Reinhardt
~ ~ ~
Let me think… Where… should I start…?
Ah, I know! The day before I left for Skyrim! I was in Cyrodiil. It was autumn too, I think, the middle of Last Seed. ‘Course, autumn and winter don’t seem too different when you’re as close to the southern Jerall as Bruma.
It’s all snow. Heaps and heaps of snow.
I remember the hike it took to get back to the city. Had to plod through a dark pine forest filled with pillowy white up to my calves. I was eager to collect my pay. Bruma’s russet brick walls and torches appeared in the dusk. They were a warm and pleasant sight.
The thing about Nords in Bruma, though? They’re too damn posh. Sure, they claim to admire traditions, try to keep the old stories, and drink enough mead to put giants on their rumps. The stuff you’d expect from Nords. But there’s no heart in any of it, not the kind you’d see in Skyrim. Fat coin purses and Imperial guardsmen patrolling the roads at night tend to soften people up, you know?
Oh, but I’d choose Bruma over any other place in Cyrodiil. The Imperial City sure ain’t what it used to be. The White-Gold Tower’s still in shambles from the Great War, a shell of its former glory. Kinda like the rest of the empire. I admire the walls of Skingrad, but not enough to stomach the pompous nobles that dine daintily in its castle. And don’t get me started on swamp fests like Layawiin or Bravil…
A couple of evening watchmen let me through the city’s front gates. Folks stopped to stare at the mean looking bounty hunter that walked along their streets, with his flowing grey cloak and plated steel armor. I like to look the part. A burlap sack swung in my hand and a greatsword hung at my side. The wind was raw and biting, blowing locks of brown hair into my mouth.
I passed by wooden homes in the city’s lower district. The people in Bruma build their dwellings partway underground to help keep heat in during cold seasons – which is every season, if you really think about it. As I climbed the icy stairs that lead toward the keep’s castle, I stopped to admire statues that stood along the way, memorials to heroes of the past. Some were centuries old I’d wager. Their faces looked like lumpy potatoes.
Large tapestries hung at the sides of the castle’s entrance, emblazoned with Bruma’s insignia, a black eagle with upstretched wings. I entered the castle anteroom and hung a right toward the barracks. Guardsmen were back from their evening rounds. They sat about candle lit tables in a low ceilinged room, eating warm meals with hardy conversation. There were training dummies and weapon racks scattered about, along with soft hey beds and some really nice spruce wood dressers.
I stood in the barracks doorway and singled out the captain of the guard sitting comfortably on a stool. I waved him over. As soon as the burly black haired Nord caught sight of me and the bag I carried, he sighed and got up from his seat. We’d done transactions like this before. The man was on in years but he kept himself fit and spry for his duties.
“Reinhardt, you bastard,” he grumbled mockingly. “Have you ever thought about taking a week off?”
“The thought’s crossed my mind,” I said with a wide grin.
We walked back through the atrium, turning into a small cramped room. Papers were scrawled on desks and shelves with discarded ink pots and quills. Bounties both old and new hung on the walls. I handed the captain my burlap sack.
“So who are you collecting for this time?” he asked with ale in his breath.
“Toralf Bjornsen,” I said, scratching my beard. “‘The Pillager,’ as you know him. That marauder from the arson incident at Bleaker’s Way. Two months ago, yeah?”
The captain loosed the string at the mouth of the bag, arching an eyebrow at the severed head that lay inside.
“He was a tough one to track down,” I chuckled. “His band was holed up in one of the old Ayleid ruins. Must have been at least six of ‘em in there.”
Scooping up one of the bounty letters from his desk, the captain pondered a moment before reaching for a bag of gold Septims locked inside a strongbox.
“Whatever you say,” he sighed, handing me the payment. “Here’s your five hundred.”
My brow crumpled as I held the purse in my hand.
“You short changing me, kinsman? The bounty said one thousand!”
“The bounty also said alive.”
“What? Let me see that…”
I snatched the slip of parchment from the captain’s hand. Damn it all, but wouldn’t you know – the bounty had been for The Pillager’s capture.
“Huh… Alright,” I grunted. “Five hundred’s fair.”
“Folks won’t be happy about this,” the captain chided. “They’ve been itching for another public execution.”
“And how much longer would it have taken you guys to bring him in, eh? Days?” The man frowned at me. “No… weeks?” I made a silent ‘Ah-ha!’ and pointed a finger at him. “Months.”
“The guard’s got enough shit to shovel,” he grumbled. “We can’t chase down every man who drops a torch in a hay bale or steals a sweet role.”
“Bah! You ask me, it works out better this way. No more Pillager, no more arson. Less trouble for everyone.”
“Everyone but me. I still have to file the paperwork.”
“I don’t hear your coin purse complaining,” I laughed, walking out of the room. “Shor forbid your hand gets cramped!”
I stepped back outside the doors of castle Bruma, taking in the chill of the night. Aromas of late dinner meals – stews, breads, and what smelled like cooked pheasant – whiffed from chimney stalks and windows. The snow was still. My feet crunched through the stuff as I yawned, heading to an inn on the upper terrace. Better beds there than the crap that passed for cots at the Tap and Tack. I’d slept more soundly on boulders.
It was then that I saw a man carrying a torch, running toward me. He wore a thick set of winter garbs; you could barely see the scrawny guy beneath all those layers. A mail bag hung across his shoulder. He stopped his run a bit too close to my face.
“Are you the one called Reinhardt?” the courier asked, between gasping breaths that vapored in the air.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I said, backing up. “You, uh, need something…?”
He pulled out a letter from his bag after some lengthy shuffling and handed it to me.
“I was told to bring this to you,” the man said. “Can’t stay and chat. Got more deliveries to make. If you’ll excuse me...”
And just like that, he was off. I stared at the letter, recognizing the signature. It was from my aunt Siri in Skyrim. I opened the envelope and held the parchment inside up to a light. She’d written to ask if I could come home. The civil war was coming to a head and my uncle Keld’s health was waning – she wanted me back for protection and an extra pair of hands. Even offered to pay my usual rate, bless her soul. The letter had all the glib I’d come to expect from the old woman.
I stuffed the paper in my pocket and continued toward the inn, smiling. Of course I’d go back. No hesitation. A true Nord never abandons his family. My aunt and uncle raised me almost as much as ma did. They were good people stuck in hard times. Wasn’t sure how long I’d stay, but at least long enough to see their needs met. My thoughts wandered to times past.
It’d been years since I last visited Helgen. I wondered how the place had changed.
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ooo, the plot thickens!