Old Gray-Mane sat atop the Skyforge on a stiff wooden chair that granted him a view of the city below, but as always, his eyes were on the forge.
He was nearing his eightieth year, outliving his brother and wife. Many in the city say that to live so long must be a blessing of longevity granted by the Divines, though Eorlund would not have considered his feebleness or his solitude a gift.
As he sat, he watched his assistant work, leaning forward and balancing his weight on an aged oak staff. He found himself trying to remember the last time he had thought of death. Death was everything to a Nord, in it a man of honour can find everlasting glory both in the hearts of those he left behind and in the golden halls of Sovngarde. In the First Great War, many young men left behind their loved ones for the beyond, but as Eorlund recalled, few were remembered as they fell to the onslaught of the Dominion.
Eorlund never fought in that war, he was safe in his home far from the eastern front and volunteered in the war effort by what he did best. He remembered handing swords and shields to countless recruits, some older some younger, all believing that their glory could simply be found at the end of their blade. By the fifth-hundred eager recruit, Eorlund wanted to throw the shield at his head and grab him by the armor straps to shout at him, just so he could see some semblance of fear in his face instead of the same wasted youthful determination.
Only fools are eager to die, Eorlund decided, for it takes a fool to so blindly cast away life and dismiss its wonders as insignificant to what lies beyond. Eorlund could admire every stone in Sovngarde but will still regret the things he didn't do in life, like telling his daughter he forgave her for leaving.
As it was, unlike many young men in his time Eorlund never cared for pursuing a glorious death in his youth, for him he always had too much to do. He had given his life working the Skyforge, preserving the ancient tradition passed down from his forefathers. The forge gave him fame, respect and countless swords that would kill countless of idealistic young men. It had been a long life for Eorlund Gray-Mane, and in the end he supposed it was as much of a blessing as it was a curse.
"Shit!" The exclamation of his assistant broke Eorlund out of his train of thought. He didn't even need to ask to know what happened to the young man, Eorlund had burnt his own hand countless of times before when working the forge.
"Careful that it does not leave a mark, young Battle-Born."
Lars looked up from his clutched hand at Eorlund, clearly embarrassed at his slip-up. Now at the hearth of the forge lay what was intended to be the head of a steel battleaxe, dissolving quickly into the red hot coals of the forge.
"I-I'm sorry Eorlund, I wasn't being careful."
"Boy, you are always careful, so careful in fact that you thought thrusting the steel into the forge rather than sticking your arm in would have been better for you, hmm?"
Lars said nothing for a moment, caught in his fumble. "I just thought laying it around the edge to temper would free me to get started on the daggers, I didn't mean for it to slip further into the forge."
"You tried to make things easier for yourself." Eorlund said simply. "It is a clever thing to do, young Battle-Born, but fine steel is ground by a stone, not by a brain. Skyforge is not some low-level furnace used to pump out half-worked steel, it is a place for craftsmanship, of time and dedication and discipline." Eorlund knew the boy probably heard enough of his lectures, and yet Lars was always more patient than most his age, and Eorlund never found himself having to repeat the same lecture twice.
Lars nodded, his eyes solemn as he rubbed his injured hand.
"Shall I start again?" He asked.
"Not until you clean up the wasted steel." Eorlund replied.
Lars nodded again, reaching for a rusted shovel that lay beside the forge.
" - But before that, go down and find a salve for yourself. Your hands are your most important tools, take care of them."
Lars nodded for the last time, and turned to leave down the steps of the Skyforge before pausing, and turning to Eorlund.
"Shall I extinguish the forge?"
"No, boy, leave the fire alive, the forge will not have it any other way." And neither did Eorlund.
Lars made his way down the steps of the Skyforge, his hand seared slightly and he covered it over with a damp rag to both ease the pain and hide his work injury from some of the Companions training below. As he made his way into Jorrvaskr he passed a pair of whelps sparring with dull iron blades, overlooked by Athis the Dagger, who nodded at Lars as he walked by. Lars made it to the door to the hall before he heard a voice from behind him.
"Let me get that for you, Battle-Born." Lars turned to see a young Nord woman clad in leather-hewn armour with one arm outstretched holding the door handle.
"You're back!" Lars exclaimed, the young woman smiled, her straw-blonde hair, drawn into a ponytail, was matted with grime and specks of blood. There was a fresh cut on her smooth jaw, which seemed to glow a dark red against her pale skin.
"And with honor. I have the the eye of a brood-spider as proof."
"Than your proving-?"
"-Was a success." The woman said coolly. "And you and I, Lars Battle-Born, are going to celebrate."
On that note the woman pushed open the door to Jorrvaskr and the two made their way inside. They were greeted with a rush of warmth from the fire and the heady smell of mead. Already at the table closest to the hearth a gathering of Companions sat as they listened to another Companion that stood at the head of the table clutching a tankard of ale in one hand.
"...Big as a boat, with legs like tree-trunks and pincers that can rip a giants limbs off." With each piece of description the man would gesture the proportions, often spilling bits of ale on the wooden floor while doing so.
"Come off it, Ulf, cave spiders can't be that big, it's simply not possible!" One companion cried.
"Oh I assure you, Tovi, this spider was the size of the general goods store." The man replied, taking a swig from his tankard, from the corner of his eye he saw Lars and the young woman arrive, and hastily lowered the tankard from his lips, the liquid dripping off his beard.
"Oh, Brendel! Show these naysayers the eye we bagged from that spider."
"Which one was it Ulf? The one you didn't run away from or the one the size of the general goods store?"
The table laughed, as did Ulf, though, Lars noticed, not immediately like the rest. Looking pleased with herself, Brendel slipped off a large linen sack slung over her back and produced a shrivelled, blackish sphere-like thing the size of a beach ball (whatever that is).
The table's laughter was quickly replaced with quiet exclamations of awe, but while holding up the eye Brendel had her gaze on only one among the impressed companions sitting at the table. He was a powerfully-built man with graying hair and a thick beard. There was a scar on the man's face from above his right eyebrow all the way down to his right cheek. While the other companions were fixated on the eye the man returned Brendel's gaze with his own steely one, and gave a small nod of approval.
"I think." The man spoke, and almost immediately the attention of the table drew away from the eye. "That Brendel here has more than earned her place in Jorrvaskr with such a fine trophy." The other companions concurred with noises of approval. The man stood up and walked around the table towards Brendel.
"Ulf."
"Yes?"
"Do you attest to the bravery of this young woman?"
"Aye."
"Would you raise your shield for her defense?"
"Yes."
"And would you raise your sword for her?"
"Yes."
"And lastly, would you raise a mug in her honor?"
"Indeed I would." As if to prove this, Ulf raised the tankard he was currently holding.
"Than I, Torvar of the Circle of Companions, hereby welcome you, Brendel of Eastmarch, to our mortal fold."
A cheer erupted from the table as many of the companions stood up to congratulate Brendel, from outside Athis the Dagger and the two whelps Lars saw in the training ground came as well and were soon after patting her on the back. Lars quickly found himself an outlier in the tight clump of companions gathered around Brendel, and decided now would be an appropriate time to leave for a salve. He made his way to the west wing of the main hall, passing Ulf, who stood outside of the crowd, quietly sipping his tankard. The two met eyes for a moment before Lars, without looking back again, entered the small pantry. He took a small bottle of potion from one of the drawers and poured a few drops into a small ceramic bowl, he than added water into the bowl and soaked his rag in the mixture. He placed the rag over his burnt hand and held it there, feeling relief as the pain quickly subsided.
"Stealing potions are you?" Lars turned to find Brendel standing in front of him, her head tilted slightly with a faint smirk on her face.
"I'll give you a cut of the profits if you keep this a secret." Lars replied.
Brendel laughed. "You forget yourself, Battle-Born, I am a Companion now, not some lowly ruffian that can be bought."
"Congratulations on that, by the way."
"Thank you. It was almost impossible for me to get out of that crowd, everyone was either trying to hug me or get me to drink something."
"You didn't like the celebrating?"
"Oh believe you me I absolutely love it, it's about time I get some recognition here." She paused, and continued "But I had to break out of that, told them I was coming here to fix this cut." She indicated the cut on her jaw.
"What's the real reason?" Lars asked, he dabbed the rag again in the bowl and started to clear away the wound and the dirt on Brendel's face.
Brendel tilted her head again and narrowed her eyes, as if she was surprised by the question. "'Cause you're here, stupid!" She said while she punched Lar's arm. "These companions can hug and drink with me all they want, but we all know that without that spider eye they would have still treated me as some whelp they get to boss around. I'd rather celebrate this victory with someone who's been on my side since the beginning, which in other words is you."
"Well I am happy to oblige." Lars said. He really was.
"Than you can start by meeting me in the Bannered Mare. Tonight. I'm going to spend the rest of this day in a tub there, but come nightfall I am going to tell you everything that happened in my proving."
"Tonight it is than." Lars agreed.
"I will spare no detail, none of the action, drama or romance."
"Romance?" Lars inquired.
"I knew that would peak your interest. Tonight, Battle-Born, don't be late."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
Lars returned to the Skyforge, hand fully healed and undeniably happier than when he left. Eorlund was sleeping on his chair, his staff lying beside him on the stone floor of the forge. Deciding not to wake him up, Lars went straight back to work. The forge's flame was low enough now for Lars to shovel up the chunks of coal that were mixed with the melted steel of his previous failed attempt. He drove the shovel into the heart of the forge and took out two tainted scoopfuls, which he put in a nearby bucket for later.
Lars had been learning smithing for more than a decade. It was a trade he at first harboured no interest of. He found the heat of forge far too stifling and the hammering sounds of the anvils far too noisy. He preferred reading in his home, enjoying the quiet and comfort of his room, especially in the night, where he would light a candle to read. In a relatively bad night the candle would flicker too much and disturb Lar's reading, but in a good night the candle could stay perfectly still, like a small, magic orb, suspended in the darkness of his room.
It was not Lar's choice to become a smithy, or to serve under Eorlund Gray-Mane as a blacksmith for the Companions. Lars could only imagine how his father would suffer if he knew his son was learning the trade of a Gray-Mane, likewise many Gray-Manes would likely be displeased at a Battle-Born attending to their ancestral Skyforge. Despite this, it was Eorlund himself that vouched for Lar's place as his apprentice, and trained and mentored him relentlessly in everything he knew as a smith. The guild of Companions, who were impartial to the bitter feud that once plagued the houses of Battle-Born and Gray-Mane, were simply happy that Eorlund, who by then was already at a ripe, old age, had chosen an apprentice for the future. The Gray-Manes were less taken to the decision Eorlund made, claiming that granting so much knowledge to the son of their former enemy was foolish by nature, and would only seek to compromise the values the clan had fought for two decades. Despite his family's disapproval, Eorlund, who was still among the oldest and respected of the clan, made no change to his decision, and so Lars became his apprentice at ten years old, and has remained since.
Lars never asked why Eorlund was so insistent on letting him become his assistant. After all the pain and suffering both houses inflicted on one another, such an arrangement was most strange to Lars in the beginning, but through the years his doubts slowly faded, and Lars learned to be happy again working the forge. He learned to find the warmth of the fire, and the profound rhythm of the banging anvils.
"Much better boy, now you see what happens when you take the time." Spoke Eorlund, who had evidently awoken from his midday nap, and was referring to the freshly cooled battleaxe head that Lars helded gingerly in his hands, though the edges were still far from sharp. "Add a haft and then grind it by the stone." Eorlund continued, despite knowing that Lars had created similar weapons a hundred times before. Lars set out by the nearby workbench and quickly fashioned a dense wooden haft an arm and a half long and connected it with the axe head, binding the two pieces with plates of bolted steel. He then moved the great weapon to the nearby grindstone, and started to sharpen the edges of the axe head. Finally he took the freshly sharpened battleaxe back to the workbench and polished the haft with a mixture of evergreen sap and citrus juice. At last Lars found himself holding the greataxe with both of his hands, and could have sworn a glimpse of pride passed Old Gray-Mane's face as he appraised the weapon with his own eyes.
"Good enough, boy, why don't you hand it over to Bergrid now, no point in just having it lie around." And so Lars once more descended the steps of the Skyforge, only this time carrying a newly forged battle axe wound in a large cotton cloth. The axe was a weapon meant for Bergrid, a fierce senior Companion who required a new axe because he lost the fragments of the previous one in the skull of a frost troll. He made his way to Jorrvaskr once more, this time there were no Companions at the training yard and Lars opened the door to the hall on his own.
When Lars entered the hall, he was immediately felt a chill of cold, dry air, and realised that all of the fires, torches and candles that were previously lit were extinguished, save for the light of one bright orange lantern, that illuminated the several lifeless bodies of Companions scattered on the blood soaked floor of the hall.
Without thinking, Lars gave a great cry, and almost dropped the great axe to the floor. Instead, he tore off the cloth and held up the axe with two tremoring hands, eyes transfixed on the figure who held the orange lantern. It was a man, Lars saw, shrouded in a long, hooded cloak dark as shadow. The man did not look at Lars, or acknowledge him in any way, and simply stood there, holding the lantern aloft with one hand while the other held a silver-hued blade that glowed faintly red in the light, soaked to the hilt with blood that dripped down to the floor in frequent intervals.
"D-drop the weapon!" Was all Lars could say, part of him knew he should have tried to cut the man down right then, but his legs would not move.
The man stayed still, his face turned to the side as if looking at something that no one else could see, and began to speak in a manner such that it seemed more like he speaking to himself.
"Such arrogance. They claim to be the greatest warriors in the land, and yet here they are, gorging themselves in food and ale like prize swine. Nords have always been known to pride themselves in marginal feats and to become inebriated in their own unearned pride. This was no different." Suddenly, the hooded man looked at Lars, who felt a chill go down his spine.
"You are different. I see that. I see your hesitation, your fear. You are wondering why you cannot move, why you currently wield the instrument of my desolation and yet are incapable of using it. It is because you, unlike these so called warriors, have let your mind control you, and it has distilled your heart of courage and instead poisoned it with the fear that you will fail."
Lars was silent, for he knew everything the man said was true, and was ashamed that he trembled at the sight of the him.
"You ask me to lay down my blade, I ask you do to so instead, for you are less than unworthy to me, and I have had enough of butchering mortals for one day." And with that, the man held up the lantern to his face, and for a full, horrifying moment Lars saw the face under the hood, and saw eyes that matched the color of the lantern's light. The man blew out the light and Lars found himself in total darkness.