Ancestry: The Tale of Emma LeFleur
Disclaimer: I do not own, or claim ownership of, The Elder Scrolls series, Skyrim, or any property belonging to Bethesda Softworks.
"You see, I just don't understand what Ragnar wants us to do."
"It's not difficult. Stop people, tell them it's a toll road, demand money. Simple." The female bandit sighed, adjusted her padded leather jerkin, and turned back to the cooking pot, where a simple venison stew was gently simmering. The smell wafted into her nostrils, and she inhaled deeply. Perfect again. A flicker of annoyance crossed her face as her companion strode over, grabbed the stirring spoon and slurped a large mouthful from it. To her disgust, he continued talking.
"But what if they refuse to pay?" The male bandit, a Nord called Ulfgar the Odorous by everyone (although never to his face), dribbled some of his mouthful of stew into his tangled brown beard as he spoke. The female bandit, whose name was Ellen Indrolian, snorted and raised her eyebrow. She was a Bosmer, and had a hunting bow and quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder.
"We're bandits, Ulfgar. What in the name of the Eight Divines do you think we do?"
"Uh...kill them?"
"Top class, Ulfgar." Ellen's voice was full of scorn as she turned back to her cooking pot. "Now go away. You're distracting me." She reached to a pouch on her belt and retrieved a handful of spices, which she sprinkled into the stew, before stirring it again. Ulfgar stood up, turning, his heavy iron armour clanking in time with his footsteps.
Ellen and Ulfgar were members of a group of bandits currently inhabiting the Valtheim Towers, a pair of old stone towers connected by a bridge and spanning the White River, east of Whiterun. They answered to their chief, Ragnar Bloodhammer, a hulking brute of a Nord named for his prowess with the Elven-made warhammer he was never seen without.
As Ellen had just explained, they were here running a toll-road scam in which they attempted to charge passers-by two hundred septims to pass. More often than not they paid, which was disappointing, as the items looted off the corpses of those who refused to pay more often than not added up to more than double the toll in worth. It was a simplistic life, and paid well.
Every bandit has his or her own reasons for joining a group, whether it was the money, the fighting, or just because they couldn't function in society. Ellen, for example, was trying to raise a couple of thousand septims that would enable her to buy a house in Riften or Whiterun and live quietly. Ulfgar was there because he enjoyed beheading people. Each to their own.
Ulfgar had reached the entrance of the tower on their side of the river and was just about to enter when they heard the hooves. The horse couldn't have been moving faster than a trot, and Ellen quickly stood, checking her bow was strung and making sure she had easy access to it. Ulfgar reached to his belt and retrieved his heavy iron war axe, grabbing his shield from its place leaning against the wall.
The sound of hooves clicking against the road grew closer and closer until finally a dark shadow rounded the corner. The dark Skyrim nights made it hard to see, but Ellen could just about make out the shape of a person on the back of the black horse. Unnervingly, the horse's eyes appeared to glow red in the darkness. As the horse and its rider approached, Ellen spoke.
"Stop!"
The rider tugged slightly on the horse's reins and it slowed to a halt, before turning their head to face the two bandits. Ellen swallowed slightly, and continued.
"This is a toll road, see? You gotta pay...200 septims to pass." Ellen was using her best intimidating voice, but to her ears, she sounded slightly meek and insignificant, especially when compared to the shadowy figure atop the demonic horse. Looking closer at the silhouette, Ellen could make out pauldrons protruding from its shoulders. Ellen gulped. The figure was armoured, and therefore most likely armed. Still, there was one of them, and twelve bandits. The figure was outnumbered.
Then the figure atop the horse removed its foot from one stirrup and dropped from the horse with a thud that rolled across the steep hills surrounding the towers. As it moved, moonlight reflected from a pale green, gemlike substance that adorned the armour the figure wore. Malachite, Ellen thought. By the eight, who have we picked a fight with?
The figure took three steps towards Ellen, a malachite, or glass as it was known, sword swinging in a sheath at her waist, stopping a foot or so short of Ellen. Now they were closer, the fire heating the forgotten cooking pot illuminated more of the figure, allowing Ellen to see the beautifully crafted helmet , with the smooth-skinned chin and plump, feminine lips. It was a woman! Ellen stared into the cold, turquoise eyes beneath the helmet, trying to discern the woman's race. Then she spoke, and it became apparent.
"Listen. I'm going to go on my way now. Go back to your cooking, darling. Save yourself a fight you won't win."
Ellen moved to back away from the armoured woman, whose accent had made it clear she was a native of High Rock, a Breton. So as well as the armour and the sword, she could be a mage. Let's leave this one, Ellen thought, her heart pounding in her chest. Then she heard a growling, throaty laugh. Oh s'wit. Ulfgar!
Ulfgar the Odourous finished laughing, and unsheathed his axe.
"Come on. Let's teach this girl a lesson she won't forget, Ellen!" And with that, he gave a great battle roar, and, with a manoeuvre Ellen had seen rend many a head from its associated pair of shoulders, swung his axe towards the Breton woman's neck. Ellen swallowed – Ulfgar seemed to have the element of surprise on the oddly slow to react Breton, and she expected to see the woman's head drop from her shoulders.
It didn't.
With a speed Ellen had never seen any mortal possess, the woman swiped her sword from its sheath and swung it. The flat of the finely crafted blade struck Ulfgar's axe, and runes carved into the blade flashed red. Ulfgar screamed and staggered back as unearthly flames consumed his body, appearing seemingly from nowhere. Then, mere seconds after they had materialised, the flames vanished, leaving Ulfgar burnt and his armour charred, but alive. He roared again, and moved once more to strike at the Breton.
He never got near. The woman drove her sword towards him, feinting around his clumsy, last-minute shield block, and buried the blade in his neck. Blood spurted outwards from the wound, the blade exiting from the other side of the stocky Nord's neck. Ulfgar choked, as if he was trying to say something, then went limp, sliding off the Breton's blade. Ellen watched, appalled.
She had not been standing idle while Ulfgar had been attacking the Breton, however, and as she watched Ulfgar's bloodied body hit the ground, she let loose the arrow she had nocked, sending it flying towards the Breton. While she had nocked the arrow, she had taken several paces back, putting distance between herself and the woman who even now was turning her attention to Ellen.
The arrow flew towards the woman, but she had been expecting the moved, and sidestepped the arrow, before taking several long strides towards Ellen. The Bosmer dropped her bow, going for the dagger at her belt – and gasped as the Breton's blade buried itself in her abdomen. Her eyes widened as she stared at the face of her attacker, her killer.
The Breton, Ellen realised, was beautiful, possessing the sleekly defined, sub-elven features of her race. She couldn't see the hair beneath the helmet, as it was probably held up by a net of some sort, but she imagined the Breton had dark hair that would fly behind her when she moved. She gasped again, desperately trying to form words, but the Breton spoke again.
"I'm sorry you tried to rob me, stranger. Are there more?" Her voice was silky and smooth, and it strangely calmed Ellen as her life force ebbed slowly away. Ellen managed to nod, and the Breton nodded in return, before slowly sliding the sword out, leaving Ellen to crash to the ground. The soft, damp grass rushed up to meet her, and she saw the sky spill out above her, the various constellations shining down around the twin moons.
She saw the Breton walk away into the tower, and knew that Ragnar and his bunch were doomed, for who could stand up to such a being? She pondered her wound. There was no pain, which was odd, for she could see the blood slowly spilling over her jerkin. Her blood. But all she felt was tiredness, waves of it.
She thought of Valenwood, of the mighty tree-cities of her homeland, of her own tree-house. She thought of how she had left seeking fortune in Skyrim. She knew she would never return, and that thought saddened her. Then a final wave of tiredness hit her, stronger than the rest, and her eyelids grew heavy. She longed to sleep, to rest for a while.
Ellen Indrolian closed her eyes, and slipped away into a sleep from which she would never awaken.