Over the years, Brynhildr had traveled the roads of Cyrodiil, from the rugged Jerall Mountains in the north to the vast plains of the Nibenay Basin in the south; her blood carried two cultures. As the daughter of a Nord and an Imperial, she always felt tied to both Skyrim and the lands of her birth. Yet, her heart had always been anchored in Cyrodiil.
Brynhildr came into the world amidst the chaos of the Great War against the Aldmeri Dominion. Her parents, Vorrik and Vielonia, were an unlikely pair united by the turmoil of battle. Vorrik, a towering Nord warrior with hands so large she would later imagine they could cradle the entire world, had once been a blacksmith and a farmer in the rugged northern reaches of Skyrim.
Vielonia, by contrast, was an Imperial healer who had learned the art of apothecary and herbal medicine from her family in the fertile valleys of the Nibenay Basin. Before the war, she had also been a skilled seamstress, with delicate hands which crafted garments as beautiful as the flowers she cultivated for her remedies.
It was known that Vorrik's gruff demeanor and unyielding strength were balanced by Vielonia's wisdom and nurture. They met during the early battles of the war, where Vorrik's skill with a blade and Vielonia's life-saving hands forged a bond that transcended time.
Their union became a rare symbol. Despite the chaos surrounding them, Vorrik and Vielonia dreamt of a quiet life where they could raise their daughter, Brynhildr, the fruit of their unusual union.
It was said that from Vorrik, she would inherit the strength, honor, and resilience of the Nords, tempered by the discipline and precision he had honed in his years as a smith and warrior.
From Vielonia, she would learn compassion, the healing arts, and the meticulous patience of both an apothecary and a seamstress. But fate was unkind, and their dream was tragically cut short. Both Vorrik and Vielonia lost their lives in the war while Brynhildr was still a child, leaving her orphaned in a world both cruel and indifferent.
As she grew up, Brynhildr clung to the fragments of her parents' memory, piecing together their stories from the remnants they left behind, and the words of those who had known them. In the orphanage, Brynhildr often recalled her father's laugh as he swung her high into the air, or the gentle hum of her mother's lullabies as she stitched by candlelight.
Although she was surrounded by other children, she often felt a deep loneliness, longing for the life she might have had. Her path changed when a member of the Fighter's Guild, a burly but kind-hearted mercenary, visited the orphanage and took her under their wing.
Whether out of pity, duty, or admiration for her tenacity, they gave her a new home in the training halls of the Guild. There, she began to channel her grief into discipline, sharpening her skills and embracing the teachings her parents had sought to instill in her.
She roamed much of Cyrodill as a child, never having a specific place that she could call her own. And instead, calling the entire Imperial Province her home. She had grown up in the Colovian Highlands, a landscape of rolling hills and dense forests surrounding Chorrol, its most prominent city.
There, frontier traditions ran deep, and she learned to wield a sword as naturally as others tilled the land. The Jerall Mountains, standing like sentinels to the north, were a constant reminder of Skyrim's proximity—a distant home she had always felt but never known.
Brynhildr had spent much of her youth traveling eastward into the dense groves and clearings of the Great Forest. There, the terrain shifted from mountains to endless stretches of trees that seemed to whisper ancient secrets from the earliest days of humanity.
In those lands, she learned the importance of moving stealthily and respecting balance—knowledge that would serve her well in her later years as a warrior. Although the paths of the Great Forest were treacherous, they also provided a direct route to Cyrodiil's central jewel: the Imperial City.
The Imperial City, nestled on the City Isle in the heart of Lake Rumare, had always fascinated her. Its tall, white walls, visible for miles around, symbolized the Empire's power and grandeur.
Within its gates, Brynhildr had seen the wonders of the White-Gold Tower and had also encountered the shadows lurking in the alleyways of its humbler districts. She often reflected on how the city represented both the glory and fragility of an Empire torn by internal conflicts. Over time, it seemed to her more a mark of the Empire's decline than its strength.
In her Northern travels, Brynhildr visited Bruma, a city that felt more like Skyrim than Cyrodiil. Its wooden houses, smoking chimneys, and Nord inhabitants gave her a sense of home, though she never fully fit in. It was as if the city reflected her own dilemma; a blend of two worlds that coexisted but never fully united.
Near Bruma, she connected with the Nordic culture that she inherited from her father, a connection that ultimately drove her decision to journey North.
To the South, her travels took her to the Nibenay Valley, where the Niben River wound through open fields and gentler forests. Near the border of Black Marsh, she saw Cyrodiil's cultural diversity firsthand, with Argonians and Khajiit sharing streets with Imperials.
Despite her extensive travels, Brynhildr had rarely ventured further than Cyrodiil's borders. Beyond the familiar roads of Cyrodiil, lay the lands that Brynhildr had only visited sparingly during her time as a mercenary. She visited Hammerfell, with its sprawling deserts and jagged mountain ranges which left an indelible mark on her memory. The sheer scale of the land was overwhelming, a seemingly endless expanse that demanded both respect and caution.
Yet, what stood out even more were the people, the Redguards, whose culture and unmatched skill in combat was embodied by the Alik'r warriors. Their ability to navigate the harsh desert terrain with ease, combined with their rich traditions of honor and swordsmanship, struck a chord with Brynhildr, resonating with her own ideals of discipline and strength.
Further south in Black Marsh, known to its native inhabitants as Argonia, evoked an entirely different reaction. Where Hammerfell inspired awe, the swamps of Argonia filled her with unease. The marshes were alive in a way that felt almost sentient; their dense, humid air carrying the whispers of ancient mysteries. The landscape itself seemed to reject outsiders, with its treacherous bogs, towering mangroves, and creatures both strange and dangerous.
The Argonians, with their enigmatic culture and deep connection to the land, were a people she could never fully understand; their gazes often left her feeling as though she were the interloper in a place that did not welcome her presence. Foreign lands were unknown to her, but she felt that the Empire's heart had been a vast and challenging enough training ground to temper her spirit. Each region she explored had prepared her for a destiny she did not yet fully understand.
Cyrodiil was her home.
Out of all the places she had walked, however, Skyrim stood apart. There was something about this land that breathed ancient, something that resonated with a deep echo in her soul. Brynhildr had spent several days crossing Skyrim's vast central steppes.
At first glance, the landscape might seem monotonous: an endless sea of golden grass stretching as far as the eye could see. But, to Brynhildr, the monotony was an illusion. In this dry sea of grass, every detail told a story.
The scattered farms, some nearly hidden and far from the main road, showed the resilience of the Nords, who fought to tame a land that refused to be conquered and who, in turn, stubbornly proved they would not be driven away.
The roads often felt desolate, and it was rare to encounter a merchant or traveler.
On more than one occasion though, Brynhildr had to draw her sword to protect a passing farmer from hungry wolves or, worse, from pairs of bandits lying in wait to prey upon the isolated homesteads.
The sight of a lone warrior woman often drew suspicion from some and cocky bravado from others, who quickly found themselves on the receiving end of either an arrow or the tip of her sword.
At night, the company of wolves was no less unsettling. Their howls echoed in the distance, a reminder that in Skyrim, even the calmest moments could be preludes to danger. Brynhildr made sure to keep the fire burning while she rested, though it wasn't just warmth she sought in the flames.
On the loneliest nights, the fire seemed to be the only thing capable of pushing back the shadows that loomed, not just around her, but also within. The image of the black dragon she had seen at Helgen continued to haunt her, a constant presence in the darkest corners of her mind.
There was something about Skyrim that fascinated her, something that no other land had managed. It was a place of contrasts, a land so wild and beautiful that it often left her breathless.
Although she had never set foot in the province, Brynhildr felt an inexplicable connection to it, a bond that seemed to pulse through her Nordic blood. However, her impressions of Skyrim did not come from direct experiences but from the tales of the Nords in Bruma—that northern Cyrodilic city that seemed like a fragment of Skyrim, brought South of the Jerall Mountains.
In Bruma, the Nords spoke of Skyrim with a reverence that often bordered on obstinacy. It was a land of warriors, they said, a place where cold blood and steel were the only guarantees of survival.
To them, Skyrim was not just a province of the Empire; it was a constant trial, a forge where men and women proved their worth or were crushed by the relentless harshness of life. Brynhildr listened to these stories while in the taverns of Bruma, observing how the Nords wrapped themselves in their cultural pride like a cloak against the cold.
The inhabitants, while mostly welcoming, regarded Brynhildr with a certain reserve. To them, she was not entirely one of their own; her Imperial heritage was a stain they could not completely ignore. Nonetheless, they accepted her as she was strong and capable—qualities they valued above lineage.
What intrigued her most about the Nords of Bruma was how they spoke of Skyrim's great holds. To them, each jarl was a symbol of something greater than their lands. The jarls of the Northern cities, they said, were guardians of ancestral traditions, while those in the South were seen as protectors of the Empire's connection. These views often intertwined with criticisms of Cyrodiil's decadence—a recurring theme among the Nords who had left Skyrim behind.
"Cyrodiil may be our second home, but it is not our true home," An older woman had once told her. "Here, the air is too gentle, and the land too forgiving. In Skyrim, the earth and sky forge you. Here, they only let you rot."
Brynhildr couldn't help but reflect on those words. Although the Nords of Bruma spoke of Skyrim with nostalgia, it was also clear that many had chosen to remain in Cyrodiil. Perhaps because, here in the South, there were opportunities that the North could never offer. Or perhaps because, like her, they found themselves caught between two worlds, struggling to reconcile who they once were.
Despite everything, of all Skyrim's wonders, none had struck her as deeply as the night sky. During the first few days of her journey, clouds had covered the horizon, and Brynhildr had paid little attention to the firmament. But on her second night, when the clouds finally broke and the sun sank beyond the mountains, she looked up and was left speechless; the sky seemed so alive.
The stars shone with a bright intensity that she had never seen anywhere else in Tamriel, and the northern lights danced above her head—a flowing curtain of green and violet light weaving a tapestry in the air. Nirn's two moons, Masser and Secunda, were full, their light bathing the plains in a silvery glow that made having a torch unnecessary.
Brynhildr spent that night sleepless, sitting by the fire with her eyes fixed on the heavens above. There was something profoundly comforting, and yet, something so unsettling. It reminded her of how vast Tamriel was, and how small every mortal was. For a moment though, she allowed herself to forget the weight of her journey and simply marvel at the sight.
By dawn, the journey resumed. The plains appeared unchanged, but each step brought her closer to Whiterun. Even so, her mind kept returning to Helgen. The images of the black dragon continued to haunt her; its wings blotting out the sky and its roar shaking the earth. She had faced men and beasts, mages and monsters, but nothing had prepared her for something like that.
The thought of confronting it again chilled her to the bone, and yet, she knew she couldn't run from this destiny. Skyrim was unique, yes, but it was also a place where the unimaginable became real—for better or worse.
The next day arrived with a chill, seeping into her bones even after several nights of sleeping under the open skies. The embers of the fire were smothered with a handful of dirt, and after ensuring she left no trace of her existence, she grabbed her sword and pack and headed toward the main road.
The cobblestone path beneath her boots was wide and well-maintained, a testament to the importance of the trade route that ran through the region. Whiterun was not just the geographic heart of Skyrim but also its economic center. Anyone seeking to trade, travel, or seek fortune would inevitably find themselves crossing its lands. It was a crossroads of purpose, a place where the stories of travelers converged like rivers feeding into a common lake.
The landscape unfolded in its monotonous beauty—endless plains broken here and there by gentle hills and scattered farms.
Brynhildr made good time, her thoughts occupied with her next destination, when the sound of hooves and wheels shattered the serene harmony of the environment.
She turned just in time to see a cart barreling down the hill she had recently crossed. The driver, a merchant with a panicked expression, lashed his horse mercilessly while shouting in terror.
"Faster! Go faster!"
Just a few paces behind the cart, a group of people ran in fear. Farmers, by their appearance, dressed in dirt-stained clothes and faces pale, like they'd seen a ghost.
Brynhildr frowned and stepped toward the group, stopping one of the men trailing behind. He was a farmhand from a nearby homestead, his face slick with sweat and his eyes wide like a cornered animal.
"What's happening?" She asked, despite having an idea.
"A giant!" He panted. And with a trembling finger, he pointed. "A giant is attacking the farm!"
"Where? Show me the way."
The man hesitated a moment, as if the weight of sending a woman toward such a threat bore heavily on his conscience. Finally, he pointed in the direction of the hill.
Brynhildr nodded and hurried toward the hill, leaving the terrified farmers behind. She heard a deep, guttural growl that rumbled like thunder, followed by the unmistakable sound of wood splintering.
She quickened her pace, and as she broke through the brush, the scene was grim; a farm lay in utter ruin as a towering creature, at least three times the height of a man, milled around with a brutish clumsiness.
The thick, grayish skin gleamed in the sunlight, its long arm wielded an enormous wooden club—a blend of trunk and stone. Brynhildr watched in awe and horror as the weapon swung down with a tremendous force, obliterating a blade of the windmill. Debris flew into the air, mingling with the cries of villagers fleeing in all different directions.
Despite the widespread panic, some were still trying to defend the farm. A small group of men armed with makeshift weapons had formed a ragged line. The battle against the giant was a chaotic spectacle. The creature, an imposing mass of muscle and scars, loomed like a mountain among the buildings. Its rough, almost stone-like skin resisted blows that terrified the discouraged farmers. And with every swing of the enormous club, unleashed a roar that made the ground tremble beneath their feet.
Among them, more experienced fighters stood out, stepping forward to intervene where the frightened villagers stumbled in their attempts to protect their home.
The three warriors faced the giant with a mix of caution and fear. At the forefront of the farmers, a young woman with bronzed skin, clad in furs and light armor, moved swiftly among the peasants, trying to keep them out of harm's way.
"Get back, you fools!" She bellowed. "Do you think you'll earn anything more than an early grave by challenging this beast!?"
The warrior leading the charge was a tower of raw strength. His armor seemed like an extension of his body, and his steel greatsword, though dented and bloodied, still struck against the beast's flesh.
"Step back and leave this to those who know how to fight!" He roared.
The greatsword descended with a deadly howl, embedding itself in the giant's arm with a blow that would have felled any other creature. Yet, the blade barely managed to pierce the monster's skin, stopping against muscles as hard as rock.
The giant let out a growl, a deep and harrowing sound that echoed like thunder, and retaliated with brutal force. But the warrior did not falter. Gripping the embedded greatsword with both hands, he stood his ground against the giant's colossal strength with a determination that defied logic.
The farmers who had stayed behind showed bravery that bordered on recklessness. One, armed only with a hoe, charged at the creature and struck its thigh in a desperate attempt. The creature reacted quickly, moving with a terrifying speed for its size.
Its massive hand swatted the farmer, sending him flying through the air, landing several feet away with a heavy thud.
"Idiot!" The bronzed woman shouted. "Fall back!" She ordered.
Another farmer, frozen in fear, seemed doomed to the same fate. The giant raised its hand, ready to crush him, but two arrows sliced through the air and struck the creature's elbow and shoulder.
"Fall back, now!" Commanded the last of the warriors, her voice firm and authoritative, leaving no room for foolishness. She was a striking figure, with a fiery red mane that seemed to blaze under the sunlight.
From a strategic vantage point, the red-haired warrior fired a few arrows aimed for the more vulnerable spots on the giant. She was steady yet fluid, moving gracefully in between each shot as if the chaos around her were nothing more than a game she had mastered long ago.
The giant, wounded and enraged, staggered for just a moment but was far from defeated.
"Come on, I can take you!" The burly warrior roared, tightening the grip on his greatsword.
"Bring it down! Come on!" A farmer shouted, as though his exclamation alone could tip the scales.
His words were met with a frustrated roar from the bronzed-skinned woman.
"Shut your mouth and get back!" She snapped, shoving the man backward.
Her warning fell on deaf ears. Another farmer, driven by a mix of panic and desperation, lunged for the giant with a rusty sickle, and managed to sink it into the monster's forearm.
At this point, the giant had had enough. And with a guttural growl, it yanked the sickle from its flesh as if it were merely a splinter. The giant's confused expression landed on the reckless farmer, and with a swift motion, its arm descended like an avalanche.
The bronzed woman threw herself at the farmer and pushed him out of the way. And while she succeeded in shoving the man to safety, the giant adjusted its strategy. Its massive hand closed around a large fragment of the broken windmill blades, lifting it as if it weighed nothing.
The red-haired archer, who had been firing from the rear, nocked an arrow and aimed. Her cold, determined eyes tracked the creature's every move on the battlefield. And just as the giant raised his makeshift weapon, an arrow from a different direction struck first, embedding itself in the creature's joint.
The giant's strength instantly faltered, and the piece of wood fell to the ground, landing with a heavy thud. The archer wasted no time; she loosed her arrow, aiming directly at the giant's eyes. The arrow sank deep, eliciting a piercing, anguished roar from the creature.
Seizing the moment of vulnerability, the burly warrior planted a boot on the fallen giant's hand and raised his greatsword overhead. With a roar that rivaled the monster's own, he drove the blade deep into the creature's arm, tearing through flesh and muscle with seemingly superhuman force.
"Ria, get back!" The archer shouted.
The bronzed-skinned woman, still dangerously close, barely managed to escape as the creature, in a last-ditch effort, lashed out at its attackers.
In that moment, a figure charged through the farmers, moving with speed that stood out amidst the chaos. Brynhildr, with a sword in one hand and a shield in the other, entered the fray with swift, determined strides. She passed the archer and farmers without hesitation, heading straight for the giant.
With swift precision, she raised her shield overhead to deflect an errant blow from the giant, then drove her sword into the creature's already wounded wrist.
The giant let out a blood-curdling howl, finally dropping the wooden fragment it still clung to with its other hand.
"Ria, now!" The archer commanded.
The woman, wielding a sword of an unusual design, leapt forward with grace. And with a swift, clean stroke, her blade sliced through the giant's neck. Overwhelmed by the flurry of attacks, the creature began to stumble.
Another arrow, this time aimed at the giant's uninjured eye, struck with pinpoint accuracy. The monster let out one last howl before collapsing, its massive hands trying, and failing, to brace its fall.
"Get back!" The warrior bellowed, raising his greatsword.
Brynhildr and Ria barely had time to step aside before the giant hit the ground with a thunderous crash. The creature's breathing was ragged, its eyes bloodied. The archer calmly approached, bow still in hand, while the warrior stood over the giant's body.
"Farkas, finish it." She commanded, tone firm.
The warrior nodded, gripping his greatsword with both hands and then driving it into the giant's head; the worn blade silenced the creature for good.
"Is everyone alright?" She asked, eyes scanning over Ria and Farkas before settling on Brynhildr; both warriors nodded. The giant lay dead, and the farmers began to gather the remnants of the disaster.
Among them, two men struggled to lift the lifeless body of their comrade, too filled with grief and their adrenaline running low. Brynhildr silently watched them, her expression hardened by experience, but with a shadow of empathy in her eyes.
"Foolish bastards." Ria mumbled.
Brynhildr heaved a heavy sigh. "They were protecting the only thing they have; their land. Though some of those deaths could certainly have been avoided."
The archer, watching the scene, turned to the half-Nordic woman. Her expression was stoic, but her eyes sharpened. "I am Aela. You fight well, are you an adventurer?"
Brynhildr gave a terse nod. "I'm Brynhildr, and yes, I am. I trained at the Fighter's Guild in Cyrodiil and I have traveled extensively since. Are you from the local guild?"
The question provoked mixed reactions among the three warriors. Ria barked a laugh. Farkas breathed something akin to a laugh. And Aela, for her part, just raised a brow.
"There's no Fighter's Guild in Skyrim," Aela said with a mix of pride and disdain. "Only the Companions."
"And who are the Companions?" Brynhildr questioned.
"We are brothers and sisters in honor; we solve problems, as long as the payment is fair." It was a simple statement, but it carried weight. "We've been tracking this giant for a couple of days, It already killed a couple of farmers before we could locate it. But now it's done. Time to return to Whiterun."
Brynhildr nodded. "I'm also headed to Whiterun. It's my first time there and I could use the company."
"What do you say, Aela?" Farkas asked.
Aela shrugged. "We could make it by afternoon if we leave now."
With that being said, the group gathered what little they could from the spoils and began their march toward the city. As they crossed the vast golden plains of Skyrim, the scattered farms dotting the landscape offered a reprieve from the wilderness. Conversations started to flow, mostly tales of past battles and small personal anecdotes.
Brynhildr quickly learned that Ria was the youngest of the group, both in experience and years. Although she spoke with confidence, there was a spark of enthusiasm that betrayed her pride in having been accepted among the Companions—a dream she had since childhood.
Farkas, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. Tall, even by Nordic standards, he seemed more a force of nature than man. His body was like granite, and his demeanor matched; few words, many of them grunted, and a presence that intimidated even in moments of rest.
Aela, for her part, maintained a certain calmness about her. Her storytelling was brief but precise, and while she didn't seem distrustful, she wasn't particularly open either. She shared that the women in her family, without exception, had been part of the Companions at some point in their lives, a legacy she bore with pride.
As the day progressed, the rolling hills began to transform. The scattered farms became more frequent, and the cobblestone path grew busier with traveling merchants, and farmers bringing their harvests to the market in Whiterun.
"Dragonsreach," Aela pointed, breaking the silence. "Home to Jarl Balgruuf the Greater."
Brynhildr followed her hand, and saw the majestic palace of Dragonsreach emerge from the hills. And despite seeing many things in her travels, she couldn't help but feel a spark of admiration.
The group finally reached Whiterun's outer wall, a barrier worn by centuries and battles yet steadfast as an unyielding promise. At the busy entrance, the sounds of animals, the cries of merchants, and the chatter of travelers filled the air.
The group of warriors crossed the outer defensive wall, where the activity was more intense than expected. Soldiers moved between shouts and orders, displaying an unusual level of organization and readiness.
"Have you heard? They say a dragon was spotted to the south." Ria mentioned.
"Rumors." Farkas dismissed.
"Heh, I bet you'd kill to fight one, though." The young woman teased.
Farkas rolled his eyes, but the smirk on his face soon transformed into a grin.
As they reached the large city gates, a small crowd was waiting for their turn to enter. The captain of the guard was busy organizing his men, barking clear orders to open the gates.
Merchants, farmers, and travelers hurried in both directions, taking advantage of every moment the gates remained open before they were closed again. Brynhildr and her companions moved through the throng, observing the bustle with sharp eyes.
"They seem pretty on edge." Brynhildr noted.
"They've been defensive ever since talk of the dragon." Aela explained.
"I need to request an audience with the Jarl," Brynhildr added. "Thank you for your company."
Aela stepped forward and extended her arm. "Judging by how you move in battle, if you decide to join the companions, just come to Jorrvaskr. You won't have trouble finding us."
"Thank you." Brynhildr replied, clasping Aela's arm.
The trio, members of the companions, continued toward the city, passing through the gates guarded by Whiterun's soldiers and quickly disappearing into the crowds.
Brynhildr walked through the district, known as the Plains District. The city's hustle and bustle filled the air as wooden houses with steep roofs lined the streets. The architecture, reminiscent of the wealthy homes in Bruma, belonged here to common folk; merchants, innkeepers, and blacksmiths. It was a lively place, full of activity, where the warmth of Nordic facades contrasted with the harshness of daily life.
Amid the commotion, something caught her attention. A female blacksmith worked intensely at her forge. Despite the crackling embers and the sweat on her face, she was arguing with a customer—a man in the uniform of the Imperial army—whose persistence was beginning to draw attention.
Cautious but interested in the woman's craft, Brynhildr considered whether it would be prudent to approach, perhaps to replenish the arrows she had lost during the fight with the giant or to sharpen her weapons? Before she could decide, however, the Imperial man turned his attention to her.
"Gray-Mane or Battle-Born?" He asked, examining her.
Brynhildr took a step back, observing him from beneath the shadows of her leather hood. "What?"
"Got rocks in your ears? I asked which side you're on; Gray-Mane or Battle-Born?"
Brynhildr's expression hardened; she didn't understand why he was interrogating her.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
The man seemed to relax for a moment.
"New to the city, huh? Whiterun has two clans, both old and respected. Difference is, the Gray-Manes turned their backs on the Empire, while we Battle-Borns remained loyal. So, I'll ask again: Gray-Mane or Battle-Born?"
This rivalry between Skyrim's own people, so deeply rooted in their culture, seemed to follow her everywhere she went. Brynhildr sighed, internally screaming from the ridiculousness of the situation.
"I'm sorry, I don't take sides." She stated firmly.
"Sooner or later we all have to choose a side!" The man shouted.
"Idolaf, stop bothering my customers," The female Blacksmith berated, then turned to Brynhildr. "Apologies. I'm Adrianne, it seems you were admiring the pieces I forged?"
Brynhildr watched Idolaf walk off grumbling to himself, then let out a sigh of relief. She cautiously approached the forge.
"Yes, that's right. I was considering replenishing some equipment, but I was also surprised to see you as the blacksmith." She admitted, albeit, somewhat bashful.
Adrianne breathed a laugh."I bet you were. I know it's not common to see a woman in this trade around here, but there's a reason this place is called Warmaiden's."
"I didn't say that because you're a woman," Brynhildr clarified. "I'm more surprised because you're an Imperial. I never doubt a smith if I see good work, but I didn't expect to find someone like you here."
"Whiterun draws all kinds of people from all over Skyrim. And, to be honest, I don't claim to be the best smith in the city," She admitted, wiping her hands off on her apron. "That honor belongs to Eorlund Gray-Mane. That man's steel is legendary. I just ask for a fair chance."
"Even so," Brynhildr crossed her arms. "That man in the Imperial uniform seemed to prefer your steel over this Eorlund Gray-Mane's."
Adrianne heaved a heavy sigh, as she leaned against a wooden post, her expression a mix of resignation and pride.
"War has driven many to madness. As long as Balgruuf doesn't pick a side, things will stay like this."
"What else can you tell me about him and this city?" Brynhildr asked.
"Hm," Adrianne began. "Well, I'd say we're prosperous enough. Most people don't go hungry, as long as they're willing to work. And as for Balgruuf, he rules with honesty. He's a fair man, but he's still a stubborn Nord. If you're going to talk to him, be prepared for a good climb up the stairs."
She nodded. "I see. Thank you."
The female Blacksmith nodded and then went back to her work.
Brynhildr crossed the main marketplace, leaving behind the noise of taverns and bustling stalls. Climbing the stone stairs that connected the Plains District to the next level of the city.
The Wind District, it was called, was a more of an opulent area. The houses, larger and more ornate, belonged to wealthy merchants, landowners, and members of the local nobility. Brynhildr let her eyes wander over the architectural marvels; wooden and stone structures with intricate carvings and carefully designed roofs. The atmosphere held a mix of rustic authenticity and refined elegance.
At the heart of the district, a large plaza stood out, dominated by an even bigger tree. Although dry and twisted, it seemed to be a symbol of resilience, surrounded by children playing and elders resting beneath its shadow. The people here dressed more opulently, wearing fine woolen coats and accessories that reflected their social status. However, two grand structures overshadowed the district's splendor.
The first was an imposing building, its wooden base and elongated form of the hull of a massive ship. At its peak, Brynhildr spotted the brutish warrior she had fought the giant with—Farkas. She realized then that this was Jorrvaskr, the home of the Companions.
The second structure had a completely different impact. At the base of the steps leading to the Cloud District stood a statue dedicated to Talos, the man who ascended to godhood. To some, he was a figure of devotion; to others, a heresy.
Talos, founder of the Septim Dynasty and the Empire, remained a powerful symbol in Skyrim. Brynhildr paused for a moment to contemplate the statue, recalling how long it had been since she last saw one in its entirety.
Around her, a priest fervently proclaimed prayers to the god-hero. The scene was a direct challenge to the Altmer and the White-Gold Concordat, which condemned this form of worship. And with a knot in her chest, Brynhildr quickened her pace, ascending the long stairway to the Cloud District.
At the summit, the Jarl's palace, also known as Dragonsreach, loomed before her with imposing majesty. It was an immense structure, made mostly of wood, its age seeming to defy time itself. The moss-covered rooftops stretched across multiple levels, while a stone bridge spanned an artificial fountain leading to the main entrance.
From this vantage point, Brynhildr could see the full expanse of Whiterun. The districts sprawled out down below, distinct, and yet, interconnected, which reflected a city so vibrant and proud, divided by its conflicts but unified in its grandeur.
From the top of Dragonsreach's steps, Brynhildr gazed out over the vast expanse of Whiterun and the lands surrounding it—a true oasis amidst Skyrim's sweeping plains.
All of Whiterun seemed alive—a city that never rested. The bustling energy of its inhabitants, the ringing of hammers on steel, and the lively chatter of merchants created a ceaseless symphony that spoke of prosperity, hard work, and pride. From this height, Brynhildr couldn't help but feel like a small part of a place so vast and steeped in Nord's history.
Taking a deep breath, she prepared herself for what lay ahead. Brynhildr approached the guards stationed at the entrance of Dragonsreach.
"I bring news from Riverwood, and Helgen, where a dragon attacked."
"Are the rumors true?" asked a guard. "You may pass; the Jarl will want to hear what you say."
Nodding respectfully, Brynhildr removed her hood, letting the guards see her face. And when the doors opened, the palace's immense interior enveloped her.
Dragonsreach was a monument to Nordic grandeur. Its tall wooden pillars seemed to vanish into the dim expanse of the ceiling, faintly illuminated by hundreds of torches flickering against the runic carvings on the columns and the large stained-glass windows around them.
Sturdy, long tables lined the tiers of the hall, occupied by nobles and figures of importance to the Jarl, all engrossed in conversations, feasts, or debates.
As Brynhildr ascended the main staircase, the voices of men, women, and children mingled in an animated echo. Her steady steps were interrupted when a voice commanded her.
"Halt."
A figure emerged with the same grace and stealth as a shadow. The woman, a Dunmer with ashen skin and crimson eyes, already had a slender sword drawn, its blade reflecting the torchlight.
"Jarl Balgruuf isn't receiving visitors." The elf declared.
Brynhildr raised her hands in a peaceful gesture, her gaze quickly assessing the woman; her agility, the precision of her movements. She was undoubtedly facing a Nightblade.
"I have news from Helgen. About the dragon," Brynhildr explained. "And Gerdur sent me from Riverwood. They're in danger."
The Dunmer's eyes narrowed with suspicion, but something in Brynhildr's words made her pause.
"That explains why the guards let you in," She murmured, sheathing her sword. "Follow me. The Jarl will want to speak with you personally. No sudden moves, or you'll lose your hands to my blade."
The woman, who introduced herself as Irileth, led Brynhildr toward the throne. There, seated with a solemn posture, was Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun, a man of presence, his face hardened by years of experience and battle. Beside him, a bald Imperial adviser dressed in fine robes was speaking to him in a whisper about the recent events in Helgen.
"Irileth, who is this?" the Jarl asked, interrupting the conversation.
"My lord, someone claiming to have been in Helgen has arrived."
With a gesture from the Dunmer, Brynhildr stepped forward, bowing her head in an act of respect.
"My lord."
Jarl Balgruuf leaned slightly forward on his throne, fixing Brynhildr with an intense gaze, as he searched for the truth in her words.
"So, you were at Helgen?" He bristled. "Did you see this dragon with your own eyes?"
Brynhildr drew a breath before responding; the image of the dragon was still fresh in her mind, like a wound that refused to heal.
"I was at Helgen, my lord, and what I saw defies all logic. It was a winged creature, black as night, with scales as tough as stone. Its eyes, red as blood, were a harbinger of death. It destroyed everything in its path and went in the direction of Riverwood, where I was just days ago. That's why I came here; they asked for help."
"By Ysmir," Balgruuf murmured, as he turned to his steward. "What do you say now, Proventus? Will we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?"
"My lord," Irileth interjected, stepping forward. "We should send troops to Riverwood immediately. If that dragon is lurking in the mountains–"
"The Jarl of Falkreath will see it as a provocation," Proventus interrupted, his voice heavy with concern. "He'll think we're preparing to side with Ulfric and attack him. We can't–"
"Enough!" Balgruuf roared, his voice echoing through the hall. "I will not stand idle while a dragon burns my lands and slaughters my people. Irileth, dispatch a detachment to Riverwood at once."
"Yes, my Jarl." Irileth responded, bowing her head.
"With your permission, I will return to my duties." Proventus said.
"Don't stray too far, my friend," Balgruuf replied, then turned to Brynhildr. "Warrior, you came to me of your own accord. You have done Whiterun a great service, and I will not forget it."
"I did what I thought was right, my lord." She replied.
"And now, I will ask a little more of you," The Jarl nodded. "I want you to remain here in Whiterun. I may have something in mind for you…of course, you'll be well compensated, both in coins and resources. After all, you are currently our best hope against the dragon."
Brynhildr swallowed hard. "I'll do as you ask, Jarl Balgruuf."
With a magnanimous gesture, the Jarl instructed his steward to arrange lodging for Brynhildr at the Bannered Mare, ensuring she had the best accommodations possible.
Proventus nodded and addressed Brynhildr with a polite smile.
"I hope you find the Bannered Mare to be a pleasant place to rest."
"Thank you." Brynhildr replied, nodding.
However, the Steward's next question took her by surprise.
"You're not from around here, are you?" He asked. "I recognize those features of yours. One of your parents is an Imperial, aren't they?"
Brynhildr blinked, startled by the accuracy of his observation, but nodded.
"Yes, that's right. My father was a Nord, my mother was an Imperial, and I grew up in Colovia."
He offered a kind smile.
"Whiterun is a welcoming place for all. You'll find it feels like home soon enough."
"Heh, Skyrim already feels a bit like home," She replied, glancing up at the ceiling. "This place is impressive."
"It's part of Skyrim's legends, did you know?" He mentioned smiling. "Have you heard the story of Olaf and the dragon Numinex?"
Brynhildr shook her head. "No. I haven't."
"Well, long ago a great Nord hero named Olaf One-Eye fought a mighty battle against a fearsome dragon named Numinex. Their struggle culminated in a monumental duel atop Mount Anthor, where Olaf emerged victorious. He returned triumphantly to Whiterun and, by his decree, rebuilt this fortress as a prison for Numinex. Since then, our great stronghold has been called Dragonsreach."
Brynhildr listened intently, and was utterly fascinated. The idea of a singular man defeating a dragon seemed incredible, but when she glanced up at the Jarl's throne, something in the shadows corroborated the steward's words; a dragon's skull, suspended above the throne, tangible proof of the legend.
As the sun began to set, Brynhildr descended to the Plains District, where the Bannered Mare stood as Whiterun's finest inn. Hulda, the innkeeper, greeted her warmly and guided her to a rustic, yet cozy room. Finally, after days of exhausting travel, Brynhildr allowed herself to rest.
And after a refreshing bath, she collapsed in bed, wrapping herself in the blankets with a sigh of relief. And that night, the weight of recent events was lifted as tranquility finally claimed her.