A Dubious Commencment of Adventure
"Gods," one of the men complained, "we're so very close to the Rift."
"Yeah, of course. What about it?"
"Why is it so blasted cold, then?" he angrily exclaimed.
Ralof scoffed at the notion. "I thought we were Sons of Skyrim, not some puffed-up flock of elves in Valenwood. Toughen up, snowback."
The other men laughed at the timely joke. It had been a long trip to Darkwater Crossing, and many of them had suffered from increasingly-dour dispositions. Not helping this, of course, was the fact that they had been riding in the saddle for much of the day, with not so much as a brief respite along the journey. Well, except for their actual arrival at the small mining town, but even then, Jarl Ulfric had been somewhat anxious as he discussed the war with the locals. Tensions were high when word came that General Tulius had taken up command of the Legion in Skyrim, and that (for whatever reason) seemed to plague their rightful High King's every thought.
Almost as if he could telepathically hear what was being thought by his loyal warriors, Ulfric motioned for his mount to stop. Without turning to face his men, his voice sharply rang out. "Quiet. Listen."
Immediately, all chatter stopped, and the Jarl's loyal bodyguards reached for their blades. Dismounting, they all protectively surrounded Ulfric's destrier. From afar, two figures stood face-to-face. While none of them could make out the words, there was clearly some disputation afoot. Certainly not a threat, by any means, but it would be imprudent of them to not see what was going on.
"You villainous klutz! You hair-brained son of a harlot! You…you…housecat! Damn you! There's ink all over my journal, now! The pages are ruined, damn it!"
Fjolnir's day was simply getting worse by the minute. An entire diurnal had just been wasted trying to find some brief escapade to engage in, several hours lost trying to write some thought-provoking poetry, and now his provisions were covered in sticky, black ink. Worse still, his journal had also become a casualty of this "accident."
This is just plain sabotage. I know it, and this fuzzy villain knows it, too. Look at him! Still writing away, pretending to not notice how horribly he has just ruined my entire career! I'll show him, damn it!
Ka'Liar finally looked up, the randomness of this angered outburst startling the Khajiit more than enough to make his fur stand on end. As he looked at the ebon-haired Nord, he was horrified to see that he had just accidently spilt the contents of his vial of ink onto the human's open knapsack. A brief gander into the leather pouch indicated that absolutely nothing had been spared from the incidental spilling.
Very quickly, Ka'Liar became horrified at what had just occurred. The last thing he wanted was to anger anybody so soon into his journey in Skyrim. And now, it looked as if he had just failed at the one goal he had just set for himself.
"What's the matter? Has the…cat…got your tongue? Say something, Gods damn it!"
Fjolnir was past the point of caring of what happened to his belongings. Now, he just sought an outlet to his drunken rage, and to relieve the stress of the day by teaching this saboteur a lesson.
One look at this black and white housecat revealed just how apathetic this walking, talking beast was at what he had just done. For months, Fjolnir had been writing an epic tale of adventures that he had engaged in over the years. Raised as a sellsword, there were always journeys to be had and things to see, and it was these very things that Fjolnir intended to make a profit off of retelling.
But now? That idea was now but a dream. There would be no fame for Fjolnir at the end of his days- and there would certainly be no literature published by the illustrious Dancer of the Sea of Ghosts himself.
In great anger and turmoil, Fjolnir unsheathed his sword. The Skyforge steel glistened in the incandescent early morn. As sharp as the blade in his hand, Fjolnir's grating voice rang out again. "Say something, you poxy housecat! Oh, what? Audacious enough to ruin my life's work, yet cowardly enough to shy away from your gaffe?"
Ka'Liar did not know what to say at all. Clearly, this Nord was mad with some desire to stick a sword through his breast, yet even so, he could do nothing but stutter over his words. Unsurprisingly, the Khajiit could smell a rather strong scent of alcohol on his confronter's breath.
Almost as if the Mane had been there alongside him, an idea came to Ka'Liar. Reaching for his own knapsack, he pulled out a pricey bottle of Black-Briar Reserve, motioning it towards the violent Nord.
"I apologize for the damages. I myself was writing when I accidently crashed into you. Admittedly, I should have been looking as to where I was going. Perhaps I could…patch things up…with this bottle of Black-Briar mead?"
Fjolnir was about to grudgingly accept the bottle as an act of good faith (and to renew his drunken vigor enough for their inevitable fight, as well as the vital task of quenching his sudden thirst) when the sound of a war horn blared throughout the snowy forest. Accompanying it was the sound of a commander of some sort shouting above the loud, thunderous sounds of war.
"Swords at the ready! Archers, notch!"
Fjolnir adopted a combative stance at hearing this, and his Khajiit acquaintance did likewise with an iron sword that he had hooked to his swordbelt. Looking over to where the noise had originated from, he could see a Legion commander dressed in the crimson garments of the Empire. Around him were countless other soldiers, some wielding standard-issue broadswords, bows, and even a few hooded mages with crackling lightning spells. All of them were poised and ready to attack.
"Draw!" barked the commander. Fjolnir found it strange, however, that the Imperials did not appear to be glancing at them. Rather, their sights seemed to be focused on a group of ruffians far behind them, whom were also armed to the teeth and prepared to attack.
The next utterance made by the commander helped to solidify this stance. With a loud, authoritative voice, the commander spoke once more.
"Ulfric Stormcloak! You have been found guilty of treason and regicide!"
Just then, more scarlet-smocked men emerged from the lonely line of pines.
"You and your men are surrounded!" he continued. "Lay down your arms and yield! Your men will be spared if you surrender immediately! Their lives are in your hands!"
"Ulfric Stormcloak?" Ka'Liar said to himself, taken aback by the implication.
Sure enough, the Khajiit saw the Jarl of Windhelm in the center of the mass of azure-armored men and women, his face tightening into a grimace as his gaze turned towards their flanks.
"Jarl Ulfric," Ralof huskily whispered, "just give the order and we will cut a path through their ranks."
The others murmured in agreement. A young, boastful lad added, "We'll keep them occupied for as long as we can, and you can make it back to Windhelm safely."
That, of course, sent the group into a large, clamorous discussion as to how they would hold the Imperials off, allow Ulfric the chance to escape, and then hunker down until their Jarl could return with reinforcements.
"Enough!" Ulfric shouted above their glory-mad exclamations.
A sharp tap of his boot stirred his horse to motion, both rider and mount moving past the High King's faithful defenders. Meanwhile, Ralof and his shield-brothers and sisters looked on in dismay.
"Very well!" Ulfric said in reply to the Imperial commander. Throwing his war axe upon the worn stone road, he added, "I now lay down my arms for my shield-brothers, and I henceforth surrender for my shield-sisters. I, High King Ulfric Stormcloak, surrender for the Sons and Daughters of…"
"Advance!"
From all sides, as both Fjolnir and Ka'Liar noticed, a sea of red uniforms emerged from the trees, all descending upon the intolerably small group of Stormcloaks. They saw Ulfric look behind him to say something to his soldiers, though they could not make out any of the words of which he spoke.
First, one blond-haired Nord threw down his axe. A beardless man let his sword clatter to the ground. The greatsword that had once been in the hand of a Nordic lass met with the road with a loud clang. This continued with each and every Stormcloak, until they were but a mass of unarmed prisoners, being taken in by the Imperial Legion, no less.
"Where do you suppose they're taking them?" Fjolnir asked his acquaintance, the housecat's slight now forgotten by the inebriated Nord.
"Same place you two are going," a voice interrupted. "To Helgen. It's to the headsman for all of you."
Fjolnir quickly turned towards the unseen speaker, and found himself face-to-face with the Imperial commander whom both he and Ka'Liar had espied from afar. Beside him were four archers with notched arrows, and six Imperial infantrymen with swords at the ready, and with shields upraised and prepared to repel any attack made by the two adventurers.
"Well…" Fjolnir said, unsure of what to make of this. "Shit."
"Sir," Ka'Liar urged, "I'm not a rebel, I assure you. I've literally been in Skyrim for less than three hours, and I've yet to even speak with one of these rebels! Now, I don't know about him, but…"
"You damnable housecat!" Fjolnir exclaimed. Turning to face the Khajiit, he said, "I am no rebel, gods damn you! By the Nine, I…"
Realizing his mistake, Fjolnir turned towards the Imperials once more. They appeared just as puzzled as the Khajiit was to his untimely antics, though the commander seemed almost amused by the incriminating phrase he had just uttered.
"By the…Eight," Fjolnir said slowly, meekly surrendering before either Ka'Liar or the Imperials tried to subdue him themselves. "I'm a citizen of the Imperial province of Skyrim," he soberly added. "I've never been branded a criminal, nor have I murdered any other rightful citizen of the Empire, or engaged in illegal proclivities that I knew to have been immoral at the time. I am, as you will see, just as innocent as the housecat over here."
The Imperial commander almost seemed touched by Fjolnir's little speech. Had it not been windy outside, Fjol would have attributed the man's rheumy eyes towards his having wept at the performance that the Nord had given.
That was, until the commander laughed and said, "Good. Then that makes you two as guilty as the other. Good enough for me."
Jerking his head at the two men, the commander looked to his subordinates and said, "Restrain them. If they resist, then you may kill them. The chopping block is too good for their ilk, anyways."
As the infantrymen approached, Ka'Liar quietly capitulated, hands upraised to show that he was indeed unarmed. Fuming, Fjolnir was rebelliously grumbling as two of the six soldiers grabbed him by the arms. Pushed to his knees, the Nord felt one of the bastards come around to the front to bind his wrists in hempen rope. A quick glance to his side revealed the same being done to Ka'Liar.
Once they had been restrained, the Imperial commander took one lingering glimpse upon the two captives before ordering that they be thrown aboard the cart with the rest of the Stormcloaks. Thus, it was with an escort of Imperial soldiers that the two traveled, pushed and prodded towards two wagons, within which a sizeable menagerie of Nordic men and women sat. They were all forlornly slouching in their seats, shooting occasional glares at their captors, and occasionally whispering to one another in rather sharp tones when no one was looking.
Fjolnir was pushed into the first of the two carts, between an attractive young lass with golden locks and a boy of around twenty years. Ka'Liar, meanwhile, was pushed alongside a disheartened Nord with disheveled blond hair and a great deal of stubble coating his face. Also next to the Khajiit was an emaciated man in rags, as well as another Nord in the royally opulent clothing of a Jarl.
With very little ceremony, both carts lurched forward, signaling the beginning of a bumpy, uncomfortable ride towards certain doom, in the little isolated hamlet of Helgen.
A Friendly Little Note from One of the Authors:
Good day, this is speaking. The garrulous chapter that you just read is part of a collaboration between me and a close friend of mine in the real world. We shall be writing new chapters whenever it strikes our fancy, and I personally hope to get this fun little project up to 50,000 words, if possible. Considering the subject material, this is a very, very realistic goal. For now, simply enjoy the story, maybe post a review if you're in the mood or if you've something to say, and keep your eyes peeled for yet another chapter. Oh, and be sure to check out the forum known as "Black as Ash," where fun RPing action with a menagerie of fun fellows is but a click of the mouse away!
Stay tuned for yet another installment!