The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
A Bard's Tale
Prelude
The maiden was beautiful, any within reason would have agreed to those words of description. She was tall and strong in the build of the feminine, possessing more finely developed hips and strong legs than she had bulk of arm, though these were also well toned and clearly possessing of strength. Her hair was long to the middle of her back and red-golden worn in a single braid that looked quite heavy while her eyes were a captivating steely blue. Her bust was not an exaggerated parody of femininity though it was sizable to the point of presence. Nor was she without marks against her visage, three small and relatively subtle scars depending on the lighting covered her right cheek, a memory from a bar fight with a cat-man and she carried herself with a gait of a warrior older than her youthful appearance possessed. A simple soldier's broadsword hung at her right-hand side belaying her left-handedness while a pack rested across her shoulders laden with a bed-roll, torch, woodsman's ax and a simple tin cooking pot.
Within the pack were her sparse belongings, a truly upper-class set of clothing, embroidered and jewel encrusted as well as a simpler rougher set of clothing, a few vials of healing potions, a couple of books, The Art of War Magic by Zurin Arctus and Songs of Skyrim, as well as a few bruised vegetables ranging from potatoes to leeks that were three days prior fresh and now were somewhat wilted. Between the pack and her back sat a light but well made shield painted in gold and blue, a simple round thing to compliment her sword. Carefully wrapped in leather beneath the shield was a finely crafted red and gold lute which completed her vast array of things carried. Covering her flesh was equally simple (and so far sturdy) armor crafted of animal hide, though she intended to purchase better soon. A thick woolen tunic and a well made but somewhat worn leggings were under the armor of course to avoid chaffing and scratching from the armor's imperfections. She was also utterly alone, the beauteous woman, in the snow and the cold of the home of her people, the Nords, Skyrim, the Old Country, the Fatherland and was thoroughly unimpressed.
This woman hailed from the city of Bruma and was called Freya the Fair-Haired and was used to the cosmopolitan nature of the heartland of the Empire of Cyrodiil, but more importantly was used to their standard of living, the infrastructure as it were.
"Skyrim…" Her voice was melodious, lovely by the standard of many, she was a formally trained Bard, a Warrior-Poet, and while she was not a Skald of the Nordic tradition she knew many of her people's songs and ballads. As well as many of Cyrodiil's songs. One step in front of the other had carried her from her distant home city in search of a change in venue, a small amount of fame preceded her coming, she was well known in the courts of the counts of Cyrodiil and had performed (only once) in the Imperial Palace itself for the Emperor himself. She had grown bored with Cyrodiil, and traveled first to Hammerfell, where she found that she adored the heat of the deserts there and would have stayed truly did she not feel some sort of nomadic pull not unlike the Redguards who called the Ali'kr home that drew her here, to this miserable and frozen over place.
She gave little heed to the streams of peoples, mostly of the peasant stock who had just enough to flee in the direction opposite where she was headed, war brewed here in Skyrim, this she knew. A terrible civil strife, inflicted by the Empire when they had bowed down in agreement to the will of the elves in Alinor. Personally, being youthful, she had no memory of 'Talos', and felt no offense at the banning of the worship of a man, though she did not agree with the idea that the elves had the apparent right to do as they desired to so called 'deviants' regarding the issue. No, her matron was Dibella, Goddess of Women and Passion, while she respected the other Gods she could not definitively deny that she was a monotheist. She had simply never felt close to the other seven of the Eight, even Akatosh, the Dragon God of Time and King of the Gods held no special sway for her. She had opted to discuss religion as little as possible when she became old enough as a result of this outlook as there was little doubt that others would take it badly, which academically at least, she could understand. The Gods were a very personal thing to everyone, beings beyond comprehension that men and mer held close to their hearts, it wasn't something that an elf or a treaty could dictate, not properly, anyway.
She sighed internally and trekked through the crowds, she noticed they were no thinner now then when the Nord's Civil War first started. Few of the fleeing refugees at this point were Nords, most were of Elven stock, Altmer, Dunmer, Bosmer, all of them saying the same, they'd come from the east of Skyrim, where Ulfric Stormcloak 'ruled' from Windhelm, the ancient Second City in Tamriel. They mentioned some were braver than they to stay behind but that most, in their opinion the sensible ones, had no interest in remaining. To this she had no answer, where she was reared into womanhood the idea of disliking other people simply because they were not Nords was ridiculous. House Carvain was as heartland Nibenian as they came and they were still much loved by the Nords of Bruma, and the streets and houses and pubs were shared with Imperials, Bretons, Dunmer and more with all the great races of the Empire present at some point in the year. Provincial loyalty perhaps is what it was ultimately but as she came to a stop next to the border posting she gave no more thought to it in that moment as a man in the armor of the Imperial Legion stepped up with a sheaf of papers in hand despite being as Nordic as they came. "Name, Winters passed, Hometown and reason for visiting Skyrim?" They were straight-forward and reasonable questions of course, simple census information.
"Freya of Bruma, called the Fair-Haired, nineteen winters and religious pilgrimage." Two truths and a lie, but a harmless one at least, she had no reason to join any sort of cause here and had no interest in such things.
"Can you write?" The Legionary asked simply as he held out a stained, rumpled quill and a sheaf of traveling papers.
"Aye." She put her mark down on the pages where he pointed out, signing her name proper were appropriate.
"Enjoy your visit to Skyrim, traveller." The Legionary waved her through the throng of people with a short motion and with that she entered the 'Fatherland'.
Author's Note: Welcome to my second posting of A Bard's Tale, the story of Freya of Bruma and her lady, Gwynnifer Kingsley, Lady of Daggerfall. Freya is not the Dragonborn, she is a simple bard, hoping to record the stories of her people which are alien as alien to her as the meaning of life. Freya is instead the sworn handmaiden (read: bodyguard), companion and eventually friend (or more depending on how this writes itself) of the Last Dragonborn.
Bethesda Softworks and its parent company ZeniMax Media are the owners of The Elder Scrolls, I am the owner of my original characters.
