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KELJARN

Under a Red Moon

Near the city of Whiterun

Even for one with Nordic blood like Keljarn, the nights in Skyrim were cold if you didn't spend them in the warmth of your home, or between the sheepskins in a comfortable inn room. His parents had emigrated to High Rock a while ago, his mother's homeland, and certainly, its nights were warmer, but Keljarn had always felt his heart lay in Skyrim, and now that he was of age, his mother could no longer stop him from returning home, a decision his father had welcomed, even if he hadn't dared to say it.

Keljarn had no intention of standing at the gates of Sovngarde just yet, but the blood of the warrior flowed through him, this he had always known. His body was built for battle, it was that simple, and the prospect of leading the life of the rich daddy's boy back in High Rock had simply become more and more unattractive as the years passed. So he'd left, back to Skyrim, back to his home, because he simply considered his half-Breton lineage to be nothing more than a detail. He was a Nord, and as a Nord he wanted to live. His parents had offered to give him a sizeable stipend of septims for the journey, but he'd refused, taking only a small amount, enough to cover the costs of the trek. He knew he'd have plenty of opportunities to earn a good living on his own, without his parents' help, much as he loved them.

He walked across the rolling plains, passing a few mills and what looked like a brewery as night fell, and stars rose in the clean, clear Skyrim heaven he had so longed to return to. The stars were beautifully visible. There was a red moon out today, but its light was currently blocked by the only cloud in the sky. He stopped for a moment, relishing the feeling of the heavy hatchet on his shoulder, breathed in the cold air through his nose, and smiled. Home at last.

When he opened his eyes again, they settled on the outline of a city, dark against the night sky, lights dotting its walls. It had been years and years since he'd been in Skyrim, but if his memory served, he was close to the city of Whiterun, and there he'd find the cosy inn room Skyrim's nights were so cold without. He resumed marching, hoping to reach the city gates in an hour or two.

A group of lights danced to his right, a hundred or so metres away. Keljarn stopped again and kept his eye on them. They were moving rather quickly, as if the ones that held them were running. What were they running toward, though?

And then he saw it, barely visible against the night sky was the dark shape of an enormous humanoid, easily standing three or four men high. It was the first time Keljarn had ever seen a giant, but he knew those monsters could easily smash a whole squad of men and mer into the ground. And these fools were running straight for him. In the darkness, he estimated there were only four of them. They ran to their deaths.

Without thinking, Keljarn shrugged off his pack and broke into a run, gripping the hatchet in his hand tightly. As he ran, the sound of a roaring woman came towards him, and he saw one of the lights being thrown backward, sailing through the air and ending up several metres further.

The moon finally broke through as the only cloud at last ceded its place and moved away. In the new light, he saw that three of the humans were still on their feet, dodging the giant's clumsy but terribly powerful blows, and one of them lay a few metres further, moving but doubtless incapacitated for the rest of the fight. The giant himself looked like a grotesque, gangly, gray-skinned tree-trunk.

He had almost reached them now. The only female in the group dodged a wild swing with a spectacular backwards somersault, landed on her feet, drew her bow, and planted an arrow square in the giant's thigh, while one of the males let his axe bite deep into the giant's fingers as it tried to scoop him up. Keljarn heard his own breath, heavy in his ears as he ran.

Even with the arrow in its leg, the giant brought its foot up to stomp the remaining male into the dirt, but he deftly rolled to the side, and the giant's foot did nothing more than shake the ground. The woman nocked another arrow and let fly, this one striking the giant in the shoulder. The giant growled in anger more than in pain, and swung the torn-out tree trunk he used as a club at one of the men, who couldn't dodge in time. Keljarn heard the hard, hollow blow as the giant's club caught the man in the side, lifting him off his feet and sending him to the ground, his ribs doubtless broken and his organs probably turned to paste in his chest.

Frantically, the woman drew her bow again, but her shot hit the giant's satchel, the arrow glancing off and flying end over end through the air. The remaining man took a swing at the giant's thigh, but missed.

With a loud roar, Keljarn launched himself into the air, his fingers hooking into the furs the giant wore. Setting one foot in the back of the giant's knee, Keljarn pushed himself off and up he went, grabbing first the giant's belt, and then the shoulder strap of his satchel. The giant bellowed, finally realizing there was a human clinging to him, and clumsily began to reach for his back, trying to pluck the pesky nuisance off of him. Keljarn heard another zip of an arrow, a short thud, and the giant howled again. Grabbing the collar of bones the giant wore around his neck, Keljarn brought his axe up with his free hand. Another arrow zip-thudded into the giant's flesh, and the monster roared again, swaying from the impact, making Keljarn's feet lose their purchase, and he hung free from the giant, only his left hand clinging to the bone necklace, and his body swinging wildly as the giant moved.

"Aela, stop, you'll knock him off!" he heard a man's voice shout below.

No more zip-thuds came, and with one hand, Keljarn sent the head of his hatchet swinging at the back of the giant's bald head. There was a hollow thwock as the axe head chopped into the giant's skull, and blood leaked out from the cleft the axe had made. The giant stood, seemingly paralyzed, for a short moment, and staggered a few steps forward and began falling.

Keljarn threw himself to the side and landed in the grass, painfully bruising himself even as he tried to roll to absorb the blow. His teeth clacked together as he came to a stop against a large boulder, and pain flared up from his shoulder and ribs. A groan escaped from between his clenched teeth.

He opened his eyes again to see the giant lying on his face, the handle of his hatchet still sticking out the back of his head. Both remaining fighters kneeled by one of their companions. "Farkas will be fine," the male called to the woman. "Brains got a bit scrambled, but we won't notice much difference," he added with a chuckle.

"Not so for Athis," the woman called back. "He needs a healer, and quickly."

The man stood up and marched toward the two others. As he painfully got to his feet, Keljarn could see the fallen figure the man had kneeled over slowly rising, holding his head.

"Athis!" the man called, standing over his fallen friend. "Hold on, we'll get you a healer."

"No need," Keljarn said hoarsely, wobbling toward them. "Let me."

The woman looked up at him, "You know any Restoration spells?"

"Just the bare basics," Keljarn said, dropping to his knees next to the fallen man, a Dunmer with white face paint and an elfhawk haircut. He'd been hit by the giant's tree trunk, and the side of his torso was badly dented. Closing his eyes and taking a breath to clear his head, Keljarn let the energies flow through him as he wove a Restoration spell, taught to him by his mother. White globes of light formed from his fingers, hovering toward the injury and enveloping it, the ribs snap-cracking back into place. Keljarn was a whelp at Restoration, so if the man had truly been mortally injured, there was no way he could have saved him, but thankfully for him, he was only suffering from a few broken ribs, and those he could treat. All Keljarn hoped now was that the Dunmer didn't have a collapsed lung, because that would take the skill of a magnificent healer to treat. "I think that took care of the worst. He needs to rest now, though," Keljarn said.

The Dunmer's rapid, panicked breathing calmed and his eyes opened to slits. "Thanks… friend," he managed to utter.

"Stay still, Athis," the kneeling man said. "We'll get you back to the Hall."

The other man had come to stand with them. "Sorry for not being more useful."

Neither of the warriors responded to that, and they and Keljarn rose to their feet. "That was damn spectacular," the woman said, and for the first time Keljarn got a good look at her face. She was beautiful, not like the pampered and made-up Breton maidens his mother had tried to get him to court, with their upturned noses and braided blonde hairs, but like a real woman, naturally beautiful and radiating strength and confidence. "What's your name?" She had war paint on her face, three diagonal slashes of blue that only made her more breathtaking.

The uninjured man chuckled and said to Keljarn, "When you're done being struck dumb, how 'bout answering the lady?"

"Oh, right, sorry. Keljarn."

The man held out his hand. "I'm Vilkas, and this is my brother Farkas. The woman bringing stars to your eyes is Aela. The crybaby on the ground is Athis. Thanks for your help."

Keljarn shook the man's hand. They were brothers alright, one with shoulder-length hair and a stubble beard, the other slightly more powerfully built, with slightly longer hair and a fuller beard. "It's no problem, felt good to get the blood pumping a little bit."

The man with the longer beard laughed. "Ha! That's the way we like it, right brother?"

Vilkas did not seem entirely pleased with his brother's rather naïve candour, but he still said, "You did us a great service today, and we won't forget it."

Aela gave him a smile which made her even more beautiful and said, "Care to accompany us to Jorrvaskr?"

Keljarn had heard the name, but he didn't know what Jorrvaskr was exactly. It didn't matter much either. These people seemed like proud and powerful fighters, and he seemed to have made an impression on them. He knew better than to let such a chance pass.