Despite my technical difficulties... The chapter is finished at exactly 2am. Lol. I did not proof-read this however! (Coz I thought I deserved a rest) As always, comment plz and rate.
UPDATE (10/12/13) I CHANGED SOME STUFF NEAR THE END IN ORDER TO IMPROVE STORY IN THE FUTURE.
Chapter Four: The Jarl
Thane Ralon rode on his horse, in a hunched-up manner. His previous kingliness was nowhere to be seen. He was tired, and was not athletic type, and wanted nothing more but to be in bed at home, in Sunhold. They had been riding for two days now, and his mind and body had lost focus from his soul. His brother however, rode tall and proud on his silver-white horse. Ralon’s horse was also silver-white. And due to the fact that they were both twins, their appearances were almost identical, making it hard to distinguish which was the warrior and which was the scholar. In time, the people of Sunhold found a trick to this: By comparing the muscle sizes of the brothers it was distinguishable. Although both brothers had the same brown hair brown beard, Ralon lacked the muscle that his brother had. Compared to him, Ralon’s arms were branches, while Talon’s were tree trunks.
“Brother. How much further do we need to go?” Ralon asked.
“Just a few more minutes. Be patient Ralon, we’re almost there.” Talon replied, not even turning back, eyes fixed on the horizon.
Ralon was bored, more than ever. He could not read a book on a horse as it would make him sick, and he knew his brother or his soldiers were in no mood to play mind games with him at this time.
He sighed, and then suddenly remembering, he turned to his new slave. He was chained to the horse’s saddle, and his Forsworn headdress was now taken off. Ralon was still surprised to find out that he was an orc, but it explained for his insane fighting capabilities. The slave had white hair that was tied in the traditional pony tail, and his sideburns met his beard, which parted at the chin. He had no moustache, and his eyes were the typical blood-red eyes of a warrior orc. His teeth were also typically yellow, and the two fangs that jutted out from under his chin were almost like small trees, withered with scratches and tear.
“So, slave. Where did you come from?” He asked.
Basara the slave woke from his blank stare, as if awaking from a trance and looked up to see his new master, a Nord with brown hair and green eyes staring down at him from his white horse.
After a moment of silence, he replied.
“I… Don’t really have a home master. Forests and Mountains are all I can remember.”
“But surely, you would know where you were born? Are you from the orc kingdom? Orsimium, was it?”
“No master. I was born in a cave. I think.”
“Are you telling me you don’t remember your past?”
Ralon raised an eyebrow.
At this point, the conversation between the two was loud enough that others were listening too, with deep interest. They wanted to know what made this slave so strong.
“I don’t’ remember the times when I was but a child. My earliest memories are of a cold and snowy mountain, though I do not remember how I got there.”
The young thane was about to ask another question when his brother shouted out.
“Look! We are here!” Talon pointed.
In the distance, they could make out a small, fiery village, with a warm orange glare. Even during a sunset, where it is not yet completely dark, they could see the bright flames of the unique torches that surrounded the village. Jarl Fordolf and the soldier’s loved ones were waiting with smiles, greeting their return.
The two brothers raced to their father on their horses, oblivious to the fact that one of the horses was chained to an orc.
Basara ran as fast as his great legs could carry him, leaping in massive strides. At first, the acceleration caught him off-guard and he was pulled through the flagstones, but he steadily caught his pace with the two stallions.
The two thanes dismounted themselves from their horses and embraced their father in a hug, with warm smiles on their faces. Jarl Fordolf was an old man, with a mane of white hair and a white beard. He was identical to the thanes, except older. However, he was not a weak man. Jarl Fordolf was known to be violent against his enemies, earning the name Fordolf the Executioner. To his family and villagers, he was known as Fordolf the Father.
Still in embrace, the Jarl could see that Ralon’s horse had a prisoner tied to it. The orc stared back at the Jarl with deep curiosity, as he had not seen a man of such high a position before. Jarl Fordolf slowly broke away from the warm welcome and turned to his son.
“What is the meaning of this? I warned you, no prisoners to be kept alive!”
Ralon was about to answer his father’s question when he realized the irony of what had occurred: A hug and then an execution. Typical of his father.
He smiled as he replied:
“He is not of the Forsworn father. He was a warrior slave they had bought, and now he is my slave. I could do with some muscle.”
Fordolf looked at his son with his old, brown eyes, searching for a reason to defeat his son in verbal argument. A word was lingering at the tip of his tongue, when his son intercepted.
“Father, look.”
The old Jarl was interrupted from his search, and then looked at his son with deep, worried eyes.
“I’m a grown man now. I know I’m not a warrior, but I know how to take care of myself. The reason I have this slave, is to make up for my lack of warrior spirit.”
The Jarl changed his glance to Basara. The slave was still staring at the Jarl with interest, wondering how much venison stew he would get if he had sold the Jarl’s clothes. With eyes still fixed on the slave, Fordolf opened his mouth.
“You and your silver tongue… You can keep him, but he must stay atleast two houses worth of distance away from you.” He muttered as he walked away and into the Jarl’s longhouse.
Ralon sighed in relief and looked at his brother. Talon was already making his way into the Jarl’s longhouse. There was a big feast being prepared, and he was hungry for some delicious cooked meat. He instructed his soldiers to take Basara to a nearby barn, and to give him some food and water, while remaining chained to a post.
By the time the food was prepared, the sun had already set, and the table was glowing orange from the bright candles. There was laughter, joy, and happiness within the hall, as all the men who fought were eating at the long table. In fact, even the people who did not join the Forsworn purge were invited, however they were eating outside. It was a festival night, and everyone was happy.
It was then that one of the drunken guardsmen spotted a red figure in the distance. At first it seemed like an unmanned horse was leading a troop of elves, but in the better light he saw that there was a Thalmor Justiciar riding upon the white horse.
The guard was worried and panicked, but he had too much mead inside him, and let his drunken mind decide against his heart. Stumbling form his stool, he rose and went off to get another bottle of Honningbrew Mead.
Within the hall, it was loud, warm and aromatic. The scent of war stews and cooked meat filled the air, with noises from maids and men laughing and shouting. At the end of the table, Jarl Fordolf was drinking silently, observing what was his: Simple happiness.
On his right, Talon was having a drinking competition with the captain of the guards, and to his left, Ralon was silently drinking his ale, and flirting with a blonde barmaid. All was well-until the door burst open and a crimson Thalmor came gate crashing the party.
For a moment, everything stood still. The juice from the meat even stopped dripping, and the ale was frozen, being half poured into the cups. The air was filled with tension, and all the men slowly began to reach for their swords.
“Hold, men!” Shouted the Jarl.
“Stranger, who are you? Although we do support the Empire, and not of Stormcloaks, some of us are still wary of elves...”
The Justiciar took off his hood, to reveal a handsome high elf with a clean face, and with hair as white as the pelt of a snow wolf. He was not old but was quite young. It was unusual to see such a young man at the position of Justiciar. The elf smiled as he walked in, with a dominating presence, which made the guardsmen easily submit. They were frozen still by the kinglike aura of this high elf. He smelled of blood, and everyone in the room could hear the faint cries of the Nords that clung to him like a curse.
The Justiciar stood next to the Jarl, and spoke.
“Pardon my intrusion milord,”
He began.
“I am Justiciar Vorador of the Thalmor. My team and I have been hunting down Talos worshippers for days, and we are quite tired. I was wondering if you would be so kind enough to let us stay in one of the guard barracks-I would’ve used the inn, but it seems that it is full.”
The Jarl’s face showed no signs of welcome nor any signs of hate. He was wise enough to hide his emotions in the eyes of the Thalmor. And without a change in his voice, he replied:
“You may stay as long as you like. There are a lot of spare rooms in the barracks for your men to sleep in.”
“Thank you milord.” Vorador smiled.
“However, it seems like I’ve intruded upon a feast. Might I ask what this feast is for?”
The Jarl replied again, with no change of tone.
“It is to celebrate our victory over the last Forsworn camp within the proximity of Sunhold.”
“Ah! I see! Well then, congratulations on your victory.”
The tall elf then turned, and took a roast pheasant leg from a nearby table and took a bite out of it.
Turning to the Jarl with a sarcastic expression, while the pheasant still in his mouth, he questioned:
“Might I be able to feast with you? I’m awfully hungry and I’m an impatient man. I really don’t want to wait for my meal if you do not mind.”
“That’s it you arrogant green-skin!” Shouted a guard and he unsheathed his blade.
The guard was one of the new recruits, and was therefore banned from drinking too much. He was one of the few still with a right mind fight. The guard drew his sword up to the Justiciar’s neck, and seconds away from the blade slicing his neck, Vorador’s eyes glowed brightly, and in an instant his body was glowing with a silver aura.
With a loud, ‘clunk’, the blade was frozen in its tracks. Under the grey, rusted iron helmet, the guard’s face fell. He had forgotten the magical talents of high elves, especially the combined fighting techniques of magic and swordsmanship that the Thalmor boasted. Vorador paid no attention to the stopped blade at his throat, and merely finished his pheasant leg. He then calmly wiped his gloves on the guard’s red armor, and then tapped the guard lightly on the shoulder as he walked away.
“Don’t push your luck, recruit.” He smirked.
With that, the Thalmor took two plates worth of food, and walked out the door with another pheasant leg inside his mouth.
The guard sheathed his sword, and took off his helm and collapsed in a nearby chair. His short black hair was wet with sweat, his rough skin pale and his blue eyes flaming with anger. Several other guardsmen gathered around him with mugs of ale and slapped him on the back, shouting words of encouragement and shouting insults of elves as they did so.
“You there.” The Jarl spoke.
The recruit turned his head to see his lord looking at him with his deep brown eyes.
“Yes milord?” He asked with a slightly frightened tone.
“You did well. What is your name son?” The old Jarl smiled as he toasted him with his mug.
The recruit smiled in relief and replied:
“Kold milord. And thank you milord.”
“Odd name. Where are you from?”
“I was born here milord. My father is a poetic writer… He gave me the name milord.”
“I see.”
The Jarl put down his mug and stood himself up. His two sons were asleep on the tables, Ralon, with his legs stuck on the bench and his body sprawled on the ground and Talon with his face buried in his arms, on the great wooden table.
“Take my sons up to their rooms. I’m off to bed as well now, so all of you better tidy up quickly and get to sleep.”
The Jarl began walking up the stairs to his room, when he turned during the middle, and looked at his cheerful family. He smiled, and opened the door to his room. He sat down in front of his desk, and took out a rolled-up parchment from a drawer. It was sealed with his very own wooden seal, and under then dim candlelight the wax began to glow red. The Jarl stared at the parchment with some thought. The parchment was his will, and inheritance.
A few moments later, there was a knock on the door, and then the door opened. The visitor was his noble steward, Jothar.
"Everything ready milord?" The steward smiled.
"Yes, Jothar. Everything is ready." The Jarl replied.
The traditions of Sunhold can be rooted back to when the village was nothing but a warrior village, full of savages. The Jarl's throne would be rewarded to his sons, and upon the commemoration of the new Jarl, the old Jarl, or the parent Jarl was forced to take his own life. As time passed, the tradition's necessity was brought into question, and the people had realized no-one really knew what this barbaric tradition was for. Many believed that it was to stop the old Jarl's influence from spreading to the new Jarl, and would also create pressure to the new Jarl to use all his remaining time until he is succeeded in strengthening the village. However, in time, wars were fought and won, and this tradition was regarded unnecessary, as they were at times of peace, and such extreme measures did not need to take place.
However, Jarl Fordolf was a man of honor. He was proud to his Nord ways, and tried to keep his ancestors even prouder. Despite joining with the imperials (which was more than just frowned upon by some of the other Jarls,) Fordolf also secretly worshipped Talos. Some days in his small, hidden temple near the guard barracks, he knew he wasn't the only one who worshipped Talos and had allegiance to the Empire.
After some thought, Fordolf decided to keep his traditions using his own father's methods: Instead of killing himself, his father, and his father before him decided they would leave their village, and would spend the remainder of their days someplace else. His father went to the college of Winterhold to learn the basics of magic before he had died, as he was deeply interested in the arcane arts but had no time to learn them. Fordolf, after months of thought decided he would travel to Markarth, where he would study the mysterious dwemer ruins. However, Fordolf had two sons, and twins. Although their strengths were polar opposites to each other, Fordolf knew he could not choose two Jarls, and he loved his sons too much that he felt that he would rather die than be bad-mouthed by one of them. So, in order evade having to face the other, disappointed son, Fordolf decided he would ride out to Markath early at dawn the next day. The throne would be his farewell gift, as well as a birthday gift for the two Thanes.
Fordolf smiled at his steward as he put the will on top of his old, oak desk and dismissed him. Fordolf then threw his wooden seal, his only item of proof of the seal in the flames, destroying any hopes of forgery. With a yawn, the old Jarl opened his drawers and began searching through his sleeping robes. That was when he had realized something.
There was a faint outline of a shadow on his bed. At first, he thought it was the trick of the eye. But then Fordolf realized it was more than just a shadow. With tension in his face, he slowly reached for the steel sword under his desk.
The shadow moved quickly and gracefully, like a fish in the water. And then the knife came, like the deadly sting of a bee, slicing the Jarl's throat, sealing his screams. A gloved hand caught the body as it fell down, and the assassin laid the body on the bed. He then turned to the desk, and opened the parchment. His eyes scanned the paper several times. He understood the cost of mistakes, and he knew mistakes meant failure, and failures were not an option. Taking a pen and a quill, The assassin began writing a new will and inheritance, with extreme precision and cunning imitation. And, with the new will forged, he dropped a few drops of wax, and using a small needle-like knife, he began carving in Fordolf's seal. The assassin was a professional, and worked quickly and efficiently. With that, the new will was done. The assassin stood back and stared at the will, to inspect for any errors, or perhaps to marvel at his talent. He smiled to himself, and blew the candle, creating darkness within the room. The assassin then stepped out the door, and disappeared into the atmosphere of intoxication, happiness, and joy.
END OF CHAPTER FOUR
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