Son Of Skyrim Entry #1

  • Tirdas, 29th of Last Seed, 4E 202


    Ragnar!” A man exclaimed as be burst through the wooden door. The man was tall with long blonde hair that was braided in the back to keep it out of his face. The man was well-built but wasn’t that muscular. At least for a Nord.

    “What in Oblivion do you want now, Erik?” Ragnar retorted. Ragnar was tall and a mild bit more muscular than Erik. He was blonde, as a lot of Nords are, but had a flat nose. His most distinguishing feature was the trio of claw marks that scarred his other-wise feckless skin.  “Well?”

    “It’s those bandits we told you about earlier.” Erik gasped breathing heavily. The barkeeper’s son was still not used to exercise. No matter his talk about wanting to be an adventurer. Ragnar sighed but grabbed his iron war axe from the table beside him. Ragnar was only twenty but by the way the villagers treated him, he was the sole protector of the little town.

    Ragnar wore a simple tunic and rather plain leather pants. He slid the war axe smoothly in the harness that attached to his belt. The axe was in good condition for the most part but had some nicks in the edge, from years of chopping wood. Ragnar brushed Erik out of his way as he strode out into the late autumn sun.

    He quickly jogged through the hamlet and before being confronted with a wave of people running in the other direction. He dipped and dodged through the crowd to find the one and only Fjarin staring back at him. The Bandit was famous mostly for his work against the forsworn in the Reach. Of course, he had even replaced a few of the redoubts with bandit camps. His bandit camps, of course.

    “Look at these idiots!” Fjarin yelled to two nasty looking orcs behind him. Both were massive hulks of meat armed with Orcish weapons and armor. “Where do they think they’re going?!?”

    “Probably home, Fjarin.” Ragnar called out. The red-headed Nord glared at the crowd till his eyes latched onto Ragnar. “What do you want this time?”

    “Listen here, boy. My friends here are just looking for a good time. So, if you’ll kindly step aside I won’t have to hurt you.” Fjarin jeered. Ragnar palmed the head of his axe and stared at the other Nord. Ragnar had been training with his axe for a few years now, and he knew how to use it, but he had never been in a real battle before. He definitely didn’t want to start now.

    “Get the heck outa here!” A voice screamed from behind him. Ragnar turned slightly to see Erik holding a simple iron dagger in his fist. Fjarin didn’t take too kindly to being threatened. His ebony mace slowly slid out of its loop. Ragnar stepped betwixt the two. “Move, Ragnar!”

    “Get out of here before you get hurt.” Ragnar growled. His axe still not clearing leather, still trying to evade an inevitable fight. Suddenly, an arrow whizzed past Ragnar’s ear and embedded itself deep in the thigh of one of the Orcs. A scream of pain was joined by a battle-cry as a blur of brown and red flung itself past Ragnar.

    Ragnar yanked his axe out and charged the uninjured Orc. A deep green sword scraped out of its sheath as the two warriors clashed. Ragnar was inexperienced, but he tried his best. He caught the Orcish sword in the curve of his axe and threw a punch at the Orcs face. Note to self, never punch an Orc in the mouth. Their tusks hurt. Ragnar recoiled but managed to twist the sword out of the Orc’s meaty grip.

    The Orc delivered two swift jabs to Ragnar’s ribs before landing a heavy right hook on Ragnar’s face. Ragnar ate dirt. The world swam in front of him as he pushed himself to his feet. The Orc moved quickly and grabbed his sword from the dirt.

    He was in a bad position. Ragnar knew that, but there wasn’t much else he could do. So, he tackled the Orc to the ground. The two hit the dirt heavily. The Orc managed to hold onto his sword but Ragnar wasn’t just going to let him keep it. Ragnar grabbed the Orc’s wrist and tried bashing the Orc’s face with his elbow, but he just managed to scrape his elbow on the rough material of the Orc’s helmet. The Orc curled his legs under Ragnar, just as Ragnar got a good grip on the cross-guard of the sword. A swift kick and Ragnar was sent flying. The Orc scrambled to his feet. This didn’t last. A woman walked up behind him slowly and swiftly slit his throat.

    Ragnar lay on the caked earth and stared at the clear blue sky. He took in gulps of air as the woman approached. The woman was a Nord, with long-ish red hair. Green war-paint marred her face in a claw pattern. Laughing, she offered him a hand.

    “You fought hard, if not well.” The woman teased as she pulled Ragnar to his feet. Ragnar dusted himself off and looked around. Erik was sitting on top of the other Orc repeatedly stabbing him. The Orc was clearly dead. The woman followed his gaze, and growled audibly. “Get off of him, boy! I killed him already.”

    “He was twitching.” A blood-covered Erik muttered, glaring up at her. Ragnar paid no attention to Erik’s words, scanning the hills for any sign.

    “Where’d Fjarin go?” Ragnar growled picking up his axe from the dirt. He didn’t even remember dropping it. Guess that’s what happens when you’re knocked on your back by an Orc.

    “He ditched while we fought. The coward.” The woman audibly growled. She turned back to Ragnar with a small smile. “What type of warrior attacks an Orc dressed head-to-toe in Orchalum with an iron axe? I don’t think that would’ve even made a dent.”

    Ragnar shrugged before offering his hand. “The name is Ragnar, Ragnar War-born. I’m no warrior. Not yet anyway.”

    “Aela Grey-Stone.” Aela laughed, shaking his hand. “So, Ragnar, what’s an aspiring warrior, such as yourself, doing in Rorikstead?”

    “I was on my way to Whiterun when I heard about the recent bandit activity in the area. I had no idea it was Fjarin’s group.” Ragnar explained.

    “You’re lucky. Fjarin wasn’t wearing his ebony armor. If he was, he would still be here, and you’d be dead.” Aela said.

    “You think he’ll stick around?”

    “No. He doesn’t want the Companions snooping around his business. As long as we aren’t contacted, we generally stay out of it.”

    “We?” Ragnar arched his eyebrow.

    “Yes, I am a member of the Companions. One of the Circle actually. Though you probably don’t know what that means.” Aela smiled broadly. “Why aren’t you wearing armor, Ragnar?”

    “I don’t have the money…” Ragnar murmured, his eyes downcast.

    “Well…We need to change that, don’t we?” Aela said before turning and walking East. Erik jumped up to follow her, but she ignored him. “Coming, Ragnar?”


1 Comment   |   The Wolf Of Atmora and 1 other like this.
  • Sotek
    Sotek   ·  July 8
    I'm watching you......... Hahaha
    Nice chapter.... I like the fact that he has things to learn. it doesn't start with him being a master and he is ill equipped.