2. Brelir - The Horn of the South Outpost Calls

'By the Nine, why is this damned 'fast so sleepy!'

'It is a weary town, guard-kin, but a job none the less. Count yourself lucky; you could be fighting the Stormcloaks – or Imperials if you are of the persuasion.'

'True friend, very true. Politics be damned and all.'

An early morning shift was seen amongst the various Hold's guards as something of a sin. An unholy rise at 'Gods-only-know-what' hour, the nightly freshness still creeped in the shade, which was a permanent feature of the entire city until the sun could be bothered enough to raise itself above The Throat. Until then, Ivarstead, indeed the entire Rift, was cast in an unnatural cowl of cold darkness.

Torches still lit, and indeed providing their only heat and light, the morning guards rubbed their hands together, shared tales through chattering teeth, and kept their swords sheathed. It was not as though they weren't expecting any trouble. This south of Riften, crime was still a major issue. Bandit raiding parties, thinking Ivarstead to be a defenceless shanty town, would make occasional raids. Mostly ill-prepared and malnourished from living in the snowy hills surrounding, they were driven by desperation moreso than vicious desire. They would never pass the front arch of Ivarstead, the guards would make sure of it.

All had been well the fore-night. Only the occasional howl of wolves in the distance kept them on alert. It had been especially cold; Barknar the Meditative had told them so once he had descended from the Steps. He was a clever man, the guards thought, but mysterious in his ways. He was sure to be an ally of the Greybeards; they allowed him safety in his meditating, and kept any stray snow trolls away if need be. Or so the stories went anyway. He was pleasant however, and a keen archer to boot; far superior to even the most trained soldiers of the Rift. It was best to stay in his favour for that reason alone.

'Brelir, Sner, how goes the shift?'

Morn came soon after this, and it was time to change the guards at each post. There were no grand ceremonies here, that was solely reserved for the High Guard of Solitude. Sauntering to and from your post when the fresh eyes, ears and legs came was more than acceptable. As the sun peaked over the mountains around, they were just glad to get this shift over and done with. A large pint of mead, a meal of bread and meat and a warm bed would do the world of good to cast off the night's frost that settled as a skin on their firm leather.

'Cold as a Nordess' heart, Nirl' one laughed. 'How goes you?' Brelir, the taller and leaner guard, pushed himself lazily off of the wooden post he was leaning against and firmly shook the hand of his replacement.

'Rested and quenched friend' Nirl replied 'And yet I know I will be neither soon enough'.

Sner, the second on duty guard who was stockier and wide built, with a beard that poked through the chinstrap of his helm, pulled in the second new guard for an embrace. 'my brother Frer, have the shift freeze your ass to Oblivion in my honour!'

'Thank you, brother, you are too kind' sarcasm riddled, Frer took the embrace with a wry smile that even pierced his steel helmet.

This was the companionship of the guards. Despite the pay being average and the work tedious, you were treated to the warmth of friendship. Each man was your brother, not from blood as it was with Sner and Frer, but through the sword and the banner of your Hold.

'Enjoy the warmth, guard-kin!' Nirl bellowed, slapping his two weary comrades on their backs. 'Rest well, and on our off time we shall drink together like kings!'

Laughing, Brelir and Sner were about to depart to the Inn in hopes of a well deserved feast, until a graven noise called out from the distance. Low and mournful, the warning horn of the Southern Outpost called out to every available guard in the holdfast, drunken or tired, bedding a wench or scoffing their face, to take up arms and defend the Rift.

'The Post Horn calls...MEN, AT ARMS!' roared Brelir, unsheathing his sword. Tiredness had left him; he was now peppered with gallantry. When a Horn calls, he would answer with sword and shield.

The southern valley winded and dipped, raising into peaks as well as troughs of frosty yet lush greenery. The particular brow that was visible to the guards at the simple wooden entrance arch was where every set of eyes was scanning. More guards joined them now; at least nine or ten had left the Inn or the barracks, armour fastened hastily in their haste. From his house that lay beside the Grey river; resting above the Wide-Arm's mill on the hill, the Captain of the Guard had risen from his slumber to seek the reason for the call to arms.

Captain Slaic Hemjir of The Rift Guard took the job he had been bestowed with the utmost seriousness. A native of Ivarstead from birth, this sleepy hollow found it hard to contain his burning, loyal spirit. The son of Kravkar Hemjir, weapon smith to The Rift's Jarls as his each generation of the Hemjir house had been for centuries. It was said that when Friar Loftruund laid the foundations for The Rift as first Jarl, it was Harund Hemjir who crafted the hammers and axes. One of four sons, the second oldest in his own right, Slaic was competent at a forge, but no master as his father and brothers were. His heart was not in it as his kin's were, it would seem

This was no slant on his work ethic, as the Captain worked incredibly hard to please his perfectionist father; even though he had realised long ago his second son would trade creating the sword for swinging it. Slaic would train with the swords his father smithed, testing every blade for weight, sharpness and ornament. Self-taught in bladesmanship, he outshone the few children of Ivarstead, those that dared pick up a weapon. Unless you were bound to a family trade, you would no doubt be compelled to join the Hold's guards, or enlist in the Rangers of the Snow. Anything was better than fading away in the sleepy hollow at a young age. Slaic called himself to serve the High King in the wilds; travelling north to south, east to west, Hold to Hold, as a horseman; bound in steel chainmail and steadfast leather to armour them, and the dark cloak emblazoned with the silver stag of the Ranger to warm their travels.

War had kept him kindly in check; bandits and raiders were aplenty and they always paid good coin in their slaughter. It meant long nights in the cold, paltry supplies outside of Holds, and the constant suspicion of every passing merchant or traveller. There had been too many occasions to count that they were ambushed. There had been no invasion in Skyrim for centuries, possibly never at all depending on who you spoke to. Most of the trouble came internally; those who yearned for power brainless enough to take it by force. Unconditionally, the Rangers were sworn to the King and Queen. Dissenters were made an example of; flogged and beaten by your brothers before being hog-tied to the fastest mount available and dragged from East to West. Brutal and honest, there was an honour in dying for the protection of the realm; but none in dying for your own selfish cause of self-reverence and glory.

Years of service had made Slaic a hero; he needed not pay for any Inn or Tavern in the entire realm. Yet the famous life that had been thrust upon him was not suited for his Nordic sensibilities. Naturally reclusive, after his service to the Rangers was done, he retired to his homestead in The Rift, taking up the position as Captain of the Guard of Ivarstead at the behest of Lord Phillean Wide-Arm. It had been two years hence, and he liked the quiet life of the soporific holdfast. It was in instances like the call of the Horn, however, that made him realise that the struggles of the states within Skyrim that he had once rode to protect were just as grave as the trials he faced in service to the Rangers. He was free to admit this; he was after all a man of character and honesty that only the Rangers of the Snow can hone.

'What reason for the call of the Horn, Brelir?' the Captain asked. He knew every guard, as there were not masses, by name. Even under their helms.

'No word yet sir.' the guard replied, eyes still darting the horizon to the south. 'There should be a runner soon, if not we have grave cause for concern.'

Slaic sighed and rubbed his eyes with the leather hands; he had prepared his steed and himself for mounted combat if it was shown to be bandits that roused the South Horn. Patience was not a strong suit of the Captain, Brelir knew this well. He was perfectly willing to see out a plan; as long as it was of his creation. Cunning was what kept Slaic alive in the Rangers, but action against the various evils of Skyrim needed a swift hand, or sword as it was.

They waited for what could have only been a couple more minutes in silence. All were focused on the South crest, waiting hopefully for the damned runner to scurry his way over the brow and relay what madness was about to occur. The runners of the Rift were the quickest in the land, young things trained by Loc Wind-Foot of Riften for speed and endurance. It was rumoured by the knaves and guards that the Thieves Guild played some part in their training as a means to turn the eye of the law to one side. Loc would deny his part in this wholeheartedly, but then again any man of sense would do the same. The Thieves Guild were to the Rift what the Stormcloaks were to the Empire; a threat.

'DO NOT FIRE; RUNNER, RUNNER!'

The crest lit up with a flash of movement. Over it came a boy, no older than fifteen or sixteen, clad in flowing cloth that would not way even the youngest of babes. Red faced, having assuredly ran the entire stretch at sprint non-stop, he collapsed into a stagger as he reached the wooden arch way. He was one of Yor Half-Finger's spawn; he could tell by the sweeping blonde hair and boyish good looks. As he slowed to a definite stop, all was silent bar his heavy breathing, waiting for his tale of what the situation was; save the dull clunk of the Wide-Arm's farmhands chopping at wood behind them.

'Come on boy!' one of the guards, a large, hulking brute of a man, chimed low, impatient and irksome from being awoken. 'One of your youth should be running these hills all day and give off no sweat!'

'Do not hurry the lad, Judd.' Slaic ordered, turning to the runner with as reassuring smile as any Ranger could produce. 'What has happened in the South?'

'Mounted...horses...guards from...Riften...Sar Elkwihn_'

No sooner had the name escaped the boy's panting lips; the South crest was once more alive with movement. Well, first it was alive with noise; the firm galloping of strong hooves pounding at the dirt path. Neighing and panting filled the valley, even causing the Wide-Arms to stop with their cutting in surprise. These were no rebel stock; such powerful noises could only be made by well trained and groomed horses from one of the various Holds. Slaic knew this, and he knew the name the boy had given them; everyone in Ivarstead, indeed the Rift and Skyrim as a whole, knew the name.

'Ease off men' Slaic called, motioning for all swords that were unsheathed to be put away. 'The Bringer of Peace approaches.'