(AN: My version of Skyrim is very large indeed. The problem with that is, of course, the time it takes to travel between cities, especially if you want to make the story "realistic". As much as i hate dungeon-crawling, making chapters of nothing but traveling from one place to another feels excessive, especially if nothing important to the story happens during the journey [lol, i know: how dare i call anything "excessive" when my Elder Scrolls stories are some of the longest of all the ones i've made]. On another note, i myself made a journey of twenty miles on foot in about 5 hours.)

(Two additional notes: first, ulcerative colitis sucks. It literally drains you of energy, which gives me another [and more concerning] reason for why i'm slow on the updates, because i'm usually very exhausted. Also, the Legion expansion for World of Warcraft came out [sort of] and my brother has been hijacking my laptop to play the pre-launch events. I've always wanted to do a Warcraft-based story, but that never came to fruition. Probably because i don't have many good ideas, i don't like my brother's revisionist history of the Scarlet Crusade, and if i say what i would like about the canon characters [ie. Garrosh is a whiny, irresponsible war-monger, Jaina needs to get over herself, Thrall is still my number one guy, and Sylvanas will betray everyone], i might as well stop writing altogether. But, in regards to Elder Scrolls, there was something i'd like to say. On the WoWwiki page, in the "related notes" section on the Draenei article, it likens them...to the Dunmer! I mean, the Draenei are the nicest race in Warcraft besides the Tauren, whereas the Dunmer are known for enslaving other races and being all around a-holes.)

First Blood

It had taken five hours to walk from the Guardian Stones to Riverwood, and it would take just as long, if not longer, to go by cart from there to Whiterun. But neither Sigrun nor Jonna cared about how long it would take. The cool, early spring air of First Seed was a welcome change from the heights in Falkreath. There they had cool haze under trees and mountain winds off the lake. For a while, they doffed their fur cloaks and enjoyed the mild temperature.

"You might wanna put them cloaks back on, ladies," Sori True-Hand suggested. "Once we reach the plains o' Whiterun, the winds'll make you forget all o' this here fine weather."

The cart turned the bend and began to make its way down the winding path into the plains below. For the moment, sparse trees from the eaves of Riverwood concealed the valley, which appeared only as a golden mirage of light between the leafy boughs. The sound of the White River rushing off to their right was the only sound they could hear. As they turned to make the last lap down out of the woods and into the valley, they saw a lone person standing in the midst of the road.

"This don't bode well," Sori muttered. "Now's the chance to earn your pay, ladies. First, get down. Don't let 'em see you. Don't come up till I say so."

Sigrun and Jonna shrugged, then hid themselves behind the hide tarp. The cart rumbled along, until the lone figure became larger and larger. Soon they were almost upon the newcomer: here Sori called for a halt, and pulled the reins on the horse. It came to a lurching halt, as the road was still sloping downhill. The figure in the road was seen to be clad in green and brown, with a hood thrown to cover the head and face. In its hand was a long bow, standing on one end.

"Good afternoon!" Sori announced. "If ye don't mind, now, clear the road. We're inna bit o' a hurry, see?"

"Actually, I do," the stranger said. The voice was the voice of a young woman. "This road belongs to the Sisters of Strife. And seeing that you're a man, you're going to have to pay a toll."

"Bullshit!" Sori retorted. "This here road belongs to the Jarl o' Whiterun. This is a shakedown and I ain't havin' none o' it!"

"Then we'll kill you, your boy and take everything you have in your cart," the woman retorted. "It's your choice, little man: part with a few of your goods, or part with your life and all of your goods."

"'We?'" scoffed Sori. "Yer just one, b*tch." The woman smiled, then whistled into the trees. From behind the cart there appeared two more figures, clad in green and brown. Both of them wore hoods and bore staves and spears in their hands.

"Now we are three," the first woman said confidently.

"Master," Dag whispered. "Maybe we should consider..." But with a furtive glance, Sori silenced his erring apprentice.

"C'mon out now!" Sori shouted. With this, Sigrun and Jonna leaped from the back of the cart: Jonna with axe in hand and Sigrun wielding the borrowed sword. Both of them stood in battle stances with their shields upon their backs and their backs to each other: Jonna eyed the leader while Sigrun watched the two who had appeared at the rear. At first the three bandits readied themselves to fight, and the woman at the front of the wagon plucked an arrow from the quiver at her hip, set it to the bow and drew back. When they saw that the defenders were also women, they paused. Their eyes shifted warily from one to another and back to their leader.

"Well?" asked Sori, noticing their hesitation. "What are ye waitin' fer?"

"Stand aside, sisters," the first woman said. "We have no quarrel with you. Only with that fat oaf and his mewling lover."

"Well, ain't that a shit, now?" Jonna retorted. "Turns out we're defending this man and his cart. So if you want them, you're gonna have to go through us."

"You are a woman, sister," the first woman replied, her voice strained. "I must give you the road."

Sigrun kept her eyes aimed at the two bandits before her, while Jonna suppressed a chuckle.

"Some bandits you are!" she mocked. "I'll be sure to tell everyone I meet in Whiterun to take a shield-maiden with them if they're on the road."

The three women slowly backed away into the surrounding trees; always with their faces towards the wagon, though they often looked at each other with questioning glances. Once they were gone, Jonna threw her axe into the bole of a tree with an angry shout.

"What was that for, Jons?" Sigrun asked.

"I'm pissed," the shorter woman replied, walking over to the tree to retrieve her axe. "I was hoping for a fight."

"I only ever heard of the Sisters of Strife," Dag stated. "Never thought they were real."

"They be real, lad," Sori returned. "And a right bunch o' cowardly hussies, they be!"

Jonna bit her lower lip, suppressing a retort as she tried to remember that they were being paid for their work. Sigrun, meanwhile, had sheathed her sword and was climbing back into the cart. After retrieving her axe, Jonna followed her and the cart continued its wobbling course.

They carried on for about five minutes, then suddenly Sigrun gasped. Jonna turned to see what it was, but she too was struck silent. Off to their left the trees had faded and the golden plains of Whiterun could at last be seen. To the north and east high mountains rose as the borders of the valley, while to the west the plains rolled on like ocean waves, endlessly soaring until they were lost to their eyes. A cold wind blew from the tree-less valley before them, sending the women's long hair soaring like flags of earth and sunlight.

"Is that the plains of Whiterun?" Sigrun asked.

"Aye, that be Whiterun," Sori replied.

She smiled. "I've never seen a place so vast without any trees. I'll wager you could see so much farther from the middle of the plains."

Jonna was also spellbound by the sight. However, while Sigrun's eyes lingered on the plains, hers were drawn along the mountains going eastward. At the eastern end of the mountain range, right where the trees continued back southeastward, there was one large mountain that climbed higher than all the rest. Its sides were covered in snow, but its peak was lost among the clouds.

"Is that what I think it is?" Jonna asked.

"The Throat o' the World? That it is," answered Sori.

"We've all heard stories about that mountain," Jonna said. "But we've never seen it this close before. It really does look like it touches the sky."

Meanwhile, Sigrun had been looking across the plains. Near the eastern end of the plains, she saw the silver line of the White River winding off down into the plains and disappearing towards the mountains of the east. To the west of the river were many ordered farms, in the midst of which was a hill. Upon that hill was what appeared a wall of wood and a glint of gold.

"And what's that?" Sigrun asked, pointing towards the hill. "Is that the city of Whiterun?"

"Aye," Sori nodded. "We should be there jus' before nightfall. The tavern there, the Bannered Mare, is one o' the best in all o' Skyrim. While merchants aren' allowed to peddle their wares to Nords, there ain't been no tax on beer. That suits many jus' fine."

"That's better," Jonna said. "What can you tell us about Whiterun?"

"Ruled by Jarl Nelkir," Sori replied. "Bastard son o' Balgruuf, the former Jarl. Though don' call 'im that to his face, mind you. An' don' you bring up the death o' his father neither. He's as dangerous as his advisor, the Imperial guv'nor Nestor. Ever since the new Emperor took power, he's had guv'nors in every hold in Skyrim, along with a tidy garrison o' Imperial soldiery. They enforce Imperial law. You'll know jus' what that means by and by, I'll wager."

The hours passed as the wagon bumbled down the path into the plains. By and by the road forked into three paths: the path leading straight ahead and the rightmost path seemed to follow the White River for a while, then the rightmost path turned due east and vanished into the mountains while the straight path continued northward. It was the left-hand path that Sori took, turning the cart down a wide, cobblestone road that led westward, through several farms. As they rode past the farms, Sigrun noticed that the farmers worked with heads down, and those who looked up at them had grim expressions upon their faces.

"Why are they so grim?" Sigrun asked.

"Imperial law," Sori replied. "What they work fer they won' see, even to feed themselves. It...gods, no!" Sori's voice was full of horror, as though he had seen some new dreaded devilry.

"What is it?" Jonna asked.

"Look fer yerselves, lassies," Sori grimly stated, his hand gesturing to the right-side of the cart.

The girls looked and their mouths hung open. They were now close enough that they could see the wooden walls of Whiterun. The sun was westering, and long shadows were cast on the eastern side of the city, but there was yet enough light to see what was hanging from the walls of the city. Bodies were hanging upon the city-walls: some of them were held up by their hands, others by their feet. Most of them appeared to be dead, but from the agonizing groans, there were still some hanging upon the walls that were still alive. Beneath one of the bodies were two Imperial soldiers in the uniform of the Red Legions, and two other men standing before them. One was an old man, and he seemed to be on his knees, pleading with the Legion soldiers. The other was younger and standing behind the older man. Whatever was being negotiated didn't turn out well, and one of the Legionnaires struck the old man to the ground. The younger man tried to intervene, but the other Legionnaire struck him in the stomach, then, taking hold of the younger man's long hair with one hand, began punching him in the face over and over with the pommel of his gladius; the short-sword common among the Legion. The other soldier then took a hammer and broke the old man's knees.

"Please!" one of the living men up on the wall cried out. "Leave him alone! Kill me instead!"

"Oh not yet, Nord scum!" the soldier with the hammer retorted. "You'll watch your father die on his knees, like a dog! And you will stay up there until you die a slow, painful death." Throwing the hammer away, the soldier began laughing as he struck the old man with his fist, ripped out his beard with his hands, and pissed upon him as he fell to the ground.

"Look away, lass," Sori warned. "Ain't nothing a lady needs seein'."

"Who said we were ladies?" Jonna asked grimly.

"What horrible thing did that poor man commit," Sigrun exclaimed, her voice will with disgust. "To be strung up to die like that?"

"Who knows," Sori shrugged. "Nobody bothers askin' 'bout these things no more, they happen so oft'n. The guv'nors demand that those breakin' laws be dealt with accordin'ly. Usually a Jarl jus' outlaws a man, now it's the death penalty fer everythin'. Hard times, indeed."

"Why doesn't the Jarl do something about this?" asked Jonna.

"Nelkir is closer to guv'nor Nestor than to his own people," Sori stated. "He turns a blind eye to what they do, though that ain't want the rumors says."

"What do the rumors say?" Jonna inquired.

Sori looked about this way and that, handed the reins to Dag, then leaned back towards the women. He whispered, speaking as though he expected to be heard, though there were no ears about than the four of them.

"They say," Sori whispered. "There's some devilry 'bout Jarl Nelkir. They say he knows things, things no mortal could possibly know. Rumors say he uses his powers to spy on his people, reveal secrets 'bout 'em, then sell 'em to the Imperials."

"Son of a b*tch," Jonna muttered.

Sigrun, meanwhile, was fixated on the horrifying scene beyond. The two soldiers had now thrown aside the two bodies: the old man was bloodied and broken, while the younger man's golden hair was stained pink and he had no more face.

"I said look away!" Sori insisted. "You'll draw their ire if they see ye."

The cart pulled up to the stables just outside of the city of Whiterun, even as the sun was on its way down. As they were approaching the stables, a bald dark elf approached their wagon.

"Fifty septims, up front," the elf demanded. "You know the rules."

Sori opened up his purse and handed out the gold septims as requested. The elf suddenly halted when he saw the women in the back.

"I didn't know you were dealing in slaves, True-Hand," the elf chuckled. "I know a mer in New Gnisis who will pay a fine price for Nord women."

"We're not slaves!" Jonna retorted.

"Watch your tongue, n'wah b*tch!" the elf sneered. "I don't care what the Empire says, all your kind are slaves!"

"Lloryth, that's enough!" Sori shouted. "They ain't slaves, they're our guards."

"Pity," Lloryth mockingly pouted. "I was going to let you and your little lover here keep your wagon in the stables at the usual toll. But, seeing as you've managed to gain enough wealth to hire guards, we'll have to charge you extra, won't we? Fifty septims for each of your guards: that's one hundred septims."

"A hundred!" Sori exclaimed. "Now you listen here..."

"I agree, too little," Lloryth returned. "One hundred for each guard."

"That's outrageous!" Sori retorted.

"Two hundred each," Lloryth stated, a broad smile on his face. "I can do this all night, if you'd like, filthy n'wah."

"You fuckin' gray cunt!" Sori shouted.

"You're not making this easier for yourself, are you?" Lloryth returned, shaking his head and smiling fiendishly at them. "Four hundred apiece. And an additional two hundred for your insolent remarks about my elvish heritage."

"You're enjoyin' this, ain't you?" Sori growled.

"I'm only doing my duty," mocked Lloryth. "And I'm more than willing to let you tie your cart at the stables, after you've given me these two n'wahs...oh, and after you've paid me two hundred for your prejudiced remarks."

"Is it your duty to shake down everyone wanting to tie their carts at the stables of Whiterun?" Jonna retorted, climbing out of the cart.

"You'll shut your mouth, n'wah whore..." Lloryth began, but was suddenly cut short as Jonna pushed him up against the wooden pillars of the stable, the blade of her axe pushed against his head.

"Or you'll what?" Jonna retorted. "Go on, say it. I dare you."

"Please, don't hurt me!" Lloryth quailed. "I didn't mean any harm! Why are you Nord n'wahs so violent towards anyone different than you? I was only trying to bring about a safe solution, without involving the GUA..." Before his cry escaped his lips, Jonna put her one hand upon his mouth while the other hand brought the axe back and struck his bald head with the flat-side. As he was dazed, Jonna struck him again, sending him down to the floor. She then turned to Sigrun and gestured for her to come down and help her. The two then carried him back into the stables and set him down next to one of the corralled horses.

"What was that for?" Dag asked, as Sori brought the cart into the stables and tied the horse and wagon up at the hitching post. But Jonna shushed him with a finger to her hand. Just a minute later, the two Imperial soldiers appeared, wiping blood off their hands.

"What's going on here?" the one that had brutalized the old man asked. "Thought we heard some kind of struggle."

"Ain't nothin', good soldiers," Sori interjected. "One of them horses kicked poor Lloryth in the head. Knocked him clean out, it did."

"Can you understand a word of what this old fuck's saying?" the second soldier asked. "Sounds like a bloody animal."

"I said..." Sori began.

"We heard you the first time!" the first soldier retorted. "And who are these young girls with you?"

"Our bodyguards," Sori replied.

"If you plan on entering Whiterun tonight," the first guard said. "You tell them to hand over their weapons."

"You heard 'em, ladies," Sori grumbled.

Sigrun gripped the hilt of the borrowed sword in her sheath reluctantly. It was not hers to give away, and if they didn't return it, she would never forgive herself. Then suddenly the Imperial soldier, the one who had bashed in the young Nord man's face in, was standing before her. His face was smeared with blood and he gave her a glance that said he was willing to do to her what he did to that man if she didn't hand the sword over. A quick side-ways glance at Jonna and she saw the younger girl nod as she handed the first soldier her axe.

"Hmm," said the first Imperial soldier. "There's fresh blood on this axe. Getting into fights, have you, now?"

"Ain't nothin'," Sori replied. "Bandits, only. We was attacked on the road from Riverwood. They drove 'em off, but not without knockin' a few heads, eh?"

"It's not advised," the first soldier returned. "The highway patrols keep the roads safe. If you meet with assaults, it is best to wait for them and describe to them in detail the attackers and which way they went. They will then see to it that justice is met."

"I'll remember that the next time I be robbed and beaten by bandits," Sori stated.

The soldiers glared at them, but gave no answer. Sigrun at last surrendered her sword: the guard took it and, leering at her, walked away with his comrade. From the other side of the cart, Sigrun heard Sori whisper for her and gesture with his head that she should follow Dag and Jonna, who were on their way up the hill to the gates of Whiterun. Sigrun caught up with them and learned that they were on their way to the Bannered Mare: apparently Dag had already been on this particular route with Sori several times and knew the way to the tavern well enough.

Up from the stables, the path to the gates of Whiterun ran up a wide causeway of stone, upon either side of which were built wooden fortifications and watch-towers. Upon them stood not the hold guards of Whiterun but soldiers of the Imperial Red Legions. Instead of gold and the white horse-head, they wore red and the draconian Red Diamond in black. All of them were armed with spears, bows and arrows, and swords: it was a sign of their prestige that they bore swords instead of axes, the commonly available weapon in Skyrim. The banner of Whiterun, golden with the white horse-head, still hung over the gates of the city, but it seemed as nothing more than a nominal display of tradition.

Inside the gates, the city was preparing for the night. Shops and vendors were packing up their goods from the market square directly ahead of the main road. Imperial soldiers in groups of threes made their patrols along the streets, eying the goings on of the people of Whiterun. The city was built on levels, each higher than the other: the lowest level, in which they walked, was filled with stores and poorer houses, with most of the stores concentrated around the market square at the end of the main street. At the end of the lowest district could be seen a long hall whose roof was built like the inverted hull of a dragon ship.

"That there's Jorrvaskr," Sori proudly stated. "Home o' the Companions. They still operate around Skyrim, both northern an' southern, though they ain't exactly welcome east an' west. Nor here'bouts neither, not after the Emperor brought the Fighters Guild into Skyrim."

"Sig, it's the Companions!" Jonna whispered excitedly. They had both heard many stories of the exploits of the Companions from Eirik, who had, for a time, been their Harbinger. In fact, though Sigrun had ulterior motives, Jonna's desire to make a name for herself would undoubtedly bring her back this way, back to the Hall of the Companions.

Sigrun nodded, but made no audible reply. She hadn't spoken a word since they passed the walls of Whiterun and seen the bodies hanging thereon.

Into the market square the little group arrived, coming to the Bannered Mare tavern. In a city filled with the solemnity of occupation and the grimness of daily executions upon the walls, here alone there seemed to be mirth and happiness. From the walls could be faintly discerned the noise of song and revelry, playing on as if in defiance of the sorry state of Whiterun. The four of them pushed open the door and walked into the common room of the tavern. True to the noise, it was indeed lively inside. Groups of people gathered at the tables, sharing stories, taking breaks from their patrols, brokering deals in hushed tones in the dark corners, soliciting the services of loose women, or arm in arm and slurring through old drinking songs. A warm fire crackled in the hearth in the center, over which hot food was being prepared by several barmaids. At the bar a middle-aged woman with reddish-brown hair was serving drinks to those seated there.

It was to the bar that Sori led the others. There were only three seats at the bar open, but Sori pushed away from one seat an old man lying face-down at the bar. With four seats open, they sat down and made their orders to the woman, whom Sori introduced as Ysolda. Aside from soup, cheese and bread, they began a beer tab for all four of them. Jonna was the first to finish her mug and was already starting on a second round when she noticed that everyone seemed to be absorbed in their own thing. Sori was chatting animatedly with Ysolda about the goings on in Whiterun, Dag was eying the tavern well-endowed tavern maids, and Sigrun was morosely sipping from her cup. On Jonna's left was an older man with short blond hair and a knotted beard, who also looked as melancholic as Sigrun.

"Hey, Sig," Jonna finally said. "Are you alright? You haven't spoken more than a word since we got here."

"I'm sorry," Sigrun sighed. "I don't mean to spoil this. It's just...well..." She sighed. "I can't stop thinking about the people on the wall. If they really were bad enough to warrant such a violent and shameful death."

"We may never know," Jonna replied.

"But why has nobody done anything about it?" Sigrun asked. "Sori said nobody bothers anymore. But why?"

"Because everyone is finally tired of death," the old man groaned. Both Sigrun and Jonna turned to him. "And look what that's done to us! Hell, I used to think people obsessed with honor was the reason there was so much death and hatred here in Skyrim. Now it seems that death comes to us regardless of why we want it. Now..." He grimly chuckled. "...we can only hope that ignoring everything will let death pass us by."

"Ignore all those deaths?" Sigrun asked. "How can you ignore that?"

"Because the alternative," the old man replied. "Is a sorry state. You start to care about family, about peace...about love. Then in one fell swoop, it all gets taken away from you: family, peace, love...heart! And you're left with nothing but emptiness and regret, endlessly wishing that things could be different, wondering if you could have done more to prevent it all from happening. It drives a man mad."

"So what do you do, then?" Jonna asked.

"Ignore the pain," the old man replied, raising his cup as if to show the secret to his method. "Try to forget. Let it go. Get along to get along."

"Do you really believe that?" Jonna asked, feeling depressed at this man's apathy.

"I'm not the only one," the old man groaned. "There are many in Skyrim who have adopted this noble method of getting along."

Jonna, desperately trying to salvage the quickly deteriorating mood of the conversation, turned to her cup to notice that it was empty. Taking the bottle, she filled it up yet again, then offered to top off the old man's cup.

"Yes, now you're talking!" the old man chuckled grimly. "The juice of barley, wheat and hops will cure any ailment! I like you, kinswoman. What is your name?"

"Jonna," she replied.

"Jon," he added. "What clan do you belong to?"

"I don't belong to any clan," Jonna shook her head.

"Indeed?" Jon returned. "I would have pegged you for a clans-woman. You seem somewhat familiar."

"I'm sorry?" Jonna said. "I've never seen you before in my life."

"Ah, it don't matter," Jon dismissed. "You have beer, that's enough for me." Without bothering for a toast, Jon emptied his mug and fell backwards onto the floor. He did not stir from his place.

"Good riddance!" Ysolda exclaimed.

"What do you mean?" Jonna asked.

"You must be new here, kinswoman," Ysolda answered with a laugh. "Jon's the town drunk; well, one of them. We tolerate him in here 'cuz he has the coin for it. Today he's been at the bar, drinking more than usual and talking to anyone that'd listen." She then called to one of the barmaids and had them drag Jon from the bar. A large man with a thick, long beard took his seat and started barking out his order.

"Jons?" Sigrun spoke.

"Hmm?" Jonna said, turning from the large hairy man.

"I want you to kill me if I ever become like that old man," Sigrun said.

"That's a bit harsh, don't you think, Sig?" Jonna returned. "I mean, he's obviously been through shit. You can't be too hard on him."

"I don't ever want to be like that," Sigrun stated. Secretly, she was thinking about the home she had left behind reluctantly. Her father, mother, and brother were still there, waiting for her return once they realized that she was gone. She couldn't imagine ever being so dead inside that she could stop caring about her family.

"Well, then, I'll make you a deal," Jonna said. "I won't kill you, I'll just knock some sense into you before it ever gets to be that bad. Deal?" She held up her mug.

"Deal," Sigrun smiled, clanging her mug against Jonna's. They then both turned their cups to the roof and drank deeply. Sigrun, who had been only sipping, shook her head as the brew started getting to her. Jonna, on the other hand, had finished three whole cups and was still as sober as the moment she entered the bar.

"Ysolda!" Jonna shouted over the tumult of the tavern. "Don't you have anything stronger?"

"If you have the coin for it," the proprietor returned.

Jonna began searching for her money-bag when suddenly a large hand slammed on the table and presented Ysolda with several gold septims. Jonna noticed that the hand belonged to the large hairy man at her left.

"Excuse me?" she asked.

"Ain't nothin' wrong yet," the man rumbled. "Just buyin' you a drink."

"Why?" Jonna asked.

"Don't you know who I am?" he asked.

"Should I?" Jonna retorted.

The man made a forced grin. "I'm Sjof the Strong, adventurer from Riften. I've traveled seven of the eight provinces, fought man, mer and beast from the Alik'r Desert to the wastelands of Morrowind. There's not a tavern between the two I ain't visited, and in each one I've out-drunk every man, mer and beast that I've encountered. That's why they call me 'the Strong'; there's no man I can't beat, whether by arm or drink."

"Is that so?" Jonna asked, her interest suddenly piqued. "Well, I don't know if I should."

"What's the matter, girl?" he laughed. "Afraid of a little friendly competition?"

"No," Jonna returned. "It's just, well, I've already had three. So it really wouldn't be fair...for you, that is."

"Then by all means, let me catch up!" Sjof replied. He ordered a bottle of the strongest beer and three cups worth to start him off. A large metal pitcher was presented, which he lifted up to his lips and began chugging like a thirsty man finding a spring in the desert.

"You sure you don't wanna back down, Jons?" Sigrun interjected.

"I'm not afraid of him," Jonna returned. "Besides, this beer is like water. I've had three cups and don't feel shit."

"But that's the strong stuff," Sigrun, who was a little woozy, pointed in the general direction of the large bottle.

"That's what they say," Jonna replied.

"But do you really want to marry him?" Sigrun asked.

"Who says I'll lose?" Jonna returned. At her left, Sjof slammed his pitcher onto the table and let out a long, loud belch.

"Right then, girl," he said. "Now that we're all caught up, let's get on with this. What shall the stakes be?"

"Stakes?" Jonna asked. She hadn't necessarily thought about wagering anything. Then again, the boast she had made as a wild, adventurous young woman still rang in her ears, especially after being reminded of it by Sigrun. As she sat there, between Sjof and Sigrun, she realized that she wanted to wager something: she wanted to put something at risk and know that she had won it fair and square.

"Aye, you know," he replied. "Or are you afraid to risk anything against the greatest drinker in all of Tamriel?"

"Just a moment, let me think," she muttered.

"Bah!" sneered Sjof. "Thinking is for milk-drinkers! A real warrior acts first, with no hesitation! Swift, sure and unrepentant, like a sword!"

But Jonna was busy thinking. She didn't want to wager money; she knew enough that she and Sigrun couldn't last long in Skyrim without money. Turning back to Sjof, she saw that his large, flaming blue eyes were looking her over. A new thought came into Jonna's mind.

"A sword!" she exclaimed. "Where's your sword? Such a mighty adventurer of many journeys should have a fine weapon to match, aye?"

"It's at the gates," Sjof replied. "Imperial law and all. It's the same in Cyrodiil, High Rock and the Free States of Hammerfell."

"Is it a fine weapon?" Jonna asked.

"The best in all of Tamriel," Sjof returned.

"Wager your sword," Jonna stated. "If I win, I get your sword as my own."

"Fuck that!" Sjof exclaimed. "A warrior ain't worth nothin' without a weapon!"

"You seem strong enough to crush skulls with your bare hands," Jonna returned. "I don't think you'd find it hard to manage."

"Oh, a cheeky girl, uh?" he replied. "Alright, then, what if I win?"

Jonna bit her lower lip as her eyes met his. "I think we both know what you want. If you beat me fair and square, we could go up to one of the rooms here in the inn and see about letting you have that. What do you think?"

For a moment, Sjof was mesmerized by her tantalizing offer. Then he noticed her eyes and he snorted, shaking his head and wagging his massive beard.

"You really think your cunt's as valuable as my sword?" he asked.

At her right, Jonna heard a fist hit the table. With a quick glance, she saw Sigrun glaring at the bar with a look that could have boiled Lake Ilinalta. Though they were both unfamiliar with traveling in the wilds of Skyrim, they had heard more than their fair share of choice words. The trading posts at Oakwood and Riverwood had more than a few travelers and customers with loud, abrasive tongues. This word in particular, however, was particularly rough for Sigrun: the place she had first heard it was much closer than the Riverwood Trader.

"I'd say it's as valuable to me as your sword is to you," Jonna quickly retorted. "Besides..." She leaned in and whispered into Sjof's ear. A new desire rose up in Jonna's being: she wanted to beat him for Sigrun.

Her secret words must have changed Sjof's mind, for he now nodded.

"You're on!" he exclaimed. Jonna seized the bottle of the 'strong' stuff and began to pour for herself and Sjof.

"What shall we drink to?" she asked.

"Let's drink to the Emperor!" he exclaimed.

At the mention of the Emperor, more than a few heads around the bar were turned towards them. Some glared with restrained resentment in their eyes, others shook their heads and returned to their beers, many simply lowered their heads or muttered prayers under their breaths, but not a word was spoken.

Jonna was not oblivious to what had just happened, but neither did she want to make a scene about it. She too had seen the bodies hanging from the walls of Whiterun.

"I'll drink to that," she replied, trying to save face. "If you'll drink to the Dragonborn."

"Fuck that!" Sjof snorted. "I'm not drinking to that cunt. Now, girl, let's empty our cups in the name of His Imperial Majesty Ser..."

"Excuse me?"

Jonna turned about to face the interrupter: it was Sigrun. Her eyes were reddish and one hand still held her cup, but there was a queer look in those eyes that made Jonna worried. Though they had grown up together and, to the eye of an outsider, were as close as sisters, Jonna had never really seen Sigrun angry before this. She had seen her frustrated, cranky, and of course heated with the fury of combat during their sparring sessions: but she had never seen her truly angry.

"You heard me, b*tch," Sjof stated. "I ain't drinkin' to no war-mongerin', milk-drinkin' piece o' shit like the Dragonborn."

"I'll have you know," Sigrun interjected. "That 'piece o' shit' happens to be my father."

"I don't care if he's fucking Talos hisself!" Sjof bit back. "Your da's a cunt and that's that!"

Sigrun did not reply, but a fire was kindled in her eyes much hotter than the blood-shots of a little too much mead. Her right hand slowly began to move down to the bar, placing the cup down first.

"Sig," muttered Jonna under her breath. "Don't drag me into this."

"What you gonna do about it, b*tch?" Sjof returned. "Cry to your ma's t..."

But he hadn't time to finish. In one swift stroke, Sigrun had clenched her hand into a fist and struck Sjof a blow on the jaw so hard he almost fell backwards out of his chair. As it was, he stumbled back to keep himself from falling, his hand reaching up to where the fist had struck.

"Khrag!" shouted Sjof.

From out of the crowd in the common room a tall, brutish figure appeared. A mountain of muscle it appeared, clad in animal furs and heavy boots that made heavy thuds with each step it made towards the bar. Its shoulders were broad and its arms wide, but the impressive features ceased above the thick neck. The thing was bald, with skin the pale-green color of vomit, and the face was such that even its mother could not have loved it: two large, round eyes sat at the bottom of a low, sloping forehead, beneath which was a wide flat nose at the top of a misshapen mouth with a protruding lower jaw.

All those in its way moved or were pushed aside as the one whom Sjof called Khrag crossed the common room with long strides. In a swift motion it seized Sigrun's head from behind and slammed her face first into the bar. A second swift blow sent Sigrun's face back into the bar, quickly followed by a third such blow. A fourth never came. As soon as Jonna realized what was going on, she put her cup down and leaped onto the brute's back, wrapping her arms around its neck in a choke-hold. As strong as the beast was, in its mind it was little more than a child; instinct took over when it suddenly couldn't breathe and it released its hold on Sigrun's head, its massive hands swatting about to reach the pest upon its back.

One hand struck a patron who had been walking to the bar for more beer, sending him sprawling into a table, knocking it over, and spilling all of its contents into the laps of it's unfortunate and now unhappy occupants. Most of them shouted in retort or threw insults at the patron, but one of the bolder ones got up and struck back. From that point on, it was mayhem. The two patrons who were unfortunate collateral were now exchanging drunken blows, while the others, bored with the lull in commotion or frustrated at their lives and eager for a chaotic release, jeered them on or joined in the brawl.

In the center of it, there were Jonna and Sigrun, fighting off against Sjof and Khrag. By now Sjof was swinging away with his fists at Sigrun, eager to make her pay for cutting open his lip with her fist. Though her left eye was swollen shut from where it met the bar, and her limbs were loose from the drink she had imbibed, Sigrun's blood was hot and she wasn't going to be taken off-guard again. Jonna and Khrag, meanwhile, were engaged in some kind of violent dance. The large beast flailed about its arms ungainly, swinging and hitting at everything but the pest; each blow knocked over tables, broke chairs, sent beer flying, struck customers and fueled the fight. Little Jonna clung to its neck for dear life, keeping her head down to avoid being struck.

Somewhere in her dazed state, Sigrun was trying to remember what she had learned from her mother about fighting. Sjof wasn't very tall, but he was almost double her size: she couldn't go toe-to-toe with him, slugging out skull-cracking blows like her father could, at least not for very long. Her first instinct was a swift kick to the groin, but she slipped on the floor, wet with beer, and fell on her back. Sjof's foot came down, but she managed to roll aside just in time before it connected with her stomach. She staggered to her feet, but a kick to her stomach sent her sprawling away and against a fallen table. Her head hit something hard and she was seeing stars for a moment; her right hand went up and found the source, a metal tankard. Just in time, for Sjof was charging at her, roaring with fury. Sigrun threw the cup, hitting the charging man on the side of his head: it bought her enough time to scramble back to her feet before, angrier than before, Sjof charged again.

This time she was ready for him. She ducked under as a huge fist came swinging towards her, then struck with all of her might at Sjof's unprotected sides. They were now in each other's arms, Sjof pushing Sigrun towards the wall as she sent blow after blow into his side. There was a dull crack and Sjof stumbled, tripped over the legs of a broken stool, and they both fell to the floor. Sigrun was bruised, in pain from her throbbing head, swollen eye and her stomach. Sjof's mouth was full of more blood than could be warranted for a broken lip, and there was a red spot where the metal cup had made contact with his forehead.

Sjof groaned loudly from the pain, then made a swing at Sigrun. She rolled out of reach of the blow, then scrambled back onto her feet and stood her ground. Suddenly she fell forward, tackled to the ground. Even as she was rising, several things were happening at once behind her. Another patron, unaware of who was belligerent in the bar fight but eager nonetheless to vent his frustration, was picking fights with anyone he came in contact with: at this moment, that meant Sigrun. As her focus was on Sjof, she made an easy target. But the patron's actions had not gone unnoticed. Khrag had finally succumbed to Jonna's choke-hold and had fallen to its knees on the floor. A bottle flew over Jonna's head as she climbed off the body, and as she turned her head to avoid it, she saw the patron sneaking up on Sigrun. She leaped off Khrag's shoulders and came down upon the patron from behind, sending both him and Sigrun onto the floor.

Suddenly the door was thrown open. There were loud shouts and strong hands began tearing brawling patrons apart. In the light of the fire from the Bannered Mare the crimson of Imperial guards could be seen. Within moments Sigrun, Jonna and Skjof were dragged to their feet and kept apart as order was restored. The captain of the guards strode into the midst of the separated combatants.

"How typical," he sneered. "Is that all you Nords know how to do: fight and drink? Alright, which one of you barbarians started this?"

"It was them b*tches!" Skjof said, pointing an accusatory finger towards Sigrun and Jonna. "We was just havin' some drinks, then the tall one got all uppity and started throwin' punches. I never wanted to start nothin'."

"He insulted my family!" Sigrun replied.

"Pity you let yourself be offended by his words!" scoffed the captain. "Looks like it's a night in Dragonsreach dungeon for you, and thirty lashes to teach you to mind your temper."

"That son of a b*tch called his...beast on my friend!" Jonna interjected. "He attacked first! Just look at her eye!"

The captain walked over to Sigrun and looked long and hard at her face. "I don't see anything."

"You mother..." Jonna began.

"Assaulting an Imperial captain?" one of the other guards spoke, stepping between Jonna and the captain. "That's a hanging offense, little lady."

"Stand down, Arius," the captain said. "The little b*tch didn't lay a hand on me." He then turned to Jonna, a devious smile on his face. "Aha. You're fond of this one, aren't you?" He gestured to Sigrun. "There's no use denying it. I saw it in the way you jumped to her defense. Very well, you're going into Dragonsreach as well."

"Why not kill me like he said?" Jonna retorted. Not the wisest answer to make to one in whose hands one's life rested, but Jonna was still hot from the brawl.

"You were involved in the brawl, yes?" he asked. "That's reason enough to throw you in Dragonsreach. As for your disrespectful attitude, we have ways to soften a stiff-neck before it needs breaking. Seventy lashes for you."

"What about him?" Jonna protested, turning to Sjof. "He was part of the fight also!"

"Oh, we know him," the captain returned. "He's a member of the Fighters Guild, and the Guild Master will deal with him as he sees fit."

"But what about his beast friend?" Jonna continued. "He almost crushed her face in!"

"Jons, please..." sighed Sigrun.

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" the captain retorted. "You filthy Nords love mistreating those different than you, don't you? Just because he's a half-orc, does that make him violent? Brutish? Lawless? Ninety lashes, and I'd hold my tongue, if I were you, unless you'd like to lose all future prospects by earning for yourself a back full of stripes. Now move it!"

Two guards took Sigrun and placed her in irons, while the captain had three guards secure Jonna. While they were thus being detained, Sjof walked over to Sigrun, put himself within an inch from her nose, and sneered.

"You ain't nothin' but a b*tch, just like your da."

In a moment, several things happened. Sigrun lurched forward, and Sjof came leering back, crying loudly. A large rivulet of blood was pouring from out of his mouth, which was redder and more crooked than before. Suddenly a fist struck Sigrun on the face and she knew no more.

(AN: I know that Skyrim is everyone's least favorite Elder Scrolls game [because Lord of the Rings-knock off Oblivion and weird for the sake of weird Morrowind are SO much "better"], but i actually liked it. If only because it was the only video game somewhat based on Norse mythology/culture that didn't suck completely. Seriously, there aren't any good games about Norse lore, and i doubt that God of War 4 is going to change that, since it will, invariably, be Kratos shitting on the Aesir just as he shat on the Olympians.)

(That being said, my brother - an Oblivion fanboy - started watching this YouTube video series entitled "what if Skyrim were good", which was pretty much just a subjective wish-fulfillment fan-game where this one Oblivion fanboy made his version of "good" Skyrim which pretty much just took everything from Oblivion and threw it into Skyrim: even down to having Ulfric be a long-lost Septim! Yes, that's what i ended up doing with Crixus, but, as much as i support the Stormcloaks, i don't think Ulfric should be a Septim. The time of the Empire is over, just as the time of the Dunmer ended when Baar-Dau crushed Vvardenfell [which, by the way, had NOTHING to do with lack of worship of Vivec! if it did, there could not have been time to build an "ingenium" to keep it afloat]. Also, probably the stupidest thing, in my opinion, from the video is where the Blades, quite out of character, kill off both Ulfric and Tullius and make you the "King of Skyrim." It sounds like another YouTube video i saw where someone mistranslated the Draconic line "naal ok zin los vahriin" as the English "you're the King of Skyrim".)