What does it mean to be a warrior?
This was a question Calvary Flameheart asked himself repeatedly when he was a soldiermercenarythugkillermurdererand he never figured out the answer to that particular question.
But now, feeling the wind brush against his face, feeling the sun warm his skin as it rises, feeling the familiar ache rest in his muscles, Calvary still doesn't know what it means to be a warrior, but he knows what a warrior isn't.
"A warrior isn't one who strives for glory. A warrior isn't one who strives for the biggest kill. A warrior isn't one who strives for gold or medals. A warrior isn't one who brutalizes the innocent or weak."
Calvary mutters to himself as he sits down cross-legged at the edge of a brook.
It truly is a nice day, the wind gives a soft howl in agreement. Not a cloud in the sky, a beautiful day in the plains of Whiterun Hold. It's quiet out here, a feature that Calvary finds agreeable. The land is a bit difficult to work with in terms of agriculture, but Calvary finds the effort rewarding and reminiscent of his previous professions.
Calvary takes another deep breath, expelling all the stray thoughts from his mind. He lowers himself to the ground and prostrates, his calloused hands clasped in prayer.
"Goddess of Skies Kynareth, thou art the Divine Widow of Shor, may your gentle caress from heaven bless this earth, may your beloved wind bring good fortune, may your sorrowful rain bring growth and comfort, blessed is your voice, may your words reach the hearts of all, men and elven alike."
Calvary never was a religious man, his father, a drunkard nord, called religion, "A pathetic Mer delusion meant to lead true men away" and as such, Calvary held such disregard.
But now? Calvary knew better, he's seen too many miracles, too many coincidences, so many moments where Calvary should've died, yet illogically kept living. Small stones that built his path to faith.
Calvary opens his eyes and sits on his knees. A dribbling stream is in front of him, and Calvary takes a moment to gaze in the light blue waters.
Light grey eyes stare back, his skin is lightly tanned, his jaw strong and grizzled. Long black hair drapes Calvary's head, it's usually tied up during his day to day tasks, but the morning is still emerging, the air still brisk, Calvary can afford a little relief before the day truly starts.
Calvary stands up, his cloth tunic and trousers clinging to his filled out muscular form, the drab cloth does very little to hide the scars that litter his arms.
"RUAAAAAAAAAAAAAGRHHHHHH!"
Calvary stills, his blood runs cold as his neck snaps to the direction of the yell.
"That was… a giant? That came from the direction of the homestead… shit!"
Calvary breaks out in a sprint, his feet slamming into the ground as he rushes back to his homestead. He crests a small hill and sees the giant in front of his home, some figures- People? Bandits? Mercenaries?- attacking it with arrows and spears.
Calvary picks up the pace, trying to grab the attention of the group to lure the giant away from his home, he's about to yell to grab their attention but it's too late.
One last arrow find its way implanted in the eye socket of the giant. The giant stumbles, losing its footing, and falls backwards…
Landing right on the roof of the homestead, bringing the structure down with its fall.
Calvary feels the familiar comfortingsensation of rage before forcing it down with a slow exhale. He stops running, the damage has already been done and there's no point in wasting the energy.
He spots what is presumably the leaders of this band of brigandsfoolsdestroyersdeadfighters, a red-headed woman wearing furs with stone adornments and a pair of black-haired twins wearing a unique set of steel armor. With a mental sigh, Calvary approaches the trio.
"Either Kynareth has a warped sense of good fortune or she finds joy in my suffering… I think I prefer the latter."