A/N: Chapter 5 had some major revisions done.

Cycle I: Life Is Short in Skyrim

Chapter 6: Call of the Bludgeon

With both her hands on the weapon, Laira swung the rattan stick over both her shoulders in a swift, circular motion, landing the blow smack-dab in the center of the punching bag. Large beads of sweat dripped from under the curtain of her bangs, as she went for another hard, underhand swing, whacking the bag from the other side. With all her brute strength, the heavy bag swung like pendulum from a short chain attached to the ceiling. As it came back in her direction, she hit it with another loud, haphazard strike. With every pound and smack she gave, she let out a barrage of screams and curses that echoed in the training room, masking the soft footsteps approaching her from behind.

"Relax, She-Hulk. You trying to break another one of my batons?" A voice called out to her, and Laira turned around to greet the man at the doorframe.

"Andreas, I thought you had lessons today," she said, pausing from her attack as he walked up to her.

Her brother, Andreas, was her spitting image. He was two years older and had the same dark hair, almond eyes, and light olive skin as she did. His black, polyester shorts and tank showed off his sleeve tattoos over his lithe and chiseled limbs, typical of an MMA fighter. It was a stark contrast to his sister's average frame and moderately toned build, which hid beneath her loose, cotton shirt.

"The students won't be here in another half hour," he said to her, leaning one of his muscular, tattooed arms over the shoulder of a foam training dummy. "Stressful day at work? Or did that son-of-a-bitch boyfriend of yours make you cry again? I ought to teach that piece-of-shit a lesson."

"Don't call him that," Laira scolded him. Then, she averted his gaze, looking down at the rubber mats as she forced a smile. "I don't want you starting any trouble, okay? It's nothing, really. You know me. I just need to blow off some steam."

"You know you're always welcome here and at my place," Andreas looked into his sister's eyes with concern, as she shook her head in denial while hugging her own arms in her hands. "But you need to tell me if he's giving you trouble."

"Thanks," Laira said as she kept her eyes on the floor, sniffling in a tear that she didn't even realize she had shed. "I swear, it's really nothing."

"Laira, this can't go on," her brother put both his hands over her shoulders, and he gave her a firm, comforting grip.

"I said it's nothing, Andreas," she said defensively, jerking away from his grip, and her words came out more aggressively than she had intended. "I'll be fine."

Laira turned her attention back to the punching bag, brutally whacking it with all her frustration. Her skin turned red and she bared her teeth as she gave it another hit from the center, swinging the stick over her head. Andreas watched her poor form with a heavy heart and a slight tremble on his lip. With just a couple more aggravated hits against the bag, Laira got winded. She sat forward onto her knees, breathing heavily, and her brother gently rested his hand on her sweat covered back.

"Ever thought about taking your training seriously?" He asked.

"I didn't know I even started training. I thought I just came here to whack your punching bags and break your sticks," Laira said, looking up at him with a genuine smirk on one side of her face. "Never been talented like you."

"You haven't changed a bit since we were kids," Andreas chuckled, glad to have his smart-mouthed sister back for a brief moment. "It's not about talent. It's all practice. But if there's anything you've improved on over the years, it's brute force."

"Yeah, stress will do that to you," she grinned in response.

He joined her in laughter, and the heavy air was lifted from the room. Laira relaxed for a moment, sprawling herself across the mat, while Andreas went to grab a pair of batons from a woven basket in the corner.

"We should work on your technique. Help you get your mind off of things," he suggested, taking a wide stance with the batons spread out towards his shoulders on each side. "Let's spar."

"You know I can't fight for the life of me," Laira kept laughing, slowly getting up from the mat.

"Come on. Just pretend I'm one of those punching bags. Better yet, imagine I'm that piece-of-shit boyfriend of yours," Andreas teased, stepping back into a more defensive stance.

"Oh, you asked for it," Laira taunted, as she completely tensed up and grabbed her baton from the ground.

Andreas couldn't help but laugh at his sister's flustered reaction, as she charged towards him with overhead strike and a shrill battle cry. He easily blocked her attack, crossing his batons to catch the blow, feeling all her anger displace into the clashing of their weapons.

"I know you can do better than that, Laira," he said to her, bracing for another attack. And as his weapon shook from the force of her next strike, Andreas hoped that one day, his sister could find someone better.

꧁꧂

— Helgen Keep, 17th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Past the other end of the storeroom, the three prisoners continued back to the main passageway of the keep. It led them to the other side of the rubble, where the ceiling had caved in. Ralof took a sigh of relief, as they could be closer to finding a way out, and he motioned his companions to follow him. Descending further into a caving hall, they landed in an underground chamber, where the smell of blood and electric burning wafted up the stairway. It was harsher than the smell of flesh melting under dragon fire, much cleaner without the smoke and char. It should have been dark, as there were no windows around the four, stone walls. But the lights were unnaturally intense, almost blinding at first sight.

"By the gods, this must be the torture room," Ralof quietly gasped as he set foot on the bottom step. The sight was enough to make even the warrior shudder.

Behind a stone pillar, two Stormcloak rebels clashed arms with an Imperial torturer and his burly assistant. As the battle ensued, bolts of arcane lightning flashed upon the gruesome devices scattered about, casting their jagged shadows against the blood stained walls. Laira watched from Ralof's shoulder, as the purple glow cracked and bent in all directions. The electrifying sight struck her heart with fear and awe, more so than the blood stained instruments of torture at every corner. A mere spark out of a power outlet was enough to make her jump, but the power coming from the torturer's hands was akin to a storm, commanding her respect.

Between the bright flashes of chaos, Ralof was able to identify the silhouettes fighting behind the electric flare. As soon as he recognized everyone's colors, Ralof rushed at the torturer with his axe, and it easily cleaved through his unarmored head. The torturer collapsed in a pool of his own blood, instantly snuffing the bright lights out of the dark and musty room.

But, Ralof had been a moment too late. One of the other Stormcloaks fell to the ground, jolting erratically into a spastic heap of burned flesh in his own armor. Before he stopped moving, his body contorted in unnatural ways, and fern-like scars covered his exposed skin like burnt fractals of lightning. His face was frozen in a wide-jawed look of agony.

With the other surviving Stormcloak, Ralof attacked the torturer's assistant from one side, while his comrade took the behemoth head-on, dodging the heavy swings of his two-handed battle axe. With low and careful strikes against the assistant's towering limbs, the Stormcloak managed to keel him over with the snap of a tendon behind the knees. As the assistant's knees caved in with his balding head hung low, Ralof took his chance to strike a fatal blow to the nape of his neck. With the fountain of blood staining Ralof's blond hair, the giant collapsed at his feet. He tucked his bloodied locks behind his ear before wiping the blood off his axe. Catching his breath, Ralof helped his comrade up. And together, they sheathed their weapons.

"Was Jarl Ulfric with you?" Ralof asked.

"No, I haven't seen him since the dragon showed up," the other Stormcloak replied.

"Then, you'd better join us. Let's grab what we can and get out of here," Ralof said, as he rushed to the end of the chamber.

Before the exit way, three large, iron cages stood against the wall. A trail of blood led to each of their doors, as if bodies had been dragged in and out of the cells. Nearby, a slew of heavy weapons, with spikes all covered in gore, hung from the racks behind the iron bars guarding the armory. Ralof stopped in his tracks as he noticed a handful of coins scattered inside the center cage.

"Wait a second. It looks like there's something in this cage," he called out, catching Laira's attention.

She approached his side, and she saw the body of a wizard slouched inside the prison cell, frozen in rigor mortis. From up close, Laira caught a whiff of the decay and noticed the mage's dilated eyes. Even after all she had witnessed, she couldn't help but shudder, thinking of how the mage could have met his demise. From where she stood, she could see the body's raw, bloodied fingertips, where the nails have been ripped out, slowly, one-by-one. From beneath the mage's robes, she could see the lightning shaped burn marks coming up towards his lifeless face, from his neck. The mage had one hand stuck to his chest, clutching his heart, with another grasping his left side by the ribs. It was as if he had cast the shock himself to end his own misery. As Laira stared at the blood and scars in morbid fascination, Ralof shook on the grates, trying to get the cage open.

"Ah, its locked. See if you can get it open with some picks. We'll need that gold when we get out," he said to Laira, handing her a stack of skinny, metal hooks and rods.

Trapped in the moment, she reluctantly took the picks and stuck them into the keyhole. As she twisted and turned them in random directions, the brittle rods snapped with every futile try. She could only keep moving, repeating her motions like broken clockwork, until the horse thief suddenly approached.

"Oh, give it here!" He said, snatching the picks from her hands.

Lokir undid the lock with one smooth, effortless attempt. It looked as if he had simply stuck the picks inside and turned them like the proper key. He proudly swung the door open with a mischievous grin.

"Why am I not surprised?" Ralof sighed, staring blankly at the thief. Then, the two of them started picking at the gold coins scattered around the cage, like chickens in the dirt.

Laira's eyes haven't left the corpse at all. She knelt frozen, as the horse thief began to undress the fine robes off the body, revealing a twisted array of leathery burn scars and Lichtenberg figures overlapping against pale, mottled skin. Laira felt her heart stomach fall, as she pondered what kind of sick, otherworldly manipulations had to be done to get those scars to form beneath such undamaged robes. She had felt the healing potion at work and witnessed what it could do. From what she could tell, the mage likely endured simultaneous healing and destruction, prolonging the excruciating pain caused by the damage to his constantly repairing flesh. It was marvelously horrific.

As she was lost in her musings, Ralof nudged Laira's arm with a light tome in his hand. It was bound in a dark, purple leather with an imprint of a hand shaped flame.

"Take it. We could trade this for some coin," he told her.

Laira grabbed the book, eyeing it in curiosity. Flipping through its dog-eared pages, she skimmed through the runes and diagrams scattered through its contents. She recognized some pages like the contents of a textbook, but the rest appeared as alien to her as the Voynich manuscript.

"Is this a spellbook?" She asked.

"Aye. I've got no use for it myself, but I reckon a mage can get it off our hands for a decent price," Ralof replied.

Suddenly, the book felt heavy like a loaded gun in Laira's hands. She held the covers shut and fearfully clutched the tome near her chest. It was a weapon more dangerous than the flimsy sword at her belt.

"Try to see what else you could find. Anything could be of use," Ralof said, and Laira finally moved.

She rushed from his side as the room gently shook, drizzling bits of gravel that bounced off the top of her helmet. Laira wore her shield on her back to free up both her arms, and she tried to grab everything she could in sight. Noticing a half-empty knapsack by the pillar, she shoved the spell tome inside, along with a black, leather book with a dragon sigil embedded on the cover, nearby. As she made her way into the barred armory, she hurriedly swept every bottle, tankard, and book from the cupboards into her knapsack. She hoped they would be at least worth something, as Ralof had told her.

Turning around, she saw the rack of gore-stained weapons. Swords, daggers, and axes hung from the hooks, covered in fresh and dried up blood. Bits of rancid flesh still caked the head of a war hammer strewn on the counter. Laira didn't dare to touch any of it, but she was drawn to a solitary iron mace that hung on the edge of the display. It was simple, but pristine. The mace had a dark, wooden handle with a round metal pommel, and the dull spikes on its head were just beginning to oxidize at the edges. It was slathered in oil and sprinkled with rust, but there wasn't a trace of blood on the weapon.

Slowly, she reached towards it. Taking the mace in one hand, she removed it from the rack. Its unexpected weight yanked at her arm, and its weight hung down like a pendulum between her staggered feet. Despite its shorter handle, it took both arms for her to lift the mace above her hips. Grabbing it with both hands near the pommel, she swung it over her shoulder, angled like a baseball bat. Ralof looked over, and he chuckled at the sight.

"Interesting choice. I wouldn't take you for a bone-crusher at first glance," he said, as he approached her. "Some say the bludgeon is simpler than the blade. Looks like you've never held one in your life, either."

"That obvious, huh? Is it easier to handle than a sword?"

"Heh. Not necessarily. It requires less technique, but a lot more force," Ralof replied. Standing in front of her, he held the mace up. And he took her tender, left hand into his calloused grip, lodging it off the weapon.

"But doesn't mean it's for idiots. You'll have to put the work in," he emphasized with a smoldering look. Grasping her right hand under his own, he adjusted her grip on the handle's shaft, inching it further away from the pommel. Then, he tightened her grip against the metal notches on the rough wood. "Use only one hand."

"That way, you still have a free arm for your shield," he continued, as he reached over her shoulder, in front of her face. Laira could smell his blood and sweat from up close, pulsing more adrenaline through her veins. As she froze, she allowed him to guide her motions.

Ralof grabbed the shield from her back and secured it onto her left arm. Taking her by the elbow, he raised the shield just beneath her eyes. His icy look pierced her gaze from behind the obstruction, and her arm grew sore from the weight of her weapon.

"Remember, keep your guard up," he said, peering over the shield's diagonal edge.

"The mace is a good choice for a heavily armored opponent. With enough crushing force, it will break through their defense," Ralof went on. As Laira steadied her hand on the weapon, he took her whole arm, and he pulled her shoulder slightly forward and down. The angle of her joints released the tension on her muscles, and she felt the weight of the bludgeon working down towards her back and legs.

Then, Ralof gently squeezed at her upper arms from behind, cueing her to pull her shoulders back. A sudden heat built up around her arms and chest, startled by his solid touch.

"Put your chest out. Shoulders back. And stand tall," he instructed her, pressing a gloved hand against the unarmored curve of her lower spine. Laira released a breath she didn't realize she was holding, as she braced her core. A bead of sweat dropped from her temple as she took a nervous inhale.

"It's a good weapon for bashing in skulls, but slower to turn than a blade. You'll need to work with your momentum, or fight against it, to get another good swing," Ralof continued to explain, pushing against her sides to maintain her form. Laira felt more her body stabilize, especially as he supported her unsteady weight in his grip.

As he inspected her form from the waist up, he wedged his foot between her ankles, dragging her boot to widen her stance.

"Feet apart," he said sternly, and he firmly pushed down against her shoulders with each hand. Then, he gently pressed against the back of her knee into a soft bend. "And keep your center low."

Laira took another deep breath in and out, as she tried to coordinate herself to his ideal form. Each muscle in her body tensed against the weight of her steel armor, and she felt them burning.

"The mace does no good to blind or bleed your opponent. You must crush them. Show the enemy your brute strength with every blow," he said, as he stood behind her back, flexing her arm at the ready.

"It's best if you aim for the limbs. And when you do, leave no opening," Ralof breathed unseasonably close to her ear, and Laira felt a nervous tingle in the back of her neck.

Ralof guided her through the motion of a swing, cradling her mace arm against his thick muscles. Laira felt the weight of the mace drag her body's weight down, then up with its momentum.

"Render your enemy crippled. Then, strike at the head!" He finished at the end of the motion, and the mace struck at the counter with a hard blow. Laira was startled by the sound of iron crashing against the wood, and it alerted the other Stormcloak nearby.

"We need to go! What's taking so long?" He asked.

"Nothing. Just making sure the unblooded here can fend for herself," Ralof explained, picking up the mace and handing it back to Laira.

She took a moment to break out of her focus and come down from the rush. Laira did not know what had gotten into her, but the intensity of that man's presence had her lost in their impromptu training session. But, he was right. Even with just a brief moment of instruction, she could work with her new gear. Now able to handle its weight and form, Laira finally took the mace from his hand.

"Alright. Let's keep moving," Ralof said, grabbing a torch off the wall before leading her and his comrade into the dark hallway ahead.

Iron barred cells were lined up on each side of the natural cavern, each with a thick lock at its gate. Laira could see the old skeletons trapped inside, utterly alone, lying in puddles of dark mud. As they walked down the hallway, she noticed that most of the cells had been opened. Towards the final cell, she tripped over an obstruction by her knee, but Ralof caught her before she could fall. Embarrassed, Laira brushed herself off and looked back. The obstruction turned out to be the horse thief, crouching down by the gate. He had been picking every lock from the beginning to end of the hall, and he was stuck on the last one.

"Seriously?" Laira blurted.

Ralof almost laughed in amusement as they walked on, leaving the thief to his own devices.

"Wait for me. Just one more," Lokir called out. "Never know if you'll find something useful under those bones."

つづく To be continued...