, they were always full of gossip, and why not? The drink they served loosened men's tongues, and an inn gave men a feeling of safety that loosened them even further.
The innkeeper, a Redguard woman, explained that the burned house belonged to a man named Hroggar. His wife and child had died in the fire, and the very next day Hroggar had moved in with a woman. Rumors abound, but it seemed that none could prove foul play. When the Redgaurd mentioned the Jarl might be willing to pay to find the truth of the matter, my interest peaked. Perhaps the trip would prove worthwhile after all.

I sat by the fire and sipped spiced wine till morning light, and then a while longer before setting out to speak with the Jarl. A crone of a woman, withered and grey, she spoke in strange ways. It was easy to see why the townsfolk mistrusted her. She agreed to pay me if I could find the truth of the fire, though, whether Hroggar was innocent or guilty. I set out with the sun shining brightly to search for clues.
Of all things, I found the ghost of a child in the ruins of the house, plain as day. I can only assume it was Hroggar's child; she bid me to play a game of hide and seek with her, but I must wait till nightfall, when the 'Other' came out. When I informed the Jarl of this, she suggested I search for the child at the graveyard, come dark. I could gather no further details, and headed back to the inn to whittle away the time.

I spent the day tending to my equipment, and found an alchemists shop to sell the things  I had gathered in Nightcaller Temple. A woman outside, calling herself "Idgrod the Younger", asked that I deliver a letter to Whiterun. Seeing no reason to decline, I gave her my word I would deliver it, though it may take some time before I was back that way.
After a long and boring day, night fell at last, a light snow with it. I did not find Hroggar's daughter at the graveyard, but instead a woman digging up a grave! I was attacked on sight, her magic draining strength from me, but I slew her quickly with a blow to the neck, nearly severing her head. The voice of Hroggar's daughter spoke to me from the coffin, claiming the woman I had slain was Lalette, and she had 'Kisses her on the neck.'
Then a man with a torch ran up, out of nowhere, saying that Lalette must have been a vampire. Dark and foul creatures, but it explained the magic the woman had used on me. The man named himself as Thonnir, and claimed Laelette was his wife. He thought she had gone off to join the Stormcloaks, and it seems she had spoked with Alva beforehand. Alva, Thonnir told me, was the woman Hroggar had gone to as soon as his wife and child had burned.

This was all very strange. When I suggested that Alva had perhaps turned Laelette into a vampire, he flew into a rage, screaming there was no way I could prove such a thing to the Jarl. I spoke with the Jarl, explaining what had happened, and requested permission to search Alva's home, which she gave, provided a guard went with me.
When we entered the home, Alva and Hroggar flew into a rage and began attacking us. They proved remarkably hard to put down, even though they wore nor armor and were armed only with a dagger and an axe, respectively. In the cellar, we found an empty coffin and Alva's journal. It detailed the meeting of Alva with a man named Movarth, her turning, and the events of the fire and Laelette. Movarth had plans to turn the entire town of Morthal into the slaves of his 'coven', to milk them of blood like cattle!
It made my stomach turn, to think of such things. I thanked the guard for his help, and we ran to give word to the Jarl. She gathered a band of armed men, her guards waking them in the night, and not so much asked as demanded that I lead them. With little choice, we made our way to the cave where Movarth was suspected to have made his lair.

"Killing works ahead" I told them, since I assumed I ought to give some sort of speech. That was what commanders always did, and it seemed expected of me. "Dark things. Inhuman things. Shove your torches in their face and then cut their fucking heads off!" I thrust my sword into the air dramatically. The five men and women followed suit, with a series of "Aye!"'s and "Yar!"'s. I had my doubts and of them would make it out alive; the Jarl had no deigned to send any guards with us, despite my urgings. She claimed they were needed to protect the town.
I turned to the entrance of the cave, let out a sigh, and started towards the entrance.
"Um... this looks pretty scary." one of them spoke. I turned to find them all rooted in place. "It does look dangerous." another chimed in. Fear spread across their faces, all except Thonnir. "Cowards!" he accused. "But they're... they're vampires!" stuttered another towns person. "To Oblivion with this. I'm going back to town." said the first. With that, they began to turn and walk away.
"I will come with you." Thonnir told me, and with a sigh I shook my head. "You don't even have armor. Go back with the others, I'll take care of this myself." Thonnir nodded regretfully, and I made my way into the dim caverns. At first there were only spiders, easily cut down, but then two men rushed from up from deeper in the caves, one armed with a mace, the other a battle axe. Their blows were slow and clumsy, and with some quick footwork I took them down easily enough.
Movarth was another story, quick and agile, sapping my life with his magic. It took many blows to fell him, and by the time he finally gave in to death I had cut him nearly to ribbons. I had to down several potions just to survive the fight. The remaining foes were much more easily slain, clumsy and untrained. One of them had a quiver of steel-headed arrows, which I took and swapped my iron ones. It was done, though, and Morthal was safe. I wondered if Jarl Idgrod of Morrthal would be as ungrateful as Jarl Skald of Dawnstar. It would not have surprised me.
The Jarl was generous enough, though, and gave me a bounty of coin worth six-hundred septims. She mentioned that I looked ill, and I admitted I did not feel well. Suggesting that I had perhaps caught the beginnings of vampirism, I promised I would visit the alchemist first thing in the morning for a cure, and headed back to the inn for a rest.

Of Snow and Bone - Part Five

21st of Last Seed, 4th Era 201

I awoke early, despite falling asleep late, but felt well rested. With no plans in mind, I chose to head north, to Dawnstar. As I travelled, a great bonfire lit the woods ahead; the camp of giants. When I approached a half-dozen bandits bolted from the trees to the east, charging into the midst of the giants and their great beasts.
What compelled them to this death charge I do not know, but as the giants turned east to meet their charge, I slipped into their camp behind them. Tales had been told more than once that each giant camp had a chest, resplendent with treasure. There was a chest, but it held only a small bag of gold and a mammoth's tusk. Better than nothing, to be sure. I slipped out of the camp as quickly as I had come in, the giant's clubs sending bandits flying this way and that as mammoths gored with their tusks, or stomped with massive feet.

Cold morning winds blew the hard, grainy sands from one dune to another as I entered Dawnstar, silent yet restless in the pre-dawn light of the stars. A single guard walked up and down one of the streets, torch flickering in the stiff breeze. I raised my hand and gave a single wave and nod of greeting, clutching my woolen cloak tightly about my shoulders. You could not get much further north than this, with frozen biting wind skimming in from the cold ocean beyond.
I entered the Inn as a light snow began to fall, flakes tickling my cheeks as they melted. A blast of warm air greeted me as I entered, and much to my surprise several people were awake inside. Three women and a man, the bartender, were battering a Dunmer dressed in robes with questions. They asked him about dreams and nightmares, concerns he did his best to lay to rest. I do not think he was very effective.
Sitting to a simple meal of beef and strong, bitter tea, the inn's bard, a pretty nord girl, began to sing. Her voice was nothing special, but what she sang of caught my ear; "Beware, beware, the Dragonborn comes." News travelled fast then, it seems, faster than I had. Perhaps birds had been sent from Whiterun, or perhaps the great shout from the heavens had travelled all the way north to Dawnstar. Anything seemed possible. I did not ask about it.

I stayed at the inn for a few hours, the Dunmer man coming to tell me he was a priest of Mara. The townspeople were suffering from nightmares, and, seeing the adventuring look I had about me, asked me to help him. With no promise of coin, I declined. "You're a sellsword, then?" he asked, disdain clear in his voice. Shrugging, I replied "Good deeds oft go unrewarded and unremembered, and honor can't buy steel and supplies."
The Dunmer simply scoffed and went to sulk in a corner of the Inn. I found it hard not to laugh. How many times had men died because some priest had tugged at their heartstrings to strike the chord of honor? All for an ungrateful lord, a few words of praise, but more likely an unmarked grave and a forgotten name.

My thoughts wandered back to the Dragonborn as I headed for the town forge, to see if there was anything of use I could acquire. If I had not seen the dragon fall myself, I would dismiss it as a nord folk tale. Most likely, whoever this Dragonborn was, he would end up being another bastard like any other famous figure. They were all one kind of a bastard or another, soon as they got a sip of power. A sweet but poisoned cup.
The blacksmith chatted as I browsed his wears, asking if I could bring to him a book titled "Night Falls on Sentinel." I agreed, if only to make him happy and perhaps get better prices. Blacksmiths seemed a more honorable sort, though, and I thought perhaps if I brought him this book he would pay debt of effort with coin, so it may be worth bringing him this book should I ever find it. Maybe it's the work that makes them more decent people.
With the assistance of the smith, I was able to forge a new chest piece for myself of Dwemer metal, a strange alloy. It looked and worked like bronze, but took a higher heat and was stronger. The smith told me that nobody had ever figured out what it was made of; many men had tried and failed to replicate it. All the workable metal came from ancient ruins, smelted down into ingots to be made into new pieces.
Nonetheless, my skills had grown slightly since I had wrought my steel armor back in Riverwood. The smith only had enough metal for the chest piece, but it turned out a beauty; bulkier and thicker than my previous steel plate, but offering greater protection, and a surprising amount of mobility.

I spent some more coin buying the smith's supplies of iron, steel, and leather to practice on, making small blades and working plates, chain, and scale. By the time I was done, my blows on the hot metal felt slightly surer, more precise. It would be a while yet before I could match Hermalth, the smith at my old stronghold, who could work Orichalcum with ease and grace. But I was getting there.
The snow began to fall more heavily as I wandered the streets, unsure of what to do next. Perhaps there was work to be done at the mines, or the Jarl may have a paying task for me. I strolled along the streets, cloak wrapped about me as I found the Jarl's longhouse and stepped inside. I did not know much of Nord politics; as best I could tell, the Jarl was a rough approximate of a war chief. The leader of his 'hold', a vast stretch of land encompassing the city where his longhouse lay, and perhaps a town or 'stead' and farms.

The Jarl, Skald his name, had little to say to me except that I had better be here to "Solve this damned nightmare problem." I asked if there would be coin in it for me if I did indeed solve the nightmare problem, and received only a noncommittal answer. Sighing, I took my leave and made my way back to the inn. The priest was surprised with my sudden change of heart, and I told him irritably not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Before long we made our way to what he named as 'Nightcaller Temple', shuffling up the mountain through the snows.
The wind was biting as we made our way to the ruined tower, and soon I was shivering even beneath my cloak. I urged the priest to make haste, lest we freeze in the storm, and we quickly entered the shelter of the tower's stone walls.
After a time spent warming ourselves, we moved deeper into the ruins. Erandur, the Dunmer priest, explained that he had once been a member of the cult here. They had released a purple gas, the miasma, when invaded by Orc raiders. The gas had put everyone to sleep, but as we made our way through the tower, they began to awake. Still lethargic and weakened from their slumber, they made easy targets, priests and raiders alike.

It seems like every Orc not part of a stronghold is a bandit or raider here in Skyrim. It is disheartening. They should have become mercenaries, or sellswords like me. But they had chosen their path, and they died on it. After a time, and much searching, Erandur bid me drink a potion, and through some strange dream magic I do not understand, I found myself on the other end of a magical barrier blocking us from our goal; the Skull of Corruption.
It seemed the skull was responsible for Dawnstar's nightmares, and as Erandur began a ritual of Mara to destroy the ancient artifact, the voice of none other than Vaermina filled my head. She bid me to kill Erandur, and take the skull for myself. It was a tempting offer; surely the skull would sell for a small fortune, and who was to say different if I claimed Erandur had been cut down battling our way through the temple?
I was not in such desperate need of coin as that, though, and resisted Vaermina's will. Erandur destroyed the artifact, and we hastily made our way back to town before the cold froze our bones. Such ill acts of murder are bad for the soul, and will rot it away as surely as spring melts the snow.

On the plus side, I did locate a metal container of Dwemer oil, excellent for maintaining metal, and Erandur pointed out many valuable potions and alchemical supplies to me in lue of payment in coin, for my help. When I returned to the Jarl, and informed him the cause of the nightmares had been dealt with, he gave me his thanks... and nothing else.
"A reward, for my assistance? Such things inspire others to similar deeds, Jarl." I explained, my words honeyed as best I could make them. The Jarl scoffed, and waved a hand dismissively. "A reward for doing your duty? I should think not. Now don't bother me again unless it's important!"
Bother him! I nearly put the edge of my shield through his throat. Ingrate. I stormed from his longhouse, much as I had from the Vigiliant's lodge. Were there no reasonable men in Skyrim? Perhaps I would be better off speaking only to blacksmiths!

With a sigh, I bundled my cloak tighter around me and stared out at Dawnstar's small dock, harboring a single ship. I looked for the sun, but it's position was impossible to tell behind thick sheets of snow and grey cloud. It felt late into the afternoon. With a small sigh I hefted the leather straps of my pack onto my shoulders. Making the decision to sell off the items bulging in my haversack from the temple, I headed towards a sign of mortar and pestle, swinging gently above a doorway, hinges creaking.
The latch to the door was locked, and when I knocked there was no reply. The owner must have been out, or was simply sleeping now that nightmares no longer plagued the town. Having no desire to stay in Dawnstar any longer, I set off west into the cold winds. My map told me that Morthal lay that way.

As the sun began to fall on the path to Morthal, a brute of a Nord armed with a massive, double bladed battle axe of engraved steel jumped into the way before me. It was a fierce battle, my shield blocking every powerful blow, denting my shield and jarring my arm with every strike. Gods, was he strong!
I swung at every opening I found, but he always seemed to jump back just enough that my blade made only shallow cuts. At last, his axe bit into the side of my shield, shearing through the metal rim and getting stuck. I thrust my blade forward from the hip, the curved top biting through his leather armor and tearing into his side. With a roar of pain, the Nord pulled with all his strength, ripping my shield from my grasp and pulling it from the chipped blade of his axe.
He swung at my head, slow but powerful, and I lunged forward onto one knee, the steel whooshing over my head as I put all my strength into a blow to his knee. His attack had left him with all his weight forward, and he could not leap back in time; my curved sword bit deep into the joint, shearing through cords of muscle and leaving his calf attached by only stringy tendons. The Nord fell, screaming in agony, and I quickly brought my blade down on his chest, cutting through the sternum and ending his life with a sick, wet crunch.

I was exhausted and sweating, breath coming in heaving rasps. Grabbing my shield, I made way off the path for a short time, dropping my gear into the snow and slipping the wood axe from it's leather loops, quickly cutting several branches from the nearby trees. The fire was an easy thing to light with my flames spell, and withing the hour I was resting comfortably, stripped to my linens to dry my sweat before the fire, lest chills set in.
I ate a hearty dinner, more salted fish and bread, melting snow in my pewter cup to drink. Curling snugly under the soft furs of my bedroll, I fell asleep to the sounds of pine sap crackling in the fire and the wind whispering through the needles of the trees gently swaying in the starlight.

Of Snow and Bone - Part Four

20th of Last Seed, 4th Era 201

In the morning I made my way through the cool, earthy air to Whiterun. Guards on wooden ramparts set onto the old, crumbling stone eyed me as I made my way to the gates. Just inside, a dark elf woman was waving a sword, giving a rallying speech to some men. From what I could tell, she was taking them to fight a dragon. A dragon! Surely she was mad, and yet the men she was adressing were all wearing cloaks with Whiterun's sigil sewn into them and painted on their shields.
It was all very strange. Shortly they took off through the gates, and I was tempted to follow them and see this dragon for myself, but it seemed at best a death wish. Instead, I walked up the main path to the market in hopes of finding a tin of lard, or soft wax, with which to coat my steel and protect it from rust.
Locating a butchers stall, I procured some rendered lard for my needs, and a simple linen cloth to apply it with from another nearby vendor, and a thick woolen cloak, dyed brown. It would be warm for the south, but as I progressed north would quickly become a necessity. There was little else I needed to do here, and I wished to reach the Vigilant's Order as quickly as possible. I set out of the city, only to hear a great roar that turned my eyes to the west. Was that... could that be a dragon? Surely it could be nothing else, to be seen at such a distance, with massive wings and great gusts of fire spouting from it's maw.

I stood with my eyes riveted west, along with every guard in their wooden towers. The beast circled over a crumbling stone tower, once, twice, and then it dove, pulling up just before striking the earth, leaving a line of fire in it's wake. This went on for some time, until at last, with a piercing wail, it fell into the earth, throwing up massive clods of dirt. A moment later it erupted in flame, and then was nothing but bones.
My mouth was agape. A dragon, such had not been seen in centuries, had been felled. And by whom, or what? That dark elf woman, and her few guards? A crack of thunder interrupted my thoughts, coming from the same direction as the dragon's roars. And then, a minute later, the very air itself seemed to reverberate as a shout came from the heavens, "Dov Ah Kiin!" it roared.
Movement caught my eye. It was the guards. They were turning to each other, faces hidden under their steel helms. One of them said something, too quietly for me to understand, and then the others picked it up. "Dragonborn" they seemed to say, and then one shouted out "The Dragonborn comes! The Dovahkiin is risen!" The cry carried along the walls, and seemed to fill the city behind me.
Their voices were full of fear and anticipation, ecstasy and hope. I did not know to what I had just been witness, only that it was something both great and frightening. I felt as if I should do something, and yet what was there to do? Uncertain, I took a shaky step down the road out of the city, and then another. Whatever had happened, there was nothing I could do to act on it.

I headed north for some time, and as the sun began to descend I located the Order's home, a handsome lodge nestled between cliffs. Their leader thanked me for bringing news of their dead, and explained that others had already informed her of the walking dead withing Skyrim's ancient halls; Draugr, she called them.
However, when I asked if I could join their order, she denied me entrance. Orcs, she said, were children of Malacath: a Deadric god. Her bigotry angered me, but I said nothing, and stormed from their halls. If they would not have me, so be it.

Night would soon fall, so I found a stand of trees a short walk away, and set up camp and fire, a pile of logs set behind the flames to reflect it's heat back into the lean-to formed from my tarp. A layer of pine boughs and furs formed my bed over the snow, but I did not sleep for a long time, the Vigilant's words still stinging.

Of Snow and Bone - Part Three

19th of Last Seed, 4th Era 201

I located Riverwood as dawn broke, the damp foliage releasing mist beside the roaring White River. After the bloodshed of the night, it seemed very serene and peaceful. I was glad for the sight. I was also exhausted, and took refuge at the Inn, leaving instructions to be awoken when the sun was at full height.
The few hours sleep did me well, and I paid the serving man with coin from the Vigilant's pouches. They were quite full of golden Septims, enough to make me somewhat nervous about carrying them around, and I tucked them inside the waist of my belt.

A kindly Nord man was tending to a forge, and with his help I was able to shake the rust off my blacksmithing skills. Largdaz had always said that smithing is in an Orcs blood, one of Malacaths gifts. I do not know if she was right, but at our stronghold we were all taught the basics of iron and steel smithing, and I must admit that it was one of the few things I enjoyed.
The coins bought me plenty of steel stock, iron, and leather. Enough to forge myself a good, fitted suit of steel armor in the nord style; simple riveted helm with chain aventail, breastplate with simple pauldrons, steel plates sewn onto leather and fur for gauntlets and boots, simple large plates over the thighs.
Much to my pride, I was also able to forge an excellent blade, weighted for chopping and curved to slice, with a wicked point and strong spine to stab. The Nord smith said it made him think of the heavy chopping blades of the Reguard, and the thin slicing blades of the Akaviri; a child between the two. I was well pleased.
The sun has not yet begun it's winter habit of setting early and rising late, but all that smithing had taken many hours, although we had worked fast. I paid the smith well for his assistance, and made my return to the Inn to rest the night.

Of Snow and Bone - Part Two

19th of Last Seed, 4th Era 201

I have had a stroke of luck. On the way north to Falkreath, I met two women, calling themselves 'Vigilants of Stendarr'. They claimed to spend their days hunting down Deadra, the unnatural, and the undead. They said that they had discovered ancient corpses risen in the dark, forgotten halls of Skyrim, an ill omen. They were travelling north to the headquarters of their order, to give news of this important discovery.
I asked if I might join them, to see this order for myself and perhaps join, an idea to which they were quite amiable. Our trio then made way to Falkreath, where my two companions stopped only to gather supplies, for they wished to make it back to their order with all hast. We travelled until the moon was almost overhead, and then made camp in a stand of trees off the road (to Riverwood, one of my companions with a map claimed.)

After a long days travel, and a belly full of heavy bread and salted fish, I was exhausted. Sleep took me quickly, a light rain pattering on my hastily erected tarp and hissing on the logs of the fire.
I was awoken as I heard a rope twang, the side of my tarp suddenly sagging. A thump as someone crashed to the ground, followed by a string of voices. I groped for my sword and shield, the only light coming from the guttering flames of our camp fire.
"Bandits!" cried one of my companions, the sounds of frantic combat arising around me. The dirt and soot stained face of a Nord man appeared around the edge of my tarp, and I lashed out with the point of my sword. My reach was short, and he pulled back, the blade drawing a drop of blood from under his eye.
I rolled out the back of my tarp, wearing only furs and leathers, armed with shield and sword. I spotted five figures in the dark, four of them fighting each other and the fifth staring at me, a dagger in each hand, tattered furs hanging from his gaunt frame. He circled around my tarp; I held my ground.
The man swiped for my face with his right hand, the left held close to his chest, a testing strike. He would get no standoff from me. I ducked my head down, entering a half-crouch, and swung up and out with my shield, striking his arms and turning them aside. My sword whipped around in follow, and arced across his left arm, cutting bicep and forearm to the bone.
The pain blinded him to the opening I had presented, and I flicked my wrist and turned my body the other direction, bringing the iron blade of my sword back across. The brigand had folded his body down around his wounded left arm; his head was down. My sword bit into his skull, cleaving several inches through before sliding out in a fan of blood.

His body crumpled at my feet, but I paid it no mind. The clarity of battle was upon me now, my eyes searching for more enemies of their own accord. One other bandit had been cut down, as had one of my companions, the broken haft of a simple wooden spear jutting from under her left breast. The third bandit, seeing me still standing, fled into the damp night.
A moment later my only surviving companion fell to her knees, the dark glimmer of blood flowing from where she held her stomach with one hand. The steel mace she had been wielding fell from her other. I went to her, and bid her lay down, examining the wound. Blood streamed from the split flesh at an alarming rate. I did not know how to heal others; only myself, and the weak healing potions in my supplies were not enough for such a grievous wound.

"You are going to die." I told her simply, for it was the truth. I had seen others die in our stronghold before, one of a terrible infection from a wound taken to the leg while hunting boar, another a slow death from a blow to the head in a sparring session, but I had been young, and not known them, and not understood. This was different, somehow. This was real.
Her pale face trembled, the wavering flames of our fire shining off the beads of rain on her cheeks. She shook her head, "No. No. Please... no..." she whispered. There was nothing I could do. I took her hand off the wound in her stomach and held it, sticky and wet with blood.
"It will be alright." I whispered back, thinking of what to say. It occurred to me that I didn't even know her name, or that of our other companion. What a sad thing. "Stendarr will see to you." I assured her, but she was already dead. I let go of her and stared at the cooling blood on my hand, coating the olive skin. This was it, then; this was death.

This was the simple, ugly thing we all fought so hard against. What a strange notion. It was, or could be, painful and frightening, yes. But in the end the pain lasted only a short while, and then it was over. It did not seem so terrible to me. It was simply there, and then it was done.
I wiped my hand off on her pants and stood. Perhaps it was all the time I had spent with Largdaz that made me feel this way. She had always said that death was something that came to all living things, even the elves. What reason was there to fear something inevitable?
It was still drizzling, slow and cold, but the smell of blood would attract animals, and the bandit who had fled may be back with others. The panic and cold flame of battle had left me feeling shaky and tired, but I needed to break camp and move on quickly.

I dragged the bodies into a row, side by side, and closed their eyes and crossed their arms over their chests, draping the sleeping furs of my companions over them. Wolves would surely find and ravage them, but for now it was all I could do. I gathered my things onto my pack, said a quick prayer as best I could to Stendarr for my companions, and headed back up the road. I hoped the Divine had heard me.
They had no supplies that I needed, save for the cloth map one of them had carried and their coin purses. It had the locations of a few major towns and holds marked on it, along with some roads, and far to the north was marked an X, with 'Vigiliants Order' written beside it. I would do my best to reach it and give news of the awakened dead, and what had happened here. If only I had gotten their names. Who would remember them now, but me?

Of Snow and Bone - Part One

18th of Last Seed, 4th Era 201
I am not like the others of the stronghold, and for this I have been cast out. My quiet dissent of the chief has built resentment for me in the hearts of the others. He is a fool, a blind follower of Malacath. Unable to adapt. Unable to grow or learn. They watched with hating eyes as I spent my nights learning to read and write. They murmered spiteful words as I sparred with the others. "She does not fight as an orc should fight." they said.
It is true. I strike as the wolf, nimble and swift, quick lashing blows, not like a berserker putting all strength and energy into each attack.  I defend like the trees shed the rain, using shield and armor to deflect blows, not take them like a stone wall.
And when at last I could bear the slow death of the clan at the hands of our chief no longer, and spoke out with words I had learned from books, with words the others could not understand or comprehend, I made the chief feel a fool before them all.
It matters little now. I am not like the others, and for this I have been cast out. That is my old life. This day marks the beginning of my new one. A new name for a new life: Slyver. I have chosen to travel into the lands of Skyrim. I know only that Falkreath lays some miles to the north.

Our wise woman, Largdaz, was allowed to give me some basic equipment, in addition to my personal belongings. She is perhaps the only person I shall miss. The supplies are as follows:
-One woodsmans axe.
-One iron pot.
-One pewter cup.
-Two waterskins.
-Four pounds dried and salted slaughterfish, one-half pound bag of salt.
-Two loaves of hard rye bread.
-One fur bedroll.
-One waxed canvas tarp (8'x10'),  six steel stakes, 40 feet braided rope.
-100' dock line (tarred hemp twine)
-One iron hunting knife.
-One whetstone.
-One straight iron short sword and shield.
-One iron breastplate and helmet.
-One pair fur boots.
-One pair fur gloves.
-One wooden longbow and leather quiver.
-Twelve iron-head arrows.
-One leather haversack.
-One leather and canvas backpack, wooden frame.
-One wooden spoon.
-Four small healing potions.
-Two spells: Healing and Flames.

Plenty of supplies with which to survive the wilds of Skyrim. I shall need them soon; summer is dying, and the farmers plant the fall crops. Soon the cold rains will come, and then snow. I am not sure what I will do; I know that civil war rages in these lands, and the Imperial Legion has long made use of orc soldiers and mercenaries. If it becomes necessity I shall join them, but I am not so eager to throw away my new found freedom just yet.