The Adventures of Poor Calder the Housecarl

by bludormouse

Calder had seen her come in once or twice. He never expected her to be the rumored Dovahkiin.

As she spoke in quiet words with Stormcloak leader sitting on his throne, he watched her conspicuously over the hall table's tableware. She was a Breton, about the average slim size for them but still a head shorter than a Nord. Her light hair was pulled back, so her cold blue gaze could stare right into the Jarl's eye as they conversed. Her serious face seemed almost pinched as she obviously dissected and examined every word he spoke. No other emotion beyond deep discernment played across her features.

Beyond her deadly gaze, it seemed almost beyond him that such a slim woman could down a dragon.

As the last mumbled words were spoken between them, the Breton woman left the Jarl's side to come near the table. Calder lowered his eyes and waited for her to hurry out the Palace's doors, as she usually did. Lately, she had been briskly coming and going like the wind, seeking a meeting with the Jarl, and after getting orders or concluding her business, briskly leaving again. Her last piece of business was her almost single-handed siege on Fort Neugrad against the Imperials, and he was sure she would have more Forts to ransack. He mused on the half-eaten pheasant leg on his plate, thinking he might as well stop gawking at a local hero and eat his dinner.

He lost himself in his thoughts, and was only startled out of them when the Jorlief the Steward, sitting next to him, elbowed him in the stomach.

"Hmm?" Looking up, he saw two pair of eyes staring at him expectantly. Cold blue eyes seemed to slice through his skin and freeze his very innards. If she pointed that look at dragons, he thought uneasily, he was sure Skyrim wouldn't be having a dragon problem.

Her voice, though, was a warm and deep feminine. Albeit a bit exasperated.

"You're sure, steward, I can't have one more attentive?" Her gaze looked him up and down, and then she scoffed. "A dragon would slice him up seven different ways before it sunk in his head to lift his sword. I need a man who can fight, not a fool absorbed in his dinner."

Before Calder could possibly process what this woman was talking about, or even get properly feather-ruffled about her rude comment, the Steward amiably began listing Calder's credentials as a fighter, mentioning his long lineage of fathers and mothers as shield-companions and trustworthy housecarls. And then it clicked together. Ah, he had finally become an official housecarl.

To the Dragonborn, no less.

Any man or woman would have been beaming with pride. Calder, however, found himself overwhelmed with uneasiness. He had heard stories about her—legends made in only less than a year's time about her rising leadership in the Stormcloaks and the Companions. If she had bought a residence in Windhelm, he supposed it meant her loyalty leaned more to Ulfric's cause. Yet he couldn't be sure.

What made him uneasy though was that beyond these rumors, he knew she also did many side venues of interest. She was a notorious tomb-raider, a one-man army against bandits and beasts, and there were even rumors of her involvement with the Thieves' guild and Dark Brotherhood. Obviously if he was to be her housecarl, she would expect him to tag along in the life-threatening adventures. And Calder was a little too comfortable with keeping his skin in one piece.

For the Nines' sake, he panicked in his head, she's already measuring me up for dragon fighting-and I haven't even been on a bandit raid in years!

Yet obviously, he reasoned, he couldn't deny being her Housecarl. No matter if she wanted someone else, as the Steward was just explaining to her now, Calder was the only man left in the Jarl's service trained in being a Housecarl and not fighting in the war against the Imperials. He was all they had. So left with only to accept their fate, Calder put on his best face and stood to respectfully at the woman.

"Honored to serve you, my Thane."

When he looked up, her face was pinched again in scrutiny. It wasn't a very ugly expression, but it certainly wasn't pretty. It made her mouth bunch up in a pucker, and her brow furrow deeply. He didn't know whether to laugh at it out of humor or nervousness, for it was both comical and intimidating. It was ridiculous, and he wondered how the Jarl kept a straight face. His was straight only from fear of getting that icey gaze again. And possibly a bludgeoning from the elven war axe strapped to her side.

Finally, with a sucking pop from her mouth, her face cleared to a grim line. She muttered a soft utterance, accepting her fate, and turned to the Jorlief. "Has all of my furniture been moved?"

"It has," the Steward responded. Calder didn't know why the old man seemed so happy, especially at him. Calder sure didn't feel happy. He guessed it was because the old Steward felt proud for Calder, that he was finally becoming a housecarl for a Thane, especially the Dragonborn. Obviously he didn't see it from Calder's perspective.

At the Steward's response, the woman suddenly began walking to the doors, briskly passing by Calder. As he turned around, she spoke over her shoulder.

"Keep up, Carrot-Hair."

Carrot-Hair? Calder inwardly grimaced, but quickly began following after her across the hallway. He managed on his long legs to beat her to the heavy iron door, and heaving it open for her, battled with his hard breathing to say, "Hear you are…my Thane…"

She swept right by him, and to Calder's dismay, stomped on her steel boots right out into the icey courtyard of the Palace of the Kings, not saying a word.

(/)

The whole way to the market square was dull, and its only contribution to Calder was in him realizing two things about his Thane. They only increased his anxiety over his new position, tenfold.

First, he witnessed her whispered dealings with the merchant Niranye behind her stall, right in front of him. Septims and obviously stolen goods traded hands, before they both hushed and the Breton woman moved to Aval's stall. Obviously the rumors of her Thieves guild dealings were true-and Niranye was a fence. Maybe another reason why the Dragonborn had made Windhelm her headquarters.

After dealing with Aval and emptying his stores of gold with her selling of dragon bones and scales-good lord, how many dragons had she killed?-the second sign that Calder should worry was at the Blacksmith Quarters.

"Strip."

Calder, thinking the banging chorus of hammers against metal had impaired his hearing, blinked rapidly in disbelief at her face. "I...beg you're pardon?"

In her hands, the Dragonborn held a set of steel armor she had just fired and beaten on the workbench for the past few hours. She now shoved it at Calder's middle, causing him to slightly stumble back, and imperiously gazed at him like he was an imbecile.

"I need to see if it fits you-else you'll be running around with me in ill-fitting armor. The Nine help me if I'm sneaking on an enemy, and my inept housecarl is blowing my cover with chinking too-big armor, or breaking my concentration by whining like a baby because his dick's chafing."

Whatever hope Calder had been holding that this woman had found him ill-fitting and would simply leave him at home and find someone else to follow her, was dashed by that sentence. It also dashed the idea that behind those scary blue eyes was the mind of a sane, reasonable person. He partially believed that ample bosom was a lie, because not a single shred of feminity seemed to be in her.

Calder obviously had taken too long to answer, because she scoffed again at him.

"Did you not hear me? I said strip, idiot. Hurry up."

By now, they were making quite a spectacle of themselves in the small market square; Caldor holding the steel armor in his hands, his face he could guess a deep red, while the small Breton woman demanded him to dance about in his smalls in front of everyone in the freezing cold. His wee soldier shriveled like a turtle's head at the very thought, and he could see some of the people around him thankfully forcing themselves to ignore them, especially the two smiths. Others were openly watching, though.

Maybe if I reason with her, he thought, grasping at straws. "M...My Thane, I must respectfully decline. Could we not simply go to your house and let me try it on there-"

"I don't have the time, you fool! I need the equipment and materials here. Are you not paying attention? What point would I have of going home, then coming back here?"

"Of course my Thane, my apologies, but you see...I simply can't-"

Before Calder could finish, it seemed the woman had lost her patience. Huffing in intense irritation, she cried, "For the Nine's sake, don't be such a baby. Strip now and get it over with. If I have to be bent over the bench again, I want it over and done with."

She advanced on him, and right in front of everyone began nimbly unbuckling his armor. Before his housecarl training could kick in, Calder gasped and grabbed at her arms. "M-My Thane?"

With impressive strength, she batted his hands away like they were a pair of moths and returned to the complicated knot of his armor's buckles. Finally, he remembered his training, and in shame hung his arms by his sides and let her do as she pleased. In an offhanded way, his brain marveled at how rapidly she was getting his armor off-it was both impressive, and a bit disturbing how much skill she had. Yet mostly the organ tried to keep his heated pale skin from revealing how utterly embarassing this was, and to ignore the entertained titherings of the crowd around him.

Armor pieces fell to the cold ground in loud clangs, until finally after a seeming eternity, the Breton woman stepped back and Calder was left in his smalls. In front of everyone and their grandmother in Windhelm.

With impressive fortitude, Calder's deep red face managed to look up. And he nearly cried in outrage at seeing her pause to look him up and down in his shamed state. He swore it was the chilled wind that made him shiver convulsively, and not the icey glare of her eyes as she scanned with a small smile at his freckled features. Damn woman!

He managed to snap out of his embarassed rage, and quickly strapped on the armor she had made for him. It was slightly lighter, and obviously upgraded to be more impenatrable. He was surprised when small hands began helping him reach the buckles on his back. When he was done, she circled around him, roughly grabbing a piece of his armor sometimes to see if it shifted.

"How does it fit," she finally said.

He moved his limbs and stretched. It fit good, and he told her so. Better than his other armor, though that he didn't admit.

She nodded, seeming relieved though he couldn't tell behind her stare, and turned to Oengul to sell Calder's old armor. Nevermind it was Calder's to begin with. Still, he didn't mind losing the old, dented set. It was uncomfortably snug and didn't see much action anyway.

He would have liked to keep the money though. Obviously his Thane thought of it as payment for his new set.

She voiced this as they left the square and headed to her home in Valunstrad. "I'm taking this for the expenses in material. It doesn't cover even half...but I'm sure you can make it up to me."

He didn't like the lilt of mischief in her voice, so he pretended not to hear it. "Yes, my Thane."

As she walked slightly ahead of him, she peered at him over her shoulder. "You seem like a real stickler, Carrot-Hair. I have to be honest, that worries me."

He blinked at her, incredulous at the thought that he could worry her. He felt instantly weary. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"You aren't my first housecarl, you know." She turned her head, minding the steps as she ascended from the cemetery to Valunstrad. Her steps were lighter, and she seemed in a better mood as she solemnly continued, "When I spooked that dragon out of Whiterun, I got one from Jarl Balgruuf, named Lydia. She was a stickler too, always nosing in my business about my...private ways of gaining funds, or not minding her footing when she stepped in front of me in fights. A real briar in my backside."

He wondered if this Lydia was safely tucked away near a hearthfire, having a good drink of mead and enjoying not being made to follow this crazed, demanding woman. He felt a stab of jealousy.

It was swept away in the wind when she added, "A real shame about our last adventure together. Died mysteriously in a draugr-filled dungeon I was splunking in. Sad no one could find the body...real sad."

Calder shivered in cold dread, his eyes wide. They came to Hjerim, and when she impatiently waved at him to the door, he obeyed and numbly opened it for her.

Peering in, she clapped her hands in glee. "How wonderful! They managed to clean up all the blood. Come, Carrot. Let's explore our new home."


(Skip the first four or five paragraphs if you want to know where I'm heading with this thing. Or skip the whole thing to the next chapter-if its up yet).

Lydia, by the way, is the bane of my existence. Yet I've never killed her-somehow, the woman never seems to die on accident! Yet I've killed Farkas and Calder many-a time, and had to reload many games. Finally I just left her at Dragonreach and went on my merry way with my favorite housecarl, Calder.

I should probably explain why I'm making a fic about Calder. I didn't notice until recently, but the man seems to be very quiet and peevish. Also a bit cowardly. There's something about his red sideburns and his less-than-nord pale skin, and the pinched, 'I wanna say something but I can't and I'm holding my tongue' sort of face he makes. His voice is also sad sounding, like he'd much rather be somewhere else other in the dangerous places I take him. And me being a sadistical person in videogames, take a strong delight in torturing such people.

And no one can tell me that when playing Skyrim, when their playing with their favorite follower, they don't converse with them outloud while playing. Because I'm constantly saying 'Damn it, Calder, keep up!' or 'Holy crud, Calder! Get out the way!' or 'Calder...I believe shit's hit the fan...to the exit, now, chop chop.'

The Dovahkiin lady in this is not me. I would not treat poor Calder like this-I treat him rather well. But sometimes, when Farkas and him are alone in Windhelm, and I'm derping on one of my thieving escapades, I wonder to myself...just what are those boys up to?

And it doesn't help I'm a yaoi fangirl.

Also, most important, the Dovahkiin doesn't have a name for a reason. Her past, her backstory, and her name aren't important. She portrays a character anyone can play as-it didn't seem right to have an OC as the hero of the game so I just didn't give her a name. The only other OC's I have planned are evil monsters trolling on our heros, like giants or hagravens.

If you think Calder is OOC, you're not the only one. The more I have Calder following me, the more confused I am about what his personality even IS. Do housecarls even have one? Only aggro Argis and the snooty 'stop stealing shit' chick from Riften seem like they do. Oh, and the Lydia stereotypes. Still, he keeps looking at me with that pinched up, 'please don't go in that scary cave' look, so I keep writing.

I plan this little fic to be rife with smut, silliness, and general Calder torture and embarrassment. Possible Yaoi, but very little romance. It's just gonna be silly fic after fic, though I do plan for some plot later in. So far, the next few chapters titled with The Beginning will be plotted. After I introduce some characters and some story, then we can continue with the random craziness. *points at giant list of poor Calder situations* I have more than a dozen ideas...heehee.

If You Like Prissy Gingers

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