The Skorvo farm, in between Whiterun and the old fort, had stood within spitting distance of the Western Watchtower for as long as any of the guards could recall, and in all that time, no one had ever tried to purchase it from the Jarl. Now that the Watchtower laid in ruins and the fort was overtaken by bandits, it proved even less attractive.
It thus came as a surprise when a young Nord, with his fresh freckled face and short, rust colored hairs had offered to acquire the place, though for a cost much lesser than was asked.
It was still a decent amount of gold for a boy barely old enough to shave, and the Steward demanded he pay half the sum right away before any agreement was made. The Nord produced the full payment right away and was allowed to settle on his new land.
The young man now walked his property under the moonlight, his face imperturbable as he took in all the work that would have to be done.
The land was uneven, dotted with rocks and decently sized trees that would take months to remove. The house… Well, it could as well be summed up as a pile of planks, and the river's shore crawled with mudcrabs.
But the land had been untouched for decades, he reminded himself, and the river would teem with fishes and… Well, mudcrabs made for some fine stew.
Horses were expensive, so he'd bought a cow from the town's market and used it to carry seeds, tools and what little belongings he hadn't sold to buy everything else, it had taken him an hour to strap everything in place, but merely five minutes were needed to remove everything.
First of all, the boy picked up every piece of wood from the old farmhouse and threw it in a big pile, which he then ignited with an oil lamp. The flames lit up everything on twenty meters and warded off the cold, letting him get to work.
Wearing nothing but a pair of ragged trousers and boots, he grabbed a shovel and pickaxe, the closest thing to a hoe he could afford, and found a ten meters square area without rocks or trees he could begin to cultivate.
He'd seen a lot of farmers work their fields and his own father had tried to show him, years ago, so although he almost brained himself with the pickaxe twice and managed to sprain a muscle in his left butt cheek, his work was not for nothing.
His meager arms grew weak within minutes, whenever he thought he'd gotten the hang of it, a rock or root would get in the way and drain always more energy out of him. The shovel would dig in all the way with easy, like a sharp axe through flesh, for five hits, then, just as his guard was down and he put more energy in the thrust, the Nord would strike something hard, sending shockwaves through his tired arms.
But that did not stop him, nor did it detract from his enthusiasm and, by dawn, he had potato seeds in the ground at regular intervals, even though the trenches they were buried in looked more like waves during a bad storm and the edges of the "garden" were an interesting geometrical figure half way between a square and a squashed butterfly.
The young Nord, having neither a bed or something close to a roof, wrapped himself in itchy wool blankets and passed out by the dwindling fire.
That day, in spite of the rain and cold, the Nord slept like a log, a dreamless slumber deeper than the Sea Of Ghosts.
Even as a giant and its herd of Mammoth stopped by to warm itself at the fire, disapproving of its host's lack of proper care for the one thing warding off predators, the boy remained unconscious. The night had drained all of his forces and he only woke up by sunset, drenched, cold and numb all over.
His first thought was on why the inferno a few steps away hadn't kept him warm and dry, but then, as he noticed the setting sun, another question arose; Why was it still burning?
Closer inspection revealed nothing useful. It was wood alright, but then he turned to the fields and something nudged at the back of his mind, something missing… But how could anything be missing if there was nothing there to begin with?
Dismissing the thought as his stomach threatened to end their relationship, he opened his provisions chest and warmed up some salted Horker meat… Then tore through a week's worth of food in minutes, before milking the cow and drinking a whole pint to compensate for all the spices and salt he'd just scoffed down.
All of his muscles ached, but it only made him feel prouder of his work.
His stomach now appeased, it was time for his mind to take over. He looked around once more for the source of his unease and found it right away; no trees nor boulders.
All of the local pine tree population had been uprooted and piled up on the opposite end of the fire, at least one of the things now fueling it, and every rock bigger than a man was now arranged at even distance of the fire, forming a perfect circle thirty meters wide. The Nord looked at this odd arrangement, his pint of milk in one hand, the other scratching a nascent beard.
He looked at the cow. "Did you do that?"
"Moo!"
Blinking twice, he sipped some more milk and shrugged, "Thanks?"
After looking around some more, however, he decided to be logical and… Well, drop the issue altogether. They had fields to plow and a house to build.
The cow did a good enough job pulling the plough and halfway through the night, satisfied with the state of his first field, he went from one to the other, deciding to use the mysterious pile of lumber as material for his home, using the smaller ones, cut in half, to build a floor on the rock bed just behind the old house, then the bigger one he stripped with his axe and used to build the frame, a very simple tent-like structure, its edges three meters too long for the floor.
He had helped build a boat once, but never a house, so he used the same technique here; axing another tree to a two meters beam, which he nailed to the floor and then to an edge of the frame before cutting off two meters off the excess a meter from where he'd secured that edge to the ground.
The Nord then used the new beam to repeat the process at the next edge and so on until he had a very shaky and hollow house.
More beams were stripped and affixed to the joints between walls and roof and, almost out of wood, the morning light now poking over the horizon and his stomach once again throwing a fit, he decided to stop and think about walls over a warm meal.
Slated Horker and milk were all he had to feed himself now, but soon, much sooner than he had expected, he would have potatoes, tomatoes, carrots and maize, perhaps eggs and cheese even!
His smile was as bright as the once again dwindling fire, which he remembered to feed a whole tree, the numbness in his limbs still present in places.
The boy wanted to sleep now, but decided against it. He needed walls before anything else, and for that, he would need stone and clay. But how to find the Septims without any cattle or crops to sell?
Chewing on his frugal meal in deep thought, he never noticed the two men coming up behind him until the tallest cleared his throat.
The boy had his axe in hand and faced the intruder in a heartbeat. Just an old man and his teenage son, both surprised at the sudden reaction, but not afraid.
"Sorry," Apologised the redhead, putting the axe back on the ground before taking the two steps to his guests, "did not hear you coming."
The elder smiled while the boy just gawked at the rocks surrounding them. Before his father could introduce them. The boy pointed to the closest boulder and asked, speaking as though someone had jammed a potato in his mouth, "How did yew get them like this?"
Saying that his cow did it seemed like a bad move, so he made something up. "Rolled them on logs."
"And yew dug them up yerself?"
"Yep."
The boys incredulity brought a smile to his father's face, "That's called hard work, Jorik, be glad we have people working out farm or you would have to do it too!" And he turned to the stranger, "I'm sorry, my name is Oleg Stern-Hearth, this is my son Jorik, and you are?"
"Sturnbjorn, my friends just call me Stubborn." Answered the boy with a smile of his own, as though reminiscing an old joke.
"Aye, I can see why!" He looked at the fields with approbation and a bit of envy, remembering his youth, before his fields were plowed by others and the reward was measured in sweat, not septims. "The Jarl insisted I come and see if you were some sort of spy or bandit."
Sturnbjorn' eyes widened at that, but Oleg just laughed and patted Sturnbjorn's shoulder, "Be at ease, my boy, no bandit would ever work this hard… With this in mind," He nodded to the shell of a house Stubborn had built, "you seem to be short on building materials," and then to the boy's bare chest, "and clothes. I'm make my report to the Jarl now, why don't you join me? We'll go see those crooks at the market together and see if we can find you an honest deal, what do you say?"
Embarrassment crept up his spine and turned his freckled face even redder as he admitted being completely out of septims. This earned him a loud and long belly laugh from the old man.
"My boy," Oleg breathed after recovering from a joke only he understood, "you are building a farm, I will lend you some gold and you can repay me later… By Ysmir, you can just repay my son if I die before, it's not like you can run off one morning, we are going to be neighbors for a long time…"
Stubborn just blinked, as awe-stricken and speechless as when he'd woken up. "That's… Very kind, I don't think anyone's ever…" He shook Oleg's hand firmly. "That's the kindest thing anyone's ever done for me, Oleg, I won't forget it."
And the three left for a carriage, waiting by the road almost a hundred meters away, Jorik and Sturnbjorn taking seat in the back while Oleg held the reins.
"So," began the boy "How old awe yew?"
"I'm twenty-two, and you?"
"Eleven!" He announce with pride. "Where are you from?"
"I was born in Solstheim, but grew up in Riften."
"Soul-stain? What is that?"
Stubborn explained that he had not the slightest idea, except that it would be some kind of island and he had spent the first month of his life there before the fishing became harder and his parents had to move out.
"Ah!" Exclaimed Oleg, "So your parents were fishermen?"
This earned a short snicker from the redhead boy, "They've been everything from farmers to thieves… Never been any good at any of those."
"What about parents?"
Sturnbjorn frowned, "What do you mean?"
Oleg kept quiet for a moment, wondering what he meant exactly. It had sounded like a good joke to on the moment, but now it occurred to him it might strike a raw nerve…
"I mean, how were they as parents?"
The young Nord's first instinct was to tell Oleg to mind his own business, but the man meant well and it really was not such a big issue. "Not great."
"And where are they now?"
"Gone." There was no emotion in Sturnbjorn's voice, just a flat word, hollow and meaningless.
"I'm… Sorry." Oleg wanted to find a hole and hide in it, envying Jorik for not comprehending a single thing of this embarrassing dialogue. "How did they..." He trailed off, unable to stop talking even though every piece of his mind told him to change the subject.
"They emptied the safe and rented a boat back to Solstheim the moment I reached fifteen. I guess they moved back to their old life."
Oleg grunted out a sympathetic reply and kept his mouth shut for the remainder of the trip.
Once in Whiterun, he gave Sturnbjorn an heavy purse containing exactly "somewhere between two hundred and four hundred septims" and told him to go find some clothes while he and Jorik met with Jarl Balgruuf.
The market buzzed with activity, purses like his jiggling everywhere, in plain sight on counters and hanging from belts. It would be so easy to snatch all the gold he could ever want and just have someone else build his home…
But he shook off the thought and pushed his way through the mob, half naked and smelling of two days' hard labour. People parted before him like water before a warship. The stall he stopped by was filled furs and meat, but also leather and arrows. He bought a sober, dull grey and padded hunting armor, made out wolf leather lined with fur, a black cloak and work gloves, the whole for just over a hundred septim.
Except there was no purse hanging from his belt, only a small rope, its edges smooth where a paper thin blade had cut them.
"Hang on to these for me," Sturnbjorn told the wood elf manning the store, "I'll be right back."
The huntsman grinned and nodded, leaning forward to enjoy the show.
How do you find a pickpocket in such a packed crowd? Why, my dear friend, you need but ask!
"Dragon!" Roared the Nord, a thin smile playing on his lips, "Scatter!"
Everyone suddenly spread out, getting away from one another like they were all lepers, before bowing and . When someone has just committed a crime, they are tense, but a skilled thief will know not to let it show and fight off all his instincts to appear unassuming. Only, this means they take a bit longer to react when something unexpected occurs.
A lone figure remained frozen in place while everyone scrutinized the sky. The man sighed under his cloak as Sturnbjorn crossed the ten steps between them.
"And this," Called the boy, pulling eight leather bags full of coins from pockets hidden in the thief's cloak, "Is how you catch a pickpocket, ladies and gentlemen!" And he brandished his own purse and dragged the man over to the well at the center of the market, where he lined up every other piece of his loot before finally letting go of the thief's collar, "Now I want you to tell me exactly who each of these belong to."
The man was in his thirties, an artist, and that's what betrayed him, as a novice would have just run away, like many others in the market, the moment he heard some ruckus.
In short, "I don't know you," He spoke, his tone dark, "but I hate you already."
By then, four city guards were investigating the situation, but kept their distances, enjoying the thief's humiliation as much as everyone else.
"Well, I don't hate you," Stubborn replied, still smiling… But then his smile vanished, "But if these coins aren't returned to whom they belong in forty seconds, I might dislike you, and right now, I'm the only thing that stands between you and a mobbing."
The thief nodded once, his face still hidden by the hood, and personally gave back everything he'd stolen. Then, Sturnbjorn turned to the guards and sucked in a deep breath.
"I think this concludes today's demonstration, how about we let the artist go home and grab some rest?" He spoke, pulling off the man's hood so the guards could get a good look at his face.
"You mean let him go? A thief?" One of the Jarl's men spoke, not quite sure about that idea.
"A thief?" Stubborn took on an offended air, "Why, I don't think anything has been stolen today?" He smiled affably, "Besides, I'm sure our friend learned his lesson, haven't you?"
The other nodded, his jaw clenched and cheeks burning in anger and humiliation.
"See? And he can tell all his friends Whiterun isn't the best audience for these kind of illusion shows…"
The guard laughed under his helmet, "Alright, alright, you've made your point, let me just take him in for the night, so he knows what'll wait for him if he comes back here…"
Sturbjorn shrugged and turned back to his new friend, extending a hand, "No hard feelings, right?"
The other took his hand with an expression close to disgust, then the guards took him away and a few people in the market cheered the young Nord, as much for catching the thief as being so kind to him. He hadn't, only had he been too harsh or gotten him killed, the Thieves' guild might have sought retribution, trouble Sturnbjorn could do without at the moment.
When he went back to the wood elf's stall, the price was twenty septims lower, and he got a small hunting knife from the old lady manning the adjacent stall, free of charge and with a pat on the back as bonus.
The priest of Kynareth let him use an alcove of the temple to put on his new outfit, somewhat similar to that of the thief, and he sat by the dead three, facing some Talos preacher, while waiting for Oleg to come back from Dragon's reach.
"By the eight," mumbled the young man, lounging on the bench to look at the sky, "I'd just sleep a hundred years…"
Blue and while… and dull brown from the tree… Filled his vision and he pictured himself as a falcon, jumping from a cloud to the next, gliding in the wind, unhindered by walls and rivers…
He imagined the vertiginous dive to catch a prey, the whole world narrowing to a tunnel, just you and your target, inching closer, unaware, until it sees your shadow, and when it looks up…
"Young sir, the Jarl wishes to see you." The Steward appeared in Sturnbjorn's sight, shattering the boy's daydream.
He felt as though his back was fused to the bench and had to use both hands to pull himself up. The Steward left as soon as he'd put both feet on the ground, though Stubborn took a moment to bury his face in both hands. He hadn't slept at all that night and they were nearing the middle of the day… And his limbs were still painful.
When he finally looked up, it was to see an half naked woman with green paint on her face, looking at him severely.
"Hi?" He grunted, feeling horribly tired right now.
"I know what you are." Spoke the middle aged warrior in a flat tone.
He should have been afraid, but was too tired there and then to care, "Oh, fine, you caught me, I admit it; I'm actually a skeever in disguise!"
"You're a thief." She accused, earning herself an amused if puzzled look.
"Oh, then disregard the skeever thing. A thief then? Because of that thing back at the market?"
Her nod was solemn and unequivocal. His laugh was short and dripping with sarcasm.
"You don't know a thing, then, and I would suggest you refrain from insulting people you don't know a thing about in the future, I'm a good person, but actual thieves are not."
She smiled, baring her teeth in a feral way that sent chills down the boy's spine. "I'm not afraid of you."
"And I'm very afraid of you," He admitted, self-preservation suddenly kicking in, "but, as I said, I'm no thief, and I'm not a bad man."
Her smile lost some of its ferociousness and she took a closer look at him… Sniffing him, almost?
"No," she conceded after a moment, "you're not. My apologies for making assumptions, just stay out of trouble in the future, not everyone is as easily convinced as I am."
With a nod, he left and it took every ounce of his will not to just run up the stairs screaming for his life.
He entered Dragonsreach pale as a ghost, but had regained a healthy tint by the time he reached the Jarl's throne.
"Ah!" Greeted Balgruuf, Oleg and Jorik waiting in a corner, "My newest citizen! I hear you have what should have taken ten men ten days to do on your own in a single day…" His warm smile vanished and he leaned closer, Sturnbjorn being scrutinized for any trace of deceit for the third time that day, "Tell me, did you receive any… outside help?"
He thought about it hard, then answered, truthfully, "Except for my cow, no, Jarl Balgruuf."
Satisfied, the Jarl nodded and his smile returned, "Ah! See Proventus? This! This is what it means to be a true Nord! Hard work and honesty!"
The Imperial advisor morosely agreed and began pretending Stubborn was invisible.
"Now, I have been hearing good things about you, from the market, you put on quite a show there…"
The young Nord cleared his throat and choked out an apology.
"Don't be sorry, my boy! You handled the situation well, better than one could reasonably expect, and I wanted to reward you… No, don't interrupt me! I'm not doing this out of kindness. These are trying times and everyone is… Strung out. I want my people to know how you handled this situation and, by rewarding you, I want them to know I approve of such attitude. Do you understand?"
Sturnbjorn shook his head, "No. But I'm a bit tired, so do not take it personal, my Jarl."
Balgruuf scoffed and nodded, "But of course, let me put this simply;
I want my people to handle such problems in a calm and reasonable manner, by rewarding you now, I send them a message that I approve of what you did… But enough about the whys and more about the whats."
Indeed; "What?"
"Do you like dogs, Stubborn?" Asked the Jarl, with a sideway glance to Oleg.
The redhead thought about it, then shrugged, "I prefer them docile, sir, why?"
I took a certain kind of man to joke with a Jarl… "Because I have a litter of wolf-dog hybrids specially bred for me from Ice wolves and huskies and trained as war hounds, I will let you pick one, whichever you want, they are already trained and will be fully grown in a few months."
"War hounds… On a farm, milord?" That would be asking for trouble… And wolf-dogs to boot! He almost wanted to ask for coins or a horse. Shor, a goat would do as well!
That question amused the Jarl far more than it should have, though he had enough restrain not to openly laugh at the poor boy.
"Sturnbjorn, why do you think your farm was abandoned for so long? Just take the mutt, you will need it."
A fair point. A few minutes later, the Jarl and his Housecarl took the Nord farm boy deeper into the fortress, to something halfway between a stable and a dungeon, with dummies being torn apart by massive dogs wearing armors on top of their already ample furs.
There were six of them, but only five actually followed the attack orders, the fifth and biggest just sat there, growling at the newcomers, and whimpered when the trainer, dressed in full plate armor, gave it a solid whack with a stick. Sturnbjorn stopped and stared and the dog growled at the man, who grew angrier and proceeded to kick the beast in the ribs.
"Bornjolf…" Jarl Balgruuf growled, having obviously already discussed the man's techniques in the past.
"Just… A… Second… My Jarl…" Spoke the man, in between blows, the dog now curled in a corner, whimpering out in fright as its brothers and sisters looked on, ears flattened in distress, but too afraid to do anything.
In Riften, when he lived in the streets, Sturnbjorn had often been on the receiving end of such beating...
The trainer yelped as he was shoved aside, not even worth threatening. "Here…" Whispered the farmer, approaching the dog slowly, his hand held out flat for it to smell, "It's over…" The beast still shook and limped forward, ears flattened and hairs standing out in terror.
"Watch out! She's dangerous!" Yelped the trainer, still unable to get off his back.
As if understanding the man's words, it began wagging its tail enthusiastically and practically rammed itself sideways into Stubborn's open arms, twisting its neck to lick his face.
Irileth, the Jarl's Housecarl, cocked an eyebrow at the display of affection, and helped the trainer back on his feet. "What's with that one?"
"I… I don't know!" Cried the confused man, "She's got too much wolf in her, I was going to put her down… I… It's like she thinks he's a wolf or something."
Somehow, Sturnbjorn's mind went back to that woman, the one with paint on her face. The wolf-dog had sniffed him the same way she had… "I'll take this one, if that's alright with you."
"Well, you certainly are an interesting individual," The Jarl thought about it a moment, then found him a title, "Sir Wolf-Heart."
"Wolf-Heart, eh?" He looked down at the overjoyed cub in his arms, "I like it, don't you?" It licked his face. "Yeah, we like it."