After an immense battle, Brynhildr and Ralof emerged from the cave that had shielded them from the attack of the powerful winged creature, battered and drained.
As they set foot outside, a ferocious screech tore through the sky and shook the ground. A rather large shadow passed over them, casting itself on the ground like a grim omen.
They instinctively dove behind some rocks; Brynhildr raising her shield automatically as though the act alone could protect them from what loomed above.
Silence reigned for a few seconds, broken only by the faint sound of the dragon's wings as they receded into the distance.
"By Ysmir, is it gone?" Ralof asked, his voice still tight with fear.
Brynhildr remained silent, her ears straining for any sign of its return. She allowed herself a long sigh of relief only when the beast's roar echoed faintly in the distance.
"Yes, I think so." She murmured, rising from the ground and offering a hand.
And just as they had hoped, the cave led to the forest; a natural sanctuary stretching out below the ruins of what used to be Helgen. They trudged down a rugged path, glancing back at what they'd left behind for one last time. Helgen was no more.
Black and gray smoke spiraled into the sky, now less dense as the fires seemed to have exhausted their fuel. The once-imposing walls were in ruins; some sections still stood defiantly, but most had crumbled into scattered rubble, hurled aside by the relentless fury of the dragon.
Even the surrounding forest had not escaped unscathed. Fallen rocks from the fort's walls had scarred the terrain, leaving shattered trees and barren clearings where greenery had once thrived.
As they followed a hidden trail, Brynhildr and Ralof stumbled across the grim evidence of the attack; charred remains and broken bodies—Imperial soldiers, Helgen's townsfolk, and Stormcloak prisoners alike.
"Look at the horror it's left behind." Brynhildr said, her voice tinged with both awe and disgust.
"We must keep moving," Ralof urged, pausing to clutch his wounded chest. "The Imperials will be here soon enough. They'll bring a whole legion from Falkreath if they have to."
"Where will we go?" Brynhildr asked, offering her arm.
"Riverwood," He replied, taking her arm. "My sister Gerdur has a sawmill there. She'll help us."
"And what of your Jarl?" Brynhildr questioned.
"My Jarl will survive," He said confidently. "I don't know what the gods have planned, but if this has happened now…"
As they trudged onward, he let out a dry laugh, more of a weary exhale than genuine mirth.
"You almost sound like Ulfric summoned that creature." Brynhildr remarked wryly.
The idea seemed absurd; to save oneself by destroying a town. No honest god would allow such a trade…but a Daedric Prince, she thought, might.
The two warriors pressed along the winding path that cut through the forest, leaving Helgen's smoldering ruins behind. Though the canopy above offered some reprieve from the open sky, memories of what had transpired plagued them.
And despite the forest's greenery, it too, seemed haunted by echoes of devastation. The Birds were silent, and only the eerie whisper of the wind through the trees remained, as if all creatures had fled.
When hunger began to gnaw at them, Brynhildr offered to hunt. And with the bow taken from a fallen Imperial and arrows scavenged from the dead along their path, she vanished into the trees.
Ralof set about building a fire near the river bank that ran parallel to the path they were on. The clear, rushing water offered a fleeting sense of calm, though Ralof kept glancing over his shoulder. His chest wound throbbed beneath his battered armor, and rest seemed like an unattainable luxury.
When Brynhildr returned, she carried a red fox over her shoulder.
"How's your wound?" she asked.
"I'll manage. That's what matters," Ralof replied, clumsily carving a piece of wood into a makeshift skewer. "I'll heal when I need to…"
Brynhildr allowed herself a quick smile as she went to work. "You almost sound like my father," she said, a trace of nostalgia in her voice. "Must be that Nordic resilience…or stubbornness."
"Ha! Your father must've talked like a true Nord of Skyrim," Ralof chuckled, placing a piece of meat over the fire. "Though I'd wager the love of a fine woman led him far from these lands, didn't it?"
"Perhaps," Brynhildr conceded, stripping meat from the fox. "Though calling someone a 'true Nord' makes it sound like not all are."
Ralof's expression hardened and he grunted. "Any Nord who sides with the Empire in this war doesn't deserve the title."
The harshness of his tone drew Brynhildr's attention, but she didn't think now was the time to ask. So, they ate in silence for a while, treating the meager meal as though it were a feast. And after everything they've been through today, it truly was a feast.
Finally, after her second piece of meat, plagued with curiosity, she broke the silence that sat between them.
"What drove Skyrim to war?" she asked, tossing a stripped bone into the fire.
Ralof watched her for a moment, weighing out his options. "What do they say in Cyrodiil, Brynhildr?" he asked warily. "I imagine they tell the Imperial truth, don't they?"
"They say Ulfric is nothing but a usurper," she replied frankly. "That he seeks to divide Skyrim."
"And what do you think?" Ralof asked, raising a brow. "You've seen Ulfric lead, even in the face of a dragon."
"I saw a man trying to survive, while also trying to save his people," She reasoned. "But why do they call him a usurper?"
Ralof exhaled a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "Imperial gossip from people who don't understand our traditions. Ulfric defeated High King Torygg in a duel that the King himself accepted. And according to our ancient customs, by defeating him, Ulfric earned the right to the crown. He is the rightful High King of Skyrim."
"But under Imperial law, that was murder, wasn't it?" Brynhildr recalled.
Ralof nodded, his brows furrowed. "We fight to protect our traditions, and our legacy. Those ancient customs the Empire wants to erase from our lives. And those elves…you saw them. They were with General Tullius."
Brynhildr scowled. She didn't hate the elves for their race, but the Aldmeri Dominion—the ones who had waged war on Cyrodiil, and destroyed everything her parents once loved—was another matter. The memory of the Thalmor woman standing next to Tullius turned her stomach.
Once their fire was extinguished and they ensured there was no trace of their existence, Brynhildr and Ralof resumed their march along the river's edge. The breeze carried by the flowing water brought a fresh, calming air that eased, even if slightly, their exhaustion.
"If we run into an Imperial patrol, let me do the talking, alright?" Ralof said.
"I suppose carrying a shield with the Imperial emblem doesn't exactly make me look like one of them." Brynhildr teased.
"Maybe," Ralof shrugged. "Or, it might help sell my story if we play our cards right."
Brynhildr eyed him, arching her brow.
"Sorry," the Nord added with a grin. "It's just that you look…well–"
"Too tall for an Imperial and too brunette for a Nord?" She interrupted, her tone laced with humor and resignation.
Ralof rubbed the back of his neck. "Well…I didn't mean–"
"Don't worry," She waved her hand, brushing it off. "It doesn't bother me. I have my father's eyes, and they say my mother's smile. His fierceness in battle and her calm mind. I guess I'm the perfect blend of both."
"Well, I can't argue with any of that," Ralof admitted sincerely. "If it weren't for you, I'd have my head smashed in, or my throat slit."
"Probably." She teased.
The sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky like a canvas of oranges, purples and pinks. It was then that Riverwood's watchtowers started to emerge through the trees and above. The rugged path they followed for hours finally joined the cobblestone road leading straight into the heart of the village.
Brynhildr surveyed her surroundings carefully, and to her surprise, the towers were empty. Not a single guard was stationed, and the barrier near the village entrance was equally deserted; there was no one atop it or on the small stone ramparts beside it.
"This place is too quiet." Brynhildr remarked.
Her eyes scanned the main road running through the village, where only faint signs of life existed. A few villagers milled around doing their chores, but there was no urgency or sign of alarm.
Ralof let out a quiet laugh. "Heh, the only trouble you'll find here is if Embry, the local drunk, decides to stir up some mischief. And honestly, that rarely amounts to more than a minor annoyance."
Brynhildr nodded, although she continued to observe with some caution. Her experience told her that peaceful places like this often proved the most vulnerable to chaos, and while Ralof seemed at ease with the quiet, she just couldn't shake her unease.
As they moved further down the path, the rushing river blended with the sound of a hammer striking metal at the nearby forge. The smell of wood smoke and hot iron filled the air, reminding Brynhildr of her childhood days when she was accompanying her father to the local smithy. There was something comforting about it.
"I hope your sister can help us." She finally said.
"Gerdur is a strong and wise woman. She'll help us, no doubt." Ralof assured, though his voice betrayed him. "But if I tell her everything that we've been through, she'll probably scold me for getting into trouble again."
Indeed, Gerdur didn't take long to scold her brother upon seeing him arrive all battered and wounded, accompanied by a strange woman. Concern was evident in every word and gesture as she led them to her house; the home she shared with her husband, Hod.
It was warm and spacious by the standards of such a small village. Both of them ran the local lumber mill, a cornerstone of Riverwood's economy, and in many ways, the village revolved around their work.
As night began to fall, Brynhildr found herself standing in the doorway of the house, contemplating the tranquil scene.
From there, she could see the lumber mill and the river that powered it, both shrouded in a soft mist that blurred the outlines of the landscape. Crickets filled the air with their nightly songs, and yet, she still couldn't relax. Her attention returned time and time again to the main road, expecting the arrival of an Imperial detachment.
It irritated her. She had been turned into a fugitive over an injustice, an irony she couldn't ignore. But, as absurd as it seemed, another, much greater concern weighed on her mind: the dragon. A millennia-old beast flying over Skyrim was undoubtedly a danger that surpassed any personal issue.
As Brynhildr pondered, she saw Ralof's nephew, Frodnar, running back from the village entrance.
"You're back," Brynhildr remarked, smiling. "Did you see any Imperials?"
"No," The boy replied, raising his chin. "I made sure to hide in a good spot where I could watch."
"Well done, pup." Brynhildr praised, ruffling his hair.
She had taken this moment before dinner to ensure the little one was safe, which gave her some peace of mind. Back inside the house, the atmosphere was warm but tense. Ralof, now dressed in a clean linen shirt, had shed the remnants of his armor and the battered Stormcloak emblem. Though alive, the wounds of the day were evident on both his body and his spirit.
Gerdur and Hod were seated, still trying to process what Brynhildr and Ralof had told them.
"How are your wounds, friend?" Brynhildr asked.
"Just scratches," He replied, offering a weary smile. "I'd say my pride is more bruised than my body. And you?"
Brynhildr shrugged, removing her bow and sword. "I suppose lack of sleep is hitting me harder than anything else."
"Brynhildr," Gerdur interrupted, gesturing to the table. "Please, join us for dinner."
"Thank you," Brynhildr replied, taking a seat.
As Gerdur cut the fresh baked bread and served some stew, the conversation around the table continued.
"If you change your mind - know that you're welcome to stay here tonight." Gerdur offered.
"I appreciate Nordic hospitality," Brynhildr replied. "But I don't want to bring trouble to your doorstep," Then, turning to Ralof, she added. "I suppose you'll be leaving soon as well."
"I can't stay long," He admitted. "I don't want to put anyone here in danger. I plan to head south, through the paths near Ivarstead, until I find one of our camps."
"Perhaps you'll find Ulfric there?" Gerdur suggested. "If he isn't already on his way to Windhelm."
Brynhildr listened to the conversation attentively, although she didn't contribute much. She was struck by the devotion the people of Riverwood showed toward Ulfric Stormcloak and his cause. And at the table, everyone seemed to share the same resolute vision, but she remained unconvinced.
"Brynhildr," Gerdur finally said. "If you don't plan to accompany Ralof, I need to ask you a favor."
She nodded. "Go ahead."
"Jarl Balgruuf needs to know that Riverwood is unprotected, especially now that we know of the dragon threat. Someone must go to Whiterun and warn him as soon as possible."
"I can do that–" Brynhildr affirmed. "I'll leave once I've rested a bit."
After dinner, Brynhildr bid farewell to Ralof and his family. And as she embraced him, she felt an unexpected camaraderie. They had shared much in such a short time; fighting side by side to survive. Among the Nords, that brotherhood forged in battle was enough to call someone kin.
With the coins Gerdur gave her in gratitude, the least Brynhildr could do was accept them. She crossed the quiet village, leaving behind Gerdur and Hod's welcoming home. Her destination was the Sleeping Giant Inn, located at the other end of Riverwood. At such a late hour, her only companions were the lanterns and torches lighting her path.
Sitting on the inn's steps was Embry, the village drunk. Slouched on one of the stairs and swaying slightly, the man looked up as he noticed her presence.
"Spare a coin for a poor man?" He asked, extending his hand.
Brynhildr glanced at him as she passed by. "Join me on an adventure, and I'll teach you how to earn your coins."
Embry muttered something under his breath, but it wasn't anything she could hear. She had seen many drunks in her life, from veterans drowning their sorrows in alcohol to simple rogues. She knew how to tell the difference. And without another word, she pushed open the doors to the inn of the Sleeping Giant and stepped inside.
The main hall was spacious but nearly empty at this hour. Only a couple of tables were occupied by a few farmers, and faint music came from a bard plucking a lute near the hearth.
Brynhildr immediately noticed the innkeepers. Orgnar, a man so tall that he appeared hunched even while standing behind the counter, was hard to miss. However, it was the woman beside him—his wife, or so Brynhildr assumed—who truly caught her attention. With her blonde hair and piercing gaze, the woman hadn't taken her eyes off Brynhildr since the moment she walked in.
With an instinct honed through years of battles and constant vigilance, Brynhildr quickly sensed the tension. Feigning that she wasn't disturbed, she walked to a chair near the hearth and sat down, allowing the warmth of the flames to chase away the chill that began to seep into her bones.
"Something you need?" Orgnar asked from behind the counter.
"A mug of ale." Brynhildr replied.
As she waited for her drink, the bard; a young man with blonde hair and a smug expression, approached her with a smile.
"A song to brighten the evening, miss?"
Brynhildr glanced at him and then shook her head. "I'd like to, but I don't know of any songs from around here."
"You're not from these parts?" He raised a brow. "Not many travelers come through here."
"Not exactly–"
"From the north, perhaps?"
Brynhildr breathed a quiet laugh. "More like the south. Near the border with Cyrodiil."
The bard nodded, quickly grasping the nature of her origins. Without pressing her further, he returned to his instrumental piece. The soft notes filled the air as Brynhildr received her drink.
With the mug in her hands, her clear eyes locked into the flames of the hearth. Her mind drifted, inevitably, to the events of the day. She still couldn't fully process what happened. The injustice of her capture and the near execution weighed heavily on her heart. The voice of the Imperial officer who had sentenced her echoed in her memory like a cruel refrain.
But more than that, it was the dragon's appearance that haunted her. That creature, black as night, with scales that looked like they were forged from obsidian and eyes that burned like embers, stayed with her. She could still hear its roar; feeling as if at any moment the building would start shaking—or worse, collapse on top of her.
Brynhildr, like many others, had heard tales of dragons as a child but had never believed in such stories. It was absurd. Yet, she had seen it. She had felt the searing heat of its breath and heard the roar that made the earth tremble. It was real. A monster straight out of nightmares.
Time passed, and one by one, the inn's few remaining patrons left. Sven, the bard, finished his performance as well and disappeared through the pantry door. Silence filled the hall, broken only by the crackling of the wood in the hearth. Brynhildr finally decided to retire for the evening, her body weary from travel and broken from battle; she'd rented a room with the coin that Gerdur had given her.
Inside her room, Brynhildr placed her sword, bow, and shield beside the bed, ensuring they were within reach. She lay down with a deep sigh, allowing the firm softness of the feather mattress to ease her travel weary body.
This time, the gods were merciful; as soon as her head touched the pillow, sleep enveloped her, offering a temporary refuge from dragons, wars, and the shadows of the past.
The golden light of dawn began to filter through the sleepy town, cutting across the mountains and casting subtle shadows accentuated by the nearby peaks and crypts that stretched toward the summit. When Brynhildr emerged from her room, she did so with a renewed calm.
She rested better than she anticipated, as though the events of the previous day were set aside, even if only for a few hours. The memory of the dragon soaring across the skies—a mixture of awe and terror—remained vivid in her mind, though. But the warmth of Nordic hospitality and a good night's sleep had begun to restore her strength.
After a simple breakfast at the inn, she stepped outside into the village. She knew she should rest further, but she also felt compelled to familiarize herself with Nordic customs.
The murmur of the river blended with the sounds of the morning; the creak of wood-laden carts, the crowing of roosters, and the steady rhythm of a hammer on an anvil. These sounds reminded her of her home in northern Cyrodiil, nestled among the Colovian mountains.
Determined to keep busy, she crossed the village and approached the local blacksmith's forge. Watching him at work brought back memories of her father. Alvor, the blacksmith, noticing her presence, greeted her with a readiness to assist.
Wasting no time, Brynhildr handed over her armor for repair, along with her sword, bow, and shield. Alvor's gaze lingered on her, a hint of distrust flickering in his eyes as he took in the Imperial shield bearing the Empire's insignia.
Alvor, a man with a weathered face, and hands hardened by years of labor, examined the damage up close. "You've been in some serious trouble, yes?" He smirked. "Looks like you fought something big, like a bear…"
"I did, but it wasn't the thing that did this," Brynhildr replied. "I'd like you to sharpen my sword and tighten my bowstring as well. I don't have much money, but we can make an arrangement after I help out at the sawmill."
"Working for Gerdur?" He asked.
She nodded. "Just for today. I owe them a favor."
"I'll see what I can do. The leather on this armor is in rough shape. You might find something better in Whiterun." Alvor advised.
"As long as it holds up for now, it'll do. I'll figure out the rest later."
"All right, lass," He nodded. "Come back here after you've finished at the mill."
Brynhildr thanked the man as she left. Her eyes scanned her surroundings, where the village children ran wild and carefree, oblivious to the threats looming over Skyrim. A fleeting image of peace, she thought, though fragile.
She made her way to the sawmill, where Hod and his men were already hard at work. Logs were stacked by the river, and the air was thick with sawdust. Approaching the owner, she caught his attention, her presence, seemingly, unexpected.
"I'm looking for work." She stated as a matter of fact.
"It wasn't necessary," Hod replied, brow raised. "Gerdur made it clear last night when she gave you the coins."
Though he didn't seem to outright reject her, his tone betrayed him. However, Brynhildr's determination made it clear she wouldn't accept charity. And with a small shrug, Hod relented and pointed out the things he needed done.
She picked up the hook and used it to guide the logs toward the saw-blade, letting the mechanism pull them through. The work was grueling but no harder than others she had faced in her life. And she realized rather quickly that it was all about technique, just like wielding a weapon. Every push was a reminder that physical effort, though exhausting, brought with it a mental reprieve.
As they worked in tandem, Brynhildr attempted to strike up a conversation. "Has Ralof left yet?"
Hod nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Before dawn. Gerdur wanted him to stay longer to heal, but he insisted on leaving. Are you planning to join him?"
She shook her head, her blue eyes fixed on the water flowing around the logs. "I've just arrived in Skyrim. I don't have the full picture of what's going on here yet, and besides," She paused. "There might be something bigger out there than a civil war, don't you think?"
The implication had a dark expression crossing Hod's face. "Hm."
If the rumors were true, then the threat of a dragon was far more than a legend.
With the extra set of hands, the work was completed swiftly. Hod, impressed by Brynhildr's dedication, handed her a generous payment.
"Honest gold for honest work." He said.
Brynhildr accepted the coins, albeit reluctantly, and clasped Hod's arm in a gesture of respect. Some of the sawmill workers, including Sven, the bard, and Faendal, the local hunter and archer, watched from a distance. Their eyes held curiosity and awe; a stranger, half Imperial and half Nord, did not go unnoticed in a place like Riverwood.
When she bid farewell, Brynhildr returned to the forge. Among the heat of the forge and the rhythmic clang of the hammer on metal, Alvor was hard at work on her repairs.
"Your sword will be ready by this afternoon," He informed her, never looking at her. "Though the payment you gave didn't quite cover everything because of the armor. Some parts were barely holding together. Did you fall off a mountain?"
Brynhildr nearly laughed, though the truth was far from humorous.
"If that's the case, I'd like to offer myself as a smith's assistant." She proposed.
"You know smithing?" Alvor asked.
"Where I come from, people learn a bit of everything," Brynhildr explained, leaning. "My mother was a farmer, apothecary, seamstress, and healer. My father worked in mines, at the forge, as a town guard, and on the farms. I picked up a little of everything from them. I can make basic things, like nails, or a few iron weapons."
"And steel?" Alvor inquired.
"I suppose, if a smith teaches me–"
"Hm. To make anything like that, I'd need to train you for several days, but I doubt you have that kind of time," He assumed. "I'm no Eorlund Gray-Mane to teach you quickly and well–"
"Is he a character from fairy tales?" Brynhildr asked, approaching the nearest workbench.
He barked a laugh. "Ha! I suppose you're not from around here, lass. He's the best blacksmith in all of Skyrim. If you head to Whiterun, you might get to meet him. His steel is unmatched. And I imagine the Empire is eager to have him forge their weapons for this war."
"Do you support the Empire?" She asked, curious.
"Of course," He scoffed. "Skyrim has always been part of the Empire. That doesn't mean I agree with everything they've been doing lately, but the Nords have never been known to stick together.
"Even in this war?" Brynhildr pressed.
"Do you support Ulfric?" Alvor countered.
"If you're so certain in declaring your support for the Empire here," she replied, setting the pauldron aside. "Then I can be equally candid with you; looking at both sides, they're as justified as they are mistaken in this war. I think the best path for me, and for many, is to remain neutral."
"You're wise and clever, outsider," He complimented. "It's a smart mindset to keep, because the deeper you go into these glorious lands, the more you'll see that not many have the luxury of neutrality."
The forge had become an unexpected hobby for Brynhildr, born out of necessity rather than interest. During her time in the Fighter's Guild of Cyrodiil, between the contracts and missions, she had found smithing to be a practical skill. The basic knowledge she acquired—repairing worn leather straps, straightening bent blades, reinforcing armor rivets—was not just useful but essential for survival.
Over time though, the rhythmic sound of a hammer against anvil and the heat of the forge became familiar. She never considered herself an expert artisan, but she learned to handle iron with ease and, under proper supervision, even complex objects made of steel. Each calculated strike had to be done with precision, like that expected from an arrow that must hit the right place, or a perfectly executed sword stroke.
While working at Alvor's forge, the air of Riverwood carried the scent of fresh wood from the nearby forests and the murmur of the river. It contrasted with the intensity of the fire burning in the furnace and the weight of the tools in her hands. Years of experience had taught her that armor was as much a tool as it was a weapon, and its effectiveness depended not only on its craftsmanship but on the skill of the one wearing it.
Leather armor, though light and flexible, could transform a skilled warrior into an elusive force. If properly worn, it made one nearly impossible to pin down, allowing for speed and agility in a fight. By contrast, iron and steel—staples of her own experience—offered a dependable defense against blows. Yet, she knew all too well that without proper balance and control, their weight could become a liability. She had seen it happen; a warrior overestimating their strength, misstepping under the weight, and stumbling to their death.
Her thoughts turned to the armors she had only observed but never worn. Elven armor, with its lightweight, almost arrogant elegance, seemed to dance with its wearer, its resilience defying its delicate appearance.
Then there was Orcish plate, a fortress of metal that turned its wearer into an unstoppable juggernaut, though at the cost of sacrificing nearly all mobility.
Brynhildr had never donned either, and her opinion was shaped by observation alone. The Elven designs struck her as too finely crafted for the messy reality of combat; more suited for show than war.
Orcish armor, on the other hand, commanded respect for its brutal efficiency, yet she could not imagine herself bearing its immense weight without losing the agility that she valued so highly.
As she and Alvor took turns at the forge, Brynhildr used break time to rest. Her muscles were tense after hours of work, a warning of the aches to come the next day. Sitting on a workbench, wiping her hands with a coarse rag, she looked up as a voice interrupted her.
"Taking all the work in Riverwood, are you?" The voice came from an elf that approached the forge.
Brynhildr turned her head and saw the Bosmer the locals knew as Faendal.
"Well, gold is scarce, and what better way to earn gold than through hard work." She replied.
The elf nodded with a faint smile, crossing his arms over his chest as his gaze appraised the half-Nord woman.
"I suppose you're right," Faendal responded, then turned to Alvor. "Do you have any arrows for sale?"
Alvor moved toward a barrel and pulled out a bundle of arrows with glistening steel tips. The Bosmer's eyes didn't leave Brynhildr, whose calm expression concealed a constant wariness. She glanced up at him.
"What is it?" She asked, her eyes sharp like a blade.
Faendal hesitated. "Are you some kind of mercenary?"
"If you think I will sell my sword to the highest bidder, find someone else."
"Careful, Faendal," Alvor warned. "I'm sure she's fought at least one bear before coming here."
The blacksmith's comment managed to ease the tension a bit, though the Bosmer kept his serious tone intact.
"I don't want you to kill anyone," He clarified. "But if you could do me a favor…"
Brynhildr raised a brow, intrigued but also a bit irritated. She had her share of favors from strangers, but something in the elf's tone hinted at a personal matter. She glanced over at Alvor, who nodded his approval.
"I'll take a short break." She announced.
Alvor continued working as Brynhildr crossed the cobblestone path. She stopped underneath the sign hanging in front of the store, and leaned against one of the columns.
"Speak, I'm listening." She said,
"I'd like your help with a matter concerning Sven; that arrogant nuisance." Faendal said, his tone dripping with disdain.
"What's your problem with him?" She wondered aloud.
"He's a bard—or at least he claims to be. Occasionally, he finds time to work at the mill, though I suppose that doesn't quite fit the image he has of himself. He thinks his ballads and sonnets will somehow convince Camilla Valerius to marry him. As if she'd ever say yes. A smart, beautiful woman like her falling for such nonsense?…one can only hope not."
Brynhildr chuckled.
"You're right. Since when have words alone ever inspired true love?"
"I don't need your jokes right now," Faendal snapped. "But…maybe you have a point. Perhaps Camilla could use a little help seeing Sven for what he truly is. Here," He pulled a folded up piece of parchment from his belt. "Would you deliver this letter and tell her it's from him? I believe I've captured that Nord's lack of wit quite accurately."
Brynhildr took the letter without a word, studying Faendal with a frown. There was a bitterness in his tone that unsettled her, though she couldn't entirely disagree with his opinion of Sven. The Nord bard had proven himself insufferable the night before, dominating the inn with his inflated ego, serenading anyone who would listen—and even those who wouldn't.
Still, something about Faendal's approach rankled her. The Bosmer's contempt for Sven felt more personal than justified, and his veiled remarks about the Nords in general didn't escape her notice.
Still, a job was a job and her code, although strict, didn't prevent her from solving minor disputes if it meant filling her coin purse.
"If the pay is good, I'll involve myself in your little squabble," She replied. "But I won't guarantee she'll turn to you—least of all through a lie."
Faendal seemed to ignore the implication, eager to seal the deal. "Just let me know when you've given it to her, and I'll pay you."
Brynhildr heaved a sigh, as she took the missive and tucked it into her belt. She returned to the forge, ready to finish her day's work. The tasks of smithing were repetitive but rewarding. And she spent the next few hours hammering, adjusting, and reinforcing pieces under Alvor's careful supervision. By the afternoon, her efforts had borne fruit.
"You've done good work, lass," Alvor congratulated. "Here you go."
The blacksmith handed her the leather armor, now remade and precisely fitted. Even the hood, once torn, looked new and improved. Her sword, a weapon salvaged from the ruins of Helgen, had been sharpened, its blade gleaming in the sunlight. Her bow, crucial in killing the bear, had been restrung, and her shield—discreetly stripped of its Imperial insignia—looked ready for battle.
"Thank you, Alvor." She said,
With her equipment in good condition, Brynhildr set out to complete the task Faendal had given her. She crossed the cobblestone path back to the trading post, where she expected to find Camilla Valerius. The wooden door creaked open, and she was immediately caught in the middle of a heated argument.
"Well, one of us has to do something!" A woman exclaimed.
The voice belonged to an Imperial woman; Camilla Valerius, and her tone reflected her frustration.
"I said no!" A man, Lucan Valerius, snapped from behind the counter. "No adventures, no theatrics, no thief-chasing!"
Camilla squared her shoulders. "Well, what are you going to do then, huh? Let's hear it?"
"We're done talking about this!" He shouted, his voice bouncing off the walls.
Brynhildr observed the scene as stoically as she could, though she was slightly uncomfortable with the confrontation. The two Imperials stopped when they noticed her presence. Lucan was the first to break the silence.
"Oh, a customer. Sorry you had to hear that…"
"I take it something happened, given that you mentioned thieves and adventures." Brynhildr commented, approaching the counter.
"We had a bit of a break-in," He explained. "But we still have plenty to sell. Robbers were only after one thing. An ornament of solid gold. In the shape of a dragon's claw."
The mention of the item piqued Brynhildr's curiosity, but remained neutral. "Quite the theft."
Lucan tilted his head. "You're the outsider who arrived yesterday, right? A traveler passing through Skyrim?"
Brynhildr breathed a laugh. "I barely know Skyrim. Your accent is from the capital, isn't it?"
"We're Imperials, after all," Lucan replied, his pride quickly shifting. "You're not a Nord…are you?"
"Only half," She corrected. "I hail from the Colovian Highlands."
"I figured as much. Still, feel free to ask for anything you may need. I even have some old tomes."
"Magic isn't my style," She admitted. "But I do need a travel pack and a bedroll. How many days walk to Whiterun?"
"A couple of days at least. Have you been robbed?"
"It's a long story," She heaved a sigh. "If you can prepare a pack with provisions, I'll gladly take it."
As Lucan rummaged through the shelves, Brynhildr took the opportunity to approach Camilla, who was now calmly re-arranging a row of jars.
"Camilla, right?"
Camilla turned and smiled, her eyes appraising the woman before her. "So, from Colovia, huh? Is our accent that obvious?"
"It's quite distinctive," She said, retrieving the letter that Faendal had given her. "I was asked to deliver this to you. It's from Sven–"
Camilla took the letter with a furrowed brow. "Another poem, I'll bet. He does know how to make a girl blush."
Her expression quickly changed as she read the letter.
"What's this?" She breathed. "If that oaf thinks all I'm going to do is stay in that filthy house of his and clean…you can tell Sven that he already has a mother. I'm not speaking to him anymore."
With firm, careful steps, Camilla took to the stairs, her anger quite evident with her hasty exit. Brynhildr watched silently, wondering if delivering the letter was the right thing, after all? At least Faendal would pay his reward, she thought, so all was not lost.
The day was supposed to be one of rest, and Brynhildr barely managed it by sunset, when there were no more tasks left to complete. She was known for doing whatever was necessary to earn a good wage, and Riverwood had been no exception.
As night fell, caressing the town, the Inn was unusually quiet. Perhaps Sven was the reason—he sat in a corner playing his lute. His usual enthusiasm had been replaced by melancholy, although she could see he tried to hide it.
"Looks like it worked," Faendal remarked, handing a small pouch of coins to Brynhildr. "Here - it's what I've managed to save from my work at the mill."
Brynhildr accepted the payment and tied the pouch to her belt.
"Let's be clear—if you think this will win her heart, you're more foolish than you seem." She warned.
Faendal avoided saying anything more, opting instead for silence as he retreated to a corner for some peace.
Brynhildr, for her part, made sure that the night would pass without incident. The day's hard labor had silenced the thoughts that usually haunted her, allowing her to enjoy the moment while she had it.
She knew the journey to Whiterun would be long. The road would take her past a rugged barrow as she left Riverwood, then into the vast golden plains of the hold. Even so, she allowed herself a rare reprieve that night; she ate, drank, and laughed at the antics of a drunken, heartbroken Sven.
Still, something unsettled her. And out of the corner of her eye, Brynhildr noticed Orgnar's female companion, the second innkeeper. Whether behind the counter, serving food, or performing some routine task, the woman always seemed to find a way to keep an eye on her. She didn't let it go unnoticed but chose not to dwell on it either.
At midnight, Brynhildr retired to her room. And for the first time in what felt like ages, the Divines granted her a peaceful night. There were no nightmares of the black dragon, no echoing screams to wake her. Instead, she slept in until the new dawn called her back to action.
And by the time the sun rose, she was ready for her journey. With her travel pack slung over her shoulder, she headed to the general store to purchase some last minute provisions.
As she approached the stone bridge that spanned the river, Brynhildr flexed her right arm, still sore from the strain and blows from the last couple of days. And although her body hadn't fully recovered, she couldn't afford the luxury of rest.
Before she could cross the bridge, a pair of voices called out to her. Turning around, she saw Frodnar, the son of Gerdur and Hod, and Dorthe, Alvor's daughter. Frodnar's dog wagged its tail enthusiastically as the children ran toward her.
"Are you leaving already?" Frodnar asked.
"You shouldn't stray too far from home, pups–" She smiled. "Be sure to thank your parents for their hospitality."
"You're going on an adventure, aren't you?" Dorthe asked eagerly.
"I bet you're off to slay some bandits and monsters!" Frodnar exclaimed.
Brynhildr crouched down in front of them. "Glory doesn't come from killing people. And besides, how do you know I'm not a bandit myself?"
Dorthe, with the unfiltered honesty of a child, responded. "Papa says I'm too friendly with strangers, but you seem alright to me."
Brynhildr breathed a laugh.
She stood up and ruffled the children's hair before turning to the bridge, leaving behind the warmth and tranquility of Riverwood; the echoes of children's voices and the gentle flow of the river.
Behind her, the small village faded into the distance, and in front of her the vast province of Skyrim was laid out before her. Now, far from any comfort, her mind was left exposed and vulnerable to itself. The memories of Helgen returned with an intensity that made her grit her teeth. With every step, the echo of the black dragon's wings resonated in her memory, like a dark omen impossible to silence.
She could feel the gale caused by its wingbeats, the roar that shook the earth beneath her feet, and piercing eyes that didn't just see but judged.
Brynhildr had never been one to fear. Throughout her life, she had learned to carefully choose her battles, facing men and creatures alike with courage, even when outnumbered or outmatched in strength. But this was different. What she had witnessed in Helgen wasn't a warrior or a mere beast that could be felled with steel or cunning.
It was a monster in the purest, and most primal sense—a being that embodied devastation itself, a true god of destruction. And though she rarely admitted it, even to herself, the mere thought of confronting it made her stomach churn and her body grow cold.
She was afraid—terribly afraid.