Chapter 7
Proving It
"So you think you're worthy to fight alongside me, eh? Why don't you prove it?"-Captain Hanburg "Thunderfist" Grocha. Quote from "A Treacherous Elf," book four in the popular adventure serial, "Hanburg's Renegades." First published 3E 347
Proventus didn't seem happy with Hammel when he finally delivered his reward. The steward's eyes shot daggers as he slammed the pouch of gold into Hammel's hands. Without a word, Proventus 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 and fulfilled his duty to her. Now personal quests could be attempted. Ever since his encounter with the giant, Hammel's thoughts kept returning to the Companions and Aela's half suggestion to visit Jorrvaskr. With his quest now completed, he intended to do just that.
Not that Lianna particularly cared where he went, but after travelling with her for the past few days it felt appropriate to tell her his plans. To his surprise she didn't make any biting comments, simply nodding and waving him farewell. It struck him as odd but he didn't dwell.
It felt good to be outside again. While he'd hadn't been in Dragonsreach long, the keep made him feel stifled and nervous. The political game wasn't one he was keen on playing. He felt the wind ruffle his hair, like he remembered from long years ago. The northern winds still lifted his spirits.
Descending the stone steps far slower than he'd ascended them, Hammel looked about the Wind District. There in its centre stood the Gildergreen, sacred tree of lady Kynareth. He remembered the majestic tree in bloom, a symbol of the goddess of nature. A far cry from its current state, now withered, blacked and dead.
An ill omen if I've ever seen one. Whiterun's loss of the sacred tree must have hit her people hard.
Despite his sadness at the state of the Gildergreen, Hammel moved on. His god was Talos, the problems of Kynareth should fall on the shoulders of her faithful. His only concern was reaching Jorrvaskr.
"You ascended from the dung that was mortality, and now live among the stars!" The priest's rantings shattered his self-reflection, catching him off-guard. The sermon, if it could be called one, echoed across the square, the words empowered by the priest's booming voice. Unfortunately for Hammel, the mead hall was directly past the shrine the priest tended. Without a listening crowd, Hammel would surely be noticed by the shouting priest.
Trying to shield his face with his pack, Hammel began walking. He moved at a casual pace, intent on taking the long route around the Gildergreen to avoid an encounter when something unusual happened.
"Talos the unassailable! Talos the magnificent! Talos the..." The priest's ranting stopped mid-sentence, eyes glancing feverishly about. "You!" He shouted, pointing directly at Hammel, "You, brother Nord! Are you faithful to Lord Talos? Have you come to hear the words of Heimskr, faithful priest of Talos?"
Hammel froze. Glancing frantically for anyone else Heimskr might be looking at, Hammel hoped for a way to avoid this uncomfortable social encounter. Unfortunately, one did not present itself.
I am loyal to Talos and his faithful priests. But this man seems crazy, a Holy Fool at best and psychotic lunatic at worst. This needs to be handled delicately.
"Yes, I'm loyal to Talos," Hammel told Heimskr. " But I have no time for foolishness, I've got work to do."
He expected Heimskr to yell, scream, perhaps call down a few choice curses or go into convulsions. But nothing like that occurred. Instead, the priest took a step towards him, "You are the one." He jabbed his boney finger mere inches from Hammel's face, giving a clear view of the man's whitened knuckles.
Hammel didn't know how to respond. Curiosity got the better of him and he moved closer. "What did you say?"
"You are blessed, my child," Heimskr continued as if he hadn't heard Hammel. Considering his previous tone, he seemed unnaturally quiet. "You have found favour with mighty Talos, though you don't yet know it. You will be tested and tried, yet do not be afraid. He who is both man and divine walks beside you." The words were so soft and sincere, Hammel began to wonder if he was talking to the same man. Up close, Heimskr's eyes bore into his soul. He was far older than he appeared, his hands wrinkled and calloused. Yet when the priest gripped his shoulder there was no weakness in his grasp. "Remember," the priest told Hammel. "He is with you."
With that, Heimskr promptly let go of Hammel's shoulder and returned to the shrine. He immediately returned to ranting with spittle flying from his lips and hands raised over his head.
What in Oblivion was that all about?
Hammel watched him, wondering if what he'd just experienced was the result of divine intervention or insanity. While Hammel considered himself a pious man when it came to Talos and the other Divines, knowing they could do whatever they pleased, he had to believe insanity in this case. Heimskr was clearly unbalanced and fanatical, and likely all he'd experienced was a shift in the rivers of madness.
So why doesn't that answer satisfy me?
Shaking his head in an attempt to clear the incident from his mind, Hammel continued towards Jorrvaskr. The mead hall, originally constructed from one of the longships that followed Ysgramor from Atmora, had been weathered over many centuries. The paint dulled, the wood chipped, and a few small holes were visible but its frame remained as resolute as ever. Next to Jorrvaskr was a hill with a flight of steps carved directly into it, leading up to a small, man-made ledge. Though Hammel couldn't see it from where he stood, he knew what the hill contained.
The Skyforge.
No one knew who built it. All that was known was that the mysterious forge already existed when the 500 Companions landed on Skyrim's ancient shores. The ancient Falmer believed the gods themselves had made it and shunned the forge as untrustworthy. Hammel didn't know what to believe, other than the best steel in all of Skyrim, possibly all of Tamriel, was forged there. He was impressed. It wasn't every day one got to see part of their childhood stories in person. He had relished the tales of Ysgramor and the Companions, for stories were all he had as a child. Well, stories and his mother's love, but that hadn't protected her.
Moving through the haze of memories, Hammel made his way up the doors of Jorrvaskr. It was time to see what fate planned for him.
Aela the Huntress leaned back in her chair, boots resting on the side table as she surveyed the hall. The weapons and shields of past warriors hung on the walls, looking with pride down at the warriors below. Tilma, Jorrvaskr's elderly maid, had prepared lunch, the smoked meat and cold mead calling out to Aela from the grand feast table.
Aela had unstrung her bow, letting the weapon rest on her bare knees. Despite being made of ebony, one of the hardiest metals in Skyrim, its hollow interior kept it light while maintaining durability. It could do as a makeshift club in a fight, though she preferred her Skyforge steel dagger for close quarters. The warpaint she'd applied that morning had just finished drying when the tension finally broke and the fight began.
It was between Stonearm and Athis...again.
They were an unlikely pair. Athis was a wiry Dunmer, his face smeared with white paint and body covered in smooth muscle. His blood-red topknot was nearly always visible from across any room. Highly skilled with both polearms and blades, Athis tended to be quick and lethal, leaving him with few scars. When engaged in conversation, he was eloquent and soft spoken, though more than willing to speak of his skill.
Njada Stonearm was his polar opposite. She was Nord, born and raised and built like a bull, short, stocky, and gritty. Her features were scarred, with a nose bent out of shape and one ear ragged from an old knife wound. Unlike the clean, smooth hair of Athis, Njada's was dirty and frumpy, almost unnoticeable beneath her fur helm. She preferred blocking and outlasting the enemy, beating them through endurance and will, and she had the scars to prove her presence in the thickest of battle. She argued the same way, blunt in her words and full of bile.
The two Companions had an intense relationship. Aela had found them in the same bunk, more than once when she woke the whelps in the morning. They were usually civil, even flirtatious, getting along like best friends. But with two utterly different personalities, and opinions, the pair could explode over almost anything. This time it was politics.
Aela had emptied her first tankard of cold beer when it started. "You bastard!" Stonearm hissed, throwing her chair back as she stood. "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 said, in the gravely Dunmer tone. "He's doing what he believes is right. He's serving the Emperor and his conscience."
Aela smirked, refilling her tankard. The Huntress still hadn't moved from her position at the side table. That remark, logical though it was, would earn Athis at least one punch.
Grabbing the Dunmer roughly by the central buckle of his hide armor, Njada yanked him away from the dining table and the other Companions. With Athis' back now facing the open area, away from anything breakable, Njada struck the first blow.
She slammed her forehead directly into Athis' face with a sickening crunch, following through with a heavy punch. Her fist struck his chin, snapping Athis' head up and sending him staggering a few steps backward.
Athis responded with a quick sweeping kick. The Dunmer's attack took Njada 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 pair's brawls anymore, Aela always enjoyed a good fight.
"Just don't kill each other," Skjor ordered deadpan. He was already halfway through his second plate of bacon, eggs and ham, with no signs of slowing down. The others at the table didn't even bother commenting.
"You'll pay for that comment, bloody Dunmer!" Njada hissed, back on her feet and moving aggressively, hands held in guard position. "I'll kick your sorry grey ass all the way back to Morrowind!"
"You've got to back up those words with action, n'wah," Athis responded, spitting out a wad of bloody saliva. "That surprise attack doesn't count."
"Trust me, you'll see these punches coming!" Like a raging bull, Stonearm threw herself at the Dunmer, swinging her fists with brutal fury. Aela didn't see all the blows connect, 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 several lightning fast punches, Athis' attack 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, Njada pressed the assault. The brawl came to an abrupt conclusion with Athis bleeding on the floor.
Aela remained in her chair, watching the beatdown occur without further comment. It was Athis' turn to fall, he'd won the last fight. Njada Stonearm was gloating, pumping her fist exuberantly and strutting around the semi-conscious Athis like she'd won a great victory.
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 Alea had become a Companion and it seemed likely she'd remain long after Aela passed on. While Tilma's primary responsibility was keeping Jorrvaskr clean and tending to the warriors, she was also involved with other things, namely baking. That habit suited Aela just fine as she had a vicious sweet-tooth, something Skjor teased her endlessly about. Sweet rolls weren't the favourite meal of any warrior in the songs but she didn't care, they tasted delicious. However, Skjor was the only one who got away with that teasing.
Torvar, while in the thrall of a drunken stupor, had tried it once. Her first "Piss off," hadn't been enough to convince him, so she'd drawn her dagger. Torvar left after that and hadn't breathed a word about her sweet rolls since.
The memory put a sly smile on her face as she adjusted her feet, placing one boot atop the other. The second mug of beer was still in her hand and she'd just finished the 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, albeit discreetly.
What was his name again? Hammel? Yes. Hammel Greymist, a name with unintended beauty.
Beauty the man himself didn't share, being average at best. Aela didn't care for exteriors, only the content of the heart. That was why she was so fond of Skjor, he certainly wasn't winning any beauty contests.
Pushing thoughts of Skjor aside, Aela surveyed Hammel as he looked around. While he was making a valiant effort to look unimpressed by the mead hall, the Huntress could see right through it. It was the same with all whelps, no matter what life they had lived, all were awed by Jorrvaskr.
Putting down her mug, she looked at his expression and followed his gaze. She didn't know why, but she was curious about him. He'd saved Ria with no thought to reward, which brought him up in her estimation. She watched him walk up to Skjor, waiting to see if this Greymist was Companion material.
Being inside Jorrvaskr was intoxicating. It felt like he'd drunk one too many meads and lost control. He'd seen and done plenty during his Legion service and yet he was still awed. Ysgramor himself had once lived under this roof.
Ysgramor was the very father of Skyrim. Now I, her unknown son, stand where he once stood.
There were several warriors eating around a massive table set before a blazing fire. In each corner were smaller tables. One was occupied by Aela the Huntress, who didn't seem to have noticed him. A Dunmer was sprawled on the floor while a Nord woman stood over him triumphantly.
Glancing at the seated warriors, Hammel tried to determine which was the current Harbinger. While strange to many non-Nords, the Companions had no leader for each Companion was his or her own. While they were all equal, there was still the honoured position of Harbinger, acting as an advisor for the whole group. The Harbinger gave advice on contracts, honour, and a warrior's life. It was up to the Harbinger, and The Circle, to determine who would be accepted into the Companions. He hoped whoever currently held that title was feeling generous.
Stepping forward, he took a longer look at those seated around the table. There were two Nords, their similar appearances suggesting they were brothers. Each had dark hair cut around the shoulders, with bulky muscles and stern gazes. One wore steel armor and had a small beard and dark eyes, giving him an intimidating appearance. The other had armor of finer steel, shaped and painted to resemble a wolf. He was fairer of face than his brother and clean-shaven except for some persistent stubble.
Yet these two didn't have that look of authority, they were important but not the Harbinger. It was a different Nord that caught Hammel's eye. This man wore the same wolf armor as one of the brothers, though without gauntlets, his hands gnarled and weather-beaten and face hard and scarred. What remained of his slate-grey hair had been pulled into a long ponytail. One of his eyes was milky white and the other didn't look much better. He was rough around the edges and reeked of combat experience. Overall, the most likely candidate in the room.
Approaching the old warrior, Hammel glanced sideways at the fallen Dunmer. "Does that happen often?" He asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
Finishing the bacon on his plate before reaching for a mug of mead, the man's stony face cracked a wry smile. "Only when those two get pissed at each other." He shrugged, taking a long draft. "They'll be back in bed before the night is over. You know how love can be."
Hammel laughed. "That I do." He smiled and laughed, "It's strange and unsettling."
The other man lifted his mug, "I'll drink to that." He said deadpan before taking a nice long drink.
Pulling back one of the lovingly crafted chairs, Hammel eased himself into it. "How are the Companions these days?" He asked. It wouldn't pay to just walk in and ask for membership, you had to be respectful and recognize the tradition.
"Not bad," he answered, finishing the mead with a smack of the lips. Furrowing his aged brow, he stared into the fire, "Shor's bones, it's been better. But we're still running and we're still fighting. Why? Do you have a contract for us?" He asked as if he already knew the answer, raising a grey 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. They were stated as facts, his voice unwavering.
While the man didn't laugh in his face, he hardly seemed impressed. "You think that we'll accept you? Really? I hate to break it to you, but the Companions are only interested in the very best."
"Ria didn't seem like the best to me," Hammel answered, "She would've been crushed by that giant if I hadn't saved her."
The man nodded in his direction, "Fair enough." He looked towards the stairs leading to the basement, no doubt where the sleeping quarters lay. "But Ria's a special case. She'll be receiving more training and experience. She's got honour to win back. But you..." He looked at Hammel with his good eye, squinting at him. "I don't know if we'd want you. You look like damaged goods."
Instinctively, Hammel's old war-wounds burned. The sword cut across his chest earned fighting bandits, the broken bottle slashed across the lip during a particularly memorable tavern-brawl, that old arrow wound in his shoulder that contributed to so many nightmares. While he had wounds, and mental scars, he doubted this older fighter had less. War left its mark on every man's soul and this one, judging from his age, clearly served in the Great War.
"Fortunately for you, it isn't my call," The man smirked. "Kodlak Whitemane is the current Harbinger. Who knows? Maybe he's in a generous mood." The accompanying look made it obvious that he doubted the possibility. "I'm Skjor, just so you know." He reached across the table for the pitcher of mead, 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 tomorrow morning."
"I'm called Hammel," Hammel responded casually, pointedly not offering the man his hand. A show of determination was necessary. "Remember it, because you'll be seeing me around."
"Confident eh?" Skjor snorted. "Confidence is good, arrogance is not. If you can back up those big words with actions, I'll reconsider what I think of you. If not, you're a little dog nipping at my ankles. Beat it, meatsack."
Skjor's tone left no room for argument. Knowing that any more talk would only hurt his reputation, Hammel headed towards the stairs. A quick glance showed that the dark-haired Nord in the wolf armor had already departed, leaving his brother eating alone.
Moving past the Companions finishing their lunch, Hammel began his quick journey to the basement. The stairs were quality pine, like the surrounding building. As he descended, Hammel's gaze looked over the excellent stonework. Each rock was lovingly cut and placed, leaving a firm foundation. The floor was covered in furs and rugs giving it a feel of warmth the stone lacked. A few torches shed light across the darkened space. Tables, benches, weapons and chests were scattered around the main walkway, giving the whole area an appearance of being lived-in. Several small rooms branched off, each filled with 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 to. He hoped one would lead to the Harbinger's quarters.
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 it.
He passed a lavishly decorated quarter before finding the one he sought. The door to the Harbinger's room was ajar, allowing a glance of its contents. What Hammel could see consisted mostly of solid furniture covered in books and weapons. A circular table with a simple pattern occupied the room's corner, easily seen from the hallway. Two chairs flanked it and the one he could see was currently occupied by the missing brother.
He 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 inflection. "I try to fight it, to drive it away, but it's always there...Always there."
At this point, a gauntleted hand reached across the table and gripped the man's shoulder. "We all do." An ancient voice, most likely Kodlak Whitemane, said sympathetically. "It is our burden to bear." The voice was rich with wisdom. It was old but remained strong, unyielding like a mountain. The hand gripped the man's shoulder all the tighter. "Reach into your heart, Vilkas. Pull out the legendary strength I know dwells within you. You are a warrior!" Kodlak's tone rose every so slightly, 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. Then he said, "You have my brother and I, obviously. But I don't know if the rest will go along quite so easily…"
Realising he was coming dangerously close to snooping, Hammel made his presence known, rapping his knuckles on the doorframe.
The Companion shot upward, hand reaching for the greatsword strapped to his back. "Stay your hand Vilkas, no harm will befall us here," Kodlak said calmly. Grudgingly, Vilkas sat, putting his hand back on the armrest. "Come in. Speak your piece."
Hammel pushed the door open and strode into the Harbinger's room with purpose. Vilkas didn't seem pleased with him, but Hammel barely noticed him. It was the other man he saw clearly.
While it was easy to mistake Skjor for the Harbinger, it would be impossible to mistake this man for anything but. Kodlak was weather-beaten, his leathery skin reddened from plenty of exposure to the sun and wind. His face was covered in a weave of scars, cheeks painted black with equally intricate tribal marks. His left eye, like Skjor's, was milky white and unseeing while his hair ran long and snow-coloured down his back, while a large beard of the same colour covered his face. Kodlak wore the same wolf pattern armor as Vilkas, with the ease of a seasoned warrior, more used to armor than clothes.
Leaning back in his chair, Kodlak Whitemane looked Hammel directly in the eye. "Yes? What is it?"
"Are you the Harbinger?" Hammel asked, not sure how to approach him otherwise. Kodlak nodded his snow-covered head sagely, his eye looking over the younger Nord with purpose. He seemed to know the words in Hammel's heart before they made their way to his lips. "I wish to become a Companion."
"Do you now?" Kodlak responded. "Let me take a good look at you." He rose to his feet, ancient bones creaking. Moving closer, the old man looked at Hammel, gazing at him intently. While he did look at stance and sword arm, he seemed more focused on something internal. A silence fell over the three men, as the Harbinger's gaze worked through Hammel's very soul.
"Yes." He said at length. The single word came out as a harsh whisper, a single syllable that promised much. "Yes, you'll do."
Vilkas wasn't thrilled by the announcement. "You can't be serious Kodlak, my master!" He scoffed, gesturing at Hammel with an armoured 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. Why take a chance on him?"
Kodlak turned to address the other man at the table. When he spoke to the younger man it was soft and gentle. "Last I checked, I am no one's master, Vilkas. And what a man has done is not as important as what a man can do. This stranger has fire deep within his belly, and Jorrvaskr is always open for those with fire in their bellies and steel in their hearts. Anyone capable of living with honour and swinging a blade can be a great warrior." Kodlak turned away from Vilkas and looked 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 asking another of his skills in battle and the 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 Hammel's face. "Confidence is good. But whether or not you can prove that confidence true will finalise my decision." Kodlak turned his gaze towards the much younger warrior. "Vilkas, take the young man up to the yard. Have him tested. If he passes your test, I say we find a place for him here."
Vilkas didn't seem pleased with the order but he obviously respected Kodlak too much to complain. "Keep up, whelp." He told Hammel with obvious disdain, "The sooner I whip your sorry hide, the sooner I can get back to doing something worthwhile."
The sun beat down, leaving trickles of sweat dripping down Hammel's face.
Despite the afternoon heat, Jorrvaskr's backlot was quite pleasant. A high stone wall separated the yard from the cliff face. Pleasantly green grass and wildflowers waved in the breeze. A small porch came off Jorrvaskr's back, filled with rickety tables and chairs.
Hammel stood at one end of the fighting circle, his back to a row of battered training dummies. He held a sword in each hand, the short Imperial-made blades, feeling familiar in his calloused grip. Vilkis held his greatsword before him, both hands wrapped tightly around the handle. A few other Companions were watching the confrontation from the porch including, Hammel noticed pleasantly, a certain Huntress.
Vilkis was eyeing him warily, trying to gauge his strength. No doubt the veteran of dozens of conflicts, the other Nord knew that a duel-wielding warrior 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. "Strike me a few times. If you can land a good blow on me, you're in. Not that that's likely to happen."
"Crush him like a bug, Vilkas!" The man's brother roared, pumping a fist emphatically.
"Shove your boot down his throat!" A dirty looking Nord with a scraggly blonde beard shouted.
Well, I see we have a favourite.
Battle was joined. Hammel took several steps forward, circling Vilkas warily. He had speed but Vilkas had the reach, and strength, to really hurt him. Dashing in, 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 greatsword with speed Hammel didn't think possible. Without warning, Vilas was on the offensive, launching a slash at his skull. Hammel just barely dodged by throwing himself backward. While both were striking with the flat of the blade to avoid fatalities, he had no intention of getting a concussion.
Rebalancing quickly, Hammel moved back on the attack. Striking high with both blades, he simultaneously launched a kick at Vilkas' knees. It was a risky move but it was the best he had.
As expected, Vilkas caught the two short swords easily while taking the kick right on the kneecap. What was unexpected was his reaction. With little more than a grunt, Vilkas endured the kick with indifference before responding with a headbutt, slamming his armoured forehead into Hammel's face. His nose guard wasn't enough protection and he felt a bone crunch. Warm blood dripped down his nose, staining the sand below him bright red.
Hammel didn't give up, punching out with his sword handles. His punch grazed the side of Vilkas' head, turning his face slightly but proving otherwise ineffective. Vilkas was on the attack again, swinging low with every intention of numbing Hammel's legs. Hammel hopped the blow, throwing himself out of harm's way and rolling to the side. He felt sand running down his back, into his ear. He spat in the dust, rising to his feet with fury.
Dashing in with a war cry, Hammel swung his left blade, aiming high. Vilkis dodged this strike easily enough, but took the low punch to the gut Hammel added at the last moment. Despite the armor protecting him, Vilkas hunched slightly and that was all the opening Hammel needed.
Yanking his knee upwards with a snarl, he connected with Vilkis' face, launching his head back with a spray of blood.
"Ha! A good strike!" Aela shouted from the bench, raising her pewter mug in tribute.
Hammel didn't let her praise distract him, hunching low and shuffling forward like a mudcrab. Flipping his swords so the pommels faced out, he hammered both into his opponent's chest. Vilkas staggered backward, holding a hand up.
"Enough." His word was simple, still proud, but with a fraction of respect now mingled in. "That was a good fight. Maybe there is something to you after all." Vilkas snorted after saying it, almost mocking himself. "But I doubt it." His cocky demeanour back in place, Vilkas took charge 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. Quickly sheathing one of his swords, Hammel managed to catch the thrown weapon before it hit the sand. "Take that up to Eorlund and have him sharpen it. Up!" He clapped his armoured hands at Hammel 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, returning to Jorrvaskr with the other Companions.
Hammel stood alone in the ring, feeling slightly embarrassed and foolish. He'd expected derogatory work and menial tasks but this... He wasn't sure what to feel at all.
With a sigh he began the trudge up to the Skyforge.
"You're thinking about him aren't you?" Skjor asked Aela as if commenting on the weather. He kept his tone carefully neutral, not sounding angry, possessive, or jealous.
But Aela knew he was, she could smell it on him. Considering the circumstances she supposed a little jealousy was fair.
"Yes I am," Aela answered, wiping off her now smudged warpaint with a damp cloth. She should have been more careful, but now she had to reapply her paint or everyone would know she'd been rutting.
By Hircine, I don't need that right now.
Finished with her wash, she picked up a towel, drying her face as she spoke. "I think he has potential." She paused for a moment, "More than Torvar, anyway."
"Torvar's drunk more often than not." Skjor reminded her, pulling his linen shirt over his head. "He's a low threshold." His good eye looked at her intently, trying to determine her reasoning. He should have known better than to try it because Aela couldn't easily be read.
"Kodlak agrees," Aela insisted evenly, "He's seen the fire inside." A long pause followed, "As have 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 was brave 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, 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 a majority, even if Kodlak vouches for him. Farkas will support anyone who seems worthy. Vilkas won't, he doesn't see the benefit of adding new blood. Besides, he doesn't seem to like Greymist much. Farkas and I aren't enough to get him in. I need your vote." She wasn't begging, she was asking. Buckling up her left boot without looking at her lover, Aela awaited the usual silence that accompanied Skjor's thinking.
He paused, chewing his lip in contemplation. Sitting back down on the bed to put on his boots, Skjor answered, "If you and Kodlak vouch for this outsider, I will support the decision."
"Good," Aela said 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 heard the good news."
"Thank you for retrieving my shield from Eorlund, Greymist. I've been waiting on it for some time." Aela the Huntress told Hammel, taking the offered shield in one smooth motion.
The old Gray-Mane had proven fine company, working the Skyforge while speaking of myths and adventure. He had also reminded Hammel, after helping to staunch the bleeding in his nose, not to always do what he was told. After all, everyone was equal in the Companions. Still, kindness was its own reward and he asked Hammel to take Aela her shield. Eorlund's wife was in mourning and he wanted to be with her. Since taking a shield was no big deal, and he got an excuse to see Aela again, Hammel agreed.
Now he was waiting in Skjor's room with two senior Companions for the answer to a decision with life-changing consequences. He was reminded of the uncomfortable feeling he'd had after basic training, wondering if he'd made the cut. He'd sweat a while before he'd learned he made Legion Scout.
"You gave Vilkas quite the thrashing," Aela interjected with a smile. "But you didn't hear it from me." Her expression shifted, becoming more serious. "Do you think you could take him in a real fight?"
"I don't like to boast," Hammel responded. "Besides, I can't honestly say what would happen unless we were fighting for real."
"Not one for boasting? Interesting..."
Skjor cleared his throat, arms crossed across his chest, "While Kodlak Whitemane, as Harbinger, has the most influence over the decision of acceptance, the ruling of the Circle is still important. The majority need to be in agreement before someone is accepted." Skjor paused, his milky-white eye stared blankly at Hammel, leaving him feeling uncomfortable.
"After we debated about it for some time, 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 imagine proving your worth takes a toll."
Hammel inclined his head respectfully, silently thanking those who had vouched for him. "I will bring no shame to this honoured hall which once gazed upon Atmora."
"You better not," Skjor stated tersely, "I'd hate to have to string you up by your guts and parade your corpse through the city." Waving Hammel away, he 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. Without a word, Hammel Greymist, the newest Companion, left the room.
"They're good people," Farkas' rough voice said casually as he closed the door behind him.
"What?" Hammel responded as they began their short journey to the whelp's sleeping quarters. The way Farkas had said it was so calm that it took Hammel a moment to realise what he was talking about.
"Skjor and Aela, they're good people." He explained, taking the lead as they walked, "They tease me sometimes, you know, because I'm a bit slow in the head, 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 politely. "I hope we keep you. It gets boring after a while 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," Hammel responded, patting the swords at his waist. "I'm ready for that contract."
Farkas smiled all the more, "I think I'm gonna like you."