Again, Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks. I realize that very little happens in this chapter to further the plot, but I feel that some time should be dedicated to introducing some of the primary characters and Ieago's attitudes toward others. I hope this will pay off in future chapters. If you have any feedback on whether or not this method is worthwhile or if you know a more efficient way, I welcome your thoughts and I am grateful for them.
My impression of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater was and remains favorable. He struck me as an astute and capable leader caught in a bad situation. In regards to the ongoing civil war, his only real loyalty was to his hold. He understood how badly his citizens would suffer if open war came to his gates; regardless of the locals' opinions on the conflict. As a person, Balgruuf cared little for the Empire though he recognized its claim to his loyalty. On the other hand he detested Ulfric but acknowledged the justice of the Stormcloak's cause. Caught between the two equal impulses, all he sought for was safety for his people.
The scene at the dais mirrored the larger tension that drove his policy making. He was caught that evening between his conservative Imperial steward Avenicci and his war-mongering younger brother Hrongar. They were discussing how they were going to respond to the latest messages from the Empire without making Whiterun a target for Stormcloak ire. Between the two arguing men, the Jarl was trying to find the best course for Whiterun.
The argument between the steward and the Jarl's brother stopped as I approached the dais and Irileth introduced me. The Jarl was a man of decision and soon a company of soldiers was dispatched to Riverwood. For my news and initiative, I received as a reward of a suit of leather armor and was bidden to stay the night in the Bannered Mare Inn at the city's expense. The barflies had gone home by that ungodly hour of the morning and I was soon in bed myself after a meal of lukewarm cold cuts on bread.
I woke late to a light breakfast and a note from Dragonsreach asking me to remain in town for the next few days at the Jarl's pleasure. My first stops after I stepped out of the inn was the public pools at the foot of the palace to get cleaned up and then a barber for a cut and a shave. When at last the barber stood me up and turned me to a mirror, I liked what I saw. Weeks of beard, filth, and violence had left me barely human. Now I looked better than I had when I joined the Knights of the Nine.
I am not a large or physically powerful man. My lean five feet eight inches and 140-pound frame tends toward scrawniness. My muscles are hard and wiry from years of work and a life spent outdoors. Before joining the Knights I had been a ranger in Kavatch's surrounding lands; chasing poachers and convicts on that high rocky flatland on the border between the Gold Coast and Colovia. I must have ranged from Skingrad to Chorrol and down to Anvil a hundred times, resting for a few days in Kvatch before my next patrol. In town, I had often trained with the guards with the blade and in hand-to-hand combat. My parents had given me dark red hair that bleached copper in the summer and dark blue-grey eyes beneath a low brow. Their upbringing gave me a posture and grace that convinced most people to give me credit for being taller. My almost thirty years in the sun gave my square, heavy-boned face a weather-beaten cast and laugh lines. My few lovers have called me 'rugged'. Others less fond of me said I perpetually looked 'grim and frustrated'. The red hair was now very short and lightly oiled. I took advantage of the two week's growth to at last sport a respectable goatee: a goal that had eluded me for years. Stubbornly, my skin refused to tan, leaving me perpetually fair-skinned or a sunburned mass of peeling skin.
Stop three was the smithy called Warmaiden's to get the Jarl's leather armor fitted. By selling my old Legionary armor, I was just able to afford her services and a slight modification: a vertical diamond dyed red with a thin gold border carved into the right shoulder pad. This was the badge of the Knights of the Nine and one that would be associated with me through all my adventures since.
At last as the sun passed the noon I headed for Jorrvaskr to apply for a job. I stepped in just as two of the Companions began an after-lunch fist fight. By the talk of the spectators, this was nothing unusual between the Nord woman and the Dunmer man trading blows. The two clearly were not out to kill each other, but neither did they pull their punches.
I looked about and found one of the three I had seen in the flight with the giant last night. "Welcome to Jorrvaskr, Ieago. I am Farkas." he said.
"I'm glad to see you recovered from last night Farkas," I replied sincerely, glad to see even a half-familiar face among the crowd of strangers. "Tell me, who are you people? What is this place?"
"We are the Companions. This is our home. We fight so others don't have to," Farkas explained as a wet sounding thump ended the fight in the woman's favor.
"I was told to ask for Kodlak if I should come here."
"He'll be in the under hall with my brother Vilkas."
Nodding my thanks, I stepped down with the sense that there were eyes on me. The under hall was the below-ground living quarters of the sixty or so warriors that then made up the Companions of Ysgramor. The place struck me as well-kept, but past the days of its prime. Obviously, several hundred people could have lived here at one time. As I came into Kodlak Whitemane's chambers, I overheard him speaking with Vilkas.
Farkas' brother was evidently his twin. They shared the same jet black hair, dark complexion, and muscle-bound frame. In contrast to his almost monosyllabic brother Farkas, Vilkas was articulate. His conversation with Kodlak was unsettling somehow and patently not for my ears. "But I still hear the call of the blood," Vilkas said to Kodlak as I came in.
"We all do. That is our burden to bear. But it can be overcome," Kodlak consoled him. Vilkas sighed and looked down, "Farkas and I are with you of course, but some of the others might resent your aims."
"Leave that to me Vilkas. For now though, a stranger comes to our hall," The old man said as they turned their attention to me.
I have long ago come to the conclusion that Nords and Cyrodiils, as we Imperials are properly known, are two very different types of human. Neither inherently better than the other, just completely different. It's more than the physical tendencies too. An Imperial nobleman may well be an honorable and gracious gentleman. He may display the traits of an effective leader; but with few exceptions, he will not have the same bearing as a Nord in a similar station. Our inborn charisma makes us Imperials smooth. The best of us are sophisticated, charming, and urbane. The worst of us arrogant and sleazy. The worst Nords are bigots and thugs, possessed of avarice equal to that of any Cyrodiil miser. The best Nords by contrast, are dignified and brave. With only a few exceptions, the Emperor Titus Mede II and General Tullius being prime examples, we Cyrodiils lack that gravitas that most Nords possess as a matter of breeding. Sketching a polite bow came as a reflex while Kodlak Whitemane, Harbinger of the Companions, turned to look me over.
"I was directed here by Farkas," I explained, "I would like to know more about the Companions and what it means to be one."
"The Companions trace their lineage back to the days of Ysgramor and his 500 companions," Kodlak began with deep pride resonating in is voice. "Since that time we have been many things: ruthless conquerors, a drunken rabble, mercenaries for hire, and the esteemed company you see before you. Throughout our 4000 years of history only one thing has bound us together: Honor. In all your endeavors you act in a way that would make your brothers and sisters proud to share the title of Companion and to have fought beside you."
Kodlak's speech, though well-rehearsed, struck a nerve. It was like listening to my dad or his friends after they were drunk enough to talk about fighting in the Great War. My father's brother officers from his days in the Legion told me he used to be a hard man to please, but one who always took care of his people. In response, the soldiers under him had followed him through some of the fiercest fighting of a brutal war. Early in my days working as a ranger for Kvatch's guard, I found that I worked best for the officers who made sure I had the equipment and training I needed. Eight years ago, when I found the Knights of the Nine at their hidden priory one evening, I learned that order of warriors acted on similar principles. As my responsibilities with the Knights grew I did my best to emulate my predecessors and relished in the resulting esteem and trust. One of the worst days in my life was the day I ran from Battlehorn Castle where I had failed so many people. I looked into the eyes of the aging Harbinger while he gazed impassively back. I glanced at Vilkas and found a barely restrained contempt. Yet within both gazes, I found two men who would stop at nothing to help their own.
I didn't hesitate to ask again, "May I join the Companions?"
Kodlak sat back and looked at me for some minutes in silence. "Perhaps. I sense certain strength of spirit in you. Vilkas, take him out to the yard. See if he can fight."
"We aren't seriously considering letting him join are we?" Vilkas protested, "I've never even heard of this man before!"
"Some are already famous when they come to us. Others come to us to seek their fame," Kodlak said evenly. "It matters little so long as they have honor and skill. And last I looked; this hall has more than a few empty beds. So take Ieago to the exercise yard and see what he can do."
Vilkas stood up and brushed past me, "Follow me whelp," he called over his shoulder.
"I am Ieago," I corrected.
"Until you're one of us that doesn't matter a goddamn bit," he replied from half way down the corridor.
I strode into the mid-afternoon light of the Companions' practice yard with its commanding view of the tundra and distant mountains to the north. Vilkas was waiting for me with his own two-handed sword drawn. A few of the others from the hall were out to watch the sparring match. I grabbed my claymore and stepped into the light.
People have asked me in the past, why does a man who favors light armor; a man possessed of a lean frame; use such a heavy weapon as a two-hander? The simple facts are that I use light armor because I prefer to be able to move rapidly. My fighting style has always involved lots of movement. I like claymores because I need the extra mass of those weapons to deal telling damage in battles where I'm pitted against larger, heavily armored foes. I don't advertise this, but I often place lead strips in the pommels of my claymores to give them more control in my hands. It's a challenge being a meager five feet eight inches and 140 pounds in a fight where six feet and 200 is the next smallest man.
My match against Vilkas began without ceremony as we raised our blades and assumed fighting stances. Vilkas's predictable choice would have been to use the mass of his body and armor in an overhead chop to drive me out of the ring. He and I were too experienced for that kind of crap. Instead he used his five-foot sword as a spear right toward my sternum. I sent my blade vertical and pushed Vilkas's off to the right of my body. Time seemed to slow as I grabbed the upper quarter of my sword and reversed it as I moved to step past him. The crosspiece of my sword swept up into his face and used the momentum of my forward step to reinforce the blow. The loud clank told me he turned his head to let his helmet take the blow and then he was behind me.
I resumed my stance and waited for him to set himself. Polite applause for me and words of encouragement for Vilkas came from the spectators. Vilkas shook himself out and raised his sword again. This time I took the offensive in the classic overhand rush to see how he'd respond. He knew I could not put enough strength behind the attack to stagger him and simply held his sword crosswise to mine above his head. The shock of the blow stunned my arms and his boot in my stomach sent me onto my backside.
He and I spent the next hour in exchanging blows of this kind; each of us demonstrating their skill to the other. He seemed satisfied, "Alright whelp. You fight well enough so count yourself in-provisionally. Just remember that you're the newblood around here so you have to do what we tell you," he held out his weapon for me to accept. I was surprised by how light it felt in my hands, "Take my sword up to the Skyforge and have Eorlund put an edge on it."
Eorlund was the Companions' resident smith. He was not a member himself, but on retainer; and he was a master of his trade. The steel that he forges from the eternal flame of the Skyforge is light, strong, and keeps a phenomenal edge. The only things matching its durability are the blades of the Draugr in their crypts or the expensive moonstone and malachite blades of the Thalmor. He gave me some advice too, "You're new around here so the others are going to try to boss you around. Just remember that nobody outranks anybody else in the Companions."
"But what of Kodlak? He seems to be in charge around here," I asked.
"Only in the loosest sense. He is the Harbinger. People follow him out of respect and affection, not because he holds any real rank and none have sworn to his service. While you're up here, could you do me a favor and deliver this shield to Aela? My wife is in mourning right now and I shouldn't delay returning home."
"Didn't you just tell me I shouldn't let people boss me around?"
"Now lad, there's a fine line between standing up for yourself and being an asshole. Don't be an asshole."
"Of course, Eorlund. I'll see she gets it."
"I think you'll do just fine here, Ieago," he said as he turned for home.
I'm glad I got myself cleaned up that morning. The night Aela the Huntress and I first met had been dark and overcast with a late and waxing set of moons. All I saw of Aela that night was the curiously glowing gold-green eyes and the silhouette of a tall, athletic woman. The warm late afternoon light filtering down to the under hall revealed a creature to stop my heart. Aela was not as tall as she seemed last night. She stood less than an inch taller than I, average for a Nord woman. She was my age or at most a year older. Her legs and arms were long, muscular, and graceful. Her auburn red hair was worn parted in the middle and fell loose and strait to the bottom her shoulder blades. Her eye shadow and diagonal slashes of war paint forced attention to her large, pale grey eyes. Thin and delicate lips begged to be kissed. Her armor looked like it came from the distant past, like she had taken it from the draugr and not bothered to repair it. Only a few strips of leather struggled to keep a collection of iron plates and patches of fine chain together as they hung from her frame. The armor revealed pale and flawless skin with her every motion.
I entered the quarters in the under hall she shared with Skjor, another Companion held in high regard. Once again, I caught the tail end of a conversation decidedly not intended for the public. They seemed to be discussing Kodlak's leadership and I got the impression that these were the two that Vilkas had referred to earlier on.
Not wishing to be caught gazing at Aela's numerous charms and afraid of being accused of eavesdropping; I did the only brave and honorable thing I could think of: I cleared my throat to get their attention and held Aela's shield out to her.
"Ah! I've been waiting for this. Wait," she said, looking at me more closely. "I remember you. So the Old Man thinks you've got some heart I guess." She seemed pleased at the notion.
"You know this one? I saw him training in the yard with Vilkas," Skjor said. He had the look of one of the men my father led in the war: A lean muscular soldier with one eye and a grizzled face.
"It was a good workout," I confirmed.
Seeing her smile was a delight, though it was predatory somehow, "Ah yes, I heard you gave him quite a thrashing Ieago."
"Don't let Vilkas catch you saying that," Skjor snorted, but he cast his good eye over me a second time.
"Do you think you could handle him in a real fight?" Aela asked me.
The moment of truth: If I answer correctly, I get their respect. "Vilkas possesses a singular ruthlessness," I replied honestly. Vilkas was a man to go for the kill. "If I really was his enemy, I'd be dead right now."
A more genuine smile was on her face now, with a touch of surprise. I suspected she was screening for boasting or false modesty. "A man of reflection I see. I'll have Farkas show you to your quarters where the rest of the newbloods sleep."
"You said my name?" asked a gravelly voice above and just behind my ear. Suppressing the reflex to jump nearly launched my spine out the top of my skull. No one that huge and wearing plate armor should be able to get that close in total silence.
"Of course we did ice-brain!" she replied. "Show this whelp where the rest of the newbloods sleep."
"Newblood? Oh. You. Come on, follow me," Farkas said, turning back to the hallway.
I followed him in silence, feeling very much the stranger among a group of close friends. His conversation was forced at best. "Skjor and Aela like to tease me, but they're good people. They challenge us all to be our best. It's nice to have a new face around. It gets boring around here. Anyway, our newbloods are kept in here. Just pick an empty cot and toss your things onto it."
"What of work?" I asked.
"You'll be coming to me, Aela, and my brother for jobs. Skjor will occasionally have something special that needs to be done. But don't worry about it tonight. I'll have something for you tomorrow morning. Supper will be on the table upstairs by now."
Tossing my great sword and my few things onto the cot, I hurried up to the table in the main hall for my first meal at Jorrvaskr's board. Being the newest in the group, I naturally had the worst seat. Way out on the edge, to my left was the door and to the right was the third most junior member. She was a taciturn and offensive woman called Njada Stonearm. My every attempt to ask her about herself or even the nature of the Companions was met with anger and sarcasm.
Looking around at the others, I saw a more collegial atmosphere. Aela's hand was often touching Skjor's I saw. Towards the end of what was turning out to be a lonely and uncomfortable meal, two things saved me from enduring more of Njada's verbal abuse. One was a runner from Dragonsreach asking for my presence "at my very next convenience" and the other was Farkas getting up to meet me at the door. "I hope we keep you," he said, "It can be a rough life." I put my hand on his bicep in thanks and stepped out for Dragonsreach.
Hmm... These chapters are getting progressively longer. I'd like to keep them under 4000 words apiece and ideally under 2000. When I read other people's work on I find those lengths work best to keep my interest. As always, I'm grateful for any constructive feedback.