tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40357907929571201602024-02-21T11:15:00.134+01:00Northern LightsTriskele's TalesTriskelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00414374064376697630noreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4035790792957120160.post-10710281372607386462013-09-11T04:20:00.001+02:002013-09-11T04:20:23.076+02:00The Tavern<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Triskele really disliked Windhelm.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">With a stiffly set jaw she took a sip of her mead, ignoring the brawls, the yelling and the boasting which could be heard so loudly all around her in the tavern. It was a cold night, the fires were roaring and her people were doing what they did best: making noise. She sighed deeply and put her tin mug down, as another flew past her head, smashing against the wall behind her. <i>I have not missed this place... </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Across the table, her company filled her mug to the brim once more, not forgetting himself in the process. It made sense. Triskele was paying, after all.<br />“It's been too long, indeed.”<br />“You're saying that because this evening is on me, Sigurd.”<br />Sigurd, a citizen of Windhelm with a ginger beard that was his pride and joy, sniggered into his mug as he took a large gulp. “Perhaps. You should make it a habit, lass.”<br />“Not a chance. You know what I think of the city.”<br />“You never gave it a fair shot 'round here.”<br />“I do not give shots to a hellhole with foul streets, covered in muddy snow, and fouler people walking them.”<br />“You flatter us, Triskele the Cold.”<br />She looked past his broad shoulder, where two brawling Nords were having a go at one another. The stronger one managed to gain the upper hand, and shoved, without needless grace, the loser's head into a bowl of stew. “Indeed.”<br />A low growl, from an animal on edge, came from under the table. Sigurd winced and peeked.<br />“You had to bring that beast in here?”<br />Triskele reached a hand down, and managed to crack a faint grin as her palm felt the soft fur of Fenrir's head. “Beast? Look around you.”<br />Her acquaintance groaned and placed his muddy boots on the table. Triskele refrained from a comment she would truly love to make, and decided to get down to business. The sooner, the better. <br /><br />“Remember what we talked about during my last visit?”<br />“Last spring?”<br />“Hm-hm.”<br />She instantly noticed how Sigurd averted his gaze, looking around himself like a child who got caught stealing a treat. “I was hopin' you'd forget about that whole matter.”<br />“You know me better than that.”<br />“Ha.” He took a large swig of mead. “Well err, what do ye want to know?”<br />“If you know more about it now than you used to.”<br />“I do, lass, but it's honestly best to leave it.”<br />Triskele leaned back in her chair, giving a slight push with her feet to make it balance on two legs, and placed her legs on the table as well. Casually, she unsheathed her dagger and started to run the tip under her nails, one by one. “I'm not leaving it. Don't be an idiot.”<br />“Rumour has it that anybody who has gone down this chase ended up mad, Tris. Some daedric curse. Even if you find that barrow, you won't leave it again.”<br />She tilted the blade of her dagger in front of her face, the warm light of the tavern reflected upon the Nordic steel. In a blurred flash she caught a glimpse of her face. The cold eyes with the blue facepaint around them, her unevenly cut locks, some smudges on her cheeks. <br />“Give me a place, Sigurd.”<br />He sighed loudly and smacked his mug down. “Kynesgrove. Tha's all I know. Kynesgrove. There be some fanatics 'round there lately, looking for the same thing. You're not the only one.”<br />With a thump she let her chair rest on four legs again, and she slid her boots off the oaken table.<br />“I like Kynesgrove a lot better than this frozen heap of dung. Thanks for the lead.”<br />She tossed a few coins on the table and stood up. Fenrir jumped up as well, as eager to leave as she was. <br />“Tris...”<br />She walked out.<br /><br />Mere moments later, she had walked through the city's gates. She took a deep breath, glad to feel the honest cold fill her lungs, instead of the smokey air that seemed to cling to the city like flees to a stray. Fenrir padded at her heels, his tongue dangling out of his maw. As she walked towards the stables, where she left Creidne, she heard her name being called. She had to roll her eyes, and she raised her voice without as much as a glance over her shoulder.<br />“Your warning is noted, Sigurd. Good eve to you.”<br />“Hang on, lass.”<br />She gritted her teeth and turned around, crossing her arms across her chest. Sigurd walked up to her, panting slightly from his jog to catch up with her.<br />“I didn't tell ye everything.”<br />She stared at him coldly, and remained silent. He cleared his throat and continued.<br />“You aren't the first one to ask, Tris.”<br />“Yes, you told me. Some fanatics in Kynesgrove. I'll see it soon enough.”<br />“Not what I meant, eh...” Sigurd scratched through the ginger forest that grew from his chin and took a deep breath. “The other day, Bjorn was here. Bjorn and his fellows.”<br />It would normally not be possible, but Triskele's stare grew even colder. She pursed her lips.<br />“Bjorn.”<br />“Aye.”<br />“And?”<br />“He asked about the same thing, eh. The barrow, the artifact. Those things.”<br />“And?”<br />“I didn't want trouble, Tris. I just told him about Kynesgrove, is all.”<br />The ginger Nord winced as her fist knocked him in the shoulder. Despite his height – and her lack of height – he staggered back. “Ow!”<br />“Idiot.”<br />Sigurd rubbed his shoulder and looked as the short, dark-haired huntress stomped off. When she neared the stable, he called for her. “Tris! You'll never catch up with him! Just leave it!”<br /><br />The look she shot him would have frozen a flame.</span><br />
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<br />Triskelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00414374064376697630noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4035790792957120160.post-89675472472060438652013-06-10T00:32:00.002+02:002013-06-10T00:32:22.991+02:00Coffins
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">It had been three days, and Cerdim had lost his patience along with
his good mood.</span></div>
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The jaw of the Dunmer was set as tight as solid rock as he rummaged
through his pack in front of the dark, ominous doors in front of him.
She had never bailed, never left him waiting, never left a barrow for
him alone. Gods, if nothing else, Triskele was too much of a stubborn
and proud mule to ever leave a tomb for him to clear on his own. As
he found the box of lockpicks he had been looking for, he sniffed.
No, either something bad had happened, or she was after something
better, on her own. Since he had never seen Tris being set back by
anything bad – ranging from wolves to being surrounded by fifteen
bandits – he assumed it was the latter. And that thought was enough
to make Cerdim's current mood as poor as sour milk. As he grabbed a
lockpick and studied the large, ancient lock in front of him, his one
eye narrowed. <i>Sniffed a trail more promising, did you, lass? Your
loss, I've got a ripe piece of fruit here, and you are not getting
any. Nordic cow.</i></span></div>
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</span><div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
With deft, ashen fingers Cerdim twisted and turned the lockpick
around, as patient and gentle as a lover. He had picked more locks
than he could ever care to remember, this was no different. Tris was
good with it, too, but she lacked a form of patience that came
natural to him. However, she had an eagle's eye when it came to
spotting traps, an eye that had saved their lives on several
occasions, and he realized this was the first time in a good long
while that he entered a sealed tomb without that eye backing him up.
As much as he hated it, it made him nervous. Suddenly, the lock
sprung open, and dust puffed out of the doorway as the heavy doors
opened with a moan. Cerdim stood up straight, flung his pack over his
shoulder, and pulled his sword up from the sheath, just an inch.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>In,
find the shiny things, and out. Like I've always done. Not a big
deal.</i></span></div>
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</span><div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
The Dark Elf walked into the barrow, carefully stepping down the
ancient stairs. Outside, a wolf howled. Yet the silence of the barrow
was ten times as intimidating. Cerdim sniffed again, and held his
torch a little higher as he descended the stairs, into the dark.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
An hour later he had shuffled through empty halls and tunnels with
nothing but dust, broken pottery and the accursed cold of the ground
in them, and Cerdim started to think he might have made a serious
mistake by coming here and obviously wasting his time. Perhaps
Triskele had known, yet she had clearly lacked the decency to let him
know there were better places to dig themselves into. Cerdim cursed
as he walked straight into a thick cobweb he had not seen. <i>I
should turn around, leave this dusty heap of nothing, and find myself
a nearby town with a warm inn and warmer women</i>... His trail of
thoughts stopped abruptly as he spotted something to his right. The
way in front of him was broad, almost ceremonial, but to his right
side was a tunnel, small and nearly collapsed. It seemed like
nothing, but Cerdim had been doing this line of work for long enough
to know barrows were built to mislead, to discourage and confuse tomb
robbers such as himself. He walked into the tunnel and crouched with
his torch held in front of him, squinting his red eye as dust came
setting down. Before long, he faced a dead end, but the Dunmer looked
around him, searchingly. <i>You're not fooling me...</i> He smiled as
his eye rested on what he was looking for. Firmly, he pulled on a
rusty chain, hanging in the dark corner. The sound of stone sliding
over stone was overwhelming in the silence of the barrow, and in a
reflex Cerdim pulled his sword from the sheath another inch. Before
him, where at first solid rock had been, was now a doorway. He
smirked and stepped through, as eager and cocksure as a groom on his
wedding night. <i>About time.</i></span></div>
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</span><div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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</span><div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
He could feel the cold getting worse as soon as he stepped through.
He sensed with all he had that he was standing in a large hall, even
though he could not yet see all of it. But other than that, there
were other things causing the cold to now reach into his very bones
and thoughts. Something was wrong, felt wrong. Though, admittedly, in
a tomb that was usually a good sign. It meant something important was
near, something that wanted visitors gone. Quietly, step by step,
Cerdim walked into the large hall that reeked of death. He stopped
and held his torch up a bit higher as his one eye could discern
shapes in front of him.</span></div>
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</span><div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
There was a large circle, a pale, white slate of stone, engraved
with patterns that did not seem to be from this world. The outline of
the circle was sealed with seats, thrones of sort. Cerdim held his
breath as he silently counted. Twenty seats. What was this devilry?
It could be a ceremonial room, nothing more. But the wretched cold
that had been a small discomfort at first now made the hairs on his
back stand up straight, and there was a pounding of his heart that
was more than a little frightening. Then Cerdim noticed the coffins.
There were high walls around the stone circle, and set in the ancient
stone were twenty sarcophagi, each aligned with a seat. Each and
every coffin was sealed, closed. For now. The Dark Elf gulped and did
a single step back. No one would ever call Cerdim a coward, he rarely
fled from any situation and knew a solution to most inconveniences.
But he was also a realist, and he was most of all not an idiot. <i>This
place is Death itself... And twenty? Twenty? Like hell, not while I'm
on my own.</i> Then he froze entirely. At first, he thought the cold
and the quiet was playing tricks on his mind and ears, like barrows
tended to do to any sane mortal, but then the whispers became louder.
He could not pinpoint where they came from, they seemed to come from
the ceiling which was so high above his head he could not even see
it, from the cold stone below his boots, from the carved walls around
him. Cold whispers, voices that spoke in a language he did not know,
yet the message was clear. This was the last place in all of Tamriel
and Oblivion combined he wanted to be. The whispers turned into
shrieks. Cerdim set his jaw, turned around, and ran out.</span></div>
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</span><div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
As he stuck his head out of the doors, into the last light of day, he
gasped for air as if he had been swimming under water. He rammed the
doors shut behind him and leaned his back against them as he closed
his eye. Cold sweat lay in small beads on his brow. <i>Piss and ash,
what was that?</i> He shivered and then pulled his hipflask from his
belt. He took a rather large swig – he never travelled without some
form of wine or mead on his hip – and manned up as he felt the
warmth of the brew flow through him like fresh blood through stilled
veins. That was better, much better. He opened his eye again, and
squinted it in the light of the setting sun, far in the west. The
fact Triskele had not stuck to their plan, combined with the fact he
had just ran out of a tomb in fear for the first time in his life,
made his frustration rise to a boiling point. He threw his empty
hipflask in the dirt below him forcefully and roared. He hasted
towards his small camp under the towering pine trees nearby, where
his shaggy garron was waiting.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span><div align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>Tris,
you black-haired, unpredictable, cursed cat of a Nord... I'm going to
find you, I'm going to slap you and curse you to hell, and then we'll
get back here and raid this bloody tomb dry.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
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Triskelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00414374064376697630noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4035790792957120160.post-84867380249336370602013-04-30T18:30:00.003+02:002013-04-30T18:30:59.888+02:00Logs
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">A burning log
cracked in the hearth. From across the room, Thorald glared at her as
an aging woman with coppery hair was stitching a nasty gash that had
parted his brow. Triskele stared back, without any emotion, as she
slowly ran her hand over the grey pelt of an enormous, wolf-like
hound at her feet. She had a split bottom lip, that was it. Thorald
growled as the woman finished.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“Hells, mother!
Took your time!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
Ysold Grár walked
off to grab more ale for the family.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“Be glad I did,
boy. You want a festering wound instead of a clean scar?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
Thorald kept his
sullen silence, Triskele simply turned her gaze to the hound again.
The animal looked up at her affectionately. It licked her hand as
Ysold came back with mugs in her hands.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“I should spank
you both, acting like wild dogs to one another.” She slammed two
mugs down and filled them to the brim with foaming ale. Thorald's
glare deepened.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“Spank your
little girl over there for her behaviour, I'm the one looking out for
us. Triwold looks the other way, Ysengrim is a coward, it all comes
down to me. She's turning out to be a bigger problem than we -”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“Hold your
tongue, boy.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
Triskele had to
smile as the words growled from the corner near the hearth. There, in
the dancing light of the fire, sat a giant of a Nord, with arms like
carved stone and a mane of silver hair. There wasn't a single spot on
his tanned skin that was not covered in either patterns of woad or
the light, pink tissue of scars. His voice was low and hoarse, yet as
always his words had the ability to strike like thunder.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“Triwold is a
great man, Ysengrim is wise, and your sister is unlike any of you.
You think she'd still sit here otherwise? You have your worth, my
son, but do not anger me with your arrogance. Do that again, and you
will not set foot here for a month.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
A spark in the
hearth seemed to set the ice blue eyes of Thornn Grár ablaze for a
single moment as he stared his youngest son down. Thorald seemed to
shrink. Then he grabbed his mug and stomped up the stairs. Ysold
tutted her lips and Thornn stood up, slowly, and cracked his neck as
he walked to the carved doors of the house.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“With me, pup.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
Triskele got to her
feet, whistling. The hound pricked up its ears.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“Come along,
Fenrir.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
The animal padded
after the two, into the cold of night.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Crack!</span></i></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
Triskele stood with
her arms folded as her father swung down the axe. On the chopping
block, a log split in two, as if it was made of butter instead of
solid, hard pine. Thornn sniffed, put the wood aside, and grabbed a
new log.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“How's the lip?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
To their side, the
calming sounds of the river running over gravel and cobbles was like
a soothing song. Further ahead, an owl flew over, hooting softly.
Triskele ruffled Fenrir's fur as he sat down at her feet.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“I hardly feel
it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“Thorald will
feel his pride for days to come.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“He started.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“Did he?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“Yes.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“You started
months ago.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
Triskele furrowed
her brow. Thornn swung down the axe again. <i>Crack!</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“How did I?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“When you started
trailing off, pup.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“I don't see how
I-”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“Do you know why
I've built this mill?”<br />
Thornn interrupted
her and dropped the axe. With a single step he came to stand right in
front of his daughter and cupped her chin in his broad, calloused
hand. Triskele did not resist as he firmly raised her chin, forcing
her to look at him. She defied the world, yes. But never her father.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Why did I build
this mill, Triskele?
”</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“To split logs.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“Make another
joke and you will rue it, pup.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
She sighed. “You
built it for mother, for us.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
He let go of her
chin and folded his arms, just like her. As they stood like that,
under the light of the paling moon and the rose-coloured sky in the
east, nothing and no one could ever doubt they were father and
daughter.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“I did. After a
lifetime of fear, excitement, glory, sorrow, danger, agony, bounty
and loss, I knew that you can only dabble the dice with fate so many
times until the gods decide you angered them one time too many. If I
would not have chosen this den for our pack, you would not have been
born, Triskele.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
She cast down her
gaze to the cobbles below their feet. Her father was the only one who
was able to make her feel humble. Thornn continued.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“Think of that,
the next time you descend into some pit of hell. I'm proud of you,
always have been. There's a strength in you your brothers could learn
from, if they would be willing to see it. That strength allows you a
certain freedom and a certain opportunity. But there's bold, and
there's reckless. Would you toss my work here aside, what I have
built so you could live, for a rush? You can achieve great things, my
youngest. Do not die before you've had the chance.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
Triskele parted her
full, pale lips as her father turned around briskly, grabbing yet
another log for the chopping block.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“But I <i>am</i>
achieving things.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“No, you are
playing games.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
At her feet, Fenrir
looked at a hopping hare in the distance. She frowned, fidgeting with
the scabbard of her dirk.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“I'm after
something, father.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“You could do
better, and we both know it. Use your head, think. Consider your
steps. It is a great thing to have a goal, but as long as you're
toying with your journey, you'll never reach it. You're all over the
place.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
Triskele looked
away. She inhaled deeply, sensing and smelling her environment. The
cold air filled her lungs, the fresh smell of pine and cold water
awakened her, prickled her skin, and a breeze made her mop of
unevenly cut, black hair dance on her shoulders. She suddenly looked
at her father's broad back. The logs had his full attention again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“I should go.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“And where is my
pup off to?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“Windhelm.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
Even though she
could not see his face, she knew her father was smiling.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“Good hunting, my
Tris.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
She turned around,
then looked at Fenrir, who had eagerly jumped up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
<br />
“If it's all
right, I'm taking him.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<br />
Triskelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00414374064376697630noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4035790792957120160.post-76926641762397507622013-04-07T00:20:00.000+02:002013-04-07T00:22:21.647+02:00Dawn<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Gods curse you,
Tris. <i>This</i> again?!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Cerdim turned his
head to glance over his shoulder, in his usual sly and almost lazy
demeanor. The Dunmer seemed to consider life itself a jape, a jest, a
comedy he'd play along with until his inevitable end would come.
There was not much in this world he actually took seriously. So when
he saw his companion's giant of a sibling stomp towards the log they
had seated themselves upon, he had to grin.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">This should be good.</span></i></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Beside him,
Triskele regarded her brother with her characteristic calmth. She did
not bother with a reply. Her sibling, the youngest by the looks of
it, halted in front of them and pointed a dirty finger at the Dark
Elf. Cerdim fixed his one, dark-red eye on it, as if he was looking
at a bug.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“What have we
told you about...<i>this</i>? And your business with this fellow?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The short female
rose from the log, stretching her limbs slowly. “A few things. I've
forgotten.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Stop acting coy,
sister. We told you it had to stop. This Ashlander is bad news and so
is...whatever you're doing with him!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Cerdim's smirk only
grew more broad. The oaf made it sound as if he and his companion did
inappropriate things to each other in whatever abandoned cave or
shack they ventured across. As entertaining – and rousing – as
that thought was to the Dunmer, the truth was as far from that image
as it could get. He kept his silence as his one-eyed stare trailed
over the short frame of Triskele Grár. Oh yes, the idea of doing
exactly that which the world thought they did was more than appealing
to him, but he had already lost an eye in his life, and had little
interest in losing another along with other parts. Cerdim had
traveled with his raven-haired companion many a time, and had yet to
see a single male who left an impression on her. She was cold, his
slender friend, cold and harsh and calculated, almost as much as he
was. It's why he valued her so.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Triskele folded her
arms across her chest. Her blue eyes narrowed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“You're drunk,
Thorald. And you're interrupting.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Stop pissin'
about, little sister. Come inside and let this vermin be on its way.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“What did you
call me?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“I called you
what you are – my little sister. Now come along.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Cerdim smiled,
scratching the cloth covering the empty socket that once held an eye.
<i>Wrong.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Triskele did not
move. Her jaw tightened. “I'm not little.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“You bloody are.
Come on.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Thorald grabbed her
upper arm, but his wits were muddled and what was worse: he had
called her 'little'. As soon as his fingers pinched in Triskele's
arm, she spat in his face and gave him a hard push. Her tall brother
fell with his back in the dirt of the riverbank, and a moment later
Triskele jumped on top of him, aiming a clenched fist for his face.
Cerdim never dropped his calm, amused smile as he lazily stood up
from the log, cracking his neck side to side. He took a deep breath,
the cold of night filling his lungs, completely at peace, as if he
did not even hear the two siblings behind him in the dirt, beating
the living hell out of one another. Cerdim strapped his bow across
his back and shot a look over his shoulder.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“I'll see you
soon, Tris.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">His companion, held
in a firm clench by Thorald's upper arm around her neck, gritted her
teeth as she rammed an elbow into her brother's groin. As he let go
of her with a wail, she took the moment of respite to give Cerdim a
curt nod.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Of course,
Cerdim.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">She panted and
turned around, just in time to dodge the wooden beam Thorald swung at
her. Her brother roared in anger, and the last Cerdim glimpsed was
the image of both Triskele and Thorald grabbing each other's hair,
pulling and kicking. He smiled, and walked away.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Cerdim did not stop
walking, not until dawn. As he quietly scaled the woods, his thoughts
were with the barrow. There was no doubt in his mind – nobody had
touched the place. If the stories were true, he would come across a
very royal amount of bounty, if they would manage to find the doors
nobody had found before. He calmly hopped over a small stream,
scaring off a wandering deer. His thoughts turned to his short
friend. For the past year they had raided tombs together, ever since
they had run into each other near the barrows around Windhelm. They
had both aimed arrows at one another, and had in the end decided to
let the other live, at least until they had made their way to the
surface. Luckily for him, she had deemed him worthy of drawing breath
as soon as they had crawled out of that pit. <i>As I do her, and I
don't think that of many people.</i> He frowned as he thought of
their past endeavours. Cerdim was an outcast, an outlaw, a thug
without much of a conscience left to him. He was honest about his
goals and his purpose – there was no nobility to his cause. That
was why he did what he did. But Triskele, she was different.</span><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">She never wants a choice part, never
wants a big share, and if I insist, she dumps it somewhere. I have
raided with her for over a year, and still I know not what moves her
to do this...</span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">His trail of
thoughts stopped along with his feet. Ahead of him lay the bleak
stones he had been looking for. He whistled a song between his teeth
as he made his camp under a large sentinel nearby, the smell of pine,
dew and snow cheering him up. After a while Cerdim sat down, his back
resting against the bark of the tree, his single red eye on the
barrow ahead.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">He'd wait here.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
Triskelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00414374064376697630noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4035790792957120160.post-41849400595828210572013-02-08T01:16:00.003+01:002013-02-08T01:16:27.736+01:00The Mine<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Seven days earlier...</strong></span></i></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“...And ever
since it's been a nightmare.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
The miner,
trembling, wiped cold sweat from his brow after he concluded his
story to the two riders before him. Still in the saddle of her grey
mare, Triskele shifted slightly as she wriggled her foot, resting in
the stirrup. Her cold eyes gave nothing away as she shot her
companion a look, pale lips pursed. Said companion, a Dunmer with
dusky skin and an attire that seemed to consist out of grey rags and
old leather, much favoured by moths, stirred slightly on top of his
exceptionally scrawny garron as he returned her gaze. The nod between
them could hardly be perceived, and then they both dismounted at
once. The miner rubbed his hands together anxiously, looking between
the two as they grabbed certain things from their saddlebags –
pouches, some flasks, bolts, lockpicks, arrows, and more.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“That's...That's
it? You don't want some rest first, or food? I could ask my wife
to--”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
The Dunmer
interrupted the trembling man, the light of the rising moon
reflecting upon his one black eye as he turned around. The other eye,
for some reason, was hidden under grey cloth, wrapped around the Dark
Elf's head, making the wild, black locks of his hair sprout from
under and around the fabric wildly, as untamed as he was.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“Good man, do you
want your workers to enter the mine tomorrow or not?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“I—Well, yes.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“Then we'll get
on with it. Just pay us when we get out.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
The miner gaped
after the two as they walked past him without further ado, into the
dark shaft that led to the mine. The hinges of the iron gate rattled
as the Elf pulled them open, and then a cold smack sounded through
the night's quiet. Then the miner heard nothing further, save the
pounding of his heart.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
<br />
The two stood still
at the first turn. Triskele strapped her bow from her back, running a
hand along the taut string as her companion raised a small torch over
their heads. Further down the mine, an eerie light seemed to shine on
its own. Triskele perked a dark eyebrow with a smirk, and the Dunmer
clacked his tongue.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“Well, there you
have it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
Triskele ignored
his jesting demeanor, like she usually did, and drew an arrow from
the quiver on her back as she stepped in front of him, in a crouch.
Behind her, the Dunmer unsheathed his slender blade – it was by far
his most prized possession, although that didn't mean much, in his
case.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“The fools dug
too deep, and now they've thumped 'em awake. Bad for them, good for
us.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
Triskele took
another step, not looking back at him as she mumbled her words.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“Will you be
quiet?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
The Dunmer snorted,
but abided all the same. Quiet as shadows the two made their way down
the tunnels. After a while, they reached a steep and sudden descent,
and it was the Dunmer who carefully stepped to the edge, leaning
forward to look down. The ground had collapsed, now forming a pit in
the middle of the tunnel. As he peeked down, the Elf sniffed. As to
not break silence, he shot her a look that said it all. Triskele
crouched down on hands and knees and shuffled over, looking over the
edge as well. What she saw below, made her clench her jaw. The
whisper she sent her friend's way did not overreach the gutteral,
chilling sounds that could be heard from the darkness below –
sighs, moans, groans and shuffling. The sound of death.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“There's at least
ten.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
The Dunmer sighed,
clenching his hand around the hilt of his slender sword as he
squatted down on his ankles, ready to jump down. Triskele did the
same.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
“We don't get
paid enough.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
<br />
In the east, the
pale light of dawn touched the nightsky with gentle, rose-coloured
rays. The miner rubbed his eyes, anxiously pacing back and forth in
front of the mine's entrance. Prickling doubts and terrible guilt
shot through him as the sun rose. He had sent two people into their
deaths.
And what was more
bothersome – his problem was most likely far from fixed. Just as
the miner turned around to walk the short distance to the village and
confess to his workers the situation looked more grim than ever, the
iron gate behind him squeeked and slammed shut, making the man cry
out in shock.Wide-eyed, the miner saw the two companions ascend from
the shaft. Both the Nord and the Dunmer looked tired, covered in
scabs, bruises, cobwebs and bone dust. The black-haired female, who
had only three arrows left in her quiver, stepped forward and tossed
something in front of the miner – a particularly old and rusty
helmet. As it fell at his feet with a thud, the miner cried out once
more. A skull fell out of the helmet, a sickly green glow still
emanating from the bone. The miner shuddered and gaped at the horror,
before looking in the woman's cold, blue eyes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
<br />
“Next time, don't
dig too deep.”</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Triskelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00414374064376697630noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4035790792957120160.post-90229122075036773772012-11-19T02:00:00.001+01:002012-11-19T02:01:07.024+01:00Moonlight<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div align="left" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Bang!</span><br /><br />The sound of two fists entwined smacking down on the wooden table, only enforced by the studded cuffs around two wrists. Thorald grinned and roared as the revelers threw their arms in the air and cheered. Across the crudely carved, oaken table his opponent spat out a curse and pulled his sticky hand out of Thorald's grip.<br />“Hells, the little Grár-pup grew some muscle!”<br />Thorald smiled as charmingly as a Nord could muster, leaning backwards as a cheering woman snaked her arms around his neck. The tavern applauded, and the golden sound of clinking coin could vaguely be heard as debts were paid after the armwrestling. The smart ones just won their bets, Thorald thought to himself. He caught a glimpse of Ysengrim in the corner, downing ale as he was speaking to his usual friends. Triwold wasn't anywhere near, knowing him. Thorald laughed as he rose from the benches, relishing the pats on his back and the giggling glimpses from the tavern wenches. Life was good.<br /><br />As he staggered to the counter, slightly swaying after his sixth mug of ale, he noticed a girl with hazel eyes and hair like honey stealing a glance with a shy smile. <span style="font-style: italic;">Ah, Gerthrud, your sweet smile, your dimpled cheeks, your hips made for bringing sons into this world... If only I was home more often.</span> Thorald could not help himself, and paused at the counter before going outside. With a sly grin he leaned on his elbows, cocking his head aside like a predator looking at his prey.<br />“Do you ever stop growing more beautiful, little flower?”<br />The girl poked her tongue out, cleaning out mugs with her small hands. “Is there a single wench in this tavern you haven't asked the same question, Thorald?”<br />“Don't be like that, Gerthrud, come now.”<br />“Go home, you're drunk.”<br />“I'm in love!”<br />“With yourself, now get out.”<br />The girl gave him another scoffing look before she turned around to the kitchen, hips swaying as she walked off. Thorald snickered and opened the doors. The night's cold hit him in the face, as if he surfaced from a hot bath, into the chill of the lands he called home. <span style="font-style: italic;">She wants me. Who doesn't?</span><br /><br />Thorald walked around the tavern, muffled sounds of cheering, mugs breaking and the bard playing coming through the walls and closed windows. Humming along to the song, the youngest brother found himself a quiet spot to empty his bladder. Groaning loudly, he cracked his neck, bending it from side to side. <span style="font-style: italic;">The ale's running through me like water through a leak. I should have eaten more.</span> He sniffed, taking in the cold air to get rid of his groggy senses. Suddenly, he heard muffled voices. He leaned forward, adjusting his leather armour again now that he was done with nature's calling, and took a few silent steps. Down by the stream, he spotted two figures, sitting on a wooden log as they had their quiet conversation. It was dark, thick clouds covered the stars like a silvery blanket, and he could only see their backs. One was smaller than the other, a slender figure in leathers, with a mop of dark hair. It didn't take Thorald long to figure out who that was. <span style="font-style: italic;">Tris, as usual being a hermit and refusing to join the reveling, crazy lass...</span> He turned his attention to the larger figure to his sister's right. As he silently snuck up on the two, avoiding twigs and the like as well as he could in his state, he heard the figure speak. A harsh, low voice, raspy and with an accent foreign to these lands. Tris had strange friends. In fact, she had none. But her acquaintances all had something queer about them. Thorald held his breath, the steady beat of his heart making it harder to make out what the two were discussing. Then, above their heads, a shred of clouds made way for the moonlight. He could make out the shapes and colours of the second figure, a dusky tone, pointed ears, and cloth wrapped around his head. <span style="font-style: italic;">I'll be damned...</span> With a loud crack, Thorald jumped out of the shadows, stomping up behind the two. Triskele calmly turned her head, peering over her shoulder. In the light of the moon, her icy eyes regarded him passively. Thorald clenched his jaw and pointed a finger at the figure to her side.<br /><br />“Gods curse you, Tris. <span style="font-style: italic;">This</span> again?!”</span> </div>
Triskelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00414374064376697630noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4035790792957120160.post-68474611851888392712012-10-29T01:33:00.000+01:002012-11-19T12:10:01.197+01:00The Pass<center>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The frost had frozen the pass, turning
the grey stone of the mountain slippery and slick with a flim of ice
and hardened snow. A faulty step could mean a life's end, at this
height. Still, the pass was the quickest way home, and none of them
was apprehensive.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Least of all her.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Triskele sat back in the saddle as her
grey mare loyally climbed the pass, sure-footed as always. Up in the
mountains, when on horseback, it was always best to let the horse
find the way, and not interfere. The less interference, the less
likely you were to fall to your death. She tilted her head in her
neck as an eagle cried over their heads. A few feet behind her, her
brothers formed her tail, their garrons following the steps of her
mare. It was always like this. When it came to leading the way, they
left it either to her or to Triwold. And when Thorald would sometimes
stubbornly insist, she'd simply not follow at all.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The eagle flew out of sight, and
Triskele turned her blue gaze back on the thin path ahead of them.
They would be fine. Before nightfall, the horses would have led them
over. She had no concerns, not in this season. The snows were still
gentle. Behind her, Ysengrim called out.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“You're sure quick to put yourself in
charge again, Tris, as usual!”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Shut up, Grim. You know it's the
fastest this way. Creidne's step is as certain as a goat's, and Tris
has better eyes than you.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Triskele smiled thinly as she heard
Triwold silence both her brothers behind her. They held her little
trip against her, they usually scoffed at her strongheaded outlook
and actions. But not Triwold. He understood.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">She swayed slightly in the saddle when
Creidne, her mare, trotted under a sole pine tree, the branches
drooping under the weight of fresh snow. As she brushed against the
snow-caked green, the snow fell over her shoulders. Behind her, she
heard the muffled curses of her brothers sharing the same fate.
Triskele did not mind Skyrim's cold kisses. It made them who they
were. As her mare turned a corner, she bit her pale lip, thinking
about her last three days. She had left her brothers, deciding they'd
be more of an annoyance than aid in this matter. For the past years,
the Grár-siblings had hunted together, gathered game, sold hides,
taken on jobs to aid those who could afford some helping hands with a
delivery that needed protection, a troublesome pack of bandits,
whatever there was to do. But when it came to tombs, her brothers had
always stayed away.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">She didn't.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Triwold knew what she was doing, the
other two could probably figure it out. Triskele did not fear ancient
curses, if nothing else she enjoyed defying laws, old ones and new.
She looked down at her hands in fingerless gloves, holding Creidne's
reins. The dark leather was still dappled with dusty spots. Bone
dust, it got everywhere, like that fine sand in the southern reaches
of Tamriel. She hated it. Her mare snorted as they reached the
summit, and Triskele held still.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“I told you it would be fast. The
snows have barely touched the road. Down there, see? We'll be home
before dark.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Up here, there was room to gather.
Triwold moved his garron to stand beside his sister, and gazed down
into the valley of the hold they called home.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“It will be good to be home, at least
for a while.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Thorald snorted. “I will not leave
again for at least a fortnight, you have all been warned. Gerthrud
has missed me, I'm sure of it.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Ysengrim ran a hand through the manes
of his garron with a snort. “She hasn't. There come a dozen men
like you in the tavern every day, little brother.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“There are no men like me!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Triskele smirked at the banter, and
gently planted her heels in Creidne's flanks. They began their
descent.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">When the reached the lower slopes of
the mountain, Triwold came to ride beside her. For a time, they both
did not speak. They were the only two Grárs who could ride beside
each other in utter silence and be content, something neither
Ysengrim nor Thorald would ever understand. After a while, however,
Triwold spoke all the same.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“So, did you find it?”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Find what, Wold?”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Whatever it was that made you go
there.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Triskele curled her lips slightly. “No,
but I know where to look next.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Triwold shook his head, locks of black
hair much like her own dangling around his stubbly cheeks.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“This can only go terribly wrong one
day, Tris. Sorcery, curses, ghosts, what do we know of that? Let us
stay where we were born and belong – in the woods, not a crypt.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">She did not reply. She knew he didn't
expect her to either. The sun was starting to set, and they reached
even ground again. Ahead of the company lay the road that led to
Falkreath. Tris had only one thing to ask of her brother.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Just don't tell mother.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Of course not.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Both of them nodded, as the horses
quickened their step. They could smell their home.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
</center>
Triskelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00414374064376697630noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4035790792957120160.post-40760881933948509502012-10-28T22:30:00.003+01:002012-11-19T12:10:21.056+01:00Campfire<a href="http://tinypic.com/?ref=8yz402" target="_blank"><img alt="Image and video hosting by TinyPic" border="0" src="http://i45.tinypic.com/8yz402.png" /></a>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“And
then she surrendered like a helpless doe and I had the best night of
my life.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Triwold
smirked at the boasting of his youngest sibling as he honed the edge
of his skinning knife. The flickering light of the fire in their
midst reflected upon the steel as he slid his whetstone down. Thorald
grinned broadly, his story now finished, and he looked from Triwold
to the middle sibling, Ysengrim, who was just shaking his head to
himself.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Come
on! No one ever succeeded in warming that wench, but I did. Hah. And
what a warming it was.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Thorald
sat back against a treestump, his green eyes toward the nightsky as
he reflected upon something that, without a doubt in his self-loving
mind, was yet another tale of glory to add to his already existing
legend. Ysengrim scoffed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Dragging
yet another gullible girl into your bed doesn't make you a hero,
little brother.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Chirpy
as ever, our Ysengrim. Did the frost get to your balls last night?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Triwold
remained silent, his eyes on the honing of his knife, as his younger
brothers bantered and quarreled like only brothers do. He could not
help himself – the corners of his mouth curled up slightly at the
trusted sound of their voices, having a talk like a thousand others
they had so many times during their lives. Both Ysengrim and Thorald
looked like their mother, with eyes the colour of rough emeralds and
hair like melted copper. Triwold had eyes like the brooks in the
mountain passes – blue, cold and clear – and hair as sooty as an
old hearth. Mother always said the gods had a strange sense of
humour, to inflict Thorrn Grár and an exact copy after him upon the
world, before she lovingly kissed both the cheeks of her eldest and
her spouse. Triwold smiled as he thought of his mother, whilst
Ysengrim and Thorald across the fire had now moved on to lovingly
punching each other. He did not share his brothers' colours, but they
shared a heartbeat. All the Grárs did.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">That
thought made him look north. Ysengrim released a laughing Thorald
from his iron grip as he caught Triwold's gaze.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“You
know her, Wold. She's just taking her bloody time because she's
following a bear's tracks. Or something.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Hm.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">As
the younger brothers stood up to prepare the elk they had killed, he
kept his gaze turned north, and his thoughts were with the only
sibling he had who truly looked like him. <i>For
as far as she looks like anyone... </i>Thorald
was cutting meat into strips as he pointed the bloody tip of his
knife at him.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">You
were the one who let her go, Wold.”</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Triwold
grunted as he put his honed knife away. “<span style="font-style: normal;">It
makes no matter, and you know that. Tell her she can't, and she'll do
it anyway.”</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">They
all snickered at that. It was Ysengrim, as usual, who had to be the
voice of cynical reason. “<span style="font-style: normal;">You
both know what I think. We shouldn't allow this. She strays further
and further each time. We all know she prowls those old ruins. No
good can come of it.”</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Triwold
threw a twig into the crackling flames. “She's a woman grown, Grim.
Not a girl in swaddling clothes.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Thorald
grinned in his usual fashion as he skewered their meal. “I think
she found herself a nice strong man. I bet you both, she's in some
cave under a pile of furs.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Triwold
gave his youngest brother a cold glance. “You know she'd kill you
for saying such nonsense.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">Oh,
I know. It's why I say it when she's away.”</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The
elk had been young, and the meat juicy. Hours went by, and his
brothers were growing more quiet as they huddled up in their skins.
It always went without saying that Triwold had the first watch. He
threw another branch on the fire as his eyes flicked north once more.
If she would not be there at dawn, he'd go find her. Even for her,
three days was more than...</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">He
jumped up at the unmistakable sound of a twig snapping in two under a
footstep. In one movement, his sword slid from its sheath as he
turned towards the pinetrees. The sound of steel being drawn woke up
his brothers, as it always did. Muttering and clumsy from sleep they
untangled themselves from their skins and furs and jumped up.
Ysengrim stood by his side first, following Triwold's gaze.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">What
is it?”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">Might
be a bear, might be worse.”</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Another
twig broke, a branch swayed. Then a grey, dappled mare stepped into
the moonlight. As one they exhaled and lowered their weapons. Thorald
frowned.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">Her
horse...”</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Triwold
set his jaw. “That's it. Something's happened. You both stay here,
I'll ride n--”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">I'm
right here, fools.”</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The
brothers turned as one, two pair of green and one pair of blue eyes
widened. Triwold could not help but smirk. There she sat, at the
fire, picking at the leftovers from the elk as if she'd sat there all
night. The flames reflected upon her pale skin, the blue patterns
around her eyes, and the cold blue of her irisses. A gust of wind made
her hair, a combination of loose strands of black and messy braids,
dance around her stoic face. Her self-made boiled leathers were
covered in mud and something that looked an awful lot like bone dust.
Ysengrim cursed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">Damn
you, Tris.”</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Triwold
sheathed his sword with a smile. </span><i>My
sweet sister.</i></span>Triskelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00414374064376697630noreply@blogger.com0