Wolves in the North
The courtyard rings with the ageless clashing of steel. Shouts of encouragement and exchanges of bets accompany the shining blades in their contest. The crimson haired huntress known as Aela watches with a small smile as the man that she found cold and clad in tattered clothes match one of the best warriors in all of Skyrim in a straight fight. The towering form of Farkas, the wild haired and silver eyed Nord, is clad in his favored steel armor. The heavy plating and equally heavy blade in his hands hardly seem to phase the massive man as delivers punishing blows to his opponent's shield.
The younger and smaller man opposite of the Companion grunts as he absorbs the blow and retaliates with his own lightning quick blade. The subtle wavy patterns of the Skyforge Steel catch the morning sunlight and shines like a bolt of Aetherial power. The baroque designs on the hilt of the blade and the young warrior's shield shine brightly as he dances around the net of steel his mentor's brother weaves around himself. A grin tugs at his lips, sharp blue eyes shining in the sheer joy of combat. His bright blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail beneath his somewhat battered helmet.
The ancient Nordic helmet, recovered from his own family's desecrated crypt, sits squarely on the young man's head with two curved horns arcing around either side giving him quite the fearsome visage. The steel plating protecting the rest of his body, while considerably more modern, shows the wear of hard use associated with a warrior's lifestyle. Bjorn chuckles as he drives beneath the older man's guard finally and plants his shield into the back of his knee before placing his blade at his throat.
Athis grumbles as he hands Njada a pouch jingling with coins and Ria cheers beside them. The young Imperial lass blushes as the young Nord removes his helmet exposing his regal features for all to see. The strong jaw, close trimmed beard of the same color as his hair, the seemingly ever present smile, and those piercing blue eyes that seem to see everything before them from every angle. Aela smirks at her younger Shield-Sister's expression knowing as just about everyone else in Jorrvaskr does that the lad and lass fancy each other but have yet to make anything of it.
"We'll see how long that lasts once he joins the Circle," the crimson haired huntress thinks to herself with a smirk. The Harbinger, also known as the Last Dragonborn, is off on another adventure with his faithful companion and wife Lydia leaving Vilkas in his stead. While he doesn't accept the beastblood as the Huntress does he respects every Circle initiate's right to choose. The Harbinger himself shares in the beastblood as does his wife though they both take care to keep it hidden as they should.
Not three moons ago Ria herself had partaken in the ritual and joined the pack, and Hircine willing so too would Bjorn. The young Nord and his teacher meet in the center of the yard with the older man showing his student where he could have done better. Vilkas is not the tower of muscle that his brother is though that is not to say that he is not tall. All Nords have a little bit of the Giants that roam Whiterun's plains in their blood and gain their height from it. Vilkas has the same silver eyes as his brother and the same long, dark locks of hair though his body is the lithe and athletic build of a swordsman.
None of the spectators can catch the words exchanged but they all see the younger man's face become serious as he places his helm over his head once more. This time master and apprentice square off. Fresh bets are placed as Vilkas draws his blade from his hip and brings his broad shield into play. The wolf designs seem to come to life as they catch the sun's rays and all hold their breath. Aela's smirk widens to the point of being called a grin at the look on Ria's face as she watches her not-so-secret crush prepare to face his teacher.
The two men face each other for a few seconds before at some unseen signal they begin their duel. Their blades whip around so fast that many of those present can't keep track of them. The shields shudder under the power of each blow and thunk against each other heavily as their bearers attempt to throw each other off balance. Bjorn lunges only to retreat and pivot around an overhead strike and ram the edge of his shield into the face of his opponent's own shield. Vilkas grunts against the strength of the blow before lashing out with his blade once more.
Bjorn lashes out with a booted foot driving his mentor back for a moment. The two warriors hardly take breath before they begin battering each other once more. The cheers had long faded into silence as two of the most skilled warriors in Jorrvaskr duel. What started as a friendly bout rapidly seems to turn more serious as the blades clash with a little more force, a little more speed. Feet, fists, heads are all thrown into the fighting with reckless abandon. And throughout it all not a single step back is taken on either side.
Just another day in the lives of the Companions.
A man watches the happenings of the mortal world. Impossibly tall and well muscled, with a stag's skull for a face, and a long spear held in one hand. Glowing eyes twinkle in merriment as they observe his children unknowingly select his next servant. The small pond's surface glows with the images of young Bjorn sparring with his teacher, his ears listen in on the thoughts of both Aela and Ria his favorite and youngest respectively. The crimson moon shines down above him bathing all those under his rule in that eldritch light that calls to the hunting instincts in every man, woman, and beast.
A tingle at the edge of his senses informs him of one of his sibling's approach. With a soft sigh he releases the barriers for that split second admitting "her" to his home. A burst of shadows announces her as she appears at his side. A raven remains perched on her shoulder as always it's feathers shining in the crimson light of his moon. A wolf appears at the man's side as he turns to face her eyes narrowed in suspicion. A dress clings to her curves as tightly as the shadows who bow to her mastery.
"What is it you want Nocturnal?" he asks. His voice reverberates with both power and a challenge, the challenge of an Alpha predator. His sister merely smirks as she stalks forward, her hips swaying in her typical seductive way.
"I can't drop in on my least hostile brother?" she asks coyly, voice dripping with that hidden promise that she is known for. While not as downright seductive as Mephala's it still carries that temptation that could turn the most faithful husband from his wife for a night of forbidden pleasures.
"You always have a purpose to what you do. If this is about the one who would have been your champion it would be better for all if you turned back now: his soul is destined for my service." His sister laughs outright at his proclamation, seemingly mocking him.
"No brother I am not looking to claim another champion when I have found my last Nightingale and punished that fool who would dare to challenge me. Rather, I wish to speak to you about...one of these other realms that we have always thought of expanding our influence into."
"Ah! Which one were you thinking of?" the Hunt Lord inquires as he turns back to the spar where they decide to call a draw. His sister smirks and lays the palm of her hand falt before her eyes. Planetary bodies flash into existence over the hand surrounding a single star.
"Oh I think you know which one…"
Bjorn's heart thumps against his chest as his boots find purchase against the loose gravel and shale of the old mountain path. His eyes strain to pick up the slightest hint of danger even as he picks out his next step. Farkas can't keep the excited grin off his face as his Shield-Brother leads the way towards the small bandit camp newly established in Bleak-Falls Barrow. He knows that the Harbinger's own saga begins inside this desolate tomb inhabited by his honored dead and is eager to cleanse it of filth once more.
Wind carries stinging snowflakes into his face as he pushes farther up the mountain side. At last, with his muscles and lungs burning as hot as his spirit, they come upon the great arches and staircase leading to the barrow. And, as anticipated, there were bandits in their furs and rough-forged iron plates scowling and leering at the two companions striding up the steps.
"Well, well, well! What have we here!" a muscular Orc chuckles evilly. His heavy spiked brow casts the wicked eyes in shadow as he casts an appraising eye over the two warriors' gear. Specifically the greatsword on Farkas' back. A blood stained warhammer is held in his meaty palms, the iron head covered in scratches from the years of hard use and the shaft chipped with the strains of combat. Two Nords stand beside him carrying axes and shields while a female Bosmer peers at the two from behind a pillar, a longbow held in her hands.
The companions mark her as being the more deadly of the bunch for an arrow can kill a man just as surely as a blade or an axe and from much farther away. Bjorn unclasps his cloak and grasps the hilt of his blade, the heavy furs pool at his feet to the sound of hissing steel. As if the Divines themselves are watching the winds die to a mere soft breath, leaving the snow to settle and the fighter's breath to hang in pale clouds before their faces. With a savage roar the Orc throws himself down the steps warhammer raised high.
In an unspoken agreement the companions step away from each other splitting the bandits as well. The Orc makes for Farkas assuming that he would be the more dangerous of the two while the Nords bear down on Bjorn taking his slightly leaner frame for youth and thus inexperience. Only when the first Nord receives a lightning fast sword to the throat do they realize their error. Bjorn rips his blade from the first man's throat, ignoring the blood that sprays across his breastplate, and raises his shield to take a savage blow from the other northerner.
The axe digs a shallow divot into the steel rim and sends a jolt down Bjorn's arm but he merely grins. His heart sings with the joy of battle, veins burning with that savage fire that comes from being so close to death and looking it in the eye. His blade flashes and thunks into his opponent's shield. The Nord grits his teeth and raises the axe once more only to grunt as Bjorn throws his weight behind his shield and drives it into the man's gut. He might as well have rammed a mountain as he feels the weight of the larger man. But it is more than enough to throw him off balance for a brief moment...that is swiftly wasted by the need to raise the shield and catch an arrow screaming for his chest. The angry projectile quivers where it is embedded in the wood and draws a scowl across Bjorn's face.
"By Ysmir...I'm going to kill that woman," he growls and steps towards the axeman once more.
"You'll have to get through me first pretty boy!" his foe snarls and charges once more. Their shields slam together with a thunderous crash and the snapping of the embedded arrow's shaft. Bjorn ducks under a hack from the axe and slashes at the slightly larger man's leg in the same motion. The Skyforge Steel bites into the flesh above the knee and sinks in deep enough to sever the tendons. The Nord's knee gives out from under him and he roars in pain before the sword hews through his neck on the return stroke. Bjorn pays no more attention to the corpse and brings his shield in front of his body to ward against more arrows. His eyes flick over to regard his shield brother who even now is levering his massive greatsword free of the dead Orc's torso.
"Come brother! More wait within!" Farkas bellows and charges up the steps trusting in the gods to defend against the Bosmer's arrows. Bjorn follows, shield ready to impose a barrier of wood and steel between it's bearer and the archer.
"I don't know sister: we might have a bit more of a struggle than you are making it out to be with that world."
"Why brother! Are you saying that your wolves are no match for the challenge?" The stag-skull faced man growls at his smirking sister, knowing full well that she has almost painted him into a corner with such rhetoric.
"You know damn well that they would serve better than your little birdies, but there is a reason that those gods have been withdrawing from their realms. Magic there is weak and chaotic at best, the people are vipers in mortal skins, and these creatures that are colder than Draugr are gathering their power once more. If my wolves are sent there–"
"They would have one of my Nightingales and a few of our sister Mephala's servants accompany them so as to have a better foothold."
"This is still not a wise decision…"
"Perhaps...but it will be fun."
The ruined halls of Bleak Falls Barrow ring once more to the clashing of Northern steel. Blood flows across the ancient and weathered stone as Bjorn plunges his blade deep into yet another bandit's gut. The Argonian hisses in pain before Bjorn rips his blade free and slashes the lizard-man's throat to silence him. His shield swings around and deflects another sword from it's path towards his head before his own blade flashes in the weak lighting and plunges deep into a Redguard's chest. Farkas roars as his greatsword arcs around once more to take a woman's head from her shoulders.
"Come to me dog and face your death with courage!" a tall man bellows from beeper in the chamber. Bjorn snarls and stalks forward, blood dripping from his blade.
"You call me dog scum? Where is your courage when facing an armed warrior and not unarmed girls? Where is your courage in burning a man's home down around him when he fights back? Where is your courage to face me like a man without your slaves to stab me in the back!?" the young Nord roars and charges towards the man, heartened to hear Farkas' heavy steps just behind him. One bandit tries to intercept him but Bjorn simply presses his shoulder behind his shield and throws the man aside across the broad surface. He simply cuts the next man down without breaking stride. Farkas breaks off to deal with the last bandit standing and Bjorn challenges the Chief.
The chief sneers beneath his obscenely horned helm as he draws a greatsword. To Bjorn's eyes he's sloppy, overbalanced...unskilled. Farkas is more of a challenge when drunk. The blonde Nord's eyes go cold as he steps forward. It's a simple matter to dunk under the first, comparably, clumsy swipe and drive the point of his blade up into his skull. Bjorn coldly wipes his blade free of blood on the chief's tunic and sheathes it. A meaty fist smacks into his steel pauldron shocking him out of his foul mood for a moment. His head whips around to regard the widely grinning face of Farkas at his side.
"Well done shield-brother! Let's get home, get some mead...and get warm!" The two warriors chuckle loudly, their voices echoing off of the ancient walls. Deeper in the catacombs the bones of the restless dead rest easier as the songs of northern steel quiet at last leaving them to their eternal rest once more. While above them the north carriers on: as harsh, beautiful, dangerous, and joyful as the days when they were but youths first carving their homes from the mountain's flesh.