Episode 2: Paths Uncertain
The dragon's shadow stretched across the treetops, growing smaller as it soared northward, a dark silhouette against the afternoon sky. The roar of its wings faded, leaving only the rustle of leaves in the crisp mountain air.
Huddled behind a cluster of boulders, the group held their breath, watching until the beast disappeared beyond the horizon. For a long moment, no one moved, the silence heavy with the weight of what they had witnessed.
"Gone," Grenhild muttered, her voice low but sharp. She glanced skyward one last time, gripping the haft of her battered axe. "For now."
Finn rose first, his crimson eyes sweeping the forest. He gestured to the path ahead, barely visible through the dense undergrowth. "We move. Staying here makes us sitting ducks."
The others nodded, their expressions wary but resolute. They emerged from their hiding spot, the forest closing around them like a living wall. The air smelled of pine and damp earth, the remnants of the dragon's fiery assault lingering faintly in the distance.
As they walked, the conversation began in hushed tones.
"We can't go on like this," Adissa said, clutching her mace and her tattered tome as though it were a lifeline. "No money, no supplies, barely any weapons worth their weight. How long do you think we'll last?"
Stromo smirked, his wild hair framing his sly grin. "Speak for yourself, princess. I've survived on less."
Adissa glared at him, but Grenhild cut in before the bickering could escalate. "He's not wrong, though," she said, her voice tinged with frustration. "We're not equipped to handle another day of this, let alone whatever else is out there."
Finn, walking a few paces ahead, spoke without looking back. "Then we stick together. At least for now. Safety in numbers."
Grenhild snorted. "Safety? That dragon alone—"
"It's deadlier out there alone," Finn interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The group fell into an uneasy silence, the forest path narrowing as it wound downhill. Haming walked at the rear, his gaze fixed on the dirt trail, his hands still clutching the dagger Finn had given him.
It wasn't long before the conversation turned to him.
"What about the boy?" Grenhild asked, her tone blunt as ever. "We can't exactly drag him around forever."
"He's right here, you know," Stromo said, glancing back with a smirk.
Grenhild ignored him. "Do you have family elsewhere?" she asked, fixing Haming with a hard stare.
Haming hesitated, his chest tightening. His mind flickered to memories of his grandfather—an aging man who lived alone in the cold reaches of Skyrim, far to the west of Helgen. But the thought felt distant, unattainable, like a dream he couldn't reach.
"No," he finally said, his voice barely audible.
Grenhild frowned, crossing her arms. "Figures. So what? We just keep him?"
"Would you rather leave him to die?" Finn shot back, his voice cold.
"I didn't say that," Grenhild growled. "But this isn't a charity. We need to think realistically."
Adissa stepped between them, raising her hands in a placating gesture. "Enough. We'll find a village first. Somewhere safe. Then we can decide what to do next."
"That's assuming we don't starve before we find one," Stromo muttered, but he kept walking.
Haming stayed quiet, his stomach churning. They spoke as if he weren't there, as if his fate was just another obstacle to overcome. He tightened his grip on the dagger, the weight of their words pressing down on him.
Further along, the group moved northward, the trail narrowing as they traveled through the misty expanse. The trees loomed like silent sentinels, their branches heavy with dew, and the muffled crunch of their boots against the pine needles was the only sound to break the silence. Despite the relative calm, the tension hung thick in the air. They were far from safety, and each of them knew it.
The silence broke as the red-haired woman spoke, her gruff voice carrying a rare, softer edge. "You ever been to the northern parts of Skyrim, boy?" she asked, casting a sidelong glance at Haming. Her fiery hair, a vivid streak against the dull mist, stirred faintly in the breeze as they walked.
Haming, walking a few paces behind her, glanced up, his thoughts still clouded by the memory of the ruined town he'd once called home. He didn't answer at first, unsure of how to respond.
"I... I don't know," he muttered. "I never really left Helgen much."
Grenhild nodded, her gaze distant as she recalled something from long ago. "I've been around Skyrim a few times. My clan's from the north, but I remember passing through Helgen when I was young. Small place back then, much quieter than now, or it was." She shook her head, as though the memories were an irritation rather than nostalgia. "I've seen it change, seen a lot of things burn to the ground, but I didn't think it'd be like this. Not like you're seeing it, boy."
Haming kept his eyes on the ground, his pace steady but unsteady in his heart. The loss of his home, his parents, the fire—it all felt like a dream, and he wasn't sure he could wake up from it.
"I guess you've seen a lot of... bad things," Haming said softly, unsure how to steer the conversation.
Grenhild gave a short, sharp laugh. "Aye. More than most. But you learn to live with it, or you don't live at all." She glanced back at him, her eyes hard. "Don't get too lost in the past, boy. Keeps you from seeing the road ahead."
The group continued their slow trek, each footstep heavy in its own way. After a long silence, Adissa's quiet voice broke through the thick atmosphere.
"I'm from High Rock," she offered, though her voice trembled slightly as if unsure of how much of herself to reveal. "Not far from Daggerfall, a small town. I always dreamed of studying magic... until, well, the schools there didn't exactly have a place for me." She cleared her throat, looking anywhere but at the others. "So, I started traveling. I thought I'd find something to... to prove I wasn't a failure."
Stromo, who had been brooding ahead, shrugged nonchalantly. "I'm from Cyrodiil," he muttered, but then quickly added, "Not that it matters. No one cares about some runaway pickpocket from the capital." He turned his head just slightly, his voice bitter. "I came north to escape a few problems. They were getting too close."
Finn, walking ahead of the group, said nothing for a long while. It wasn't until the others looked to him that he spoke, his voice quiet but firm. "I'm a ranger," he said simply, his words not offering much beyond that. "Born and raised in the wilds, the forests and the hills. That's where I belong. This..." He gestured vaguely to the mist around them. "This is where I'm at ease. I've never been much for cities or towns."
The others waited for more, but Finn didn't elaborate. It wasn't that he didn't want to share; it was simply that the life of a ranger had no grand tale. The wilderness was his teacher, and his heart had never known a place beyond the trees.
Haming watched them all, their stories so different, so far removed from the small, familiar world he'd once known. Yet, despite their differences, the fact that they were all bound by this terrible, shared experience seemed to form a bond between them—however awkwardly it took shape.
"Thank you," Haming whispered, his voice barely audible, but the gratitude was clear in his eyes. "For... for helping me."
The group glanced at him, momentarily unsure how to respond. It wasn't that they didn't care, but the awkwardness of the moment made it hard to know what to say. Finally, it was Finn who nodded, his crimson eyes softening just a fraction.
"Keep your wits about you," he said, his voice low but steady. "We've all got our scars, but that doesn't mean we're done yet."
They continued on through the mist, their steps hesitant but steady, the quiet strength of their temporary alliance the only thing holding them together in a world that had, for the moment, stopped making sense. The trees grew thinner as they ventured deeper north, their path winding through the dense forest with the river now on their left, the constant rush of water providing a rhythmic backdrop to their weary trek. The silence among them was palpable, only broken by the occasional crack of a branch underfoot or the wind rustling through the pines.
After several hours, as the pale sun began its descent toward the horizon, the landscape shifted. The riverbank narrowed, and the path opened up, revealing a clearing. It was there that they first saw the ominous silhouette of a ruin in the distance—dark, brooding against the fading light of the day. A stone structure, half-hidden by the thick woods and the mist, stood like a forgotten sentinel.
Haming stopped mid-step, his breath caught in his throat. He had heard the stories since he was a child. Tales of ancient power, of monsters and treasure hidden in its tombs. His father had always warned him not to stray too close to it, and his mother would smile nervously, urging him to be brave, but never too brave.
"That's Bleak Falls Barrow," Haming murmured, barely more than a whisper, but the words carried like a weight in the cool air.
The others turned to him, their expressions shifting to one of curiosity.
Grenhild was the first to speak, her tone blunt as always. "Bleak Falls Barrow, huh? Just another ruin." She scanned the structure, her eyes narrowing slightly. "I've passed through here before. Folk tend to avoid it."
"Could be more to it than just a ruin," Stromo muttered, still eyeing the surroundings warily, as though the stones themselves might spring to life at any moment.
Haming glanced at the others, trying to recall everything he'd heard about it. "My papa used to tell me stories about it," he said quietly, barely above a murmur. "He said... said there were old men that lived there long ago. Warriors who fought in battle... but that was a long time ago. He warned me not to get too close, though. Thought it was cursed, or haunted..." His voice trailed off as his memories faltered.
Adissa, who had been walking beside him, cocked her head. "Sounds like a place full of secrets," she said softly. "Cursed or not, ruins always hold something... forgotten."
"Then let it remain forgotten," Grenhild grunted, her voice thick with the experience of someone who'd seen enough of the world to know danger when it stared her in the face.
"I think there's a village nearby," Haming spoke up again, his voice wavering slightly. "At least, that's what my papa said. A small village to the east. If we keep going, we might find it."
The group exchanged looks, their eyes narrowing with cautious curiosity.
"Well, I suppose we should head toward that village then," Finn said, his tone steady but laced with wariness. He stepped forward, scanning the surroundings with a practiced eye. "Keep moving, see what's ahead. But don't let your guard down."
The winding path stretched before them, the setting sun casting long shadows as the looming structure grew closer. As they neared a bend in the road, Finn raised a hand, signaling for the group to halt. His gaze was fixed on something ahead.
Haming's eyes widened as he saw it—a trio of tall, overgrown stones, standing like silent sentinels. Each stone was worn by time, their surfaces scarred and chipped. One bore the faint, almost indistinguishable image of a towering figure with raised arms, as if in the midst of battle. Another displayed the silhouette of a lithe form, its posture suggestive of stealth or speed, while the third depicted a more stoic figure, its features obscured by weathering but unmistakably regal, with a steady gaze fixed on the horizon. Moss and creeping vines nearly swallowed the carvings, but their presence remained undeniable.
"The Guardian Stones," Finn said quietly, almost reverently. "These stones have stood here for centuries. Ancient magic, or so the legends say."
The stones stood before him, each uniquely shaped with old symbols etched into their surfaces. A strange feeling washed over him, as if the very air around them held a quiet, powerful hum.
"These stones," Finn said, his voice calm and measured, "are said to grant blessings to those who claim them. The Warrior Stone, the Mage Stone, and the Thief Stone. Each represents a different path, a different strength. The blessing comes to those who choose with purpose." He gave a subtle glance at the others, then focused on Haming. "Go ahead. Pick one. You might find something you didn't know you needed." His tone was even, not pushing, but firm.
Haming's heart raced as he looked between the three stones. He felt the weight of their significance, as if standing at a crossroads. But which one would he choose?
Grenhild stepped forward first, her gaze fixed on the stones. She reached out and placed her hand firmly against the cold surface of the Warrior Stone, her expression hardening as if reaffirming an old truth within herself.
Stromo followed next, eyes scanning the stones with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. Without a word, he approached the Thief Stone, his fingers brushing the weathered surface as he took his own quiet moment of choice.
Adissa, standing apart from the others, looked between the stones, her brow furrowed in contemplation. She chose the Mage Stone, her hand lingering on its worn surface, her expression softening as if a silent understanding passed between them and the stone.
All eyes turned to Haming, who hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. The weight of the decision seemed almost unbearable, and for a moment, he could feel the gaze of every stone, every whisper of the past, pressing on him. His mind flashed back to his parents' words—their quiet warnings, their hope that he would grow strong enough to protect himself.
Finally, after a long, tense moment, Haming stepped forward. He reached out with trembling hands and touched the Warrior Stone.
The stone's surface felt cold and ancient under his fingertips. A strange warmth surged through him, a pulse of energy that spread from his hand to his chest. It was as if the stone itself had recognized him, marking him with something he couldn't name.
The group watched him, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and approval.
"You've made a good choice, boy," Grenhild said, her voice gruff but approving. "Strength is never a bad thing to have in this world."
Haming nodded slowly, feeling a new sense of resolve filling him. But even as he stood there, with the other stones still beckoning, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was stirring—something just beyond the horizon, waiting for them.
Finn remained silent, his gaze shifting from Haming to the stones, his expression unreadable. He hadn't moved to touch any of them. Instead, he watched, as if contemplating something far deeper than just a blessing from the stones.
But whatever it was, it was something he kept to himself—for now.
The air shifted in an instant, the quiet tension of their journey now giving way to an oppressive sense of danger. As the group made their way back to the main path, the sound of footsteps behind them grew louder. Haming's heart skipped a beat, and instinctively, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. They weren't alone.
Finn stopped in his tracks, his sharp gaze flicking to the shadows that lingered between the trees. The others followed suit, a mix of unease and curiosity in their expressions. Then, the figures emerged, stepping from the cover of the woods, their weapons glinting in the dimming light. Bandits—rough, scruffy, and all too eager for a fight.
"Looks like we've got some visitors," one of the bandits sneered, eyeing the group with a grin that promised nothing good. His voice was grating, filled with mockery. "Didn't think much of your lot when we spotted you on the road, but now I see—small-time gang, eh? Well, this must be our lucky day. First we loot Helgen in the chaos, and now we find ourselves some poor souls to sell into slavery."
The rest of the bandits chuckled, their eyes gleaming with cruel delight, but Finn didn't flinch. His face remained a mask of calm. He stepped forward, hands raised slightly in a gesture of peace, though his eyes never left the leader's.
"We don't want trouble," Finn said, his voice low but steady, cutting through the tension like a knife. "We're just passing through. You've got no need to cause more pain. There's been enough of that already."
The bandits exchanged uncertain glances, sizing him up, as if looking for some sign of weakness. But they were confident—too confident.
"Enough of that talk!" the bandit leader barked. "If you think you can stroll through our territory without paying the price, you're sorely mistaken."
Without warning, the situation snapped. As if on cue, a shout rang out, and a wounded and bound Stormcloak soldier—Ralof, by the looks of him—tumbled from the back of the bandit's wagon. The sudden noise broke whatever fragile peace remained, and Grenhild, her muscles taut with instinct, charged without hesitation.
"Move!" she shouted, her battleaxe already in hand, her fiery red hair whipping behind her like a banner. Her sudden momentum was enough to knock one of the bandits off balance, her battle cry reverberating through the trees.
Adissa and Stromo were quick to react, ushering Haming to the back with frantic urgency. "Stay behind us!" Adissa ordered, her face flushed with fear but her voice unyielding. Stromo's eyes scanned the group of bandits with a predator's gaze.
The battle erupted in a flurry of movement, the clash of steel on steel ringing out as the group of survivors found themselves forced into a corner by the sudden assault. Finn, his hand on the hilt of his rusted sword, shifted his stance. His eyes narrowed, calculating every move, but there was no time for words now—only action. He darted toward the leader of the bandits, aiming for a quick strike.
Haming, his heart racing, stood trembling behind Stromo and Adissa. His grip on the dagger was clumsy, the weapon too large for his hands, but his eyes were wide with the harsh reality of the world around him. This was no time for second-guessing.
The battle raged with violent fervor, a whirlwind of clashing steel and desperate cries. Grenhild tore through the bandits with a brutal elegance, her rusted battleaxe cleaving through armor and bone with each mighty swing. Finn moved like a shadow, swift and deadly, his focus unshaken as he danced between opponents, his rusted longsword cutting down anyone who dared approach. Stromo, surprisingly quick, darted from one bandit to the next, his dual shortswords flashing in the waning light. Adissa held her ground, her mace finding its mark, though her gaze remained haunted by the chaos unfolding around her.
Despite being outnumbered, the group held their own, the sheer desperation driving them. But through the storm of violence, Haming's focus shifted. He caught sight of Ralof, struggling to rise from where he had fallen, blood trickling down his face. His eyes locked onto the man, and for a brief moment, everything else faded. Haming's feet moved before his mind could even catch up.
Without thinking, he broke free from the safety of Adissa and Stromo's protection, sprinting toward Ralof's side. The battle raged around him, but he barely noticed, his gaze fixed on the soldier and the figure next to him—Hadvar, bound and bloody, his face pale from the pain. Without hesitation, Haming reached out and grabbed Ralof's hand, pulling with all the strength his young body could muster.
"Come on!" he shouted, though his voice barely carried over the noise of the fight.
Ralof grimaced, pushing himself up with Haming's help. The two of them struggled to get Hadvar to his feet, and though Haming's arms burned with the weight of the soldier, he didn't stop. They had to move—they had to survive.
A sharp cry rang through the air, and Haming's eyes snapped up just in time to see a bulky bandit barreling toward him, axe raised high. Haming froze, his breath catching in his throat. His dagger felt like a toy in his hand, far too small to stop a man that large.
But then, in an instant, a blur of motion cut through the chaos. Finn appeared, his longsword flashing, and with a swift, decisive blow, he knocked the bandit off course. "Hide!" Finn barked, his eyes flashing with the urgency of the moment.
With a nod, Haming swallowed the lump in his throat, and pushed forward, dragging Ralof and Hadvar toward the safety of the nearby trees. The three of them stumbled through the thick underbrush, but the momentary reprieve was fleeting. A bloodied bandit, struggling to stay on his feet, lurched from behind a rock, his sword raised for a final strike.
Haming's heart raced as the bandit's eyes locked onto him. He couldn't move fast enough. His hands trembled, and the dagger felt as though it weighed a hundred pounds. This was it. He was going to die here, just like his parents—just like all the others in Helgen.
But then, in the nick of time, a heavy rock came hurtling from the shadows, striking the bandit in the face with a sickening crack. The bandit reeled backward, stumbling and losing his balance. Haming's breath caught in his throat as Hadvar, his face pinched with pain, gripped the rock and swung it like a club.
"Now, Haming!" Hadvar shouted, his voice hoarse, but filled with urgency.
Haming didn't hesitate. The bandit was disoriented, his sword now a useless weight in his hand. With a final surge of strength, Haming charged forward, plunging the dagger into the bandit's side. The impact was less than he'd imagined, but the result was the same—the bandit crumpled to the ground, his eyes wide with shock and pain.
The battle around him slowed, the frantic clashing of steel turning into muffled noises as the bandits retreated into the forest. Haming stood over the fallen bandit, chest heaving, sweat mixing with the grime of the battlefield. His hands shook violently, his grip tightening around the hilt of the dagger. The world around him seemed to fade away, and all he could hear was the rushing of his pulse in his ears.
Without thinking, he drove the dagger down again, and again. Each thrust was jagged, frantic—a child's desperation to make the world stop spinning, to make the horror of the battle finally end.
It wasn't until Finn's hand gripped his shoulder firmly that Haming stopped, the dagger now stained in the bandit's blood. Finn's gaze softened slightly, his voice a low murmur.
"Easy, lad," he said. "It's over."
Haming looked down at the body, his hands trembling, the weight of the moment settling in like a heavy stone. He hadn't had time to think, to understand. He only knew what he had to do in that instant. And now, with the danger passing, the grim reality of it all was beginning to sink in.
The bandits were gone, but the group was left standing in the wake of the chaos, breathless and battered, their eyes haunted by the violence they'd survived. The coppery smell of blood lingered in the air like a sickly fog, mingling with the earthy scent of the forest. The wounded lay scattered across the ground, their still forms a grim reminder of how quickly life could be taken.
Ralof sat at the base of a nearby tree, clutching his side, his breath shallow and labored. His once pristine armor was now tarnished, stained with blood and dirt, the pain in his face more apparent than the warrior's pride that Haming had seen in him earlier. His eyes, however, were clear as he gazed at the group, a faint grimace tugging at his lips.
"We need to get to Riverwood," he muttered, his voice tight with agony. His hand pressed harder against his side, but the bleeding had slowed, if not completely stopped. "Both me... and Hadvar... get us there…"
Haming looked at him, feeling a strange mix of fear and responsibility twist in his gut. He had no answers, no solutions to the chaos they'd just endured. But there was no time to dwell on it. Ralof's words hung in the air like a command.
Finn, his expression stone-cold and unreadable, pulled Haming roughly to his feet. The boy's legs wobbled beneath him, still shaken by the violence and the weight of the battle he had just survived. "Stay focused," Finn's voice was low but firm, his crimson eyes briefly meeting the boy's before turning away to assess the situation. "We've got work to do."
With a sharp motion, Finn turned to the others. "Stromo, Adissa, gather what you can from the bodies. We don't have time to be picky. Take what we can use—arms, armor, anything that will help get us to safety." His eyes flicked toward Ralof and Hadvar. "We're not leaving these two out here to die."
The urgency in Finn's voice cut through the lingering fog of the battle like a dagger. Grenhild, her battleaxe still in hand, gave a curt nod before walking over to the fallen bandits, her movements swift and methodical. She began stripping the bodies of useful gear, muttering under her breath as she worked. Stromo, ever the opportunist, was already rifling through the wreckage, pulling out weapons and supplies with a practiced efficiency. Adissa stood slightly apart from the others, her gaze lingering on the bloodied scene, but her hands moved as quickly as the rest.
Haming's thoughts raced, and his breath came in ragged bursts as he looked down at the bloodstained dagger still clutched tightly in his hand. He hadn't been able to stop himself, and now the weight of the violence he'd taken part in pressed down on him like a stone. But there was no time to think about that either. Ralof and Hadvar needed help, and the others were already moving toward the task at hand.
Finn placed a firm hand on Haming's shoulder, bringing him back to the moment. "Ain't much use in daydreaming right now, lad." He gave him a hard look. "Let's move."
Haming swallowed hard and nodded. The world around him still felt blurry, but Finn's steady presence grounded him, pulling him from the haze of uncertainty.
They worked quickly, each taking what they needed—arms loaded with supplies, armor strapped on as best as they could manage. Grenhild moved efficiently, passing a battered set of leather armor to Stromo, then to Haming. The armor didn't fit the boy properly, but it was the best they could do for now.
Stromo took a moment to glance at Haming. "You did well back there, kid," he muttered, not meeting the boy's eyes. "You didn't freeze up."
Haming only nodded, unable to respond. The words were hollow in the face of the carnage, but the praise was something he held onto as they began to move. He'd done something. Maybe that was enough for now.
With Ralof and Hadvar supported between them, and the group's weapons in hand, they began the trek toward Riverwood. The path was rough, and the woods around them seemed to close in, as if the forest itself sought to swallow them whole. The weight of the recent battle still clung to them, the adrenaline of survival slowly wearing off, leaving exhaustion in its place. Every step felt heavier than the last, but they moved forward—together.
Finn kept a watchful eye ahead, leading the group with a quiet determination. He was no stranger to danger, but the shadows in his eyes betrayed something more than simple caution. They walked in silence for a long while, the only sounds being the rustling of leaves underfoot and the labored breaths of their wounded companions.
With Haming, every step felt like a journey farther from the boy he used to be—closer to something he couldn't yet understand. But that was the world now.