(The Sellsword Arc)
Chapter 6: Forging a New Path
Daemon saw nothing but suffering. The sight of Cerys screaming in despair, charred bodies as far as the eyes could behold, and the headsman's crudely sharp ax coming at him. Then Daemon awoke to the sound of Carlotta Valentia's steady breathing, finding her resting on his chest as she slumbered, feeling her breasts pressing against his side and chest. He typically rested in the Bannered Mare in, which he was a common patron of for drinks as well as lodging, but as a result of the pleasure of helping Valentia resolve the issue of a tediously underachieving bard by the name of Mikael, who (when he wasn't causing Daemon to feel bad for Sven) had been practically begging for a dagger to the throat and had been pursuing the widowed mother too aggressively, even claiming he would conquer Carlotta as any true Nord would a harsh beast, he was not allowed back in for a few days on Hulda's order. Or so that was the claim. So, rather than having him rest outside the city walls, Carlotta had permitted him to stay in her home as compensation until he could return—alleviating his piteous situation. As long as he was sober while he was doing so, forbidding him from paying a visit to the Drunken Huntsman.
Daemon was not exactly reluctant to do so, not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He could see why so many had attempted to court her, as she was a beautiful woman, and was in need of a place to rest his head. Albeit with some lamentation that he wasn't able to drink some mead with the Redguard beggar Brenuin for some time.
It had been a simple arrangement, with the previous night being an oddity. As she was with all the other men in Whiterun, Carlotta had been quite upfront with Daemon about the matter of her marital and personal concerns: despite her looking as though he was pruning herself, she was not interested in taking lovers—believing (in a display of true devotion) no man could ever replace her late husband, regardless of the number of flowers or honeyed words one used, and thus her brutal rejections of the proposal by the various men to approach her romantically—and she was focused on raising her "little fairy" daughter. Which made her resting herself in his embrace all the more perplexing. Nothing had changed, having no intention of her and Daemon being anything beyond acquaintances; merely bringing him to her own chamber for a night of bestial passion. It may have simply been that she was still a woman with needs, and she wanted to silence those needs. Not that it bothered Daemon, he was more than willing to share a bed with her; looming over her with the bulge of her breasts pressing against his chest as he invaded her body with his fleshy sword, bringing a smile to her face as they copulated with the pair becoming lost in the intensity of their union (just narrowly managing to control themselves as to not disturb Mila's sleep) as she was repeatedly ravaged by Daemon with on thrust after another; the result leaving Carlotta scarcely willing to move lest her soreness rear its head.
Her legs spent most of the night clinging to him so tightly that he would be surprised if she had the energy or strength to stand for most the day.
She would certainly be struggling to conceal the occurrence from her friends Olfina Grey-Mane and Ysolda when she assumed her place at the stall in Whiterun's market and solicitude would hang over her head. If her gait was different after this night she shared with Daemon enough to be noticeable.
That was what Daemon remembered before he was visited by that vile dream and awoke from the shards of tattered nightmares. Leaving him baffled. Since arriving in Whiterun his nights had a norm of serenity. But not that time. That time it had been disturbingly enraging.
Glancing away from the slumbering beauty resting on him he saw Stormbringer reposed against a dresser beside the bed he and Carlotta were lying in and thought is that why? Remembering how the Melnibonean journal had mentioned the black sword had the ability to infest a person's dreams as it had done so to Elric once after he spent a night with Shaarilla. Daemon did however question if the case of himself and Elric were the same. As apparently Shaarilla had mentioned the Albino talking in his sleep whereas Carlotta was not telling him the same.
So there was no concrete confirmation it was truly Stormbringer's doing. However, it was something to consider.
Pulling himself up from the bed, he left his one-time lover continuing to slumber a bit longer, he retrieved his clothes.
With the destruction of Whiterun's western watchtower and slaying of the dragon who carried out the aforementioned destruction,
The Renegade of Cyrodiil had not forgotten about that excuse of the summons sent through the skies by those Greybeards. It and the dragon being the only axiom he had to call upon as proof he was not caught in a mistake. He would likely need to go eventually. But for the moment he would focus on building himself a life in the providence. The masters of the Voice could wait in the meantime, as he was not so eager to be a supplicant to someone who he neither knew personally or was required to (even with a sense of urgency) as he had been in youth with Vlamo Donius. When he did travel to the Throat of the World, it was because he chose to.
There was the option to travel to Windhelm and begin his pursuit of revenge in earnest However, Ralof had informed Daemon that it would perhaps some time before Ulfric would resume the campaign against Tullius and the Legion so there was no urgency. For a fleeting time.
Therefore, the first step of the Imperial's plan was to acquire himself a home. Thankfully, there was a piece of property available in the city that apparently would be ideal for him, referred to as 'the Breezehome.' Daemon was able to get a gander of it when he was passing through the streets when he first arrived in the city and had to agree with the jarl's duff kissing (or was it boot licking?) steward.
It would be a suitable starting point. He just lacked the wherewithal.
He had been taking to the trade of an adventurer since then. Performing various tasks as effectually as he could manage for the Jarl who he was now reluctantly the Thane to, with aid of his new Housecarl Lydia, for modestly meager rewards as compensation (all of which bordered on being pittances). And as such it wasn't enough for Daemon; at this pace it was still a few months (perhaps even a year or more) off from him having enough to purchase the home.
This was not aided by him needing to compete with adventure parties such as Counter Arrow for quests who had beaten him to the punch on occasions.
Admittedly the Jarl was proving him enough to makedo but his job offers were few and far between, and when he did get poultry rewards for work the majority of pay was going to feeding himself. Thankfully the local Battle-Born, Chillfurrow, and Palagia farms were helping to compensate for that fact with menial labor salary compensation, working alongside Gloth, Nimriel, and the like with working the fields with hoes.
There was also an incident where he was rewarded by a strange jester who's wagon had broken down for convincing Vantus Loreius to help repair the cart so that he could resume his travel. It was a queer incident. The man had a large crate in the wagon, so large that it exceeded even the possibility of a coffin being inside—this was actually a cause for concern with Vantus who suspected the man was smuggling weapons for the Stormcloaks—and jester himself was just as creepy with the eccentric way in which he carried himself. It was so strange Daemon was worried he was dealing with someone touched by Sheogorath, or perhaps even was the Mad Star himself. Thankfully Vantus was reasonable, all Daemon needed to do was appeal to his sense of decency; and with that the jester resumed his travels once he compensated both Daemon and Vantus with some coins.
Daemon's recent friend from the Battle-Born family, Jon, had been encouraging him to be patient, insisting that more work would be coming, but the Imperial found it so prosaic. It was preferable to the woman always at Jon's side when she was not preoccupied with her own business in the city. Olfina Gray-Mane. Who was always insisting he merely pick something. She could be severely infuriating. It was hard for him to comprehend how Jon could stomach being in frequent conversation with the Gray-Mane—little alone how most of the men in Whiterun could look at her as if she was some lithe and vivacious beauty they would eagerly stab each other for the chance to take her to bed or court her (and failure brutally. As she treated each to be the most ungainly of the races). None of them would have a chance at winning her heart. She barked them off as soon as they approached her, with Jon being hitherto her only real male friend. At least in appearance. It was obvious to see more was going on between them beyond pleasant conversation, but that was not his pressing concern.
In all honesty, Daemon could not see the enticement. Or at least he believed he did not.
Once he was fully dressed he stepped lightly out of the room. Leaving the widow still reposed. Shutting the door slowly, so as to not awaken her or her mousy daughter and making for the entrance of the abode. Stepping out into the streets to the sounds of the awoken citizens carrying on with their day.
Whiterun's nerve center was—if anything—at the very least an active one. Not as bustling with life as Kvatch's streets but adequate enough for a city of its caliber. With the citizenry beginning to emerge from their humble abodes.
Gossip was as always fluttering both in and outside the taverns. The Legionnaire hero, Artorius, came up a few times—allegedly the bearer of Libertas was being dispatched with a contingent sent to Skyrim bolster Tulius' numbers; though the number of these forces he was sent with was apparently not much. A testament to the incompetency of the leadership back home as they seemed to be underestimating the capabilities of the Rebel forces. There was news that the Iron-Hand was aligning himself with the Stormcloaks, Thorald Gray-Mane was still missing, and the Ebony Warrior was reported to have slain five covens of witches in the fens and moors of the Hjaalmarch.
These were among the various stories and accounts circulating from the lips of gossipers. None seemed to surprise or remotely concern by the stories spreading—giving Daemon the impression that this was nothing in the humdrum of their day-to-day lives—and in fact seemed more so talking about them as little more than a distraction from that aforementioned humdrum which by chance could occasionally numb their minds and dull their senses.
Stepping through the streets, Daemon himself was still not too acclimated to the reality of his situation. Still.
It was a tad hard to believe he was in Skyrim still. Even after the days passed he was struggling. He should have been back in Kvatch by then. But he wasn't. He imagined Triss was preoccupied with a rosebrush. Aurilius and Percelus were probably busy in the City Watch. Ardyn was to have been long returned from the Summerset Isles. And Cerys was probably contending with nuisances of her own. Then—at that thought—he remembered that nightmare a second ahead of a chill running up his spine.
Her face, that face probability was to ensure he would not see in this world again–or at the very least not be able to see it again under pleasant circumstances; he could be certain of that, or in his own mind he was certain to an extreme and pessimistic degree.
But did as best he could to shrug off those dreams.
He listened to more of the day's word. None more important sounding than the other, none really garnering more of his attention to even glance at the word bearer. It was all so mundane for him. Unless he heard the Stormcloak campaign had begun without him, Daemon was at the apex of apathy.
It's all just noise, Daemon reminded himself. Noise for the sake of noise.
He and his stern disciplinary sirer may have deviated in many respects in terms of beliefs and creeds but that mindset was to not be one of them. When presented with information it was only the useful bits worth pursuing.
He continued on when he heard a Bretonish voice "Good day, friend." stopped his track making. Glancing over to see a familiar face chewing on an apple.
It was Bronn Gaffgarrion with his wolfish smile, resting his left hand on the pommel of the arming sword sheathed on that same side of his waist whilst the other held a apple.
"Bronn." Daemon answered with a hint of emotion.
He was perhaps one of the more interesting people in the city.
Bronn was a mystery to even the company his trade work regularly put him in contact with. When they first met, he introduced himself to Daemon with "Bronn, son of…well, you wouldn't know him." He was a tall Breton man (at least, by not Breton standards), thin and as hard-looking as a bone. With black hair which falls back over his black eyes, as well as a stubble beard. Dressed in black oiled ringmail over boiled leather.
One of Daemon's fellow knaves.
Alleged to have slain a knight of the Knights of the Rose in Wayrest (some variants of that same rumor even claim it was a female knight by the name Ser Brienne), with other claims being that he was to have traveled through the provinces of Tamriel in the pursuit of coin. Slaying anything to come between himself and the gains of said coin.
Overall a…dubius figure to contend with. A good ally to have in a fight for as long as he was not to be bought by coin from a client opposed to your own task or wishes. Good for a battle brother but beyond his skill in a fight, Daemon was certain he would never trust him beyond that.
"You look like you lost somethin'." Bronn said curtly. "The widow kick you out?"
"No, you ass." Daemon groaned, continuing to sigh as he sought out a spot for him to seat himself and ponder the course for that day. Watching the passersby as Bronn joined him in his seating.
They were not close. Not even remotely. It would be a more accurate assessment to say the sellsword saw amusement little more than amusement in the spellsword, if anything at all. Daemon was certain of that, in a speculative sense.
"Hear anything, aside from the usual chatter?" Daemon blurted out suddenly.
"A few vagrants swear that Valentia has apparently taken a lover." Bronn said cheekishly. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that by chance? They swore to the Aedra and beyond that they could hear her moaning for the duration of the night."
Daemon first detracted away from the subject initially. "Are you that bored that you're gossiping with beggars?" with temporary success.
"Somewhat." Bronn told him. "My question remains the same."
Daemon sighed. "No idea what they're yapping about."
It would have been a pain if he told the truth. Never mind Bronn knowing, he'd hate for the aspiring suitors for Valentia spurned to have ammo to use against her out of spite. Possibly even causing her to be mad at him for causing the problem to find its way back to the widow—the problem amplified to an insult to injury if her little fairy was to deal with antagonism from the other children—and make the spellsword amply regret opening his mouth.
As the pair settled against the wall of the building, with Daemon sitting on his posterior and Bronn leaning back while still on his feet, the orphan girl Lucia wandered upon them.
"Lucia." Daemon greeted her.
Lucia nodded as she passed by. "Good day, mister."
Her face was still as sad as the day they first met. No amount of time could change that, or so Daemon's reasoning so far was going. She was thrown out of her own home by her own uncle and aunt—who, if given the opportunity, Daemon might have been tempted to drive Stormbringer through—and had no one. The local vagrant Brenuin seemed to be helping her to a degree, but this sort of life foisted upon her was not a pleasant way to live; especially for a child.
Just like that friend from childhood…
Daemon wondered as she ambled crestfallen down the street if Lucia would meet a similar fate one day. Wondered if she would die forgotten by everyone besides himself. Watching the abandoned child gait vanish.
"Somethin' wrong, Actorious?"
"No." Daemon sighed. "Nothing in the slightest."
It was pointless to care. Daemon had been abandoned; none were coming to save him after being left to twist in the wind, so why should he be concerned? It would have been more conducive to happiness to brood over the multiude of blights beyond his control.
"I will not hear this!" a sudden disturbance snapped Daemon to his feet.
What in Oblvion?
He recognized the voice. It was one of his drinking buddies, a former Redguard soldier named Amren. Concern as much as curiosity bade him to see what the commotion was all about.
Finding the slenderish but brawny Redguard man standing next to a woman—another, more lovely member of his race—in a green dress over a white one. It was indeed Amren and his charming wife Saffir. It was strange to see them fighting. They and their daughter, Braith, seemed to be the most well off members of the city's people.
Much alike with Daemon, they were not particularly aligned with the two political factions raging in Skyrim. Their concerns without exception was a preoccupation with getting by in their day-to-day existence. Little else was of the ability to disquiet them.
"I know your family's honor is important to you, but we cannot afford it."
"It took me weeks to find those thieves' den. I can't stop now, and I can't get the sword back on my own."
"So you're willing to starve your wife and daughter to claim some rusty old sword?"
They're squabbling because of a blade?
Amren sighed, attempting to calm himself. Pinching the bridge of his nose. "I just need to hire one, maybe two good men. You won't starve." Trying to bring his wife to his own side with words.
It failed miserably.
"I'll put it plainly. You can claim your sword, or you can keep your wife. If you set foot outside the gate, I won't be here when you return." she told him before walking away, presumably bound for their house.
Amren held out a hand, regrettably. "Saffir wait…I…"
Poor bastard was about all Daemon could think at the conclusion of the scene he had witnessed. Saffir could be a good wife, Daemon was even willing to bet she was even better in bed when she vented her frustration out with no restraint—and vice-verse for the partner—, but she also knew how to reign her husband in with the right choice of words.
Daemon would feel sorrier for him if he did not receive the impression the cause of the argument was beyond asinine.
"Wonder what that's about?" Bronn muttered before biting down on his apple. Sounding more was though he was pondering aloud.
The disheartened husband walked by with the duo with a "Daemon, Bronn." addressment and little else. He really was melancholic. It was a queer sight to behold, as the Redguard was always the more hearty sort.
"Faring well, Amren?"
"Not really." Amren sighed.
Reluctantly, feeling his involvement would be an annoyance if coin was not involved, Daemon chased after his drinking buddy. It would have been far more tranquil to let this play out—perhaps use this to develop a wedge between Amren and Saffir to exploit for his own carnal wishes—, however his own curiosity beckoned him.
"Come now. You know me, Amren…within reason. What's the source for the malaise between you and Saffit? You two are not exactly prone to squabbling to this degree."
"My home was robbed."
"What?"
"Praise to the divines my family was not home at the time; and nothing too important was absconded with beyond an old blade."
"So why the bitter words with Saffir?"
"It was my father's sword." Amren elucidated.
Oh.
His chiseled countenance did not reveal it, but Daemon did recognize the significance severely. Amren's father was a hard worker just as his son would be after him, the son whom he would share a multitude of drinks with.
Amren's father was a decent fellow—or so his son insisted him to be—who worked himself to the bone to support his family. A contrary to Kaeso Actorius. One whom was doing so until his death. Leaving his son that plain sword as memento to carry as much in memory of his sirer as he had in childhood recollections.
That knowledge helped a picture to form.
This was a matter of sentimentality.
It seemed a solution to his own problems had presented itself to Daemon and he would seize it.
"How much did you intend to offer?" Daemon inquired.
"More than any around here would ever see within a month."
Has the Mad One visited you?
Thus, Saffir's indignation reached more clarity in the exile's mind. It was a decision which possessed no sense to her, and it would impact them financially. Granted, her choice of words earlier already had given him that idea—but now her point had some emphasis. Such a relinquishing of wealth would certainly put Amren and his house in dire straits.
A deal with a Daedric Prince would have been wiser.
"Promise me half and I shall resolve this for you."
"Come again?" Amren stopped in his tracks.
"I'm interested in purchasing some property in the city. I need to begin somewhere." Daemon explained. "Unless you desire for your marriage to fall apart than the unity of this province had already."
Amren's face paled at the thought of losing his precious Saffir and sweet Braith.
"That is a very low blow to strike with, Imperial." the Redguard muttered. "And they say the Thieves Guild are underhanded."
The exiled noble smirked at that.
Daemon could accept that as a compliment. In his time in the City Watch for Kvatch he had partaken in enough dealings with the Guild to appreciate their talent and the methods of their trade—having come to rely on their in his own right to resolve matters with high borns who's slaying would have been more trouble than the others he slew.
"So, do we have a deal?" he remined on point. "It sounds like you have the leg work done for me, so I just need to pay them a visit and do what I can best."
"Very well." Amren sighed. "The White River Watch is where you shall find them."
With a smile, Daemon parted company with the Redguard and made his way to the city's gate.
The White River Watch was not too long of a venture away. East of the city. Separated from the capital of the hold by the nearby river, which it was bequeathed its name to associate the two, and a bridge.
He moved with haste.
Passing a cadre of purple and blue mountain flowers.
Coming upon two bandits huddled near a campfire. One was bulky with his muscular arms exposed and a steel sword sheathed on his side. The second was a svelte-like man dressed in cheap garb with a hood over his head and a nordic dagger on the back of his trousers.
"Hello, brigands." Daemon smiled. "Is your boss home?"
The question was a jest. Whether they became irritated was irrelevant.
Heads snapped in his direction. Murderous intent in their eyes.
The outlaws rose to their feet, one of them tossing aside the cooked salmon on the wooden poker stick.
"Drop your goods." the small one in a hood said, drawing his dagger. "Perhaps we'll let you live a second more."
"I doubt that." Daemon replied, resting a hand on Stormbringer's handle. "Kill or be killed, curs. Do or die."
The rogue rushed him, reaching closer with a swift movement. Not able to draw his runesword with enough haste, Daemon lunged his foot forward to knock the dagger's bearer back a step. Feeling a stream of calm energy course through his being as he at last drew the black sword as the more brutish one charged forward with his steel sword with a succession of slashes and hews.
Daemon dodged and evaded, feeling exhilarated. Slashing into the bandit's chest before running for the rogue who was returning for another try at killing the spellsword. As was the case with his foe's companion, Daemon was evasive—staying a second ahead of each slash intended (and failing) to hit his throat or pierce his flesh and damage one of his vital organs, show more knowledge of what the Imperial would expect from the typical cutthroat—and would put him down with a slash through the throat to send the head flying.
Hearing the head thud on the ground, Daemon continued on for the entrance of the cave. The hideout was almost without except a cave.
The bodies left to rot beneath the sun and become a feast for the beasts and bottom feeders of the region. Daemon cared not, all were to meet the same fate eventually. It did not matter if one was noble or peasant, warrior of farmer, man or woman—all are equal in death.
The inside of the cave past the entrance was lackluster as they all were. Less so than one he had found near Riverwood. With the deviation of a man waiting near the entrance on this occasion. He was sitting at a table reading a book.
"Eh? Who's there?" The man's head turned toward the direction of the entrance and Daemon found, to his surprise, the man was blind. With the cataracts abundantly visible within the shit of his eyes while lacking any other color or circle which could be considered normal. "Rodulf, that you?"
Initially, Daemon did not speak. His grip on Stormbinger weakened in the slightest.
A cackle emitted from the ebony blade—mocking him for his reluctance to act. It could feel his own reservations about what even the Cyrodiilite knew he must do. But that did not render the thought any more unpleasant.
"Rodulf, speak up." the man said.
Daemon's mind shifted back to the blind man. "I'm new." Stepping over to the blind man. "Rodulf will be joining soon."
"Where'd they find you?"
"Riverwood." Daemon told him, stepping closer.
A sense of disgust pervaded Daemon's being.
He forced himself to warp reality within his mind.
The man was blind, he was a burden to his compatriots and once he cleaned the cave of its bandits he would not have a pleasant life to look forward to—starving was a likely outcome, Daemon would even dare to say it was to be expected. Death would be a release…or so the imperial would prefer to convince himself.
Stepping closer as the man spoke on.
Raising Stormbringer, Daemon brought the runesword down on the blind bandit's bald dome atop his skull. Burying itself deep.
The man's words halted in his throat. Stuttering as the realization began to dawn on him, with blood trickling down from the wound. More so gushing out in a flood once Daemon managed to pry the crimson runed bespeckled blade.
Watching the body fall to its side off the chair and onto the ground, convulsing.
His eyes wandered away from the convulsions, finding their way to the tome the corpse had been reading. Its bindings remained parted, revealing blank pages. The pages to follow and proceeding the ones he originally came upon were no different—all blank as his mother's ambition.
Is the land infected with Seogorath? This providence is maddening.
Then continued on.
"Ulfr!" a voice down the ways echoed. "Is Rodulf back yet?"
Daemon did not answer for the blind man, merely maintaining his casual pace.
When the word-bearer came into his sight he put more push into his step. Even as the man yelled "Intruder!" Daemon remained calm.
There was, after all, no reason to be concerned. They were nothing more than mere bandits. So, the anomalous guest would seek out his gracious hosts, putting them to the sword.
Liberating one's head from her shoulders and shocking one with sparks.
As he pried Stormbringer from his latest kill another of the bandits rushed at him with a dagger. Daemon decided to try that dragon voice. "Fus-Ro-Dah!" he shouted. Only for nothing to result from his attempt and the small blade's point coming more near him.
The bandit gazed at the imperial as if he was an eccentric fool.
Damn!
Eager to avoid a stabbing, the adventurer swerved himself around to avoid being stabbed then set the bandit alight, watching him burn up. "What in Oblivions? It worked before." Daemon muttered to himself, touching his throat as the burning man collapsed onto the cavernous ground; the last of his screams dying down.
Another cadre emerged to avenge their fallen comrade. Their bloodletting was just as swiftly to follow as a boulderous man with a ridge for a forehead was turning the rocky and cavernous corner with jagged mace in hand.
Each step the ogre of a man was hard to not hear as Daemon was again pulling his sword out of the last bandit which he had brought down. Growing nearer, towering over the spellsword with the mace raised.
Daemon did not tremble and wait to be bludgeoned by the metallic instrument of slaying, he instinctively moved. Dodging to his side as the weapon came down at him, crashing against the rock stone as it failed to make contact with the spellsword.
Resting on his knees, the focus of Daemon's eyes switched from the weapon to its bearer to have the bald man snarl at him—acting more akin to a beast of the wilds than any Nord.
"You are dead, milk drinker!"
Daemon smirked, bringing his blade up with a slash—tearing into the man's left eye.
The bald man staggered back, flailing his mace around, swearing to Aedra and Daedra alike and Talos as he pressed on his ruined eye with the free hand. Cursing the pain he was experiencing as he was his opponent.
Pressing deep on the wound as his one good eye met the double gaze of Daemon's.
With another snarl, the feral man charged at the Imperial.
The bandit's lack of depth perception made the fight all the easier for Daemon. Able to manipulate his foeman into crashing into the walls of the cave and plunge the blade into man's skull.
The behemoth's bewildered expression was salivating but brief as it ended up crashing onto the ground with a thud—just as the spasming body would shortly after.
With the last of his opponents dispatched, Daemon proceeded onward through the cave.
Who's next?
Slaying any other bandits which he came across. Showing no mercy to the piecemeals of opposition. Giving no quarter and accepting none. With each step forward he was calm and still feeling the surge of exaltedness from the rushing adrenaline which had begun when he began battling the bandits to cross his path after the blind bandit.
Sifting through the various rooms, plundering each chest for the dead patriarch's sword. Only septims and some valuables such as armlets as well as scarce pieces of jewelry—which he put away in his leather waist flap bag.
Until he emerged to fresh air from a different doorway to the outside and stepped onto a summit with a high vantage point with a glimpse of Whiterun in the distance. Coming upon a bandit bearing a horned-helmet, iron sword sheathed on the left side of his waist, and a steel shield on his left arm.
"So the Jarl at last dispatched a worthy foe." the bandit said, rising from his seated position.
Daemon smirked, amused by the man's presumption. "I don't know who you are, but by Zenithar, you and your friends were fools to steal from a citizen with good pockets—let alone get in my way."
His new foeman appeared briefly offended by the spellsword's ignorance to the identity of the cadre he just slew's leader.
"I am Hajvarr." The Bandit introduced himself with a head gesture, condescending bow (a perversion of the one Daemon had given Gerdur back in Riverwood), and such arrogance it reminded Daemon of that braggart Mikael. "Hajvarr Iron-Hand." Resting a hand on the hilt of the iron blade before drawing it. "So you came not on behalf of a Jarl but one of our marks?"
Once the sword was drawn, Daemon's eyes widened in recognition. The blade of Amren's sirer.
Leveling the point of Stormbringer toward Hajvarr, Daemon hissed "Give me that sword and you may live."
The Nord outlaw held up the blade, asking "This? You came all this way for a mere sword?" Smirking at the realization. "I would relish to see you try and claim it, Imperial."
"With pleasure."
Daemon charged with Stormbringer for Hajvarr. Pulling the black sword back before swinging at the brigand leader, colliding against the steel shield. The nord pushed him back a step and followed up with his own attack.
Dodging back, the slash was narrowly avoided.
Raising a hand, Daemon cast flames out and Hajvarr raised his shield. Using the spell as intensely as he was able within the confines of his magicka, distracting the bandit leader with the magical offensive long enough for him to secure himself closer proximity to the foeman.
Seizing hold of the shield's top.
Tearing his enemy's defense from his grip with one strong pull, Daemon slashed at him. Hajvarr block.
Hajvarr retaliated with his own attack after pushing back against Stormbringer with great force. Daemon parried. Breaking away as their blades clashed to tear into the nord's side.
Angering the bandit. "Bastard!"
It was a step in the right direction to anger him. Hajvarr may have been a bandit, but he was no novice with a blade. If Daemon was to guess the man must have been plying the trade of a highwayman for a good decade (or so he was taking an educated assessment) at most and in that time he had needed to better his skill in that period. He was no mere bandit, he was skilled and therefore not to be taken lightly.
Slice by slice, Daemon tore into his enemy.
Block, attack, parry, and slash.
Despite his wounds, Hajvarr was able to give a good offense and defense until he blundered. Lunging the sword forward in an attempted impaling attack which Daemon managed to dodge and then slashed the black sword through the wrist bearing Amren's stolen sword.
A swift and efficient slice through the neck followed.
If his impending demise inspired fear, Hajvarr expressed little beyond the registering of pain and discomfort.
Turning his gaze from the body to the severed hand he retrieved the old sword resting at its side—-smiling satisfied with the accomplishment, glimpsing briefly to Hajvarr briefly in a solemn nod before stepping away from ledge's direction—and departing back through the caverns.
He had retrieved the sword and more than a few valuables. A sapphire and ruby among the loot he came across as well as jewelry. The septims he would be rewarded with as well as those bequeathed to him from the terrible pun-ladened Belethor who was always eager to garner coins—as well as items which he could barter for even more septims.
There was also a journal on the bandit leader, whom Daemon learned bore the name Hajvarr. It was brief, but it left Actorius with a brief taste of bitneress as it mentioned the blind man was this iron-hand's uncle whom he was attempting to shield from the mockery of his own people.
Daemon hid this fact away in his memories of that day, locking it away.
This way of life seemed profitable. More than the work the Jarl was bringing him occasionally. I can work with this. Daemon smiled at the thought.
First to Amren, then to the Bannered Mare.