Turdas, 2:22 PM, 7th of Last Seed, 1E 173

Tvalistead

Long ago, the first Atmorans to settle Skyrim had faced a brutal and unforgiving wilderness, with only themselves to turn to for help. This icy land was host to the greatest and most terrible beasts in all Tamriel. The Atmorans contended with these creatures for food, for shelter, for their very lives. And over the centuries, the one myth had emerged—the man versus the wild.

It was every Nord's dream to win that battle. Was Emund an exception? Far from it. He was a champion of his ancestors. It was his turn to carry on the unending battle with the forces of nature. He took the mantle gladly, no matter the cost. No matter the danger.

Which led him to his present state of chaos.

Emund coughed and spluttered, squeezing his eyes shut. It was in his face. The choking spray was everywhere. It was all he could do to hold on. He was going to drown, he was going to lose his stomach, he was going to collapse. He couldn't do this.

Picker wasn't even his dog. Why was he the one who had to give her baths?

Actually, that question sort of answered itself.

He'd been here for probably ten minutes, out behind the inn, kneeling over a big tub of warm soapy water, with Picker standing inside. And by standing, he meant, thrashing every which way whenever he tried to touch her. Normal petting was the best thing ever, but for some reason, trying to scrub the mud from her coat was practically the same as attempted murder.

Which made Emund a pretty lousy murderer, by the looks of it. He'd stripped his shirt off in advance, but he sort of regretted keeping his trousers on too. His whole front was soaked. But a job was a job, so he kept on all the same.

As he continued, a deep voice asked from behind, "Having trouble?"

"No, it's fine," Emund said on reflex. What a terrible liar he was.

Then he turned around to look at the voice's source. It was Gelther, the man-at-arms who'd come in the night before. He was standing there in the back doorway, leaning on the wall, his arms folded.

"Hello," Emund added.

Gelther laughed aloud. "Dear gods, she looks like a half-starved skeever."

Picker peered up irately at her new company, as though offended by the comparison. It wasn't even wrong. She had such a long coat, her whole shape changed when she was wet.

"Aye, well, I'm not done yet," Emund muttered, as he returned to scrubbing the coat out. Or trying to, anyway. "If you needed me to do anything for you, uh…"

The older Nord laughed again as he spoke. "Actually, I believe I'm content to watch."

And that was fair, sort of. He was a paying customer, after all. There was no reason for him not to stand there and watch Emund struggle to do basic things in life.

It probably wasn't worth looking back at him again right then. This was too embarrassing.

"You look excellent without the shirt, by the way," Gelther remarked, after a few seconds.

Emund really was glad he was facing away. Gelther might've been entitled to watch him struggle at this task, but at least he couldn't see Emund flushing.

The rest of the bath went predictably. Picker squirmed her way through the whole thing, and Emund could do nothing but try his best to get all the dirt out of her fur. And that went on for… minutes. There was just so much to do. When it was finally done, or something resembling done, he drained the tub empty with a spigot, used some extra water to rinse her off, and then lifted her bodily out and into a waiting towel.

"I must say," Gelther said, breaking the silence once again, "it's not very often I see a dog so well-cared for. Especially an outdoors sort. Walking flea beds, the lot of them."

Emund shook his head quickly as he dried Picker off. "Oh, no, that would never do. We can't exactly claim a good service if we have fleas about. Probably wouldn't have a dog at all, except it's good for business."

"Is that what she's here for?" The Nord man paused. "… Makes sense. Worked on me, even. But honestly, you've got the only inn in the damn village, I wasn't about to sleep on someone's porch."

"How long are you staying?"

"Not sure yet. As long as I need to. I'm sure I can afford it. If not, perhaps I could work for the extra pay."

Emund laughed sharply. The half-wet dog stiffened for a moment beneath his hands, from the noise. "Hah! … sorry, Picker. Um… No. No, I don't get paid nearly as much as you pay my father. And I need that pay as it is."

"Don't you get food and lodging for free?"

"I had to save up for two months just to get my new shoes. I—" His sentence was interrupted by a sudden tug on the towel. Picker had grabbed one end of it in her teeth, and was trying to pull it away. Unfortunately, Emund had barely been holding on, and the towel promptly fell and landed in the grass.

Except for the end of it that was still in Picker's mouth. The spiky-furred dog was staring up at him, tail wagging, with the drab cloth hanging out the side of her jaws.

"Pick it up," Gelther said, expectantly.

"Aye, I know what she's saying," Emund muttered, before picking the other end back up. The dog immediately jerked back and started trying to tug the towel away.

Obviously, he wasn't about to let go this time. He pushed himself up to his feet and pulled back obligingly on the towel. Picker was staring up at him, wide-eyed, thrashing back and forth trying to tug it away. A couple times, she glanced over at Gelther, as though hoping the strange gray-haired man would intervene on her behalf.

Fortunately, Emund was quite a bit stronger than a dog, so he wasn't in danger of losing the towel. He still wasn't pleased. "You realize, the second I let her go, she's just going to go to the river and muddy herself on the bank again."

"I don't know why it's called the Whitefeather Inn," Gelther said. "You should call it the Grayfur Inn, that's the real reason to come here."

Emund snorted. "There are thousands of dogs across Harald's domain. This is one."

"She does look sweet, though."

"Aye, doesn't she."

Eventually, a bird chirping nearby got Picker's attention, and she dropped the towel to go bounding off in its direction. Emund tossed the towel over the lip of the tub, and turned to Gelther, who was still right there by the door. "How long are you planning on being in town?"

"As long as I need to be," the man shrugged. "If it's not obvious, I'm a sword-for-hire. And I'm on a bounty right now. Don't worry, I won't be spilling blood in your village, it's only where I'm staying."

A sword-for-hire. That did make sense. Still, Emund frowned, and went over to retrieve his shirt where he'd draped it over the back porch railing. "I'll try not to think about that too much. I'm really not one for violence."

Gelther backed away as Emund picked up the shirt by him. "What're you planning on doing next, then?"

"Probably going and chopping some wood. I like imagining that the logs are actually the skulls of my defeated enemies."

Mercifully, the older Nord just took that one like normal. "Like whom? Those farm hands who were bothering Teed?"

Emund pulled his shirt on in one deft overhead motion. He always felt good when he could do that one smoothly. "Ahh… Wait, you know about that? How?"

"I have special powers," Gelther said flatly.

A couple seconds went by in silence. Emund stared up at him blankly. "… Well, I'm going to go chop wood now. Feel free to stay in town and, uh, use your special powers all day."

Then, to Emund's surprise, Gelther hopped down from the porch. "Mind if I come help you out? You don't have to give me your pay for it."

"Well, then why do you want to do it?"

"Because I'm bored."

That was that, then. Emund nodded in acknowledgment, and started on his way around the side of the inn, out onto the road. It wasn't a busy day. He grabbed the handcart from beside the porch on the way out.

"Clouds coming in from the west," Gelther observed as he followed along. "Think we'll get rain?"

"The farmers would be happy. It's been a while since the last rainfall."

"I have a question. And… I hope it doesn't sound foolish, but it probably sounds foolish, so, uh…"

"Go on," Emund said.

"Why do you keep your dog outside? If you're so interested in keeping her clean and presentable and so on. Wouldn't you want her where you can watch her?"

"Best not to have dogs in the same space as drunk Nords. We get those, believe it or not. People are always really taken with her when they first come by, but they're sober then. "

"But your inn is so refined and sensible."

Emund laughed aloud.

A little bit of time went by, with the two of them just walking down the road, towards the sawpit where all the wood was. Those clouds were coming in quickly. Fortunately, the sawpit was covered, but Emund wasn't looking forward to carting the firewood back through the rain.

And he'd just bathed Picker, too. Rain meant mud. Mud meant messes. Messes meant baths. Maybe he could persuade his father to do it next time.

Maybe he could become Ysgramor reborn, too.

Eventually, Emund spoke up again. "Mind if I ask you a question back?"

"No promises for the answer," Gelther replied breezily.

"Why aren't you a Companion? I thought that was what swords-for-hire, uh… did."

The older Nord glanced over at him with one eyebrow raised. "Where'd you hear that one, then?"

"Well, there are three real places for a fighter to work, right? Within the High King's laws, that is. The hold guards, the Crown's army, and the Companions of Whiterun. And you're obviously no guard."

"You're right, but also wrong at the same time. Those are the institutions a fighter can work for. But there's no law saying you have to work for any of them. Just don't harm the innocent, and you're set." Gelther let out a low sigh. "I've been to Whiterun. Nice place. But I wouldn't want to live in any one city for so long. I'm a wanderer."

"Well, now that you say that, I miss you already," Emund grinned. But it was a bit true. He knew everyone in Tvalistead, and they knew him, and none of them considered him a friend. This, with Gelther, was a rare happening.

Those clouds were certainly coming in quickly.

"I've heard stories," he said, as long as he was thinking about that. "About the Tongues. That they can control the skies. Making storms come and leave as they please."

"Well, I'm not a Tongue, if that's what you were wondering," Gelther murmured, looking unhappily at the sky above. "I'm not even a mage. But we all have our talents."

A drop of wetness splashed off Emund's nose.

"We'd better hurry," he said quickly, before starting on a very brisk walk for the sawpit.

This was where Tvalistead got all of its wood supply from. The foresters would go and find good trees to chop, and they'd bring back the logs to saw through, and it was up to the townsfolk to cut the pieces to the exact sizes they needed. Basically, that all meant that Emund didn't need to go inside the pit. But he'd still go nearby.

It was a spacious, cleverly made thing, with a long, deep recess in the ground, walled and floored with loose stone so rainwater could soak into the earth. A wooden platform ran above it for the sawing to take place, and a steep, thatched roof stood above that. There weren't really proper walls to it, let alone a door. Just two big wooden rectangular frames laid against each other, covered in straw, all the way down to the ground. It looked sort of like a big tent.

And the ready-to-use wood was all collected in a pile near the entrance. The way this worked, everyone could use as much wood as they needed, but they paid the foresters every month for the right to use it. That meant that unlike at a real shop, the sawpit was usually silent when Emund came by.

But today, it wasn't.

The man wasn't actually chopping wood. He was sitting still on the edge of the woodpile, just by where the axe was laid on its block. Either he'd fallen asleep, or he'd been simply waiting. A tall, strong, brown-haired man, wearing commoner's clothes. All too familiar.

Gelther leaned in towards Emund and said quietly, "You know this fellow?"

"Surprised you don't," Emund replied, before letting go of the cart and raising his voice to call out in greeting. "Good afternoon, Rond!"

But it wasn't actually good. There was no real reason for Rond to be in town like this, as opposed to out on his farm. Especially not if he was here without his sister. She always kept him in some sort of check. By himself, he didn't have to answer to anyone.

The brown-haired man pushed himself slowly to his feet, and gave Emund a scowling look over. "Why're your trousers all wet? Forget how to use the privy?"

Right. Because Emund's shirt was dry, and his trousers weren't. He laughed lightly, even though this wasn't mirthful at all. "I was washing the dog," he said. This wasn't worth sparring over. He was just going to be sincere about it. "Took off my shirt for it. You know, so it wouldn't get wet too. What about you, though? What're you doing here?"

He and Gelther were still walking up closer to the sawpit. Pretty soon, they'd be walking right up into Rond's reach.

"Who's this, then?" Rond pointed in Gelther's direction. "New sweetheart of yours?"

Emund scratched the back of his neck. "Uh…"

"Ahh, forget I said that. You've never had a sweetheart, my mistake."

Well, that answered what the man was doing here. He was bored and looking to pick a fight. Good for him.

Gelther pointed back at him in kind. "Who is this lout?"

"Well, he lives here, his name is Rond," Emund began to say.

"Aye, I heard before. No matter." Gelther stopped about ten feet away, just under the cover of the roof. Emund did the same.

A couple seconds went by in tense silence. The rain was starting to drizzle down behind them.

Emund said, "We're just here to chop some wood, Rond. You can sit and watch if you like."

"Ha ha, you're very funny," the man growled. "I was hoping you'd come by. See, you got in my way yesterday. Ruined a perfectly good bit of fun. Even got my sister upset at me. I wanted to thank you for that."

To thank him. Yes, that was a gracious way of putting it. Even if Rond had been choosing his words more carefully, the anger was plain as day on his face anyway. The blind, vicious, entitled anger that came with a bully having his habits questioned. There wasn't any real reasoning with it.

And Emund was pretty sure he could smell some drink on the man's breath. That wasn't going to help either.

But still, he stayed as calm as he could. He didn't have to get into a fight today. Not today. "You really want to do this right now? It's two against one."

Rond looked away from him, towards Gelther. "You staying in Tvalistead long, old man?"

"Long as I need to," the older Nord shrugged.

Rond looked back at Emund with a smirk. He was actually smirking. How worked up was he, right now? Had he just been sitting here daydreaming about beating Emund into the ground? "Your friend's not going to be here forever, whelp. You'd best remember that."

Emund rubbed his eyes. His heart was quickening. He didn't appreciate that at all. His body was ready for a fight even before the rest of him. "Rond, why are you doing this? Are you really this bored? All you ever want to do is bother people."

"Shut up," Rond spat, before stepping in with his fists raised.

Gelther was on him like lightning. He grabbed one of Rond's wrists mid-punch, then spun outward and cracked an elbow into the side of the man's head. It all happened so fast, Emund had to stop and figure it out after it was done.

Rond crumpled down onto his knees, groaning loudly, holding his head with one hand. The other arm was still in Gelther's grip.

"Come on. You're fine, get up." The older Nord was tugging on him, pulling him back to his feet. "You're fine."

Emund decided he was just going to stand back and watch this.

The moment Rond had gotten back up onto his feet, Gelther bent down and picked him right up off the ground, putting Rond's trunk over his shoulder… only to carry him forward five paces, and drop him right back down. Right into the sawpit.

Emund couldn't even see it, from here. He just heard all the thudding and tumbling and grunting as Rond rolled down the sloped sawpit wall. All those loose stones must've been real fun to smack into.

Admittedly, he could've had more sympathy right now. But he didn't.

The rain was picking up to a shower. Gelther turned and glanced out at it, then looked at the woodpile. "Well, guess I'd best get chopping."

"You?" Emund raised his eyebrows. "When you said you wanted to help, I thought you…"

"We can take turns. My blood's running hot now, I might as well." Gelther sighed and grinned at him for a moment, and then started on his way over to the axe. "You want to go fetch the cart?"

That was a good observation. Emund had left the cart out in the rain. He went and dragged it in under the roof as quickly as he could. His head and shoulders got pelted with cold raindrops on the way.

Gelther was unbuckling his armor and setting it on the woodpile. Just the stuff on his torso and arms, nothing else. He finished by grabbing his undershirt by the hem and pulling it up off over his head. Underneath was a broad, muscled body of pale Nord skin, marked here and there with some decades' worth of scars, plus a fair bit of gray hair on the chest.

Emund put his hands on his hips. "Well… I see what you meant earlier about watching."

Meanwhile, Rond was just moaning unintelligibly at the bottom of the pit. That wasn't worth attention at this point.

"Aye," Gelther nodded as he picked up the axe in one hand. "All in a day's work. Enjoy."