A light snow was falling as I walked west from Riverwood, but it stopped about the time I turned toward the road to Helgen.
When the ruins of the fortress-town came in sight above me, I left the road and picked my way up to the northwest wall, and began circling around it as my friend Faendal had advised.
It soon occurred to me that he may have forgotten to mention something...
I'm a vikingr, not a mountain goat.
The sun stood half a hand below its highpoint and rising when I began to pick my way down the rocks, and was a full hand below and falling when I joined the Falkreath-Helgen road.
I soon came across a sizable cottage. I hailed and approached, but no one answered. The door was locked, and no one came to my pounding.
I stole a leek and went on my way, old habits die hard. What kind of vikingr would I be if I didn't take anything?
As I walked on I wondered if I should return to the cottage at some later date and plunder it properly, or if that would spoil my new reputation as a slayer of bandits. After all, could the people here be expected to tell the difference between a noble and thrifty vikingr and a common bandit? Probably not.
The tangy smell of a coal fire broke me from my identity crisis, and I peered down the road. There seemed to be some sort of wooden structure built into a cleft through which the path ran.
I crept through the brush off the south side of the road until I came close enough to get a clear look. Towers had been built either side of the road and a gangway connected them. Two alfar bowmen... Bosmer, I presumed... were standing guard, watching the road to the west. They hadn't noticed me, and weren't paying any attention to the east. Why should they? Helgen was in ruins.
Which raised the question? Who would be traveling to Helgen, either? What was the purpose of the fortification? It wasn't a border crossing... I remembered that the border between Whiterun and Falkreath was on the other side of Helgen, as was the border between this province and the rest of the Empire.
Bandits, then. For what purpose I could not know. Nor could I be certain of my conclusion, but I decided it would be prudent to go around them. And so I began to sneakily climb up the hillsides to the south of the road. Eventually I came to a footpath and began to walk with less care, a wide expanse of trees and great rock formations shielded me from the bandit towers.
It was thus that I stumbled upon an empty camp. Empty, except for the dead woman.
I didn't get a chance to investigate before the cause of her demise became obvious. At least, I assumed the two screaming bandits charging out of the trees at me had something to do with it. The first came at me, swinging his sword like a madman, but my axe had more reach and planted itself in his chest with a sickening *thruck*. His eyes had time to widen in surprise before the life went out of them.
His companion was a nearly-naked woman with a war axe and a bad hairstyle. I side-stepped her swing and brought my axe around into her back. And that was that. I'd become desensitized to fighting and killing women and was beginning to wonder if that was something I should be worried about when a bolt of lightning shot from the brush and struck me in the chest. My body jerked and shook and my axe almost left my hands.
The assault let up for a moment, as the bandit mage stepped into the clearing. Laughing. At me.
But I wasn't nearly as disabled as she thought I was, and she'd stepped a bit too close, and, well...
I REALLY HATE MAGIC!
The lightning had left my stomach in ropes. I threw up, which seemed to help, cleaned my weapons, and looted the bandits' valuables. I was feeling peevish, and much more certain that the two Bosmer on the road were also bandits and probably in league with the three I'd just slain. And it's never a good idea to leave enemies alive who might want to avenge their comrades, so...
... yes, that's right. This vikingr got the drop, with a bow, on two Bosmer. Best archers and scouts in this world, HA!
I told you we vikingrs are sneaky.
The first never knew what hit him, the second ran over to his body and was still looking around for me when I leapt over a boulder and introduced him to my axe. He didn't even have time to loose the arrow he had drawn.
I still prefer a sword for a long fight, but nothing beats an axe for an opening strike.
The rest of the walk to Falkreath was uneventful, and I came in sight of the town early in the evening.
The air was warmer down here than in Riverwood, and a light mist pervaded everything. It reminded me of raiding the Picts. I was hungry and a bit tired. Hours of walking, fighting, rock climbing... it'll wear even a mighty vikingr out.
I decided to speak to the Jarl in the morning, and went instead to the building that looked like it might be the inn. A bard was playing some kind of stringed instrument, and a fire was blazing in the hearth.
I stumbled a bit as a walked up to the serving counter, and I may have slightly knocked into a Nord woman in heavy armor standing there. She turned to me and sneering, said, "Watch where you're going, this is no place for a milk-drinker like you."
Now, I've always been rather fond of fresh milk, but I can tell the tone of an insult when I hear one, and I was tired and footsore and not in the mood, so I shot back, "That's no way to talk to a vikingr like me."
She stepped away from the counter and faced me squarely, "What in Oblivion is a vikingr? And what are you going to do about it?"
I didn't want to fight anyone else that day, but she'd been so loud the whole inn was watching us and vikingr honor was on the line. I turned to her, and made a show of pulling my shield from my back, while giving her my best glare and growling, "Back away. Now."
That didn't work. She backed away, but only to draw a wicked and ragged blade with a green hue. I drew my sword and we faced off.
We went at each other then, in a flurry of sword strikes and shield bashes. She was skilled. Her sword danced around my shield and found weak points in my armor several times, but she wasn't as strong as me. With my shield I could knock her back, knock her shield out of the way, and land heavy blows with my blade, but her armor was tough. It wasn't until I landed a glancing blow on her head that she fell to one knee, and I backed off... giving her a chance to surrender. She'd been a worthy opponent, and I hadn't wanted the fight in the first place... I was prepared to be generous.
Then she pulled out a red vial and raised it to her lips, her body was encased in swirling light and suddenly she was back on her feet coming at me again, the cut on her head closed up!
I hate magic. I hate magic. I hate magic.
I was on my last legs, bleeding from a half-dozen cuts, and hard pressed by her new attack. I wouldn't last much longer, so I did the only thing I could. I shoved her with my shield, back into a support beam, then struck hard at her head. My sword connected, and she went down again, stunned.
And so I finished it.
Then I sank to my knees, and just sat there, bleeding. The patrons of the inn paid no mind. They went back to their meals. No one came to remove the body or tend to my wounds.
Falkreath must be a rough place, I thought.
Eventually, I found my feet again. Paid for some cooked meet, beef I think, and some bread. Paid for a room. Ate. Collapsed into sleep.
