The sun was declining on the Reach, tearing the crimson apart with its last rays. A wild goat roamed at the feet of a ravine, looking for some grass to eat. Its eyes caught the aggressive gleam of shining armours and the animal bleated then ran away.
“Shor’s bones...” grumbled Skjoll, looking at the fleeting goat on the distance. “I’m hungry.”
“Don’t worry brother. We will hit Rorikstead in an hour or two.” Despite Skjoll’s howl of despair, Vilkas continued: “Mralki sure will give us room and something to eat. The Companions helped him many times in the past. But if you’re too hungry...” he threw a bag full of food to the whelp. “Help yourself then.”
Skjoll thanked him and picked up an apple and a bottle of bear before throwing the back on his shoulder. He tore his apple apart like if it was a raw steak.
“Well” he started, his mouth full. “I hope the man has enough beverages in his cellar. I want to drink what it takes in mead to knock out a mammoth.”
Vilkas smiled.
“I guess we’ve deserved it yeah.”
Kodlak sent them to clear Soljund’s Sinkhole, a moonstone mine northern Old Hroran. The cave was infested with draugr. According to Perth, the boss of the mine, it was first cleared by the Thane of Markarth months ago but she disappeared mysteriously and was now nowhere to be found. As the miners begged the Mournful Throne for help, their Jarl contacted the Companions to require their services. “A perfect way for Skjoll to prove his value” had said Kodlak and Skjor.
Well Skjoll had proved more than once that he was worthy enough to become a Companion in the tomb. They had almost entered the mine that he had dashed directly inside, roaring like a legion of dremoras. He had beheaded several draugr before Vilkas could kill his first. The blond Nord was a true limbsplitter. But as any other man, he had his own weaknesses. Skjoll’s one was magic. And unfortunately for him, the epicentre of all evil in the mine was a dragon priest. It had been difficult to deal with it. The undead mage had raised their foes with its disgusting magic then had immobilised the two Nords with frost spells before shocking them with its staff. For Vilkas, it had been nothing, his Nord blood nearly immunizing him from frost and shocks, blocking the magicka effects with its thickness. But for Skjoll, it hadn’t been the same. With each spell he had taken, he had spat blood, cried out in pain and even been unable to move because of paralysis. A thing that had seemed to amuse their opponent. Vilkas could perfectly remember the way the dragon priest’s dry and rotten jaws opened to laugh as it had continued to shock Skjoll. A raspy sound, like the one wind made when it passed through the bones of the dead. “Hm? Shield-brother? Are you shivering?”
Vilkas didn’t even notice this until Skjoll’s question.
“Is everything alright? Are you cold? Want some bear?”
“Ah no, it’s alright. Thank you Skjoll. I was just thinking about this dragon priest we fought earlier.”
Skjoll spat.
“Fucking lich with its fucking witchery.”
“It wasn’t a lich, Skjoll but a dragon priest.”
“What’s the difference? The two damned things were weaklings who feared death and used their fucking magicka to corrupt the gift of Kyne.”
Vilkas’s eyes rose to fix Skjoll with a distressed look. Didn’t he corrupt his own life with the beast blood? ... No. He thought. It isn’t the same thing.
Re: Huge onyx wings behind despair (Until the light takes us/A dream of wolves in the snow) [2/?]
“Shor’s bones...” grumbled Skjoll, looking at the fleeting goat on the distance. “I’m hungry.”
“Don’t worry brother. We will hit Rorikstead in an hour or two.” Despite Skjoll’s howl of despair, Vilkas continued: “Mralki sure will give us room and something to eat. The Companions helped him many times in the past. But if you’re too hungry...” he threw a bag full of food to the whelp. “Help yourself then.”
Skjoll thanked him and picked up an apple and a bottle of bear before throwing the back on his shoulder. He tore his apple apart like if it was a raw steak.
“Well” he started, his mouth full. “I hope the man has enough beverages in his cellar. I want to drink what it takes in mead to knock out a mammoth.”
Vilkas smiled.
“I guess we’ve deserved it yeah.”
Kodlak sent them to clear Soljund’s Sinkhole, a moonstone mine northern Old Hroran. The cave was infested with draugr. According to Perth, the boss of the mine, it was first cleared by the Thane of Markarth months ago but she disappeared mysteriously and was now nowhere to be found. As the miners begged the Mournful Throne for help, their Jarl contacted the Companions to require their services. “A perfect way for Skjoll to prove his value” had said Kodlak and Skjor.
Well Skjoll had proved more than once that he was worthy enough to become a Companion in the tomb. They had almost entered the mine that he had dashed directly inside, roaring like a legion of dremoras. He had beheaded several draugr before Vilkas could kill his first. The blond Nord was a true limbsplitter. But as any other man, he had his own weaknesses. Skjoll’s one was magic. And unfortunately for him, the epicentre of all evil in the mine was a dragon priest. It had been difficult to deal with it. The undead mage had raised their foes with its disgusting magic then had immobilised the two Nords with frost spells before shocking them with its staff. For Vilkas, it had been nothing, his Nord blood nearly immunizing him from frost and shocks, blocking the magicka effects with its thickness. But for Skjoll, it hadn’t been the same. With each spell he had taken, he had spat blood, cried out in pain and even been unable to move because of paralysis. A thing that had seemed to amuse their opponent. Vilkas could perfectly remember the way the dragon priest’s dry and rotten jaws opened to laugh as it had continued to shock Skjoll. A raspy sound, like the one wind made when it passed through the bones of the dead.
“Hm? Shield-brother? Are you shivering?”
Vilkas didn’t even notice this until Skjoll’s question.
“Is everything alright? Are you cold? Want some bear?”
“Ah no, it’s alright. Thank you Skjoll. I was just thinking about this dragon priest we fought earlier.”
Skjoll spat.
“Fucking lich with its fucking witchery.”
“It wasn’t a lich, Skjoll but a dragon priest.”
“What’s the difference? The two damned things were weaklings who feared death and used their fucking magicka to corrupt the gift of Kyne.”
Vilkas’s eyes rose to fix Skjoll with a distressed look. Didn’t he corrupt his own life with the beast blood? ... No. He thought. It isn’t the same thing.