AN: Hehe... just hoping to get better at writing. :)
In this story, the towns aren't scaled at game size (they are much bigger). And I don't own Elder Scrolls, just my original characters.
It truly spoke of Rorikstead's reputation as a peaceful little hamlet when young men such as Leifr Skovgaard could be bored amidst a deadly civil war. Not that Leifr had seen many battles while tending to his father's farm – it almost seemed as if Rorikstead was enveloped in its own safe little bubble, unaware of the goings and leavings of the rest of Skyrim. Even the recent talk of the Dragonborn only managed to stir up a few days' worth of gossip before it was business as usual.
No, all he had seen was the dirt he was forced to toil in day after day after day. Sometimes, if he was especially bored he could see the worn handle of his hoe transform into a spear. No longer was he dressed in a simple belted tunic, but in the finest of furs and leather armour. The farm turned into a battlefield, with potato bandits and wheelbarrow catapults. He'd always feel embarrassed to have been playing war like a child afterwards, but the sheer monotony of his everyday routine always managed to win over his shame.
His father's thin voice called out presently, breaking through Leifr's thoughts.
"Having a nice break now, are we?"
"… I was just to start working again, father."
Disoriented from having his day dream interrupted, Leifr clumsily resumed digging into the soil. A few moments of silence passed by before his father spoke once more, this time with a bit more bite in his tongue.
"So! What was it this time? Bandits? Dragons?"
Leifr flushed before mumbling out a curt, "Just potatoes."
"Hah! Now that's something I haven't heard from you." He sniffed before continuing. "Leifr. You're of age now – a man. I know you might not want to hear it, but you have got to learn how to grow up. Ysmr's beard, I'm not going to be around forever. Who's going to take care of your mother when I'm gone? The farm? You know-"
"I know, I know father. You inherited the farm from your father and he inherited it from his father before him. And you won't see me lose it."
"… Hmmph." Then with a sigh, the old man's frame deflated, like a sail with the wind taken out before it. His eyes seemed to soften as did his voice. "You've been a good son to me, Leifr. I know how you must feel – believe me, I was itching for adventure just as you are now once – but Sun's Dusk is soon upon us. I need you here, not out fighting in some godforsaken… be patient for one more year. With any luck," he grunted with exertion, "the dragons and the damned war might be gone by then as well." With that, he left his son alone as he moved up a row.
Leifr sulked for a while, though he had known his father's verdict was coming. It wasn't fair! All the other men his age had gone to fight in Ulfric Stormcloak's civil war. Even Erik, who was as green as a freshly plucked leek, had had his father buy armour for him all the way down at Whiterun. If he closed his eyes, he could still see his friend marching proudly back to the village, looking for all the world another mercenary eager to wet his sword.
Meanwhile, Leifr was nearing two decades and he hadn't stepped a foot outside of Rorikstead save for the few trading trips his family took annually. He wiped his brow before digging out another hole to plant their potatoes in. The dirt surprisingly actually helped his somewhat average looks; it gave him the same mystery a locked chest held – the hope that something worthwhile lay underneath. He stood about the average Nord's height, with shoulder-length dirty blonde hair tied into messy braids. A lifetime's of farming had gifted him with a stout body though it came at the cost of a slightly hunched back – something his mother had been trying to get him to remedy through various exercises.
"Where's your mother anyways? The wind's getting colder, and we need these in the ground before it freezes."
Leifr wet his lips before answering. "Over at Lemkil's. Said she wanted to ask him about borrowing some of his fertilizer."
"Bah, she shouldn't have bothered. Ever since I lost his spade he's been a stingy bastard."
Leifr shrugged. Personally, he thought that she had gone over to spend some time with the widower's children, Sissel and Britte. Ever since he had grown up, he suspected that she missed something about having a child around. Besides, she had always wanted a daughter – not that his father would oblige her. One child, he had said, was fine. Besides, the gods had seen fit to gift them with a son. What more could she possibly want?
Personally, Leifr thought that having a sister around wouldn't have been as bad as his father had put it. He quite enjoyed Sissel's company – though her sister, Britte, was a bit of a brat – so yes, if he had had a sister like Sissel, he would see no reason for complaint. Having an extra mouth to feed wasn't a problem, with Rorikstead's fertile soils and the aforementioned peace stove off any worry about bandits or the war sweeping through the village. Though dragons still remained a problem, so far they had heard of only two attacks – one on Helgen and one at Whiterun.
The sun was dipping low into the horizon and both men had finished planting for the day when it happened. Distant shouting quickly caught their attentions, though the two expressions were entirely different. Thoughts of bandits, Stormcloaks, and more lit up Leifr's face as he ran to greet the figure sprinting towards their farm. It was then he could feel the ground rumble… and see the terrified face of Lemkil come shouting into view, red-faced and hysterical.
"Giant! T-there's a giant coming! I-I tri-"
With a roar, Leifr's father straightened up with a speed of a man half his age. "Shor's bones! Are you sure about this?" The question answered itself with Lemkil's help soon thereafter. Due to Rorikstead's flat landscape, they could soon see an enormous figure silhouetted by the dying sun come striding towards them – a giant. And if that didn't convince them, the sound of the giant's footsteps did – each thud was like a war-drum signalling the village's doom.
"Lemkil! Igne, Sissel, Britte – where?" His father staggered forwards, a disbelieving look in his eyes.
"I… I did not see them as I ran... b-but no one could miss that… that thing! Oh gods, it's going to destroy my land! I am ruined!" He wrung his hands. "All these years of hard work – for nothing! Why me? Why now?"
Leifr's father gaped at him before grasping at his shirt. "Have you no loyalty against your own kin, you rat? My wife, your daughters – if they're in that house, they are dead! To oblivion with your farm! Is your heart stone, man?"
Lemkil only groaned in response, after which he let go of his shirt. He began sprinting towards the farm before calling over his shoulder, "Leifr, call the guards, dammit!"
With a start, Leifr struggled to unlock his legs before he started for the inn. Had this really happened? A giant, attacking Rorikstead? It seemed impossible, something out of the books his mother used to read him. But no, the guttural roars he now heard and the visceral fear he now felt were all too real – something the books had never quite managed to capture. "H-help! Guards! Guards!" He hammered on the inn door before Mralki the innkeeper opened it.
"Wha- Leifr? What's going on? I heard a terrible roar outside – it can't be dragons, can it? I know Whiterun was attacked a while ago but-"
"No, it's a giant! Where are the guards?" Emboldened by the frustration he felt at the innkeeper's blathering, Leifr ran inside the inn. The scene inside only served to up his anger. It seemed as if the guards had opened up a case of Honningbrew Mead recently and were only now clumsily putting on their armour. With an oath, Leifr ran out again amidst Mralki's shouts of alarm.
The scenario he found himself in seemed hopeless. The only guards that remained in the small hamlet were drunkards and fat, too accustomed to having to chase off nothing but other drunkards and the occasional wolf. His father was old, too slow to reach the farm in time and certainly not strong enough to stave off a giant by himself. By now, the other villagers had been alerted to the danger but none seemed to be heading towards the giant…
Leifr gulped before he ran down the steps, only to be stopped by Mralki's hand. "What are you doing? That thing will surely kill you! Do you not see the size of its club?"
"Let go of me! My father, my mother, Sissel and Britte – they're all in there!"
"And do you think your father would want to see his son killed?" Unrelenting under Leifr's fierce stare, the innkeeper continued. "Stay here Leifr. Let the guards take care of this one."
"Have you seen them inside? They couldn't kill a brood sow! They're drunk!"
Mralki sighed.
"Now, let go of me!"
"…At least take this with you." He disappeared into his inn before reappearing with an iron sword, which he slid into Leifr's hand before shrugging. "It's not going to do you a lot of good, but it's better than a rake. The Nine preserve you." With that, he slunk back into his inn and locked the door. Leifr weighed the weapon in his hands. It was weather beaten and worn, but un-rusted and with a sharp point. 'No time to think,' he began to sprint towards Lemkil's farm, 'this will have to do.'