A Collaboration by Karver, Teineeva and Lissette
6th of Second Seed, 4E 204,
4 hours till dusk
It was a lovely day not too far from Whiterun, with clear skies, save a few cotton tuft clouds, and a sun that was being rather warm even though the spring was only about to properly begin. There were still several hours left until dusk came, and a certain Orc in clean - albeit still bleached - college robes used that time to sprawl on a bench near the goat pen right in front of the homestead.
And this rather small Orc was quite enjoying that moment. His legs were stretched and crossed, his hands were behind his head and his eyes were closed, only to open only for few moments to lazily look at the two goats in the pen - well now there were four. Two big ones and two little ones that made a lot of noise. What did he call the big ones? Sharrum and Bataz, yeah. Orc names given to goats. Bloody sense of humor, right? It would make him shake his head in disbelief if he wasn’t so content with his current relaxed position, not really inclined to move.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed movement on the path leading to the homestead. Of course, he could raise his head and open both of his eyes, but that seemed like too much effort for him and so he just waited until he could recognize who it was. He narrowed his eyes when he finally recognized it was Tilma.
He remembered that she was once in a vision of his, stirring a big spoon and giving him a splitting headache. She was laughing a maniacal laugh while she stirred his brain. Grulmar blinked, putting the memory away. Tilma wasn’t that image, it was something else. Tilma, the person she really was, was walking quickly towards the ‘stead, her skirts fluttering. She was the oldest in Jorrvaskr now, but she still had a spring in her step when she was going somewhere she wanted to go. She paused and waved at him with one hand while the other brushed a stray lock of frizzled grey hair from her wrinkled face that was scrunched up in one of Tilma’s smiles. He didn’t respond, but there was no point because the old woman was in a hurry after all. Which wasn’t anything new under the sun, Tilma was always in a hurry when it came to cooking and cleaning and there was no force in this world that could stop her. Even Alduin himself, and there was always this joke in the ‘stead that it was she who should go to face the dragon instead of Shiny. Grulmar could imagine Alduin cowering in fear.
And so it begins, he thought.
Despite her wearing soft shoes, he could hear her feet stomp on the porch and then the opening of the door as she walked into the ‘stead without even bothering to knock. Tilma had the reign of the place. It didn’t take long for the Orc to hear the muffled voices of a heated exchange and he chuckled to himself. Yeah, it’s definitely beginnin’.
“Ow! OW!” a man raised his voice. “Stop hitting me with that stirring spoo - OW! Stop it, old woman!”
There were more words exchanged, ones he couldn’t hear, until the door to the ‘stead opened. “Don’t be such a baby, Farkas. It was just a stirring spoon,” a woman with a much younger voice than Tilma said. A baby, well not so much a baby anymore as he was walking already, was laughing in the background.
“You can let her hit you with it and then we can talk about it again, Greir.”
“She has - Owwww, Aunt Tilma!”
“That’s for sass. Now let me get to cookin’, the boar needs tendin’...”
“Wait! Boar?” Farkas asked. “Now what in Ysgramor’s Shield is going on here?” A moment of silence followed, until Farkas spoke again. “Greir?”
“Go talk to the Orc.”
“What do you mean by ‘go to talk to the Orc’?”
“Greir! Get your arse in here.
“Just what I said.” Grulmar thought he heard a quick kiss. Apoligizin’ already, are we? “Now, go talk to him before she goes at both of us with the spoon again.”
“Alright! I’m going to talk to the Orc!” Heavy stomping then followed and the Orc could even hear Farkas murmuring: “Right after I kill that fucking Orc…”
The steps grew even closer and the Orc sighed. A shadow fell over him and he opened his left eye. “Grulmar,” Farkas growled at him.
Here goes my quiet time. Just gone, in a rumble of a Nord with a muscle instead of brain. Or at least pretendin’ that. “Y’are standin’ in my light, Clonk.”
“I’m deeply sorry I cast my big shade upon our beloved Orc princess. I’ll move out of the way immediately. Is there anything I could do for the princess while I’m at it? Fan you with branches, feed you berries?”
Huh. No need to be so sarcastic now. But alright, if we’re goin’ to play it this way. “A cold ale would be nice, thank ya.”
Farkas grimaced and took the the tip of the Orc’s ear between his thumb and forefinger, pulling and pinching.
“Ow, damn it!”
“What is going on here, Grulmar? The Captain of Jorrvaskr has taken over the kitchen as if she owned this ‘stead. I mean, granted, she sort of does, but what in Oblivion have you done this time?”
The Orc slapped Farkas’ hand, forcing him to let go and he quickly rolled off the bench, then crawling under it to the other side, putting it between himself and the Nord. He need to put some distance between. Sure, the Nord wasn’t in his armor, just in clothes, and the belly was certainly bigger, but Farkas could be fast when the mood struck him to be. “Would ya just calm down? Malacath’s armpit, I still need that ear for tusk’s sake!” Farkas was about to jump over the bench and Grulmar quickly raised his hands. “Alright, alright! We’re throwin’ a party, for Shiny.”
The Nord stopped, one foot on the bench, frowning. “A party?”
“Ya Nords call it a feast. Ya know, lots of eatin’ and drinkin’-”
“I know what a damn party is!” he blustered, but then the voice changed. “For Ronnie?” The light grey eyes narrowed. “But why am I hearing about it just now?”
Grulmar raised his eyebrows, staring at Farkas. The moment of silence was slowly stretching and the Orc then opened his mouth. “Oh, I thought y’are kiddin’. Seriously, Clonk? Ya can’t keep a damn secret even if yer life depended on it. Remember the time ya revealed that ya and most of the Companions are werewolves to a notorious Knight-Paladin of Auriel? Yeah, so can ya really blame us for not tellin’ ya?”
“Just stand where you are and I’ll show you a damn secret,” the Nord growled, raising his fist, seemingly ready to jump over the bench. “That’s not what happen--”
“Farkas!” a woman shouted and both the Orc and the Nord turned towards the door of the homestead. Tilma was standing there, with Greir - little Ronnie in her arms - standing right next to her. Tilma had the stirring spoon in her hand and she was tapping it against her other hand in warning that both Orc and Nord clearly understood. “We have no time to waste, who knows how long he will be toying with that trap in Dragonsreach? So hurry up and carry the tables and chairs outside on the porch. And for the love of Kyne, if I find that you are touching the Master’s furniture with those dirty hands of yours-”
“Then how am I supposed to carry-”
“Wash the hands! Now!” Tilma raised her voice and then stormed back into the ‘stead.
Grulmar noticed Greir and little Ronnie giggling to themselves, almost like twins with their mass of red curls and freckles, which only made Farkas spread his arms in resignation. He probably learned there was no way in Oblivion he could win a dispute with his wife when Tilma was around. Leadin’ by an example for little Ronnie. Heh, if his other bun in the oven turns out to be a girl, he’ll be never win an argument again.
“Married life suits ya, Clonk,” the Orc grinned, which made Farkas snarl in his direction and Grulmar shrank. He wasn’t a wolf anymore and domestic life had softened him up, but Farkas was still Farkas.
“I’m not married, you dumbarse.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, y’are doin’ it the old Nord way. Looks a lot like marriage to me.”
“Just shut up and help me with those tables.”
“Uh-uh, can’t do. Got a more important job to do. Actually, the most important.”
“Digging a latrine?” The Nord replied, a sarcastic smile on his bearded face. “Sounds important to me and you would be the perfect man - the perfect Orc for that.”
“Hmm,” the Orc scratched his goatee. “I didn’t think about a latrine. Good thinkin’, Clonk. But no,” he smiled and spread his arms with little bit of theatrics creeping into his voice. “Y’are lookin’ at the welcomin’ party of this...party. Uhm, yeah.”
“Tsun be with us,” the Nord shook his head in disbelief. “Welcoming party for who exactly?” Farkas paused for a second, narrowing his eyes. “Grulmar? How many people are actually coming here?”
“Just a few,” the Orc shrugged. Farkas was about to reply, but the Orc’s head snapped to the side, towards the path leading to the homestead. No one was there, but he could feel the magic gathering, one of the Mark spells on the road being activated. Suddenly, there was a flash of light, like lightning without thunder.
“What in Shor’s ass was that?” Farkas exclaimed, while Grulmar just shook his head. One would expect that Farkas would get used to magic by now with Shiny being around for quite some time. Of course, it wasn’t like the Nord standing next to him was afraid of magic or distrustful of it, certainly not anymore, but more like… I am a little runt gapin’ at the tiniest portrayal of magic as if it were Shor’s miraculous cock or somethin’.
“Is that… Erik?” the Nord murmured and looked at Grulmar in surprise. “He was supposed to be in Fort Dawnguard. Did he just fall out of the sky or what?”
The Orc roared in laughter. “Did he just fall out of the sky,” he repeated, imitating Farkas’ voice. “Tuskin’ precious. Yeah, somethin’ like that.” He then waved his hand and smirked. “Didn’t ya see me practicin’ this one with Shiny these past two weeks?”
That had been interesting, teaching the big Altmer. And Grulmar was surprised, he was a good student, the desire to learn strong in a way that was… Grulmar sighed. Ya need this party real bad, Shiny. He turned his attention back to Farkas. “Now go put those huuuge muscles of yers to good use and carry out the chairs, darlin’. I’ll send Erik to help ya.”
,
Farkas just snorted, shaking his head. He walked towards the homestead and Grulmar could hear him murmur something about ‘fucking Orc magicians’ which only made the Orc sneer. If Farkas only knew.
The idea of this party was something he and Serana cooked up on the ship from Solstheim, finding brief moments where the Altmer was finally sleeping to plan. The problem was that it was on such short notice. How were they supposed to get all the guests to Whiterun in less than two weeks? Well, since the ship dropped them off at Windhelm, Serana had the unpleasant responsibility of visiting - only she, since Grulmar still had a bounty on his head there, and was also in charge of distracting Äelberon with a first lesson - a certain Telvanni enchanter in his workshop in the New Gnisis Cornerclub’s basement.
It surely wasn’t cheap to get so many scrolls of Mark and Recall, but it was absolutely worth it. Hiring couriers and hoping the invitations along with the Recall scrolls would reach everyone in time or at all...well, that was a completely different thing.
But as far as Grulmar was concerned, the most important guest had just arrived.
Erik the Slayer. Nah, Erik Talon-Hand now, the Orc shook his head, correcting himself. The Nord was walking towards the homestead and Grulmar walked to meet him halfway. It had been a long time since he saw Erik and he could certainly see that the Nord had changed quite a bit. There was an air of confidence around him, his steps more elegant now, like the steps of a swordsman.
The Nord still had his mane of ginger hair, though now most of it was braided, but what was different was the goatee around his mouth - the exact same one Decimus used to have. He was wearing a leather vest with steel plates protecting his stomach and his shoulders, under it was a red tunic with long sleeves which were tied by metal vambraces at his wrists. His shoulders were as wide as Grulmar remembered, but otherwise, the Nord seemed to have lost some weight, his body seemingly more agile now.
He carried a backpack, slung over one shoulder and there was a long sword of Skyforge steel at his left side, no doubt made by Shiny himself rather than Eorlund. Strapped to his belt was... not an ebony buckler. Well, it was made of ebony, whatever it was, but it wasn’t a buckler. It looked like a tusking armguard, which made Grulmar shake his head until something shiny from Erik’s shoulder caught his eye and Grulmar looked up from the buckler to see that another sword was over his shoulder, the silver pommel in the shape of a coin. That sight was something that stung Grulmar deep in his chest, the image involuntarily overlapping with an image of an old Imperial carrying the sword over his left shoulder. That alone almost made Grulmar’s hands tremble.
Well, what were ya expectin’? Solstheim was a bloody remote island which barely reminded ya of Decimus, but here? Everything’s goin’ to remind ya of him. So just clench yer jaws and push through, it’s goin’ to end soon. Very soon.
Grulmar and Erik stopped two steps away from each other, measuring each other with probing eyes. Grulmar’s eyes always adamantly honed on in Erik’s left hand, which had all five fingers permanently locked in a convulsive grip, like an eagle’s talons ready to snatch its prey. The Orc involuntarily massaged his left wrist, thankful his hand didn’t end up like that - though he still had few minor issues with his ability to move his fingers properly.
“Grulmar,” Erik nodded, narrowing his eyes.
“Ginger,” the Orc replied. And that was it actually, because Grulmar had no idea what else to say. He and Erik used to be friends, but… some wounds heal poorly. They were trying. The Orc cleared his throat, sighing. “I’m glad ya came.”
“I’m doing it for him. And what he’s done for me,” Erik replied, a hand moving to the armguard and Grulmar understood now.
“He made that for you?”
“Aye, he was so crazy after Snow-Throat, but there were moments of calm. And one day, in one of those moments, he took my buckler and said ‘I can do better for you, son’.” Erik nodded, tracing the beautiful carvings on the armguard, trademarks of Shiny’s work, and Grulmar saw his eyes mist. “And he did.” The Nord blinked away the emotion. “It’s time we paid him back. He needs us now, am I right? How closed off is he this time?” Erik grimaced, his voice rougher than Grulmar remembered.
The Orc smirked, inclined to shake his head but deciding not to. “Quite a lot. Not sleepin’ well, nightmares. Been eatin’ like a bird, drinkin’ coffee like it was water, and trainin’ like a madmer, workin’ on the trap in Dragonsreach and all that.”
“This won’t make him happy.”
“Yeah. But he needs it. Needs a reminder.”
Erik tilted his head and frowned. “You haven’t changed a bit, Gru. But… there’s something different about you now, I just can’t put my finger on it.”
“Yeah, quite lot of shit has happene-”
“That goatee!” the Nord raised his voice, roaring with laughter. He then went and hugged Grulmar, squeezing hard. “It’s good to see you, Gru,” he said, giving Gru a sound pat on the back.
The Orc just stared, unable to respond. He didn’t expect that, not even a bit. He was expecting tense silence and growled replies, but not damn jokes and hugging. Seriously, matey, when did ya become so serious? “Alright, alright, enough huggin’! Tusk, want to ruin my reputation?”
“I think you already did that with that fucking little straw on your chin, hahaha!”
“At least I don’t look like a tuskin’ dandy. Don’t tell me the women fall for that.”
“You have no idea,” Erik chuckled. “Come on, I bet there’s plenty of things to prepare. Is Tilma already here?”
“The Daedric Prince of cookin’ and cleanin’ has taken control of the homestead as if it was her personal plane of Oblivion.”
Erik erupted with laughter, shaking his head. “So what can I do to save my soul from the clutches of this Daedric Prince?” he asked as they walked towards the homestead, Grulmar only confused by how relaxed Erik was. The Nord seemed to put everything that had happened between them behind, only Grulmar probably kept thinking about it like a bloody female on her Lunar.
“Run,” Grulmar chuckled, closely followed by a shrug. “Probably help Clonk bring the tables out to the porch. We’re goin’ to have a lovely warm evenin’ tonight, well, for Skyrim anyway, so we’ll take it outside,” the Orc said, pausing for a second. “Did ya bring it?” He suddenly asked.
Erik stopped and looked at Grulmar, making a sour face. He reached for his backpack with his healthy hand, slowly undoing the leather straps. “Seriously, Grulmar, this is the last time I’m diving into a fucking cistern full of shit and piss for you. Yeah, I brought it-”
“Alright,” Grulmar stopped him. “Keep it for now. And don’t tell anyone about it, yeah?”
“Fine, as you wish. But you owe me a damn drink just for sending me to Riften, and several more drinks for all that piss and shit I had to endure,” the Nord swung the backpack over his shoulder again, shrugging. “I guess I’ll know when the right time comes, eh?”
“Something like that,” Grulmar smiled. “Now go help Clonk with the tables, everythin’ has to be ready before Shiny returns.”
“Yeah, Tilma will have our skins if it’s not perfect,” Erik laughed, going the last few steps towards the homestead alone. “Oh, and I forgot. I arrived with Teineeva’s stuff, left the chest on the road. He didn’t trust the scroll, told me some crazy story about those being used as a trap. He left Fort Dawnguard more than a week ago, so let’s hope he arrives in time. I’m happy he’s coming. I thought he wouldn’t for a time.”
Sounds like good ol’ Wager alright, Grulmar thought.
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