Sons of the Snow, A Skyrim Tale Options

[Rohirrim]

Chapter One: A Dawn in Fire
24th Frostfall, 4E 194, 8 Bells after Noon
Mandel Skjori, 18

He was sitting on his bed when it happened. His brother, Klargus, and his sister, Svelki, were with him. Their parents were outside, getting all the livestock in for the night. He and his siblings were talking about the weather, worried it might mean an early winter. Deep in the Pale, early winter was a grave matter. Even so, the conversation was lighthearted. They knew that come death or daedra, the divines would provide. They always did. Even after the great Skeever-Plague of 187, when half their stock was killed, the animals were breeding prolifically that spring. It was then that they heard it: the dull thud of hooves on snow. A moment later they heard shouting, and the terrified lowing of cattle. All three siblings rushed to the door, throwing it open. Mandel was the first to see them.

Riders, fast ones, with fire in their hands. They hurled torches at the roof of the house, setting it ablaze. The packed mixture of dung and straw was almost cruelly perfect for such a task. It caught almost instantly, and the flames were at least half the height of the house. He could see, when he forced himself to turn away, others driving away their cattle, setting fire to the chicken coop, even the mill. Mandel saw his father stumble through the snow, out of the darkness, pulling his mother behind him. His face was a mask of rage, his brow contorted in an inhuman anger, and he did something Mandel had never seen him do. He knew his father had the Battlecry, all Nords did, but he never thought he would use it. His father was a man of peace, a farmer and a devout follower of the teachings of Kyne. Some of the horses threw their riders, but the rest were almost unfazed.

Laughter, loud and cruel, erupted from the ranks of the horsemen. Mandel was almost ready to charge at them, no matter how suicidal, when suddenly, an arrow came whizzing out of the dark and struck his mother in the chest. His father, now mad with an emotion that defied description, a combination of anger and deep, deep sorrow, ran at the horsemen. Before he could do anything, though, a man who looked to be their leader rode forward and struck Mandel's father in the face with his sword. He was dead before he hit the ground. He had to be. The way he fell, it was final. Mandel felt this in his being, not knowing where the knowledge came from. All he knew was that he had to get what remained of his family away from here, away from these men. "Run!" He grabbed his siblings by their sleeves and pulled them with him, running like a wounded deer being chased.

And yet, chased he was not. When several of the riders made ready to pursue them, the leader held up his hand. "Let them go," he said, in a voice that spoke not of any race or heritage. Plain, unaccented Cyrodiilic. It was almost so perfect as to be unnerving. "I have plans for them, when the time comes. Let us leave, this cold is unbearable." He and his men rode away, away into the blackness of the autumn night.

Mandel was over the hill that surrounded his family's home when he heard an ear-splitting noise, like the noise a flag makes in the wind, only much, much louder. With this sound came a light, a blinding orange flash that shifted to a subtle glow. Mandel looked back towards the place he had called home, known since birth, and saw only destruction. He realized what had happened. The sacks of flour in the mill had exploded, as well as the many minuscule bits of flour and chaff on the cracks between the stones that the mill was built on.

He cried as he looked on, knowing that there was nothing left of his old life. He knew that for him, and his family, life was about to start anew. Klargus looked at him, his sweet blue eyes now widened in fear. Klargus was youngest, 16, and was both the largest and gentlest of the three. "What are we going to do, Mandel?" Svelki looked to him as well. She was the middle child, 17, and she had followed in the steps of her mother, learning basic Conjuration and Restoration spells. "I know that it is unfair, looking to you for guidance, when you must feel the same way we do, but we don't have anyone else to turn to. We trust you, Mandel. We will follow you, to the gates of Oblivion if we must." Mandel looked at his brother and sister, his tears drying on his face. "I'll tell you what we are going to do. We're going to find somewhere to sleep, and then we're going to retrieve what we can from home in the morning." All three dug themselves a hollow in the snow, and curled up, each using their cloak as a blanket. Mandel lay awake for hours. He may not have known it, but that fire would fuel his thirst for justice, and it would make him into the man he was inside: Dovahkiin.

This post has been edited by Rohirrim: Sep 14 2013, 03:39 AM

[Rohirrim]

29th Frostfall, 4E 194, 7 of the Morning Watch
Svelki

The bitter morning cold permeated the sea air. The high winds and icy spray were no help either. Svelki hugged her coat tightly about herself. She was on her way to Winterhold, she reminded herself, and she'd have to get used to the cold. She had spent the night before in the cabin of a longboat, a trading vessel on their way to Morrowind, who would make a stop-over in Winterhold. The oarsmen chanted in Dunmeri as they rowed, their bare chests sweaty and muscled. The sky was overcast, as it usually was in the Sea of Ghosts.

"Isra, isra!" (Row, row!) The captain urged the rowers on. "We should land in Winterhold around midday, sera."

"Juohn, Sera. Juli ouakhas, solsif ouafe." (Thank you, sir. Good ship, cold sea.)

"No need to use Dunmeri, miss," the captain responded in perfect Nordic, "I deal with the locals on a regular basis, so I can speak the language. And your pronunciation is gods-awful," he said, chuckling.

An exclamation from the lookout sent the men who weren't rowing to the side of the longship. Another vessel with black sails and shields mounted on the sides was heaving to in their direction. "Raiders. Fokke." The captain turned to a female Dunmer who was quickly flipping through a spellbook.

"Are they here?" he asked anxiously.

"I don't know, I have to call them first."

"Well hurry, they'll be loosing arrows soon enough!"

"I know, I know I just have to...there!", she exclaimed, pointing to a portion of the book.

The Dark Elf waved her hands, creating a complicated magical symbol, runed and blue, floating in the air. With a final thrust of her open hand, it dispersed, and a few seconds later, the sea erupted.

Huge objects burst through the surface of the ocean, creating massive wakes. The mage held the ship steady with Alteration spells, repairing and maintaining the cracked and warped wood as the ship was tossed to and fro. When the tumult had died down, Svelki looked over the still white water. The raider ship lay smashed, bodies floating alongside timbers and bits of sail. She was still confused as to what had caused the massive destruction. "What was that?"

The Dunmer girl smiled and pointed across the waves. "Look." Within seconds, Svelki understood. Her mouth agape, she realized what the mage had called. "Whales." Their bony crests breaking the surface, six huge fins at their sides, they shot steam into the air in a glorious show. Their low, deep calls were bone-shaking, and within minutes, they were gone.

The captain put his arm around the girl and grinned. "My daughter. She studied with the Telvanni for a year, and now she's the best whale-caller in the Sea. I'm so proud of her, getting into the family business."

Svelki had to cover her face to hide her tears. "That was amazing what you did there. I...I feel sick, I think I need to lie down. She ran into the cabin, and began sobbing softly."