The sun was at the peak of its climb into the sky by the time Fort Graymoor came into view in the distance. The day was sunny and dry, though the chill breeze did its best to steal the sun’s heat. The sounds of the city had long since faded into the distance, replaced by birdsong and the russling grass. The horse’s hoofbeats kept time with FI’s footsteps as she led it further away from its home.
Fi grinned. On days like this she could almost forget the dangers of the wilderness in Skyrim, and enjoy its beauty. It helped that Whiterun was one of the more temperate holds, a far cry from the Pale or Winterhold. She shuddered at the thought of the long, freezing weeks she had spent crossing Skyrim after the ship she had bought passage on had wrecked off the coast of the Pale.
Though she had been born and raised in Highrock, she never had had much a tolerance for cold. Her father had always said it was the Redguard blood in her, calling out for the warm sands of a home she had never seen. Aside from the cold, cities had always been where she found herself at home.
She sighed, reaching up to pat the horse’s main. Whiterun was far different from Riften, but… There was something about it that inspired trust; a sense of community. A fair jarl and a prosperous hold relatively untouched by the rigors of war- it made for a happier city, certainly. Riften, in all its unwashed glory, had been her home, but only in the Flagon had she ever felt safe. When she walked the streets of Whiterun, she didn’t find herself listening to every footfall, every little nise for possible attack.
It was… odd. But not bad.
Her thoughts were brought back to the present by the stone monstrosity looming ahead of her. Once, Fort Greymoor had been an Imperial outpost, but it had been abandoned in the Great War. Ever since then it had been habitually occupied by the manner of lowlives who congregated in the crevices of Skyrim- necromancers, vampires, and acolytes of daedra or other cults. Mostly they had been small groups that kept to themselves, Balgruuf explained. As long as they didn’t start preying off the roads of the hold and kept their arcane workings to themselves, they were ignored. But bandits were a different story.
Fi’s grip on the horse’s lead rope tightened as the approached. She cast her eyes downward, forcing her features to reflect weariness and boredom, while her other senses strained to catch any signs of the bandits.
She didn’t present the richest target, but it would be unlikely for a young Redguard girl to carry jewels or richer merchandise.
At the last the telltale clink of armor met her ears. She didn’t look up, and began to hum softly to herself as she walked.
The next thing she knew four men had leapt from the tall grass, circling her and her horse.
“What’s a little girl doing out all on her own?” the bandit in front of her said. He was a tall Nord man, with two axes at his belt and one good eye. His armor was a ragged patchwork of studded leather and steel.
Bounty [3.1/?]
Fi grinned. On days like this she could almost forget the dangers of the wilderness in Skyrim, and enjoy its beauty. It helped that Whiterun was one of the more temperate holds, a far cry from the Pale or Winterhold. She shuddered at the thought of the long, freezing weeks she had spent crossing Skyrim after the ship she had bought passage on had wrecked off the coast of the Pale.
Though she had been born and raised in Highrock, she never had had much a tolerance for cold. Her father had always said it was the Redguard blood in her, calling out for the warm sands of a home she had never seen. Aside from the cold, cities had always been where she found herself at home.
She sighed, reaching up to pat the horse’s main. Whiterun was far different from Riften, but… There was something about it that inspired trust; a sense of community. A fair jarl and a prosperous hold relatively untouched by the rigors of war- it made for a happier city, certainly. Riften, in all its unwashed glory, had been her home, but only in the Flagon had she ever felt safe. When she walked the streets of Whiterun, she didn’t find herself listening to every footfall, every little nise for possible attack.
It was… odd. But not bad.
Her thoughts were brought back to the present by the stone monstrosity looming ahead of her. Once, Fort Greymoor had been an Imperial outpost, but it had been abandoned in the Great War. Ever since then it had been habitually occupied by the manner of lowlives who congregated in the crevices of Skyrim- necromancers, vampires, and acolytes of daedra or other cults. Mostly they had been small groups that kept to themselves, Balgruuf explained. As long as they didn’t start preying off the roads of the hold and kept their arcane workings to themselves, they were ignored. But bandits were a different story.
Fi’s grip on the horse’s lead rope tightened as the approached. She cast her eyes downward, forcing her features to reflect weariness and boredom, while her other senses strained to catch any signs of the bandits.
She didn’t present the richest target, but it would be unlikely for a young Redguard girl to carry jewels or richer merchandise.
At the last the telltale clink of armor met her ears. She didn’t look up, and began to hum softly to herself as she walked.
The next thing she knew four men had leapt from the tall grass, circling her and her horse.
“What’s a little girl doing out all on her own?” the bandit in front of her said. He was a tall Nord man, with two axes at his belt and one good eye. His armor was a ragged patchwork of studded leather and steel.