21-Arngrim: 13th Heartfire, 201 pt2

The gate opened into an old corridor. Antrim could hear the whispers and rustling of the other prisoners congregating in the chamber. Some were excited by the violence, but others sounded angry. Looking back he could see them edging forward.

He went through the gate and swung it shut. Looking through the bars he smiled, Borkur was stumbling to his feet. Arngrim placed his hand on the key and turned it. Everyone heard the click. He held up the key for everyone to see and threw it behind him. Borkur screamed obscenities as Arngrim walked into the darkness.

“Hello, I wasn’t expecting company.”

Arngrim stopped. The room was little more than a bulge in the corridor, but a man was seated on a crude bed on one side while an object resembling a table lay on the other side. A single candle provided light to show a scattering of papers.

“I would have tried to make things more presentable,” the man waved his hand in the air, gesturing to the crude furniture, “But there is not much to work with, as you see.”

Arngrim flinched as the man appeared in front of him. He considered the tattoos, pulling at the strands of his beard.

“Well well, look at you. They have turned you into a wild beast, and left you here to go mad. So my fellow beast, what do you want with me? Answers about the Forsworn, or a little revenge for some killing?

Arngrim endured the examination in silence. He heard a whisper in the silence, “Hjalti…”

“You have much to answer for, Madanach.” Arngrim growled.

“Do I?” He smiled, “and what about you? What gives you the right to involve yourself in my affairs, kill my people? Was it worth your efforts?”

An animal growl escaped Arngrim’s throat. He could hear the screams and clanging behind him.

“You are one of us now. A slave. The boot of the Nords stepping on your face.” He paused and offered his hand. “Maybe if you understood that, I could help you.”

“Help? Me? I don’t want your help!” His knuckles whitened. “I remember you from all those years ago. We crushed your uprising. We trapped you and your rebels in these caves. I was there. My blood-brothers lay down their lives to end you.”

Madanach half-smiled. “Ah, but the axe never fell. Your friend Thonar stopped it. He wanted a force at his beck and call.”

Arngrim’s eyes widened. Madanach bowed his head.

“And I have been. It was humiliating to send my followers to do his dirty work, but I could be patient. I could wait until Thonar trusted he had me under control”

His face grew fierce. He leaned towards Arngrim, quivering.

“This was our land! We were here first. Then you Nords came and put chains on us, burnt our temples and forbade us from worshipping the Old Gods! But some of us refused to bow. We knew the Old Gods would leads us back to our own kingdom.” Spittle fell from his lips. “This is who we are. The Forsworn. Criminals hunted in our own lands. But we will cut a bloody hole in the Reach until we are free!”

Arngrim felt the names etched in his skin, burning. He felt the presence of the ghost at his side and saw the dim outline of a blade held out to him. He reached out took the blade.

Madanach’s stopped his tirade, gasping at the ghostly sword that appeared in Arngrim’s hand, wreathed in pale fire. Before he could recover, Arngrim drove the sword through his chest.

“I don’t care. Everyone I knew is dead. My family, clan. Because of you.” He smiled, remembering them. “They would like to meet you now.”

Arngrim sat on the bed and watched the pool of blood reach his feet. He heard the clanging grow more desperate. He looked down at his chest, fingers tracing over the names carved in his skin.

“I’ve done my time.”

20-Arngrim: 13th Heartfire, 201 pt1

The buckets sloshed their contents over the floor. Grown men struggled against each other, trying to get their hands and faces into the slop first. The guard looked on from the other side of the gate, smiling.

Arngrim knelt among the other men, shoving for space. But his hands didn’t reach for the ‘food’. He kept his eyes on the gate. He was still the newcomer. Still healthy, with fat to burn and more days yet to be lost without food. His old companion Grisvar, paused his frantic work to look across at Arngrim, hands and face smeared by slop.

“Better get stuck in.”

“I’ll last”

“Not for long”, he shoved back at another prisoner. “Everyone starves eventually.”

“No plans to stay.”

Grisvar stopped and stared, slack mouthed. “No one escapes Cidhna mine.”

Out of the corner of his eye Arngrim saw the movement he’d been expecting. A guard and prisoner passing each other at the gate. The prisoner was Borkur, a savage beast of a man that was the terror of the other prisoners. He proudly walked bare chested though the mines, scars marked his survival from many attempts on his life. He flashed an evil grin at every opportunity, teeth looking like they came from a slaughter fish, filed to points. But this terror moved furtively. Arngrim saw the flash of papers being passed between hands.

The guard stepped away from the gate, closer to one of the rare torches scattered in the mine. He glanced down at his hand, allowing Arngrim to see the scrap of folder parchment there. He remembered the scrap he had found in the murderer’s room in the Warrens of Markarth, the note which had sent the man to take the life of Margaret.

Broker sauntered away through the tunnels, acting untouchable. Antrim stopped his pretence and rose, following after. Behind him Grisvar nudged a number of other prisoners and they exchanged looks. Excited whispers spread among the prisoners as they watched Arngrim stalk after Borkur.

Arngrim walked through the older, empty tunnels of Cidhna mine, always keeping Borkur just within sight. He stopped at a darkened tunnel, barred by a rusting gate. A figure stretched an arm through the bars to take a note from Borkur, then disappeared into the deeper darkness. Borkur then turned and saw Arngrim approaching. The beast grinned and took position blocking entrance to the gate, arms crossed, chest out, and teeth bared.

Arngrim walked closer. “Let me pass.”

“Shoo old man.”

Knees scarred, left thigh a puckered mess, weak. Hands locked under elbows. Too used to intimidation.

“Let me pass Borkur.”

He chuckled and tapped a row of short scars on his chest. “See these? One for each man I’ve crushed with these hands”. He crossed his arms again, confident. “You wanna join ‘em?”

“One for each man. Huh.” Arngrim took off his shirt, revealing the runes and symbols covering his body. “Thats nice”.

Borkur’s eyes darted between the numerous tattoos. They widened as he understood their significance.

“You’re Askelde? Shi…”

The fist smashed through Borkur’s jaw. He staggered, reaching an arm back for balance. Arngrim slammed his knee into his thigh and drove him to the ground. As his head came to chest height, Arngrim bashed it against the gate. Broker’s eyes rolled back.

Arngrim searched the rags covering Borkur and pulled out an old key. It fit. The gate clicked open.

19-Arngrim: Memories, 176

The dim morning light showed a bleak site. Arngrim knelt, shivering in the chill dawn. He reached over the ashes of the pyre, hands searching for the last wisps of warmth. The grey clouds echoed the grey ashes before him. He placed a leather bag by his side and opened the flap. Slowly he leant forward, breathing the fine motes kicked up by his movements, collecting handfuls of dust in his bag.

“Whats doin?”

Arngrim paused, ashes falling between his fingers. He looked over his shoulder at the questioner.

“I gather the remains of my brother”

He turned back to his slow work, sifting out the fine ashes from the dirt and larger fragments.

“Needin’ help?

“No”.

The younger man, Gunnar, stepped away and sat on a fair sized rock. He took out his sharpening stone and axe, ran a finger across the edge, then began his morning ritual sharpening the blade. Arngrim’s shoulders tensed, but he continued his work without a word.

Patches of light shone across the underside of the clouds, the sun fighting to be seen. Gunnar sat motionless as Arngrim finally sat back and run his hands, dusted grey with ashes, through his hair. The ground was mostly cleared now, only streaks of dark grey soil and blackened wood remaining.

“Done?”

“No.”

“What’s next? Need help?”

Arngrim’s face was covered in ash, streaks ran from his eyes to his chin. His lips pulled up into a scowl.

“No.” He blinked and thought more. “Make a fire.”

Gunnar just nodded. Placing his axe on the ground, he uncurled from his rock and stood, stretching his back. He scratched his chin, hoping once more to feel the first hairs of the beard he would one day grow. Walking down from the rocky hilltop and between scattered trees, he stuffed his pockets with twigs and moss. When he came to a dead tree he broke down the branches, gathering as many as he could carry. 

Arngrim looked on is silence as the campfire was carefully constructed. Gunnar concentrated on laying out the wood just so. A tent of wood protecting the tinder underneath, surrounded by a ring of stones. He looked up, searching the watchful face for any signs of approval, but the face remained stone-like. Ducking down, ashamed at his own need for approval, Gunnar leant in to light the fire.

The clicking of the flint rang out clearly. Each time he could feel the weight of Arngrim’s eyes even more. Finally a spark held and he leant in close and shared his breath with the glowing specks. He felt a surge of joy as the tiny spirit breather and stretched its hungry fingers into the surrounding twigs and moss.

Arngrim nodded and waited as the fire grew. Kneeling before the fire, skinning knife in hand, he looked lost to Gunnar’s eyes, unsure how to continue. The older man pulled his shirt over his head, revealing skin covered in a riot of images and words. Gunnar’s eyes followed the scars which formed runes and outlined shapes. Wolf, Fox, Snake, Eagle, Whale, and many others figures he could recognise ran across the skin revealed. 

Arngrim examined himself, raising arms and pulling at skin. Finally he stopped, tracing his fingertip across the skin on his side, where his ribs moved with each breath. Satisfied, he held the blade over the fire until it glowed. It cut a line in Arngrim’s flesh. He balanced the blade on a stone, placed his hand in the bag, and covered the red line with ash. Then he took a breath and gripped the knife again.

Gunnar winced with the sound of the hot blade, and the smell of burnt flesh.

“What… what are you doing?”

“Remembering my brother.” Arngrim’s breath caught. “Keeping his name alive.”

Gunnar looked again at the runes, and realised each one must spell out a name. He frowned until he realised that someone else had cut the runes into Arngrim’s back. He tried to count them.

“So. If I die you will keep my name?”

Arngrim stopped and turned. Gunnar unconsciously held his breath until his chest began to burn, waiting for the answer.

“You need to make your name first.”

18-Arngrim: 12th Heartfire, 201

It’s cold in here. The freezing air runs its fingers over clothes like a demented lover, reaching under to skin and sucking the heat away. Nothing to see. No real light except a dim grey ambience that reveals nothing but stone, dust, and damp wretchedness.

Feet shuffle forward. Soles burn with cold. The crunching sound of loose stones underfoot. A foot knocks over a bucket and the owner cried out in pain. The clatter of wood echoes. The man kneels down and tries to adjust the rags covering his feet, tries to protect himself against the cold. Every shifting rag reveals more dirty skin. There is not enough to provide real warmth.Hands reach across the ground, shards of stone drawing blood as he reaches for the bucket. Damp rope welcomes them, drawing even more warmth away.

The torchlight pierces the darkness like a murderer’s knife. Eyes squint at the brightness. A dozen men start to shuffle towards the light, but no salvation awaits them here. Tools are handed out to calloused hands, and the rough line of wretched creatures follow the flame into once dark passages. Tortured rock is revealed in the light, mutilated by countless men. 

How long does a shift last? There is no real measure of time for the men digging in darkness. No matter if sun or moon rises outside, they hold no sway over these men who have forgotten the open sky, these men who dig under the mountain. Do they count strikes against the rock. Too many to count. Until their muscles begin to burn? That is a constant companion. Until chests labour to drag in the next breath? Until hearts drive only pain?

Between the coming and going of the light?

Until it ends.

The guard just stands there, waiting. He causally mounts his torch on a rough bracket, and settles adjacent the wall to watch the wretched dig. He has no whip and stands silent. These creatures have a harsher driver than any lash or shout. The gnawing pain of hunger drives them. The promise of food sustains them. This many buckets of ore. That many mouths to feed. Two numbers that define their existence. One number ever rising as the other slowly falls. With each shift another surrenders to despair.

Despair and hopelessness. The only things well fed and satisfied in this hole.

Arngrim wormed his way forward in the narrow tunnel. There was no room to swing a pick here, only to jab and pull the rock apart. Every joint, every bone was filled with pain. Eyes that had long ago wept their last tear trying to search out the a glimmer against the dark stone.

The next man lets out a faint whimper. The sound of a pick clattering on rock grabs Arngrim’s attention. He reaches back and lays a hand upon the fallen man’s chest. The heart flutters weakly. The chest sinks slowly as the his last breath escapes. Voices are raised, questions asked. Arngrim moves quickly now, pulling tattered clothing from the still warm body and hiding it against his own skin. But other hands reach out when the light comes closer and drag the body away.

Arngrim watches the body being passed into shadows. Another wretched figure comes forward to take its place. As the rhythm of metal against stone begins again, he furtively wraps the rags around his feet and hands. Keep your head down, do the time. Arngrim drives the pick into the wall, grunting, imagining the flesh of the Forsaken under his fists.

17-Arngrim: 11th Heartfire, 201

Gold speak louder that steel. Thats what his father always said, and it had proved true once more. His pouch bounced against his hip, finally empty of the gold he had stolen. Instead it should have burned like a fire with the truth it contained.

The path wound up the side of the cliff, stairs and bridges reaching up to the sky, and left Arngrim exposed to everyone in the canyon. He wanted to run all the way up to tell the suspicious Reachman what he had found, to tell his that they were close to finding the hidden King of the Forsaken. To tell his that they would soon take vengeance for all the dead. But he kept to a walk, watching out for the guards.

Half way up, Arngrim and the guard eyed each other as they passed on the narrow bridge. The waterfall thundering down close enough to spray them both. A young man full of anger and false bravery, eager to show his dominance on someone weaker. He scowled at the old man in patchwork furs, and the chipped axe at Arngrim’s waist. 

The words were nearly drowned by the waterfall “Careful old man. You don’t want to get in trouble”.

Arngrim’s hand tightened on his axe. He nodded politely and waiting until the guard turned a corner, then spat on the ground. What made Markarth like this. Living buried in tombs, in fear of attackers, but able to wake up every day and say ‘lets go provoke someone today’.

Something was sick here, and Arngrim now knew where that sickness lay. Madanach, once king of the Forsaken.

Arngrim stopped at a stone bench, giving his knees a rest. No one paid him any mind. He dug into his pouch and pulled out a wrinkled note. It still smelt of the warrens, of sickness and desperation. Arngrim fondly remembered the crowd of ragged people trying to help him while scrabbling for the coins he threw. One clever girl had picked the lock and took him into the room of Margaret’s killer.

The note had almost leapt into his hand.

He traced the runes and slowly sounded the out. ‘You have been chosen, go to the market, you know what to do. M”

Margaret had been staying at the inn. Probably he could have found clever ways of getting information, but the easiest way was to ask the innkeeper which room she had stayed at. Watching his eyes almost pop at the sight of a gold ingot was also worth the price.

Going through her belongings was painful. Imagining her expecting to come back. The little notebook had been harder to find. So many words scratched into such a small space. Most of the words he could’t put together, but enough to make his stomach sick. Words like ‘watched’, ‘suspicious’, ‘followed’. Margaret had come to Markarth with money, and been pulled into it’s sickness. Then she’d been killed by it. 

The climb up to the temple was tiring, so many stairs. But all was quiet. The passage through the mountain’s peak was empty. In this busy city, that worried Arngrim. His fellow investigator was supposed to meet him inside, but from the moment the doors swung open and the smell of blood hit him, Anrgrim knew it was over.

Before he could draw his axe, the many guards had thrown him to the ground. Boots dug into his face and back. The pain and blood made it hard to focus on the faces above him.

“We tried to warn you, but you were determined to get in trouble.

Arngrim tried to struggle free, but hands end him tight. The face sighed.

“Now there are people to silence, deaths to blame on you. Work work work. You don’t appreciate the effort.”

“But the Forsworn. Madanach. He’s behind this!” Arngrim coughed and tried to wipe away the blood with his shoulder.

“Not to worry. You will have plenty of time to make new friends in Cidhna. I’m sure they will love to talk to you.”

16-Arngrim: 10th Heartfire, 201

The cliffs rose up to the sky. People hurried about their day along stairways and roads carved into the walls, while other looked down from stone bridges. The market square of Markarth was a bustling hive of activity in the ancient canyon city. Stall attendants called out to passers-by, all lying about how their wares were the finest in the land. Arngrim kept a tight grip on his axe as he stalked through the crowd, glaring at anyone who dared come too close. All these people made it difficult to breath. The guards were watching though, whispering to each other about the savage walking their streets.

The crowd parted for one woman, dressed richly, moving as if she were alone in the markets. Arngrim couldn’t help but stare. Blue eyes like chips of ice, evaluating everything. Steps deliberate, but moving with a grace that must be born of years of training. She was a warrior born, but dressed as a merchant. 

Their eyes met briefly.

Arngrim looked down and busied his hands with the merchant’s wares in front of him. His face grew warm.

“I think it looks a little fragile.”

Arngrim looked up straight into her eyes. “What?”

Her eyes looked down. She reached out and took the necklace from his hands. Her fingers lightly brushed his. She ifted the necklace and held up at her shoulders, smiling broadly.

“Don’t you think it would look better on a more feminine neck?

Arngrim barely noticed the necklace. 

“So what do you think?”

He looked up at her smile and felt his mouth go dry.

“Its quite all right. I find most people here are more interested in the contents of my purse than in me,” her eyes seemed to twinkle. “It is nice to meet someone with another opinion on the matter.”

Arngrim frowned and looked around. “Who?”

She laughed, “that would be you.”

He felt his cheeks start to ache. Rich women didn’t pay attention to old men dressed in rotting furs. Well, actually they did but ran away. This was… different.

“You really need to relax,” she said, touching the hand gripping his axe. “No one is looking to kill you, although they will try everything to take your money.”

He resisted the urge to rub his cheeks. “You are from here?”

“Oh no, I came up along the Karth road a few weeks ago, it was such a…”

Arngrim let the words wash over him. He felt strange, not uncomfortable, but different.

A whisper from the crowd “Hjalti”.

Arngrim felt something change. As the woman haggled with the jeweller he scanned the crowd. Something was wrong. But he couldn’t see what was coming when everything screamed ‘wrong’ to him in the city.

“I’m Margaret, whats your name?” she held out her hand to him.

He looked down at the hand. His fingers burned as they touched. Looking up he saw her face express shock.

The man looked normal walking past. Perhaps he tripped and bumped Margaret. Arngrim caught a flash of a knife in the man’s hand. He let go of her hand and reached for his axe as the man locked eyes with him.

“The Reach belongs to the Forsaken!”

The guards came like a pack of wolves. The man falling under their blades, screaming curses at all Nords. Arngrim stared, mouth open. Margaret lay on the stones, blood slowly reaching out between the cobbles.

15-Arngrim: 9th Heartfire, 201

Arngrim wrestled with the bedsheets. Every creak jolted him awake. Eydis had looked at him with shock before ordering him to the river to wash. He had demanded to sleep in the same bed, supposedly in the room that Tiber Septim had slept. Now he doubted his resolve.

He reached out, gently touching the rusted sword he had brought all the way from Deepwood Vale. Something must be important about it, as it would probably break at the whisper of battle. Arngrim scowled and started counting the stains on the roof, trying to get to sleep.

Relaxing his body didn’t seem to help, nothing felt right. He pulled the sheets tight and rolled on his side, letting his back take the brunt of the cutting wind. Better. He reached up and tried to adjust the bundle of clothing trying to pass itself off as a pillow.

He frowned. 

Wind?

He sat bolt upright and his eyes showed him something very different from the run down inn. Snores came from the piles of fur around him, with the occasional face peeking out. Scores of campfires were scattered over the rocks, with shadows of movement at some. Arngrim stood and tried to take it all in. Cold points of light shone in the sky above, and in the distance he could see massive walls carved in the side of a mountain. Markarth City.

“You came.”

Arngrim recognised the boy standing beside him. The ghost from the inn. But here he stood shivering against the cold, breath steaming the night air.

“Ah. Yes?” He looked around. “Where is this place?”

“The gates of Markarth, before the final battle for the Reach.” The boy pointed at the walls. “The savages have holed up in there, protecting their King. Tomorrow, we drive them out.”

Arngrim muttered, “that didn’t work out.”

The boy turned to face Arngrim. “You promised you would make me your sword brother”

“Yes. So you keep saying.” Arngrim felt the sword at his side. He drew it, bright and sharp, and held it out to the boy.

He smiled as he took the sword with both hands. “It will be glorious. Bards will wing our names, and children will cry out to hear the tales of our bravery!”

Arngrim’s eyes begun to sting. 

“Call, and I will be at your side Hjalti. Your crown is our fury, which will be the storm that wipes the Reach clean.”

“No, its not going to be like that. You don’t understand…”

“No, you don’t understand.” The boy’s eyes bored into Arngrim’s soul. “Go to the city and dig out the evil. Find those responsible, and drive them from our home.” 

He pulled Arngrim close until they stood face to face.

“We have waited too long.”

Arngrim sat up, soaked in sweat. He could hear Eydis moving in the next room. He looked down to where he had placed the sword. Only an impression remained in the mattress.

“Well boy, we’ll see if you can really fight.”

14-Arngrim: 8th Heartfire, 201

Vinur snorted and pulled away from the bloody hand.

“Stay still you stupid horse, “Arngrim said, “it’s just a bit of blood, mostly not mine.”

He managed to grab the horse’s bridle, but Vinur shied away.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Arngrim whispered as he tried to calm the horse.

They struggled until Arngrim could get a solid grip on the bridle and bring Vinur’s head down. He stroked Vinur’s neck and leaned in. “There there. Hush now.”

Vinur stopped struggling and stood there, shivering. Antrim waiting until the horse had relaxed and released the bridle. He kept eye contact until he felt Vinur wouldn’t bolt again. Then he sat and began to massage his own shaking legs.

“What are we doing here?” he asked, looking at the barren, windswept valley. “All this for a rusty old blade.”

He slowly pulled out a bundle and pulled back the wrapping to reveal the remnant of a blade. Once it may have been a great sword, but now only a pitted rusty spike and fragments of rotted later remained. Arngrim considered the fragile remains and his surroundings. They were the only living souls in the valley. His only living companion was a horse that was more scared of him than starving in the snow capped mountains. The few people he had know were either dead or imprisoned. What was left?

Anger?

Anger burns hot, and had sustained him over the long miles and years. But even that fire couldn’t stand the cold stones of the north. He remembered Eydis and her son desperate to keep their inn running. Gunnar and Astrid huddled together in a tent, planning their next desperate move. Desperation is a young person’s game, and an old man with a bloodstained soul couldn’t change his ways. Arngrim pulled a wrinkled apple from his pouch.

“Well, at least I still have you.”

Vinur leaned forward and took the apple before Arngrim could take a bite. He smiled and scratched the horse’s cheek. Then he looked back down at the rusty blade and remembered.

It was a small valley almost hidden by the surrounding mountains. An old fortress build high at one end, but small camps scattered along the stream. The forsaken there had become lax, thinking their distance protected them from intruders. But a lone man creeping between the trees and willing to brave the chill wind far from their campfires, that was unexpected. Surprise, and a quick knife in the dark, had kept Arngrim safe. For the most part.

Arngrim began to shiver at the memory of the dark night, and looked about for scraps of dry moss to light his own campfire.

A lost man who wanted one more glorious battle, even after death? That sounded more like his own fate. But who was he to fight it? Just so long as someone remembered this old fool wandering into the wilderness. Time to head back to Eydis and speak to a ghost.

As the shadows crept across the valley, he wrapped himself in the saddlecloth and watched the tiny fire struggling against the wind.

13-Arngrim: 7th Heartfire, 201

Vinur almost stepped on the body in the dim starlight. Arngrim dismounted and slowly approached, scanning the trees and rocks around him. The dark patch of ground was barely noticeable in the light, but the bear trap around the bodies’ leg was clear. He knelt beside the trap for a closer look, noting the scraps of flesh along the teeth. 

“Bad way to go, unable to free yourself.”

Reaching up to close the eyelids, he noticed another dark patch beneath the head. It pulled away from the frozen ground with a rip, revealing a knife wound across the man’s neck. Arngrim blinked, trying to work out what had happened. There was no knife nearby, so the man hadn’t cut his own throat.

“Shit.”

The clatter of hooves made him look around, to see Vinur making off for the hills.

“Oh by the Nine, it’s just blood, why do you always…”

The arrow sliced his shoulder and buried itself into the dead man’s chest. Arngrim leapt back, running for the cover of nearby trees. Panting, he peeked out from behind the tree trunk.

Two men, Forsaken by their clothes and weapons: wild hair, animal skins and bone charms. They slid between the rocks and trees like shadows. Arngrim couldn’t see any others, but these were hard enough to spot in the dark. At least this time Vinur hadn’t run off with his axe.

The shadows split, one moved towards the ridge, the other towards the body. Too close. Arngrim gripped his axe and said a prayer to the Nine. One shadow became clear as it paused at the body. Arngrim held his breath as it looked around, then took a step over. Arngrim launched himself forward, screaming and waving his arms about like a madman.

The Forsaken jerked back in surprise. Leg caught on the edge of the trap.

He tripped.

Arngrim slammed his axe down as he ran past. He heard an arrow whistle by his ear as he reached the trees. A glance confirmed two bodies lying dead. The last Forsaken was still moving between the trees.

“Your dead old man!”

Thats nice. Keep coming closer. Arngrim watched the last man dashing between trees, circling closer.

“The Reach is ours!”

Not for much longer idiot. Left. Arngrim saw the man stop and ready a bow. Close enough.

Arngrim charged, zigzagging behind trees as he watched the Forsaken trying to aim at him. One arrow slammed into a tree by his head. He ran straight forward. The man fumbled while nocking a second arrow. The axe swung down. Blood stained the tree.

Arngrim stood, panting, over the steaming body.

He looked down at the arrow caught in his furs. He winced and carefully pulled aside his shirt to see the shallow wound in his side.

“Close.” He snapped the arrow and dropped the pieces on the dead man. “But not close enough.”

12-Arngrim: 6th Heartfire, 201

“In the north she said, famous battle she said”

Angrim scrambled over the rocks, looking for a path for Vinur. The horse stood under a lone tree, failing to hide from the cutting wind. A gust blew back Arngrim’s hood, leaving his half frozen face bare.

“Damnit! Get up here you dumb horse.” He said as he pulled the hood back.

Vinur’s nostrils flared, and jerked his head back. The rocks presented no barrier to a leaping horse. Arngrim let his mouth hang open as he watched his horse run away. He slumped on the ground and cradled his head. More climbing would be necessary. 

The arrow dug into the ground by his foot. Arngrim flinched and looked around desperately. His axe was still tied to Vinur’s saddlebags, halfway down the mountain by now. He rolled behind some rocks and peeked out carefully. 

“You think I missed?” a voice called in the wind.

Arngrim glanced at the arrow, “Well, its not in my chest”, he shouted back, relieved for the chance to talk.

“Just wanted your attention.”

“You got it. No more arrows!”. Arngrim looked around for something he could use as a weapon. A broken chunk of rock caught his eye. He reached out for it.

“Keep reaching, and you can have another.”

Arngrim froze. “Mind saying what you want my attention for?” 

A man with readied bow slowly stood. Patches of various animal furs were wrapped about him. Bright blue eyes peeked out from a face more hair than skin. A few breathless moments passed until he relaxed and lowered the bow. Arngrim felt his whole body slump in relief.

“You don’t look like one of them forsaken buggers?” The man asked the air, “leastways you’re not shouting about it.”

“No no, not forsaken.” Arngrim took a deep breath. “Mind if I move?”.

The man nodded, and took out a strip of dried meat. Which he promptly began to chew.

“You’ve seen a lot of forsaken?” Arngrim asked as he scanned the mountainside for his horse.

“Too many, ‘specially since they started camping up in the vale.” The man slung his bow and came closer. He nodded once and offered a strip of dried meat.

“Vale?” Antrim asked while chewing. “Does it have a name?”

The man scowled. “Not from around here are you? ‘Course not, or you wouldn’ta left your only weapon tied to a jumpy horse” he chuckled at his own wit. “Deepwood Vale”

Arngrim smiled. “Any chance you could help me catch my horse. Again”.

11 - Arngrim: 4th Heartfire, 201

The scream shocked Arngrim awake. His hang found the axe by his head and he threw back the bedsheets. Still bleary eyed he burst through the door into the main hall of Old Hroldan inn. The hall was dark, only simply lit by the dying embers of last night’s fire.

Eydis, the owner, was huddled behind a table, griping her son close. She caught Arngrim’s attention and pointed towards the doors at the opposite end of the hall. Arngrim looked across the room trying to make out any figures. Slowly a pale shape drew into focus. It was more mist than man, and it’s faint glow failed to shed light on anything but itself. It moved slowly across the room, pausing at a table and hovering over the chair.

Arngrim’s mouth went dry as he tried to understand what he was seeing. He glanced at the mother and child huddled in fear, tightened his grip on the axe and walked toward the ghost. The cold deepened as he crossed the room, but only when he stood within reach did the the figure turn to face him.

“Hjalti? Is that you?”

“What? Who are you?” Arngrim croaked out. 

“I fought for you to take back the reach from the savages. Do you remember me now Hjalti?”

Arngrim frowned. Details of the figure swam in and out of focus. Old battered armour, a cloven helm. He felt sorry for this lost soul.

“You’re lost, friend. I’m not this Hjalti.”

A pained expressed crossed the ghost’s face.

“No. I can feel you, recognise you still. You promised me Hjalti. Promised me that once we sacked Hroldan you would make me your sword brother, and that we would fight side by side until Sovngarde. I have waited. After the enemy’s arrows pierced my chest, and their blows crushed my bones. I’ve waited. Fulfil your oath and give me your sword!”

Arngrim could see the young features underneath the broken helm, features of a young man who had given his life fighting for the Reach.

“If I give you my sword, you will fight by my side?” Arngrim mused.

“Yes! I long for the chance of battle once more!”

Arngrim stepped back from the intensity of cold. He bared his teeth in a rictus.

“I will bring you this sword. I just need to get it.”

“Yes. I will wait, here…” the ghost faded into darkness.

Arngrim slowly walked back to his room, head bowed in though. The door slammed behind him, followed by a long silence. He returned to the hall with hair tied back and beard groomed.

“Eydis, what do you know about this ghost?”

“I’ve heard people say this place was haunted, but I’ve never seen one before. My father said that the great Tiber Septim had slept here before he reclaimed the Reach.”

“Where was the battle before that? Where would a soldier have fallen?”

Her eyes widened while she half-mumbled to herself. 

“I, I’m not quite sure. I remember tales of a battle up north. The massacre of Deepwood Vale.”

Arngrim started to chuckle. Eydis held her breath before asking.

“Whats so funny?”

“It seems that the fight for the Reach has a few more battles to go.”

10-Arngrim: 3rd Heartfire, 201

Arngrim laid the axe below Garmr’s body then sat back to survey his work.The striped arms and armour of the forsaken was arrayed around Garmr. The best honour he could do on this stony ground. The fire crackled as it consumed the remains of the warhammer.

“You were the bravest I knew. You will run in the fields of Sovngarde”

He stroked Garmr’s fur one last time.

“I’ll see you shortly.”

Arngrim saddled the horse and packed his gear. Mounting, he considered his destination. The horse grew restless at the wait, and began to walk back along the path. Arngrim didn’t complain, letting the reins hang loose, staring at the saddle horn.

The body of the merchant in the bushes brought Arngrim out of his daze. He chased away some rats and laid out the woman in a more dignified position. Without a thought he began to scrape at the dirt and rocks with bare hands, placing the larger rocks beside him. After some hours he placed the last stone over the shallow grave.

The horse, Vinur, didn’t complain about the lack of direction, but moved between patches of grass on the riverside path. Arngrim watched a marker slowly approach by the side of the road. A pole of rocks, sticks and scraps of later, mounted by an animal skull. A forsaken territorial marker. Deliberately he dismounted and drew his axe, walking slowly towards it. Vinur huffed at the delay, and turned to find something to eat amongst the weeds and scattered grasses.

Arngrim reached out with the axe and nudged the skull. It shifted out of place. A few breaths later he prodded it again. His lips drew back in a grimace and he raised his axe.

The skull clattered against a nearby rock.

The sound drew a howl from Arngrim. He smashed the axe into the skull until nothing was left by scattered shards. Then he attacked the marker, throwing stones and wood across the river.

He wiped at red eyes and stared at the remaining scratches in the ground. His mouth twitched. He unhitched his pants and pissed on the ground. Arngrim+s mouth stretched into a grimace and he finished. Glaring at the mountains around his he shouted.

“Where are you?. Finish it. I’m right here!”

Vinur started at the echoes and watched as man kneeled on the ground and covered his face in the dust.

Later, Arngrim mounted. Breathing deeply he kicked Vinur into motion again. The road continued along the river which flowed through the Reach.

* * *

The sun disappeared behind the mountains as Arngrim looked at the unfamiliar building. The river had been left far behind, and the rain soaked path had brought him deep into the mountains to this spot. With water dripping from his sodden clothes he inspected area. Ramshackle building with firewood piled on the porch. He couldn’t remember this place. The sign swayed in the storm driven wind.

“Old Hroldan Inn”.

He walked in.

9-Arngrim: 2nd Hearthfire, 201

The horse’s steady pace almost put Arngrim to sleep. The ride along the Karth river had been quiet. The rocky mountainsides loomed out of the mists, and memories of the past stared down at him though ruined towers on the peaks. At one point a lone hunter had paused and watched as Arngrim slowly rode past, but was soon lost to the mists.

The broken caravan brought Arngrim out of his reverie. Garmr bounded over and sniffed the bloodstained ground. He easily found the body stuffed behind some bushes, and barked to summon Arngrim. The dead woman lay face down, hand outstretched towards a torn cap lying in the grass. Arngrim pushed back her hair and placed the cap on her. He reached down and wrenched an arrow out of her side. He stared at the fletching.

“Forsaken bastards.”

The tracks were not hard to find. The imprints were heavy and clear. 

“Hope you are enjoying your spoils. Guess you think no one will come looking.” He growled.

He hobbled Vinur near a patch of grass out of sight of the road, and led Garmr to the tracks. He tapped a clear impression and waited until Garmr figured out what he wanted. The dog sniffed, looking around and down at the footprint a few times before trotting a few paces south and waited, looking back expectantly at Arngrim.

“Good boy. Lets get ‘em!”

They prowled across the rocky slopes and soon caught the scent of cooking meat. Squinting, Arngrim could see a faint haze of smoke in the air.

“Lets take a look before running in this time, right?”

Garmr wagged his tail and licked his lips.

Arngrim readied his bow and carefully made his way forward. Three forsaken were huddled around a fire with tents and looted goods scattered around. Arngrim’s mouth began to water at the aroma of roasting meat. They fussed over the meat, pouring ale from stolen barrels, and commenting on the meal to come. Arngrim sighted his arrow at the broad back of one man.

The arrow flew from the bow with a soft whistle. Arngrim grinned while reaching for a second arrow. At the last moment the forsaken finished his fussing and leaned back to inspect his work. The arrow hit the roast dead centre. The man turned and wildly scanned the trees. The second arrow sprouted from his chest.

“Ambush…”

The second man, still wearing some metal greaves, grabbed a warhammer lying by the fire. He turned and raised his weapon.

It all happened too quickly for Arngrim to react. He saw a flash of fur as Garmr bounded out of the trees and crashed into the armed man. The scraping sound of teeth against metal was clear as Arngrim watched the dog trying to bite the arm holding the weapon. The man lifted the dog with a grunt and slammed it into the fire, sending the roast flying.

“No!”

Screaming bloody murder as he came running, axe searching for blood. But he was too slow. Garmr rolled out of the hot coals and stumbled, dazed from the attack. The man lifted his warhammer high above his head before bringing it down with a sickening crunch.

The man went tumbling down, dropping his weapon as Arngrim came in like a hurricane. He sat up and punched the man with his axe, driving it deep into the man’s skull. Arngrim rose covered in blood, and turned to the other men. Their feeble flailing didn’t prolong their lives.

Garmr tried to lick his master’s hand, but couldn’t lift his head. He closed his eyes and let the gentle strokes of his master take the pain away, until he drifted away. 

8 - Arngrim: 1st Hearthfire 201

Garmr wrestled with the smaller puppies under the watchful eyes of Banning. Arngrim watched them all rolling on the floor while perched on the staircase.

“Best advise I ever listened to. Garmr here’s saved by neck a few times already”

“These dogs are lifesavers.. A man shouldn’t be without a companion in the Reach. Never know when some of those forsaken will come storming out of the hills.” Banning said.

“Not really sure if I want to stick around the Reach. Might be time to be moving on.”

Banning looked over at Arngrim and nodded mournfully. He pointed out towards the stables horses..

“That’s your ticket. Little Vinur there is one of our best. Sure footed as a mountain goat and sensible enough to get out of the way of an ambush.”

Arngrim leant back and looked out and the small black and white horse standing there. It’s ears perked up at the sound of its name.

“I’ll have to grab a tent and other gear. Might take a while getting out of the mountains,  Skyrim is a large place.

“If you want to get south of the mountains, then you’ll want to take the road out of Helgen. Either case take the road down the valley east. You can decide later if you want to head out of Skyrim or head further north. All depends how far you want to get from those memories.”

Arngrim narrowed his eyes.

“A Nord never runs. That’s what my Pa always said.” He growled.

“Never said you were running. Just saying you might want to broaden your horizons.”

Arngrim nodded, satisfied. “What’s keeping you here?”

Banning grinned while the puppies picked his face. “My dogs. My family has been raising and training ‘em forever. I did a litter for the Jarl special. Even he knows how good my dogs are.”

Arngrim reached over and gave Garmr a friendly rub. He licked Arngrim’s hand Banning slapped his forehead.

“Reminds me. Need to get going. Voada up in the keep takes care of the Jarl´s dogs.She’s expecting some of my spiced feed.”

Banning stayed put under the pile of dogs.

“Don’t worry yourself. I’ll take it up for you. Where is this woman?” Arngrim said.

* * *

Arngrim shouldn’t have been surprised. The kitchens were buried deep in the mountain. The Jarls had claimed the old Dwarven ruins and made an attempt at restoring them to glory. The lights on the wall sparked out their blue radiance and the sound of clanging metal and hissing steam echoed through the halls.

He felt lost in the kitchen. Karthwasten Hall would be lost inside here. A small army of servants whiled their dance of meat and sauce around him. Eventually a pretty young woman took pity and came to investigate. The aroma of the spiced meat reached her as she approached, and she broke into a grin.

“Finally. The dogs were getting restless. Don’t know what Banning puts in here, but they go wild for this stuff.”

She looked around nervously while she hid the package under a cloth.

“Get out of here old man. The chef is a bastard and will try to throw you in Cidhna if he catches you here. And he’ll have my head if he knew I was talking with you.”

The little man in white was ranting at a pair of scared girls. Arngrim looked around the room and felt the same desperation he’s experienced in the Cidhna. Something was sick in Markath.

“I’d like to see the little rooster try.”

7: Arngrim - 31st Last Seed, 201

Arngrim held Garmr’s snout shut while looking over the cliff.

“Shush, no barking now” he whispered.

Below their perch, the river thundered underneath a stone bridge. Three forsworn scouts slowly walked across, pausing to look over the sides every few steps. Arngrim strung his bow without taking his eyes off the trio, and nocked an arrow. He sighted down the shaft at one man currently watching the river below.

The splash drew the attention of the other two.

“Thats right, go see where your friend went. Cant quite see what’s wrong…”

It took two more arrows to send the next forsaken to the ground, which was enough to let the third work out Arngrim’s hiding spot and start running along the path that led up the mountainside. He started screaming for revenge.

“Go Garmr.”

The dog struck like lightning, leaping down the mountain to take the forsaken in the throat. It thrashed from side to side until a fountain of blood speared out and the forsaken stopped moving.

“Good boy!”

Arngrim jogged down and ruffled Garmr’s fur. He gave a blood splatted doggy grin in return, tongue lolling out. Arngrim picked up the forsaken’s axe and weighed it in his hand.

“Now for your friends.”

* * *

The Mine brought back unpleasant memories. Worse, these forsaken were armed. But just like in Cidhna these men seemed more concerned with digging at the walls than with stabbing Arngrim. A fact which made him very happy. It’s much easier to plant an axe in someone’s back when they are concentrating on the wall. After pulling his axe out of the third forsaken, he squinted at the rocky chunks being dug out of the wall. Flecks  glimmered.

“Hmm, gold.”

* * *

Garmr silently padded alongside Arngrim, sniffing the air. He stopped and whined.

“What?”

A flickering shadow moved across the wall in front of him. Arngrim carefully placed his feet to avoid any sound and peeked around the corner.
The man was huge, and wearing an antlered skull as a helm. He had his back to the sneaking pair, hunched over a nearby table. Arngrim slowly nocked another arrow and aimed. The arrow buried itself just below the mans neck.

It slowly turned its head and stared at Arngrim with its empty sockets.

“Shit”

The man surged forward, the air becoming hazy before its outreaching hand. Arngrim’s second arrow seemed to bend away from the haze, clattering against the walls of the mine. Arngrim dropped the bow and ran.

The grows and yelps made him stop in his tracks.

“Garmr you idiot.”

Arngrim looked back and saw the pair locked together. Jaws snapping at air only inches away from the man’s face. Hands struggling to crush the throat of the dog.

Arngrim ran back to his companion, trying to make sense of the struggling figures and find an opening. He chopped down with his axe, slamming into the man’s helm repeatedly. Finally the body dropped to the ground, fingers still twitching.

“Stupid dog. You’re going to get us killed one of these days.”

Garmr licked at Arngrim’s hands. He smiled.

The table reflected the torchlight into Arngrim’s eyes. He turned and saw what had held the man’s attention. Saw what the forsaken had killed all those miners for. Gold ingots covered the small table.

* * *

Skaggi dropped a sparse handful of coins into his hand.

“I’m sorry it couldn’t be more, but the forsaken have been hitting us hard. But you have my thanks! If you ever need anything, just ask. I’ll send Pavo and his friends right away. We’ll have Kolskegger mine up and running in no time!

Arngrim nodded and pocketed the coins. He almost felt bad about taking the money.

Almost.

Arngrim: 30th Last Seed, 201

Ainethatch paused his hammering and looked the bearded man up and down, pausing at the bow and sheathed dagger.

“Can I help you with anything?”

“You don’t remember? It’s Arngrim.”

Ainethatch raised an eyebrow. The dog sat and scratched itself, lazily watching a chicken patrol the road.

“I helped you with those mercenaries a while back. Still nothing?”

“No, no wait. I remember you! You never came back after that week.”

Arngrim shrugged and sat on the bench. The remains of a large lunch were scattered across the table. The pot still contained some dregs of soup. Arngrim reached for a wooden bowl and looked up at Ainethatch.

“Sure, help yourself. What brings you back?” He remained standing, gripping a hammer.

Arngrim filled his bowl, drips of soup staining the table. He wiped the soup from his beard and reached for a chunk of bread. The dog whined. Arngrim filled another bowl and placed it next to his chair. Ainethatch frowned.

“Funny you should ask. I was walking by and was hoping to get a chance to catch up. See how things are going.” Arngrim said.

“Well enough. With the two mines going these days I’ve had to hire some guards from the Jarl. That at least makes things a little safer”.

Arngrim followed his gaze towards the mine entrance. Two guards of the Reach leaned against the rock face, eyes half closed. Arngrim nodded while he used the bread to scrape up the last dregs of soup from the pot.

“Reckon you’re happy with the extra swords, what with all this Forsaken nonsense.”

“A little, but its still trouble. The Nords don’t trust me because they think I’m working with the Forsaken, and the Forsaken don’t trust me because they think I’m working with the Nords. It’s not easy being a landowner native to the Reach.”

Arngrim leaned back against the railing surrounding the balcony. The sun touched the mountaintops and began its decent into night. The evening wind started slowly picked up.

“Any chance of a bunk for the night?”

Ainethatch winced, but kept his eyes away from the sheathed dagger and dog sitting under the table.

“There is a cot I could put together in the miner’s house”

“Appreciate it.”

“But Gerd is coming up from Markath and…”

Arngrim let out a slow breath and let his shoulders sag.

“So I guess there is no change of resting up for a while?”

Ainethatch glanced at the mine entrance where a few men had emerged.

“Well, it’s not that the others wouldn’t enjoy talking, but we need every coin with the taxes coming due.”

Arngrim held up his hands. “Say no more. Not a problem. We’ll be out of your hair tomorrow.”

The river continued its loud rumble through the ravine. The wind sang its mournful evening song. Ainethatch pulled at his ear.

“Look, if you are hard up, you can have a chat with Skaggi in the Left-hand mine. He’s always looking for more bodies.”

Arngrim looked up. Ainethatch answered the unvoiced question.

“Its just outside Markath, near the bridge.”

A woman's voice called out and one of the approaching miners waved in response. A brief glimpse of a warm fire came through the doorway.

“Thanks.”

Angrim: 29th Last Seed, 201

“It’s the last of the food. Don’t you want any?”

The dog sniffed the piece of bread, then looked up expectantly. Arngrim stared back.

“Guess you don’t like it either. Maybe you are not as dumb as you look.”

The dog barked. It wandered up the road back towards Markath, then turned back and stared down the road along the river. It looked back over it’s shoulder and whined.

“Yeah. Its a long walk.”

Arngrim kept moving. The sign had said Karthwasten, but it had been nearly half a day of walking and still nothing looked familiar. Or maybe everything looked too familiar, so far as rocks, trees and steep mountainsides could look familiar. At the very least it was warm enough that the thin clothing he wore was enough. The dog barked.

“You know if you keep that up, I might just skin you for your fur. Looks warm enough.”

The dog looked back at him. If the dog could speak it would be saying _it’s not my fault you only have fur on your face_. They kept walking. Arngrim looked up at the sun. It said the same thing as his stomach. Lunch time. After taking a drink from the cold river he sat back on his heels.

“Think you could be useful and bring back something to eat? I could eat a horse.”

The dog blinked.

“I didn’t think so.” He waved it away.

It didn’t bark. It just stood there, staring up into the mountains, tail held up. Arngrim frowned and watched for a while. He walked forward a little bit before trying to see what the dog was looking at. Squinting he could see a couple of goats slowly clambering over the mountainside.

“Huh. Well then. Go. Run. Kill!”

The dog seemed to frown at him, before looking back up at the goats.

Arngrim pulled out a steel knife. It was all he could afford at Markath, and right now he wished he’d bought a bow instead. The dog was just standing there, waiting.

“Right then. Lets go get dinner.”

He tried to be stealthy, but the damn goats could smell him and took flight. They ran for hours up the mountainside, past trickling steams and into valleys until eventually he cornered one against a rocky wall and managed to wrestle it to the ground. The steel cut true. Antrim set to the task of gutting and skinning it.

“Well, you were useless. You know I’m going to treat you the same as the old days. You only get a share if you put in the work.”

The dog licked at the bloody ground, then looked up hopefully.

“No. This is mine. You’ve already cost me enough.”

It stared at him. It’s tail lowed and it silently bared it’s teeth. Arngrim stopped skinning the goat and gripped his dagger tighter. Very slowly he lifted himself up and prepared to fight.

The dog leapt past him without a sound. Arngrim spun around and saw a bandit struggling, trying to push the dog away from her throat. The gurgling sound might have been a scream, but the jaws around her throat prevented anything more. They tumbled back onto the ground where the bandit kicked and beat against the dog.

Arngrim spotted another bandit, staring at his companion and trying to nock an arrow. Arngrim let  forward and drove the steel into his neck before any harm could come to the dog. The fight was over quickly. He breathed a sigh of relief while looking down at their bloody handiwork. New boots and a bow. Not a bad effort. The dog looked up at him, licking still bloody lips and wagging its tail.

“Guess you get some goat tonight.”

Arngrim: 28th Last Seed, 201

“By Ysmir its good to be out!”

Arngrim covered his eyes against the glare of the midday sun. The sound of hammering metal and waterfalls filled the air. His nostrils were filled with his own rancid smell. He ran his fingers through his hair and sniffed his fingers.

“Anywhere I can get a bath?” he asked the guard. A real guard this time.

“Do I look like a guide? Just go away” She said.

“My gear?”

“Really? Mostly sold. Some coins for your contribution to the wealth of Markath.” She handed him a depressingly light bag of coins.

Arngrim weighed the coins in his hand, then shrugged and hid it beneath the rags he was wearing.

The canyon walls quickly blocked the sun. Angrim walked along the stonework streets and kept as far from the edges of the many bridges he had to cross. Windows and doors were carved into the canyon walls, staring down at him like the eyes of skulls. In ages past there were dwarves living in this city, but they disappeared. Somehow the people of this city lived and worked crawling under these very stones. He reached out to a man just about to enter one of the metal doors.

“How to you live here?”

“The Warrens? You don’t really want to see this do you?”

“Why not?”

The man pushed the door open. The stale air smelt familiar to Angrim. Desperation. Illness. Degeneration. Torches added their flickering light to the debris filled corridors. The people looked half dead, with pale skin and sunken eyes. A familiar acid smell of vomit and skooma clung to his nose.

“Are they trying to bury you down here?”

Antrim backed out from the doorway. He would rather be back in Cidhna than stay a night in there. These are not houses, they are tombs. Nords bury their dead with precious token, but here in Markath, they bury the unwanted in filth and poverty. Only the dead can find comfort entombed in stone.

“How can you.. No..”

Arngrim walked down along the largest road and came out into a bustling market square. The doors to the Inn were wide open, and echoes of a lute washed over him. The patrons smiled and laughed and drank, but underneath was a wariness that Arngrim recognised. The nervous twitch of a prisoner expecting to be shivved.

“How much for a bed, bath, and meal?”

“40 septims. If you want some wine with that then..”

Arngrim counted out too many coins from his small purse. They clinked on the tabletop. The Innkeeper pointed at a door and handed out a large key.

He lowered himself into the embrace of the mattress.

“I’m not dead yet. But if I stay here I think I’ll end up that way.” He glanced at the locked door between him and the common room.

Arngrim: Cidhna mine.

There is a reason so many of us become bandits.

Cidhna Mine.

Throw a bunch of men in, give em pickaxes, and lock the door. Actually a pretty good deal if you don’t mind the damp. The walls shine in the torchlight, sweating for all the sins contained in their walls.

Mine silver, keep your head down. Do your time.

Once a week the guards come in force. They unlock the door, count the silver, beat a few heads. If we are lucky they leave some food. Urzoga needs to die. That Orc will make you kill her parents just to make sure nothing remotely like her ever exists again. If we don’t have enough silver ore, she doesn’t leave any food.

Amazing what men will do when they are starving. In this case, we mine like we want to dig our way into oblivion.

At least there were a few to talk to, between fighting for scraps and trying to not get crushed under falling rocks. Met a guy I ran with for a few years. Murderer, bandit, but could make a roast you’d sell your grandmother for.  He’d been holed up in the mountains north of Markath, almost to High Rock. But the Imperials dragged him in for trying to escape from a patrol

Imperials aren’t so bad, except for their lists. Love their lists. They can hold a grudge with the best of them.

Grisvar had spotted a couple of scouts trying to sniff him out of his cave, and though sticking an arrow in one was a clever way of getting away.

Never be clever. I should remember that.

Yep, an arrow in the knee will let you run away, but certainly gives the _others_ a damn good reason to beat you down. Now he’s in for gods knows how long because some bastard decided to blame him for a bunch of other murders in the area.

Thats what you get when you try to be nice to Imperials. Should remember that too.

But most of my fellows in here were, or are, forsworn. Grisvar says they are not like us. We just wanted a nice place to stay away from the politics of the Empire. No taxes, no bother. But farmers don’t like the rocky mountains for a good reason, and convincing gravel to give up a few potatoes is a waste of time. Its easier to farm few traders. But these forsworn, they don’t want to be left alone. They kill anyone not forsworn. Even other reachmen don’t like them so much. The forsworn want to take back the reach? Hell, give it to them I say. No nord wants to fight over some rocky ground.

Wait, did I say that? Heh, thats a lie.

We Nords are an ornery bunch. You draw a blade, you better expect to get cut. 

They should remember that.

Arngrim: 18th Last Seed, 200

“Gods-damnit!”

Scales was passed out in a pool of vomit. Arngrim’s feet were covered in an off white mucus, with small bits of carrot. He reached down and flicked a small orange fleck off his feet.

“I didn’t even know lizard could eat carrots.”

Arngrim walked over to the empty bedroll and used it to wipe away the vomit. Gunnar and Astrid were wrapped up in the other corner, whispering something about a caravan approaching in a few days.

Screw em all.

“Ainethach is better company that you sorry sacks. You couldn’t string ten words together and make sense.”

Gunnar looked up with a frown, before returning his concentration to Astrid. Arngrin pulled on his boots, grabbed his axe and stormed out into the morning drizzle.

It was only a few minutes before the sun started poking its head above the mountains, and Arngrim plodded down towards the river, head down and shivering.

The river was thundering and swollen, barely keeping within its banks. As he watched, a few rocks were torn away and tumbled down the river.

“I’m not wading across that.”

He glanced back up to the lookout, squinted for a few moments before growling and searching the nearby land. He grinned and started towards a high outcropping of rock. He stepped forward carefully and leaned forward, staring at the raging torrent below him, then across at the opposite bank.

“I can do this. It’s easy.”

He glanced back up at the lookout.

“It’s easy. Just need a run up.”

Arngrim slowly took ten paces backwards. Then took another ten. Then he let loose a roar and ran forward. The pebbles scattered as each foot was planted and drove him forward. His last steps accelerated as he launched himself over the edge, arms driving forward and legs still kicking as he soared across the ravine.

“Yaaaarrrrrhhhh”

He saw the opposite bank coming up fast, but just not close enough. He swung the axe forward, aiming for the bank. But the edge slammed into his chest. He released the axe and tried to scrabble up away from the river, his hands clawed divots out of the soil as he slowly slid down.

“Fuuuuu..”

The water reached up and embraced him. Arngrim tried desperately to keep his breath as he tumbled through the water, but the sudden impacts against the riverbed turned him around and forced the air out of his chest. All around his was froth and bubbles and rocks.

Everything began to go black when he suddenly felt the water fall away and his hands gripped gravel. He hammered into breach and gasped for air. The air hit him like knife. The air cut through his soaking clothes and pulled the heat out of him. He clawed forward and rolled onto his back, coughing up water.

“Hello, you look familiar.”

Arngrim blinked his eyes. A couple of faces slowly came into focus. Men wearing armour. Imperial armour.

“I’m sure you are mistaken” he said through chattering teeth.

“Oh no, I’m pretty sure about you Askelde men. You never could hide the scarring.”
Hands firmly turned him over and tied Arngrim’s hands behind his back.

“You will have time to get warm in Cidhna mine.”

Arngrim: 17th Last Seed, 200

By the nine, will they ever stop shouting at each other? It’s not even an argument anymore. Gunnar and his constant demands for more coin. Astrid and her bitterness at the Jarls.

It is no wonder the Jarl’s men are out looking for them. They never have been good at resolving conflict. Scales was sitting outside, oblivious to the rain, and the world for that matter. The miasma of skooma-smoke covered him.

But I needed a break. The village across the ravine had been tempting me for days. I grabbed a few of the gems we had gathered over the last week and went looking for more interesting people. Even faced with a swim across a freezing river and the long trek up into the hills while wet, it was still worth it.

The cluster of houses sheltered a group of miners and mercenaries arguing. I could smell real food and hear laughter from inside the hall nearby. That felt real tempting. Hadn’t had a good meal for months, and conversation? That was even rarer.

The mercenaries were yelling something about forsworn and protection payments... I pushed through the crowd to the mercenary leader.

"This is just about payment? How about you disappear for a while?"

I slipped a couple of gems into his hand. I could see the quick calculation in his eyes.

"The men could use a break. A trip up to Markath would do us all good."

He whistled and waved at the mercenaries. They backed away from the mob of miners and headed down the road out of town.

* * *

It was a restful day in town. Ainethach, the owner of the mines and town, was happy to have me around and I was able to break bread and share a few drinks. I took a few bottles of mead with me when I left.

"Where did you go for the day?"
I handed Gunnar and Astrid a few bottles of mead each.
"Just paid a visit to our neighbours. They're nice."

It is strangely comfortable, with a fire at my side, a drink in hand, and a view of the mountains. I can see the roofs of Kartwasten across the river. A nice day.

Back on the Horse

Well.
I love stories, and even more, I love telling them.

But I don't seem to do much writing, which is a shame. I got called out for this by @TaraUnscripted, and just maybe she's motivated me enough to get arse on seat and fingers on keyboard.

So begins the Saga of Arngrim.

Honestly I just wanted an excuse to pull out Skyrim again, love that game to death. The plan is to make a new character, play an ingame day, pull out the most interesting thing that happened, and write a short 500 word story about it.

Every day.

Lets see how well this goes!

Any feedback on the posts is gratefully accepted. I don't know what this will be like, but I am aiming to make each post interesting at least.

so I present - The Saga of Arngrim