1: Puny Imperial Woman

The events that led up to her escape would forever be a rushed blur to Lysandra, with one startling clear detail: there had been a dragon.

A dragon.

Why she had been arrested and consecutively sentenced to execution no longer seemed that important, though at the time, she had been inwardly cursing the unjustness of it all. Crossing the border had led to this, to a death via beheading. Crossing. The. Border. How was she to know that she'd be taken for a spy?

But that was now trivial; a lot of things were now trivial when compared to the reason for her freedom. Again, a dragon, something that was no longer supposed to exist. For as long as she lived –which was now, thanks to said dragon, going to be longer than expected- she would never forget that day.

When she had finally stopped running and taken a moment to catch her breath alongside her Nord companion and fellow escapee, the information of 'That was Ulfric Stormcloak' was barely digested properly. Other than obviously someone of great importance, she had no idea, nor cared, who he was.

Somehow she wound up being sent to Whiterun, which was where she was now and as far as she was concerned, after relaying the message to the Jarl, she was through with this dragon business. She was also through with all this Stormcloak business she kept hearing about, Ulfric Stormcloak, Stormcloak business, she was seeing a pattern here.

Of all the places to pick for starting over, she had to pick the country that was apparently at war and as a bonus: had dragons!


"Can you use that, Imperial, or do you keep it for decoration?"

Lysandra frowned, more annoyed with the reference to her race than the obvious insult on her perceived lack of skill. "Can you use yours, Nord?" She replied evenly, staring across the sparring ground at Vilkas.

With no prospects in Whiterun outside of becoming a beggar –something she had no intention of ever becoming- she had looked for work and been directed towards the Companions.

Some people called them mercenaries, others said they were honorable. All parties agreed they provided a bed and food with a chance to make coin, which had been enough for her.

Joining had been a bit easier than she had thought. Kodlak, the Harbringer of the Companions, had asked her a few questions and then said she would have to prove herself. From her first meeting with Kodlak, she had liked him. He had been unassuming, but self-assured. Others called him 'leader' but he was the first to say that in the Companions, there was no leader. Each man and woman answered to no one but his or herself. Kodlak liked to think of himself as someone who guided but not ordered.

Upon entering Jorrvaskr, she had been directed down into the lower level of the old yet strong wooden building. One rude Dunmer had pointed her down the rather wide hall and she had walked it all the way to a room with who she now knew to be Kodlak and Vilkas inside, seated at a table.

Vilkas had been looking towards the open doors as if he had known she was coming, a grim expression on his rugged face. From the get go she had gotten the impression he didn't like her, though she had no idea why. She hadn't offended him yet.

When he had protested her joining the Companions, Kodlak had then 'suggested' that Vilkas take her out into the yard.

So now here they were, standing across from each other. Vilkas in his steel and fur armor with his great sword and her in her plain hide wear with a sword she had taken from Helgen. While not exactly a great warrior, Lysandra wasn't a puny weakling either. She could handle herself in a fight, sometimes. Usually. Depending on who she was fighting.

"Let me see you raise that sword over your head." Vilkas ordered, his oddly pale, near white eyes fastening on her bare arms. "Puny woman, your arms are thin and scrawny like a little child, one still in swaddling clothes."

Her thin and scrawny arms were also very cold, not yet used to this constant chill that so far seemed to be the main temperature in Skyrim. Nor was she used to their clothing. Some, people of other races mostly, wore clothing with longer sleeves, but this was currently the only outfit she possessed.

Frowning, Lysandra gripped the hilt of her sword in both hands and slowly began raising the sword over her head. It was a bit surprising to find that it was harder than she would have assumed, not impossible, but hard. She supposed without the rush that usually came with fighting helped her handle the sword.

Crossing the cobbled stones, Vilkas approached her, standing directly in front of her and stared down at her. "Hold it steady, woman." He ordered, ignoring the glare she shot him and poked a hard finger into her upper arm. "You have no muscle."

Lysandra tried to ignore the way he made that sound, pity mixed with condescension.

"What's someone as soft as you doing here?" He demanded quietly, beginning to slowly circle her. "Why would you want to join the Companions?"

Lysandra just kept her teeth gritted and her arms up.

"You should be back in Cyrodiil, living in one of your fine Imperial houses with a rich merchant husband and weakly, Imperial infants at your breasts."

Seeing red, she whirled on him, bringing her sword with her. A hiss escaped her clenched teeth when he merely blocked her attempt. What was truly humiliating was that he used his forearm to block, thrusting it against her wrists, the steel gauntlet biting into her flesh and forcing her to drop her sword.

"Pick it up." Vilkas stepped back, reaching behind him to unsheathe his sword as she did as she was told. "Now, we begin your training."