AN: I'm sorry this chapter took so long to write, several complications occurred my First my writing computer died, followed closely by my mouse (RIP). With both those gone I was forced to work off of the family computer, which has a very glitchy mouse-pad. But I'm back in force now. Thank you for your patience. Now, on to the chapter!
Chapter 7
Proving It
"So you think you're worthy to fight along side me, eh? Prove it."-Captain Hanburg "Thunderfist" Grocha. Quote from book four "A treacherous Elf," of the popular chapbook series "Hanburg's Renegades." First published 3E 347
Proventus didn't seem very happy with Hammel when he finally handed the Nord his reward. The steward all but murdered the warrior with his gaze while slamming a pouch full of gold into his hands. Without a single word, Proventus then turned on his finely made boot-heel and left Hammel standing there awkwardly in Dragonsreach's great hall.
It was time for fresh air. He'd done what Gerdur had requested, now personal missions could be attended to. Ever since his encounter with the giant, Hammel's thoughts kept returning to the Companions, particularly Aela's half suggestion to pay them a visit. With his mission now accomplished the ex-Legionnaire intended to do just that.
Not that Lianna had particularly cared where he went, but after traveling with her for a few days he decided it would be best to tell her he was heading off. To his great surprise, she didn't have a biting or sarcastic comeback, she just nodded and waved him off. It was odd, but not really his concern.
It felt good to be outside again. While he'd hardly been in Dragonsreach for any length of time, the keep made him feel cooped up and nervous. The game of thrones and Jarls wasn't one he was keen on playing or even participating in. He felt the wind rush through his hair, ruffling the unkempt mass. Like he remembered from all those years ago, the northern winds felt good, uplifting his spirit.
Descending those stone steps much slower than he ascended them, Hammel glanced around the wind-district once more, his gaze mostly falling across the slowly wilting tree in the center. It sadden him for reasons he didn't really understand, but not enough to bother looking into. Reaching Jorrvaskr was his only concern.
"You ascended from the dung that was mortality and now live among the stars!" The priest's rantings caught him off-guard. The man's sermon, if it could be called that, seemed to echo across the square, his word empowered by a deep, booming voice. Unfortunately for Hammel, the tiny hill that the Mead Hall sat upon was directly past the shrine this priest tended to. With no one noticeable listening to him, the Nord would fall directly under the priest's eyes.
Shouldering his pack as best he could to shield his face from the priest's gaze, Hammel began walking. He moved at a casual pace, fully intent on taking the long route around the tree when something odd happened.
"Talos the unassailable! Talos the magnificent! Talos the..." The priest's rantings suddenly ended mid-sentence, his eyes glancing around feverishly. "You!" He shouted, pointing an robed arm directly at Hammel, "You brother nord; you are faithful to Lord Talos?"
Hammel froze on the spot. Glancing side to side for anyone else the priest might be looking at, the Nord grappled for a way out. Unfortunately, one did not present itself.
"Yes, I'm loyal to Talos," Hammel told the priest coldly. "I don't always think his servants display him in the best light. Now bugger off, I've got work to do."
The warrior expected him to yell a bit, scream, perhaps call down a few choice curses on the Nord's head. Nothing. Rather, the priest took a step away from his shrine, holding up a hand inquisitively. "You are the one." The priest's boney finger was jabbed almost directly into the ex-scout's face, giving him a clear view of the other man's whitened knuckles.
The ex-Legionnaire didn't know how to answer that. Instead, curiosity got the better of him and he edged forward. "What?"
"You are blessed, my child," the other nord continued. Considering his previous tone of voice, he seemed almost unnaturally quiet. "You have found favor with mighty Talos, though you don't know it yet. You will be tested, tried, yet do not be afraid. He who is both man and divine walks with you." The words had been so soft, so sincere, Hammel began to wonder if he was talking to the same man. Up close, the priest's eyes bore into his soul. He was far older than the warrior would have guess, hands wrinkled and calloused. Yet when the man gripped his shoulder there was no weakness in his grasp. "Remember," the priest told him. "He is with you."
With that, the holy man promptly let go of the Nord's shoulder, moving back before the shrine's simple altar. He went right back to his rants, spittle flying from his lips, hands shaking behind the dark billowy cloak.
What in Oblivion was that all about?
Hammel watched the man for a moment, wondering if what he'd just experienced was the result of divine intervention or insanity. While the scout considered himself to be a pious man when it came to Talos and the other Divines, believing full well that they could do whatever they pleased, he had to believe insanity in this case. The priest was unbalanced and fanatical, likely, all he'd experienced was a shift in the rivers of madness.
Shaking his head to clear the strange incident from his mind, Hammel continued on his path towards Jorrvaskr. The Mead Hall had taken some weathering over the years, painted dull, wood chipped, a small hole or two in the woodwork, yet it remained strong as ever. It's position on the hill gave it easy defense from whomever might wish the Companions harm. Next to Jorrvaskr's ancient walls was a small mountain. An equally small flight of steps craved directly into the rock led up to a small ledge, again, man-made. Though Hammel couldn't see it from where he stood he knew what that small area contained.
The Skyforge.
No one knew who built it. All that was known was that the mysterious forge was long built before the Mead Hall was erected, which in turn was long before Whiterun was built. There were legends of course; some said Ysgramor, others Talos himself. Hammel didn't know what to believe, other than the best steel in all of Skyrim, possibly all of Tamriel, was forged up on that little plateau. The Nord was impressed; it wasn't everyday one got to see a key part of their childhood stories in person. He had relished those stories, they were all he had. Well, that and his mother's love, but that had hardly done anything to protect her.
Grinding on through the haze of memories, Hammel made his way up the doors of Jorrvaskr. It was time to see what destiny had in store.
Aela the Huntress leaned back in her chair casually, boots pressed against the adjacent side table. Rocking back, she surveyed Jorrvaskr's interior. Tilma had lunch on the table, the smoked meat and cold mead calling out to her. The elderly maid also got the fire going, spreading warmth to every corner of the central room. The weapons and shields of past warriors hung from the walls, filling the chambers with their strength and resolve.
With her boots resting on one of the side tables and her eyes sharp as a hawk's, Aela saw the fight brewing. The warrior had unstrung her bow, letting the incredibly light, ebony weapon rest on her bare knees. Despite being made of one of the hardiest metals in Skyrim, the weapon was hollow on the inside, keeping it both light and durable. It could do as a makeshift bludgeon in a pinch, though she preferred the Skyforge steel dagger resting on her waist for melee confrontations. The warpaint she'd applied that morning had just finished drying when the tension finally snapped.
It was Stonearm and Athis...again.
They were unlikely associates really. Athis was a wiry dunmer, face smeared with white paint and stone colored body composed of smooth muscle. Highly skilled with both pole-arm and blade, Athis tended to be quick and lethal, leaving him with very few scars as a result. When engaged in conversation he was eloquent and soft spoken. A topknot of red hair completed his look.
Njada Stonearm was his polar opposite. She was nord, born and raised, built like a bull to boot. She was short, stocky and gritty. The woman's features were scarred, nose bent out of shape and one ear ragged from an old knife wound. Furthermore, she insisted on always wearing her trademark fur helmet, even indoors. Unlike the clean, smooth hair of Athis, Njada's was dirty and frumpy, its brown color almost unnoticeable.
The two Companions had an...interesting relationship. Aela had seen both in the same bunk, more than once when she woke the whelps in the morning. Often, they were perfectly civil, flirtatious even, getting along like the best of friends. But with two utterly different and fiery personalities, the pair could exploded at each other over simplest things. Today it was politics.
Aela had emptied her first tankard of cold beer when it happened. "You bastard!" Stonearm hissed, throwing her chair back so she could stand up. "Tullius doesn't know the first thing about Skyrim!"
Moving to his feet with equal speed but infinitely more grace, Athis looked down at his shorter, sometimes lover. "All I'm saying is that the man's no fool." He stated, in that gravely Dunmer tone. "He's doing what he believes right; he's serving the Emperor and his conscious."
Aela smirked a little, refilling her tankard with another serving of beer. The Huntress still hadn't moved from her position against the side table. That remark, logical though it may be, would earn Athis at least one punch.
Grabbing the Dunmer roughly by the central buckle of his hide armor, Stonearm yanked him away from the dining table and the other Companions. With Athis' back now facing the main chamber's open area, away from anything that might break, Njada struck the first blow.
Without a word, the Nord slammed her forehead directly into the Dunmer's face with a sickening crunch. Not letting Athis reconcile, she followed through with a heavy punch. Her fist basted into the dark elf's chin, snapping his head backwards and staggering him a few paces back.
Athis responded with a quick sweeping kick, provided by the extra space his fallback had given. The Dunmer's attack took Stonearm by surprise, knocking her clean off her feet. The air fled her lungs in a loud oomph as she hit the ground, hard.
"A good strike!" Aela applauded Athis, holding up her foaming mug in toast. While nobody took much interest in the pairs brawling anymore, Aela was always up to watch a good fight.
"Just don't kill each other," Skjor stated deadpan. The balding warrior was already halfway through his second plate of bacon, eggs and ham, with no intention of slowing down. The others at the table payed even less heed.
"You'll pay for that comment, bloody Dunmer!" Stonearm hissed, back on her feet and moving cautiously, hands held up in guard position. "I'll kick your sorry gray ass all the way back to Morrowind!"
"You've got to back up those words with some action," Athis responded, spitting out a wad of bloody saliva. "That surprise blow doesn't count."
"Trust me, you'll see these ones coming." Like a raging bull, Stonearm threw herself at the Dunmer, swinging her fists with a brutal fury. Aela didn't see all the blows connect from her vantage point, but Athis was swearing so he'd been hit at least once. Not that the Dunmer didn't have a few tricks of his own. Throwing a few lightning fast punches, his ash-skinned fists left welts across his adversary's face. Njada responded with a brutal uppercut, snapping Athis' head backwards for the second time. Following up with several more punches and a few choice kicks, the female pressed the assault. The brawl came to an abrupt conclusion with the Dunmer Companion laying bleeding on the floor.
Aela sat casually in her chair, watching the beat-down occur. It was Athis' turn; after all, he'd won the last time the pair had quarreled. Stonearm was gloating now, pumping her fist exuberantly and strutting around the semi-conscious Athis.
Turning away from the now finished brawl, Aela helped herself to some of Tilma's sweet rolls. The old lady had been around long before the Huntress had been a Companion and that showed no signs of changing. While her primary task was to keep Jorrvaskr clean and tend to the warriors dwelling within, she was also good at several other things, namely baking. That suited Aela just fine, she had a vicious sweet-tooth, something that Skjor teased her endlessly about. Sweet rolls were hardly a tough-as-nails warrior's favorite accessory after all. He was the only one who got away with teasing her though.
Torvar had tried it once while in one of his drunken stupors. Her first "Piss off," hadn't been enough to get the hint through his addled skull, so the woman had drawn her dagger on him. Taking the hint, Torvar left and had not breathed one word about her snacking habits since.
That thought put a sly smile on her face as she adjusted her boot-heels, putting one atop the other. The second mug of beer was still resting in her hand, the other occupied by a half-eaten sweet roll when he entered Jorrvaskr.
His sudden appearance prompted Aela to put all four of the chair's legs back on the ground and study him. What was his name again? Hammel? Yes that was it, Hammel Greymist, a name with unintended beauty. Beauty the man himself didn't particularly share, he was average at best. Aela didn't care what the exterior resembled, she cared only for the contents of the interior. Maybe that was why she was so fond of Skjor and their relationship, her certainly wasn't winning any beauty contests.
Pushing thoughts of Skjor aside, Aela surveyed Hammel as he looked around. While the man was giving a valiant attempt to look unimpressed by the Mead Hall, the Huntress could see right through it. It was the same with all the whelps, no matter what background or life they lived, all were taken in by the glory of Jorrvaskr.
Putting down her mug, she looked at his expression, followed his gaze. She didn't know why, but she was curious about him. He'd saved Ria with no thought to any sort of reward, that bought him her consideration. She watched him walk up to Skjor and waited to see if this Greymist was Companion material.
Being in Jorrvaskr's main hall was intoxicating. It almost felt like he'd drunk one to many meads and lost control of his base instincts. He'd seen and done many things over the course of his Legion service and yet he was still awed. Ysgramor himself had once lived under this roof ; Ysgramor, the very father of Skyrim, now Hammel Greymist was standing where the legendary king once stood.
There were several warriors eating around a massive table, the table in turn around a fire. In each of the room's corners was a small side table and chair. One of those tables was occupied by one Aela the Huntress, who didn't seemed to have noticed him. A Dunmer was sprawled on the floor with a Nord woman standing over top of him triumphantly.
Glancing at the seated warriors, Hammel tried to determine which of them was the current Harbinger. While it seemed strange to many non-Nords, the Companions had no guild leader. Unlike the Fighters Guild, each Companion was his or her own. Yet, while all of them might have been equal, there was the Harbinger. Whomever held that title was a sort of adviser for the whole group, giving advice on contracts, honor and life in general. It was up to the Harbinger, and the will of the Circle, to determine whether or not an individual would be accepted. The Nord hoped whoever currently held that title would be feeling generous.
Stepping forward, the ex-Legionnaire took a good look at those seated around the table. There were two nords, both of whom were similar enough in appearance to be brothers. Each had dark hair cut around the shoulders, with thick bulky muscles and stern gazes to match. The one in the steel armor wore a small beard on his chin, dark make-up surrounded his eyes, adding an intimidating flair. The one beside him wore armor of much finer steel, shaped to vaguely resemble a wolf, while painted with similar flair. He was fairer of face than the other and clean-shaven, save for some persistent stubble.
Yet these two didn't seem to have the look of authority, important yes, but not overly so. It was a different nord that caught his eye. This man wore the same wolf armor as one of the brothers, though he lacked gauntlets, his hands gnarled and weather-beaten and his face hard and scared. What remained left of his hair slate-gray had been pulled back into a long ponytail. One of his eyes was milky white, dead and unseeing. The other didn't seem to be in much better shape. He was rough around the edges and reeked of combat experience. Perhaps he was the Harbinger? It was worth a try.
Approaching the old warrior casually, Hammel glanced sideways at the fallen Dunmer. "That happen often?" He asked the man.
Finishing the bacon on his plate, then reaching for a mug of beer, the man's stony face cracked a wry smile. "Only when the two get pissed at each other." He shrugged, taking a long draft. "They'll be back in each others bed before the night is over. You know how love can be."
Hammel laughed. "That I do." He smiled and laughed, "Strange and unsettling."
The other man lifted his mug, "I'll drink to that." He rumbled deadpan, taking a nice long draft.
Pulling back one of the simple, yet lovingly crafted chairs, the warrior eased himself into it. "How are things these days with the Companions anyways?" He asked the man. It wouldn't pay to just walk in and ask him for membership. You have to get to know the man first, start up a conversation, talk square.
"Not bad," he answered, finishing the beer in his mug with a smack of the lips. Furrowing his aged brow a bit he stared into the fire, "Shor's bones, it's been better. But we're still running and we're still fighting. Why, need a contract?" He asked that question like he already knew the answer, raising the gray eyebrow above his dead eye. "Or do you think we'll take you?"
"I think you'll take me." Hammel's words held no boasting within their heart. They were simply stated as facts, voice unwavering.
While the man didn't laugh in his face he hardly seem impressed. "You think that we'll accept you? Really? I hate to break it to you, but the Companions are interested only in the best."
"Ria didn't seem like the best to me," Hammel answered, "She would've been paste on a giant's club if I hadn't interfered."
The man nodded in his direction, "Fair enough." He looked towards the stairs leading to the basement of Jorrvaskr, no doubt where the sleeping quarters were. "But Ria's a special case. She'll be receiving more training and experience. She's got honor to win back after all. But you..." He looked at Hammel with his one good eye, squinting at him oddly. "I don't know if we'd want you. You look like damaged goods to me."
Instinctively, the old war wounds across Hammel's body burned. The sword cut across the chest, the broken bottle he'd taken along the lip during a particularly memorable tavern-brawl; the old arrow wound in his shoulder that would never heal quite right and contributed so much to his nightmares. Sure, he had war wounds, and mental scarring to boot, but he doubted that this older fighter had any less. War left its mark on every man and this one had no doubt served in the Great War, he looked old enough.
"Fortunately for you, it isn't my call," he smirked. "Kodlak's the Harbinger around here. Who knows? Maybe he's in a generous mood." The look on this man's face made it obvious he doubted that was very likely. "I'm Skjor, just so you know." He reached across the table for the pitcher of beer, refilling his mug again as he spoke. "I don't know why I'm bothering to tell you this, I doubt you'll be here long enough for it to matter."
"Well I'm called Hammel," the Nord responded casually, pointedly not offering the man his hand. A show of determination seemed to be in order. "Keep that in mind, seeing as I'll be around."
"Confident eh?" Skjor snorted. "Confidence is good, arrogance is not. If you can back up those big words with action, I'll reconsider what I think of you. If not, you're a little dog nipping at my ankles without doing much. Beat it meatsack."
Skjor's tone brokered no room for argument. Knowing that any more talk would only hurt his reputation, Hammel got up casually and moved towards the stairs leading down. A quick glance around the chamber showed him that the dark-haired Nord in the wolf armor had already departed, leaving his brother eating alone.
It wasn't Hammel's problem, he had a Harbinger to see.
Moving past the Companions finishing up their lunch, Hammel began his quick journey down the stairs towards Jorrvaskr's basement. The stairs were solid, quality pine, much like the building around them. As he descend into the lower level the warrior's gaze fell upon the excellent stonework the comprised the majority of the walls. Each rock was lovingly cut and placed, the basement walls sturdy and firm. With the floor composed of similar stones, numerous furs and rugs had been thrown in place to give it a more warm feel. A few torches burned on the walls, giving the otherwise darkened space some light. Tables, benches, weapons and chests were scattered around the main walkway, giving it a highly lived in look. Several small rooms branched off from the hallway, each clearly full of simple beds. At the far end the hallway split off into a fork. Hammel was unable to see what either of those separate corridors led too; he hoped one of them lead to the Harbinger's quarters.
Taking the lush carpet in stride, Hammel moved down the hall towards the end of the "T." He paused for a moment and, after hearing voices coming from the left-hand passage, decided to take that one.
He passed one more, this time lavishly decorate, quarter before finding the one he sought. The door to the Harbinger's room was open a crack, allowing him just a glance of its contents. What he could see consisted mostly of solid furniture of notable wooden persuasion, covered in books or weapons. A circular table with a simple design took up the room's corner, easily viewable from his position in the hallway. A brace of chairs flanked it, though the only one he could see was currently occupied by the missing brother.
The man's gantleted hands rubbed his dark hair fiercely, his voice, while full of Nordic richness and strength, seemed to be quivering ever so slightly. "It always boils below the surface, like a fire in my skin. Burning... always burning." He was speaking quietly, with an almost frightened tinge. "I try to fight it, to drive it away, but it's always there...Always there."
At this point another hand, also encased in steel, reached across the table, gripping the man's shoulder. "We all do." An ancient voice intoned sympathetically. "It is our burden to bare." The voice was rich with wisdom. It was definitely old, yet it remained strong, unyielding. The mailed hand gripped the man's shoulder all the tighter. "Reach into your heart Vilkas. Pull out the legendary strength of will I know dwells within you. You are a fighter!" The man's tone rose every so slightly, the voice swelling with pride. "I know you'll conquer this affliction. Just as you have conquered all other challenges before it."
Vilkas nodded gratefully, face bright with encouragement. Hammel figured it would be safe for him to make his prescience known. Rapping his knuckles on the partly-open door, the ex-scout waited for a response.
The Companion shot upward, hand reaching backwards for the handle of a great-sword strapped onto his back. "Stay your hand Vilkas, no harm will befall us here," the ancient voice stated calmly. Grudgingly, the armored warrior put his hand back on the arm rest. "Come in. Speak your piece."
Hammel pushed the door all the way open, striding into the Harbinger's room with purposeful movements. Vilkas didn't seem pleased with him, but, honestly, the Nord wasn't looking at him. It was the other man that took all his attention. While it was easy to mistake Skjor for the Harbinger it would impossible to mistake this man for anything but. He was weather-beaten, his leathery skin reddened from plenty of exposure to the sun. His face was covered in a weave of scars, his cheeks painted black with equally intricate tribal marks. His left eye, like Skjor's, was milky white and unseeing. Most noticeably, his hair ran long and snow-colored down his back, a large beard of a similar shade covered his face. The elderly warrior wore a style of armor that was identical to the younger man's.
Leaning back in his chair, the armored Harbinger looked directly at Hammel. "Yes? What is it?"
"You are the Harbinger?" The warrior responded casually, not sure how otherwise to approach him. The man nodded his snow-covered head sagely, his lone working eye scanning over the younger Nord's face with precision. He almost seemed to know the word's in Hammel's heart before they made their way to his lips. "I wish to become a Companion."
"Do you?" The weathered old fighter responded in an equally emotionless tone. "Let me take a good look at you." He rose to his feet, ancient bones creaking. Moving closer, the old man looked at the ex-Legionnaire; gazing at him intently. While he scanned over his sword arm quickly, he seemed more focused on something internal. A silence fell over the three men, as the Harbinger's gaze worked its way through Hammel's very soul.
"Yes." He said at me length. The single word came out as a harsh whisper, a single syllable that promised so much. "Yes, you'll do."
Vilkas didn't seem particularly thrilled by this announcement. "You can't be serious Kodlak!" He scoffed, gesturing at Hammel with an armored fist, "You know nothing about him. I know nothing about him and I know all the great warriors that roam Skyrim's plains and mountains. This outsider," the other nord spat on the ground viciously, "Is unknown, a variable. Why take a chance on him?"
Kodlak turned to address the other man seated at the table. "Why Vilkas? What a man has done is not as important as what a man can do. This stranger has the fire deep within him and Jorrvaskr is always open for those with fire in their hearts and steel in their hands. Anyone capable of living with honor and swinging a blade can be a great warrior." Kodlak turned away from Vilkas and gazed directly at Hammel. "Tell me, are you a great warrior?"
The words were phrased as an honest question. Not a challenge or debate. It was one man to another discussing his skill in battle and achievements that followed.
Hammel looked the man in the eye, judged his own strength for a moment, then responded honestly, "I can handle myself."
"Really?" Kodlak leaned back in his chair, surveying the warrior's face. "Confidence is good. But as for whether or not you can prove it will finalize this decision." The weathered old man turned his bearded gaze towards the much younger warrior. "Vilkas, take this young man up to the yard. Have him tested. If he passes your tests, maybe we can find him a place here."
Vilkas didn't seem pleased with this predicament but he obviously respected Kodlak to much to complain. "Keep up whelp." He told Hammel with obvious disdain, "The sooner I whip your sorry arse the sooner I can get back to something worthwhile."
The sun beat down overhead, leaving trickles of sweat dripping their way down Hammel's side. The Companion's back lot was a pleasant place. A high stone wall separated the yard from the cliff-face of Whiterun. Pleasantly green grass waved in the breeze, filling the areas not replaced with dirt or stone. Jorrvaskr had a small porch coming off its back, the small area filled with rickety tables and chairs. The porch's "floor" was made from solid stone, the poles and over-head roof a far less sturdy wood.
Hammel stood at one end of the dirt fighting circle, his back to a row of badly-beaten dummies. He held a blade in each hand, the short Imperial made blades, feeling right at home in his calloused grip. Vilkis stood facing him casually, his steel greatsword held in front of him, both hands wrapped tightly around the grip. A few other Companions were sitting and watching the confrontation including, Hammel noticed pleasantly, a certain Huntress.
Vilkis was eyeballing him warily, trying to gauge his strengths. No doubt the veteran of dozens of conflicts, the other nord knew that a duel-wielding opponent was dangerous and unpredictable. He hardly looked like he was going to make the same mistake many of Hammel's now dead opponents had.
"Now," Vilkas told him in a thickly accented voice. "Strike me a few times. If you can land a good blow you pass. Not that that's likely to happen."
"Crush him like a bug Vilkas!" The man's brother shouted, pumping a fist emphatically.
"Shove your boot down his throat!" A dirty looking Nord with a scraggly blonde beard and mess of hair shouted.
Well, home crowd advantage here.
Battle now unofficially joined, the former scout took several steps forward, circling his opponent warily. He had speed on this man but Vilkas had reach, and the strength to really hurt him. Dashing in quickly, Hammel swung right, left and then right again, his attacks moving at blinding speed.
Vilkas deflected all three strikes in a shower of sparks, moving his great-sword with speed the Nord barely thought possible. Without warning, the wolf armored fighter was on the offensive, launching a slash at the warrior's skull. Throwing himself backward, Hammel just barely dodged the wallop. While both were striking with the flat of the blade to avoid fatalities, the Nord had no intention of receiving a concussion.
Rebalanced after a moment of panic, the ex-Legionnaire moved back on the offensive. Striking with both blades high, he simultaneously launched a kick at his opponent's knee. It was a risky move but it was the strongest one he had.
As expected, Vilkas caught the two short swords with ease, as expected he took the kick right in the knee cap. What was unexpected was the other nord's reaction. With little more than a grunt, the Companion took the strike with indifference. By way of response, he sent Hammel a bone crushing headbutt, slamming his armored forehead into the Nord's face. His nose guard wasn't enough protection and he felt a bone crunch. Warm blood started dripping down his nose, staining the sand below him bright red. Unfortunate.
Hammel wasn't about to give up, punching out with the sword's handle. Metal met flesh as his punch grazed the side of Vilkas' head, turning his face slightly but remaining otherwise ineffective. His adversary was on the offensive again, swinging low this time with every intention of numbing Hammel's legs. The ex-Legionnaire's leather armor allowed him to hop the blow, throwing himself out of harm's way and rolling off to the side. He felt sand running down his back and into his ear, his hair matted underneath the iron helm covering his head. He spat in the dust, rising to his feet with a fury.
Dashing at his foe with a war cry, Hammel swung his left blade in a windmill style, aiming high. Vilkis dodged this strike easily enough, but took the low punch to the gut that the Nord added at the last second. Despite the thick steel armor protecting him, Vilkas hunched ever so slightly.
That was the opening Hammel needed.
Yanking his knee upwards with a snarl, he connected with his adversary's face, launching Vilkis' head backward in a spray of blood.
"Ha! A good strike!" Aela shouted from the bench, raising her pewter mug in tribute.
Hammel didn't let the praise distract him, nor did he let up, hunching low and shuffling forward like a crab. Flipping his blades around so the pommels faced outward, he hammered them one after another into his foe's chest. Vilkas staggered backward, holding a hand up.
"Enough." His word was simple, still proud, but with a fraction of respect now mingled. "That was a good fight. Maybe there is something to you after all." Vilkas snorted after saying so, almost mocking himself. "But I doubt it." His cocky demeanor back in place, the Companion took charge once again. "Since you're just a whelp and have to do what I say, here." Finishing his sentence with a flourish, he tossed Hammel his greatsword. Despite its weight and awkward shape it cleared the distance of the ring easily enough. Shoving one of his blades back into it's sheath rapidly, the ex-scout managed to catch his opponent's sword in hand. "Take that up to Eorlund at the smithy and have him sharpen it. Up!" He clapped his armored hands at the Nord like he was some kind of dog. "Careful with that sword, it's probably worth more than you." Vilkas gave a barking laugh and departed, heading back into Jorrvaskr with the other Companions.
Hammel stood alone in the ring, feeling slightly embarrassed and foolish. He'd expected a lot of derogatory grunt work and menial tasks but this... He wasn't sure what to feel at all.
With a laden sigh he began the trudge up to to the Skyforge and to the man who worked it.
"You aren't thinking about him are you?" Skjor asked Aela casually, almost as if commenting on the weather. He kept his tone carefully neutral in truly classic Skjor form. He never seemed angry, possessive or jealous.
Yet Aela knew he was, she could smell it. Considering the circumstances, she supposed that seemed fair. Skjor rolled over in bed, reaching around in the end-side table for a shirt without bothering to get up.
"Yes I am," Aela answered honestly, wiping the now smudged warpaint off her face with a damp clothe. She should have been more careful but no... Now she had to reapply her paint or everyone would know she'd been busy. By Hircine she didn't need that right now.
Finishing the wash down, she snatched one of the room's towels, drying her face as she spoke. "I think he has potential." She paused a moment, "More than Torvar, anyway."
"Torvar's drunk more often than not." Skjor reminded her, pulling a linen shirt over his head, still not getting up. "That's hardly good company." His one working eye scanned her face intently, trying to pull her reasoning from her mind. He should have known better; Aela prided herself on her ability to mask her emotions.
"Kodlak agrees," Aela insisted evenly, "He's seen the fire inside." A long pause followed, "As do I."
"Huh," Skjor finally got out of bed, pulling up a pair of breeches and reaching for a belt. "He certainly handled himself against Vilkas; and his rescue of Ria seems noble enough. But I don't know. He seems...unstable."
Aela raised an eyebrow. "That's hardly the word I'd choose," she responded moving towards her own armor with grace. "He just seems, lost. A little like you were after the Great War."
Skjor snorted derisively; apparently not caring much for the comparison. "I see where this is going. You want me to back you when you offer him membership."
"You know I can't do it without majority, even if Kodlak vouches for him. Farkas will support anyone who seems worthy. Vilkas won't, he doesn't see the benefit, especially if he doesn't like the applicant. Farkas and I aren't enough to get him in. I need you." Aela's words didn't come out like a plea, they were stated as simple fact. Doing up the buckle on her left boot without looking at her lover, Aela awaited the usual silence that followed when Skjor was thinking.
The older warrior paused, chewing his lip in contemplation. Sitting back down on the bed to put on his wolf-emblazoned boots, the slate headed warrior answered. "If you and Kodlak vouch for this outsider than I will support this decision."
"Good," Aela stated warmly. "We all deserve a chance at greatness don't you think?" Slipping into the rest of her armor, the Huntress gave a cunning smile. "Let's have Farkas fetch the new blood. It's time he learned the good news."
"Thank you for bringing my shield back from Eorlund's, Greymist. I've been waiting on it for some time." The woman told Hammel, taking the offered shield in one smooth motion. The old Gray -Mane had proven fine company, working the Skyforge while he spoke of myths and adventure. He had also reminded the Nord not always to do what he was told. After all, everyone was equal in the Companion's. Still, kindness was often its own reward and he asked the ex-scout to take Aela's shield back with him. Eorlund's wife was mourning the disappearance of a son and he wanted to be with her. Since taking a shield was no big deal, the warrior agreed.
Now here he was, in Skjor's room with two senior Companion's awaiting a decision of life-changing consequences. He was reminded of the uncomfortable feeling he'd had after basic training, wondering if he'd made the cut into the Imperial Legion. He had, but he'd sweated for quite a while over it.
"You gave Vilkas quiet the thrashing out there," Aela interjected with a smile. "But you didn't hear that from me." Her expression shifted into something obviously more serious. "Do you think you could take him in a real fight?"
"I don't like to boast," Hammel responded instantly. "Besides, I can't honestly say unless it actually happened."
"Huh, not one for boasting? Interesting..."
Skjor cleared his throat to draw attention back towards himself, arms crossed across his chest, "While Kodlak Whitemane, as Harbinger, has the most pull over the decision whether or not to accept you, the ruling of the Circle is still important. The majority need to be in agreement before someone is accepted" The older Nord paused, arms folded across his chest in an intimidating manner. His milky-white eye stared blankly at Hammel, giving him a disconcerted feeling.
"After we debated about it for some time and a majority was reached..."
"You're in." Aela cut Skjor off with a sly smirk of her own, "Congratulations new blood, Jorrvaskr is your home now. She waved him in the direction of Farkas, Vilkas' brother. "Our resident ice brain will show you the sleeping quarters; I'd imagine proving your worth takes something out of you huh?"
Hammel inclined his head respectfully, silently thanking those who had vouched for him. "I will bring no shame to this famed hall."
"You better not," Skjor stated tersely, "I'd hate to have to string you up by your entrails and parade your corpse throughout the city." Waving the Nord away, the one-eyed Companion turned towards his book-case. "Now, off you go, find something to do."
It seemed obvious that if he stayed much longer he'd be straining the man's nerves, not something he wanted to do now that he was in. Without a word, Hammel Greymist, Companion, left the room.
"They're good people," Farkas' rough voice ground out casually as he closed the door behind him.
"What?" Hammel responded as the duo began their short journey to the sleeping quarter for the whelps. The way that Farkas had said it was so calm and surreal it took Hammel a moment to realize what he was talking about.
"Skjor and Aela, they're good people." The other nord explained, taking the lead in the pair's walk. "They tease me sometimes, you know, because I'm a bit slow in the mind, but it's all in fun really." Farkas smiled warmly. "I like it here. I'm sure you will too." Hammel didn't respond, just nodding polity. "I hope we keep you; it gets boring after awhile and a new face always helps. That is assuming you don't get killed on your first contract."
"I served in the Legion a good portion of my life," the ex-scout responded casually, patting the standard Imperial-make sword at his waist, "I doubt I'll have too many problems."
Farkas smiled all the more, "I think I'm gonna like you."
AN:Whew, this chapter was longer than expected! Thanks once again for all your continued support. (Yes Heimskr is one of my favorite NPC's.) Please remember to review, it always helps.
Cheers!