Ebony metal shone in Rorin's hands as he ran a cloth up and down the sharp length. The dagger felt warm and battle-ready under his fingertips. He lifted the weapon up to his eyes and his reflection stared back at him from the dark blade, ghostly pale in the torchlight. Soft humming echoed down the hallway, no doubt from one of the new bloods in the rooms down the hall.
Polishing weapons was part of Rorin's morning routine, and he took pride in the mirror-bright surfaces he was able to maintain. When he was a child, his father had taught him how to properly care for a blade, and he had practiced and practiced until the movements became natural. A smile crooked the corners of his mouth as he thought about his father. The man had been larger than life, and full of vitality, always laughing and telling stories. Rorin had admired his father more than anyone else, since his father had also been snow-born.
"Look boy," the deep voice rumbled, "You and I are exactly alike... we are both strong, and brave, and kind." Rorin pulled himself onto his father's knee, laughing.
"Dad, we both look the same too, like we're made of snow!" Huge, white, battle-scarred hands found small, smooth ones and squeezed gently.
"That's true, youngling, we are both snow-born, a trait passed from father to son, from my father to me and from me to you." The big man tickled his son and the boy squealed, wriggling away. "Those aren't the only ways we're alike, though… we can both take care of our weapons better than anyone else can!" He lifted Rorin off his knee and set him down. "Now bring me your dagger, and if I find one spot of rust, I'll make you polish it all over again!"
Rorin's fingers had barely touched his sword when Vilkas' voice floated through the open door.
"But I can still hear the blood calling to me." His rough voice grated slightly against Rorin's ears, and Rorin shook his head in irritation. The man always had rubbed him the wrong way, but he had tried to put aside their differences for the sake of their companionship.
"We all do," was the deep reply. "It is our burden to bear, but we can overcome." Kodlak sounded distant, and Vilkas' response was quiet and respectful.
"You have my brother and I, obviously, but I don't know if the rest will go along quite so easily."
"Leave that to me."
As Rorin listened, the scent of a stranger reached his nose. He inhaled warily. The newcomer smelled like the battlefield no comma and something more dangerous, and Rorin felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle, his blood stirring. He stood, setting his sword down, and walked quietly to the door, then he paused, ears straining. The only sound he could hear was the soft shift of cloth.
What's going on out there?
He moved slightly, and chanced a look out into the hallway. The only thing he could see was Vilkas and Kodlak sitting together, staring intently at a pair of ebony-colored hands that were moving in patterns. The fingers were long and spidery, and covered in thin, pale scars. After a moment, he recognized a common sign language by the swift finger movements. Then the silence was broken by Kodlak's voice.
"Mute? I understand... Would you now? Here, let me have a look at you. Hm. Yes, perhaps... A certain strength of spirit." Vilkas cut in abruptly, sounding angry.
"Master, you're not truly considering accepting him?" Kodlak's answer had a hint of sharpness to it.
"I am nobody's master, Vilkas. And last I checked, we had some empty beds in Jorrvaskr for those with a fire burning in their hearts."
"Apologies. But perhaps this isn't the time. I've never even heard of this outsider." Rorin detected the poorly concealed scorn in Vilkas' voice. Kodlak responded slowly.
"Sometimes the famous come to us. Sometimes men and women come to us to seek their fame. It makes no difference. What matters is their heart."
"And their arm." Rorin grinned at Vilkas' mutter.
"Of course. How are you in a battle, boy?" Kodlak asked. A flurry of movement followed, but from where he stood, Rorin couldn't read what the stranger was saying.
"That may be so. This is Vilkas. He will test your arm." Kodlak turned to the other man. "Vilkas, take him out to the yard and see what he can do." Cloth shifted. Vilkas got to his feet, muttering,
"Not here, whelp, out in the yard." He stalked out of view, and Rorin heard his boots stomp down the hallway and up the stairs.
As soon as he was positive that the two had left, he walked out to where Kodlak was still sitting. The old man sat straight in his chair, long gray hair spilling over his shoulders, expression unfathomable.
"Rorin, what do you think of this newcomer?" The young man met Kodlak's eyes with his own, and felt a twinge of apprehension. It took him a moment to answer.
"He smells like blood, and silver… and smoke." Kodlak nodded, and stared down the hallway. Rorin paused, considering the situation. A waft of air that swirled by brought the faint scent of fire and old blood to Rorin and made the decision for him.
"I'm going to go see how things are progressing outside," he said, and went back into his room to get his dagger.
When Rorin pushed the back door open, Vilkas and the stranger had stepped back from each other. Vilkas was sweating and looking deeply impressed, but Rorin could tell that he was also uneasy. His brow was creased as he stared at the taller man, lines of worry spreading from his eyes. Rorin looked too, and raised his eyebrows, surprised by the stranger's attire.
Instead of any sort of protective armor, the Redguard man wore a beaten set of clothes that looked like the standard outfit for prisoners. The cloth was stained with what appeared to be blood and dust, and it was torn in several places. Several inches of dark skin showed under the cuffs of the pants, and even from where he was standing, Rorin could tell that the man was unusually tall.
The morning sun shone off ebony colored skin and gold hoop earrings as the stranger sheathed two curved swords over his back. Rorin blinked and rubbed his eyes.
Curved swords? Where could he have gotten those?
From the back, Rorin could see the man's head was shaved so close that he looked almost bald. Thick bands of muscle wrapped around the man's arms and over his shoulders.
The stranger turned. A blazing white streak was painted down over the man's forehead and nose, contrasting boldly with his ebony skin. Another streak ran over the man's lower lip and chin, and dots of the paint spread from his eyes.
By the Nine...
The stranger's eyes were thin and almond shaped, but it was their color that made them so unsettling. His eyes were a bright, shining silver, and his irises looked like flat, glittering disks in his dark face. Rorin blinked and looked down, uncomfortable with holding that strange gaze for more than a moment.
Thin, pale scars spread over the stranger's left cheek, and a large, shiny scar marred one of the man's impressive biceps. Rorin winced; the scar looked like it was caused by a burn. Other marks puckered the skin of his arms and legs. His hands were covered in thin knife scars that shone white against his skin. This strange Redguard had obviously seen his fair share of fights, and then some.
After wandering around in the wilderness for many days, K'avir felt a little twitchy. He didn't want to give these already suspicious men more reasons to be wary of him, so when he heard the door open, he deliberately sheathed his scimitars before turning around.
The Nord man standing in the doorway was paler than anyone he had ever seen before. His skin was so white that it almost shone in the shadow of the porch. A pale blue vein was barely visible under the translucent, alabaster skin of his neck. The hair pulled into a messy bun at the back of the man's head was also white, with the faintest hint of blond. A white-blond beard framed the man's mouth, and his pearly eyebrows were set in a dubious frown.
He must be snow-born, K'avir thought. The stories were not wide-spread, but he had heard a few tales of men who looked as if they had been born from the very snow itself.
K'avir watched the man's gaze roam over his face before meeting his stare, and pale red eyes widened as surprise flitted across the man's features. The gaze dropped to take in the scars on his exposed skin, and he saw the man wince. A fizz of irritation bubbled in K'avir's blood; the pink strips on his skin were a reminder of battles fought and won, not something to be pitied.
Rorin tore his eyes away from the stranger and looked toward Vilkas, meeting the other man's steely gray gaze. Vilkas shrugged. He turned and spoke to the stranger briefly, then handed over his sword.
"Take care, whelp, that's probably worth more than you are." He said, and walked over to Rorin. They both turned to watch the tall man walk up the steps toward the sky forge.
"I've never seen anything like him," Vilkas growled. "He's too tall, he smells dangerous, like silver… and his eyes..." The man shuddered. "They're unnatural, and that's coming from me." Vilkas shot a crooked, sideways grin at Rorin. Rorin nodded and grinned a little, briefly forgetting his animosity toward the other man.
"He is strong, though," Vilkas continued, and he shifted uneasily. "It felt almost as though he was holding himself back. He was too controlled." Vilkas ran a hand through his dark hair, visibly upset.
The stranger reappeared, holding a shield, and walked down the stairs. He moved with an odd, cat-like grace that didn't quite fit his broad frame. Rorin saw that he wasn't wearing any boots, his feet no were bare and covered in dust. Rorin grunted, confused as to why anyone would want to roam Skyrim without footwear. His own feet ached at the thought.
The Redguard walked toward them, and Rorin met the bizarre eyes again. The flatness of his gaze was unnerving. Acting on a whim, Rorin put out a hand as the man made to pass, and the stranger stopped. He was almost a head taller than Rorin, and the smaller man had to look up to meet his gaze properly. He paused for a moment, then clumsily signed a question to the stranger.
'What is your name?' The surprise flitted across the man's face before he responded, scar-covered fingers moving with ease.
'K'avir. You don't need to sign to me, I can hear perfectly well.'
Rorin scowled and dropped his hands to his belt.
"I figured it was more respectful," he said, trying to keep the growl from his voice. K'avir raised a single eyebrow, fingers dancing in the air.
'No offense meant. Yes, it is technically more respectful, but I prefer to be spoken to, as my hearing is still intact, and it's faster.' Vilkas snorted and walked away.
Rorin watched him leave for a moment, then turned back to K'avir, concealing a grimace.
'What's your name then?' K'avir signed.
"Rorin Snow-Born." K'avir's mouth twitched. He nodded, and stared down at Rorin for another minute, then proceeded into Jorrvaskr, still holding the shield.
The next day, Rorin saw K'avir and Farkas leaving Jorrvaskr. Farkas was suited in proper companion armor and armed to the teeth, but K'avir was wearing the same dirty prisoner's clothes, two curved swords strapped to his back. Rorin was walking back from speaking to the Jarl's steward, deep in thought, and he was making his way up the steps when the door opened and the two men stepped out. As he passed them by he met K'avir's eyes for a moment, and an involuntary shudder ran down his spine. Something was different about the man's gaze, something he couldn't place. Rorin rubbed his arms and stared after the two men, unnerved.
Brand-Shei and Grelka watched with a mixture of amusement and amazement as a strange, barefoot Redguard man dressed in filthy prisoner's clothes crouched on top of the well in the middle of the marketplace, staring down at a russet-haired man wearing fancy clothes. Brynjolf was trying to recruit the stranger into one of his crazy schemes and the man seemed entirely disinterested. He was just staring at the other man, apparently not even listening. The interaction was drawing the attention of everyone in the marketplace, and Brynjolf had begun to turn red with frustration.
Standing suddenly, the stranger turned his head toward the city gates, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. A faint roar echoed through the marketplace. Brynjolf gave up and stomped back to his booth.
The Redguard took an effortless flying leap off the well, sailing over Snilf's head, and a moment later his bare feet made a loud smacking noise as he landed quite a distance past Marise Aravel. The Dunmer woman turned to stare after him, shocked, as he ran through the gates and out of the city.
The next time Rorin saw the Redguard, a week had gone by. He was stomping up the stairs to the main hall when he heard Farkas' voice.
"I hope you've readied yourself." The answer was a soft shift of cloth.
"So I'm told. Let's see if you impress." Rorin reached the top of the stairs and saw Farkas and K'avir standing together. Both men turned at the sound of his footsteps.
"Rorin," Farkas called. Rorin walked over, and nodded to the other man.
"Kodlak wants you to come with us to Dustman's Cairn for this one's trial." Farkas jerked his head toward K'avir. The Redguard man looked unfazed, still barefoot and wearing his prison clothes, swords strapped to his back.
'I'll meet you there,' K'avir signed, and walked out the door. Farkas stared after him.
"No armor or anything..." he growled. "Does that Redguard whelp want to get himself killed?" There was a moment of silence while Rorin contemplated the words. Why did K'avir choose to fight without armor? That was practically a death sentence in Skyrim.
"I'll go get my things, meet you here in a few minutes," Rorin muttered, and headed for the stairs again, still thinking about the newcomer's bizarre behavior.
Back in his room, he pulled on his boots, did up the leather ties on his companion's armor, and pulled his hood over his face. Sheathing his ebony sword and war axe, he returned to the main hall where Farkas was waiting.
"Ready, Shield-Brother?" He asked, steely eyes alight with anticipation. Rorin let out a low growl in response, and they pushed the front doors open.
