All around was the smell of damp. The rushes on the floor of her cell were damp and molding, the cold stone dripped day and night and the very walls seemed to weep sometimes. The dress she wore had once been a soft velvet, but it was soiled now, with mud and blood and she dared not think what else. And like everything in her little cage, it was damp, miserably damp.
In the beginning she had tried to count the days. The stone walls were soft and crumbling in places and she had used her fingernails to make a mark each day. But her nails had been broken and bloodied after only a week and now it hurt too much to keep track. Time soon became irrelevant. She had prayed to every god and daedra she had ever heard of for freedom, a champion to save her, and eventually for death, but the only answer she heard was the echoing of her own voice on the stone. Eventually she laid down to sleep and hoped that death would take her.
Vilkas was breaking his fast in the main hall when the heavy front doors of Jorrvaskr creaked open. He paid it no mind, the comings and goings of the companions at all hours was nothing new. He heard the sound of heavy steel boots on the wooden floor and the sounds of well oiled armor and he knew without needing to look that it was his twin brother Farkas, back from a job. The bigger man made his way around the table and plopped down next to Vilkas.
"Brother," grunted Farkas as he pulled a plate of sausages towards him. Vilkas nodded his acknowledgment and continued his breakfast. The silence between them was never uncomfortable, few words were needed to maintain the easy companionship they shared as brothers and as shield brothers.
When he had finished his food Vilkas headed out to the practice yard to do his morning drills. It had been too long since he'd had a real fight, he was itching for a foe that didn't die after one strike from his greatsword. Farkas practiced with him often enough, they knew each others movements as well as their own. But Vilkas craved the danger of someone who could match him blow for blow and make him feel that battle rush again. He took out his frustrations on a straw dummy instead.
By the time Vilkas had finished hacking at the straw dummy it was almost midday. He dropped heavily onto the ground to catch his breath and wiped the sweat from his eyes. It was no good. He had trained all morning and his frustration was still there, as tangible as the burning in his muscles. He heaved himself off the ground and trudged into Jorrvaskr for a bath and a midday meal.
After he'd washed off his sweat and had a bite to eat, Vilkas headed down to The Bannered Mare to ask old Hulda if she'd heard of any new bounties the Jarl may have put out. After his morning training session Vilkas knew he needed a real fight to alleviate his tension and the companions were slow on work at the moment. The Mare was a quaint establishment, it was one of the two inns in Whiterun and Vilkas had spent plenty of his nights drinking here. He thought the innkeeper, Hulda, might be a bit sweet on him to tell the truth and as a result she held onto bounties and tidbits of news for him. As luck would have it she had been saving a bit of information about a local bounty. He didn't even bother to buy a drink, instead he plopped a few septims on the counter as thanks and took the bit of parchment she offered him.
The letter was a bounty written in the Jarl's own hand detailing a handsome reward to anyone who could kill the bandit leader at Fort Greymoor. Vilkas was familiar with the fort, it had been little more than a crumbling ruin since he had first come to Whiterun. It was a short walk west of the city and it had been cleared of bandits and outlaws more times than he could count. But the fort itself sat at a fork in the imperial road and travelers were often harried on their way to the reach. Vilkas didn't think he'd find any mighty warriors among a cowardly bunch of bandits but it was better than nothing, and the promise of gold always sweetened a kill.
He had walked for about a quarter hour when he came upon The Western Watchtower, a sturdy old building, the watchtower served as a last outpost of guards before the road became more dangerous. Vilkas knew Fort Greymoor was just beyond the watchtower and he quickened his pace in anticipation. He could see the ruin looming in the distance and as he approached a steady rain began to fall. He cursed, the rain would make him less visible to any sentries on the walls but the sound of the water plinking on his steel armor would give him away if he needed the element of surprise in close quarters.
Despite the rain he managed to skirt around the walls of the fort to the unguarded entrance without alerting anyone. He drew his greatsword, the familiar weight of steel in his hand calming his furiously beating heart. He was a warrior, not meant to sneak around crumbling ruins, but it did him no good to rush into a situation blindly without a target. Vilkas waited there beneath the crumbling grey-green stone of the archway until he saw what he was looking for. A man dressed in mismatched leathers had come down off the walls and was making for the shelter of the tower, he was walking quickly with his head down to keep the rain out of his face. Vilkas seized the opportunity and rocketed out from beneath the archway. He hurtled towards the bandit and saw him turn, realization dawning on him a moment too late as Vilkas brought his greatsword down on his shoulder with a mighty heave. The skyforge steel sliced through the old leathers like paper and crushed the mans collar bone, biting deep into the flesh beneath. Vilkas brought his sword back up and twisted his grip, slicing sideways to take the mans head off as he fell to his knees. By now the alarm had been raised and he could see bandits swarming down from the walls and tower. Vilkas grinned and turned to meet the first of them with cold steel and an even colder smile.
After he had dispatched the dozen or so bandits that had accosted him in the yard, Vilkas made for the tower. The bandit leader had certainly not been among those he'd killed, their armor had been little more than tatters and their weapons rusty, the leader would keep the best of everything for himself. Before he could reach the door however, a man in steel plate burst out of it hefting a warhammer that could have crushed a mammoth's skull. Vilkas felt the tension in his stomach uncoil, the rush of battle was what he lived for and he hoped that this man and his warhammer could make him feel it.
He assumed a guard position, holding his ground as the the bandit walked warily towards him. Vilkas knew he couldn't let him gain too much ground, that warhammer would almost certainly have more reach than his greatsword. The offensive would be no good either, if he attacked hastily it would leave him open to attack. No, he would need to bait this man into charging in.
"Oy! You in the tin suit," he called out in a mocking tone. "Yes, you! What are you waiting for? I've killed all your men, no help will come from them."
If the bandit leader cared that all his men were dead he made no sign of it, instead he continued to size up his opponent cautiously slowly began to gain ground on Vilkas. Frustrated, Vilkas realized this man wasn't as stupid as he had hoped, taking the risk of an offensive move was the only choice left to him. Trying not to give any sign of his intentions, he tensed his muscles and charged. The bandit clumsily assumed the guard position and lowered his stance to better absorb the blow. But Vilkas knew then that he was fighting an amateur, the man had brought up his guard right away, giving Vilkas plenty of time to change his plan of attack. At the last second he pulled back and pivoted around behind the bandit, using the centrifugal force of the spin he brought the greatsword around in a wide arc and lopped off the bandits head in one clean motion.
He was disappointed, for a moment he had thought the bandit might actually prove to be a challenge, instead he was simply a coward hiding behind the best gear he could come by. Reluctantly, Vilkas began the work of hunting through the rest of the fort for survivors. He found no more bandits in the main fort or on the walls although there was plenty of plunder. He left the gold and jewelry where it lay, it had likely been stolen from travelers and taken off corpses and he wanted no part in that. He was about to give it up as a bad job when he noticed a small door near the stone archway he'd entered from. It turned out to be a prison of sorts. The front room was straightforward enough containing a desk and a single cell. In the days before the fort had been ruined it was likely used by whatever garrison was here for processing prisoners. As he continued in he had to pick his way day a crumbling stone staircase. The stones had a tendency to slip away underfoot even though they had seemed solid enough before he stepped on them. When he finally reached the bottom he drew his greatsword. If there was anyone down here they would have heard him coming a mile off. He stepped cautiously into the row of dank cells, making sure to check each one as he came upon it, until finally at the end he found one that was occupied. The occupant was a young girl in a the remnants of what might have once been a fine gown, she was curled up on molding rushes, whether she was asleep or dead wasn't immediately obvious.
"Oy, lass, are you alive?" Vilkas called out to her softly.
She stirred from her slumber and sat up, staring at him with hollow, sunken eyes. She looked like she may have been starving, her hair was so filthy that Vilkas couldn't tell what color it was. Now that she was sitting up he could see that she had been wearing had been fine indeed, the material was sodden and threadbare but he could still see costly embroidery and beading, she had likely been a wealthy traveler who was way-laid by the bandits. She hadn't spoken yet, only stared and the silence had begun to grow uncomfortable. Not knowing what to say, Vilkas decided to skip the conversation and break down the door.
"Stand back" he ordered. He brought down the pommel of his greatsword on the padlock and cleaved it in two. He opened the cell door and extended a hand to the girl, hoping she could walk, carrying her back to Whiterun in the rain would be an unpleasant end to a disappointing day. When she made no move to come with him he stepped into the cell, meaning to pick her up when she spoke for the first time.
"Are you going to kill me?" Her tone was flat and unemotional, it was the voice of someone who is resigned to their fate.
The question caught him off guard. It took him a few moments of confusion to realize that he was covered in blood and bits of brain from beheading the bandit leader.
"No..." he managed to say. "My name is Vilkas, I'm of the Companions of Jorrvaskr. I'm here to save you." That wasn't strictly true, he had come for a good fight, but he certainly didn't intend to leave her here to die in a cell. She took a hesitant step forward, relief written on her face, but she didn't quite make it across the cell. Her legs gave out and she fell, Vilkas only just caught her before she landed face down on the stone.
He shook her gently but she didn't wake, he cursed and slung her over his shoulder. Vilkas headed outside to begin the trek back to Whiterun and groaned in frustration. It was still raining.
