Fire. Smoke. Ashes. That was all that was left, and that was all that he will ever see again in that place. Holding his wounded sword arm with his other hand, Thorvus trudged on through the snow-covered undergrowth of the forest. Behind him, the thick black smoke continued to rise. His village had been burned down by a rogue mage; whoever survived the fiery explosion faced the unstoppable onslaught of berserking outlaws that followed. Even with his skill and strength, Thorvus could not stand against them, and despite his urge to fight to the death, his mother had convinced him to flee, survive and recover what had been stolen; his family’s heirloom, a Silver Axe. And that is what he will do.

As Thorvus continued at a crawling pace through the forest, the crimson essence of life, blood, continued to leave his body through his wounds. Disoriented, Thorvus soon forgot where he was going, and before he could get a hold of himself, darkness took over.

“Wake up!” growled a voice.

Thorvus woke to the sight of a bearded, burly Nord in leather armour with a drawn sword at hand. Immediately reaching for his own sword, Thorvus was reminded that his sword hand was terribly wounded and that he had no sword.

“Argh!” cried Thorvus in pain.

“Still hurts, eh? It’s going to take awhile before that heals. Oh, and don’t ye worry, I’m not here to kill ye,” the burly Nord said. “And if ye would care to notice, I’ve stopped yer bleedin’.”

Turning to take a look, Thorvus noticed that the wounds on his sword arm have had herbs applied to them and were bandaged.

“Thank you…”

“Name’s Svongar,” the burly Nord said, offering Thorvus a hand and pulling him up from the ground. “What are ye doin’ here anyway?”

Thorvus took a look at his surroundings. All he could see were trees, swaying with the wind, snow and rocks, scattered along the undergrowth. A gust of cold wind blew through the forest, the cold biting at Thorvus’ skin, though he was a Nord. It reminded him that he was barely clothed and more importantly, it reminded him of what he had lost and what he had to find.

“I’m going to Windhelm.”

“Windhelm, eh? Why aren’t ye on the road then?” questioned Svongar.

“The road is crawling with bandits; bandits that burned my village to ashes and gave me these wounds,” Thorvus exclaimed bitterly as sorrow and rage once again filled his memory.

“Aye. Saw the smoke on the way here; may Shor take their souls. So ye would rather take a chance with the wolves.”

“Yes. I must be leaving now,” Thorvus said, and summoning his memory, hobbled northward.

“Wait! You aren’t going to live long in the wilds without a weapon or two good legs. I’ll come with you.”

“Heh. Why are you even here in the first place?”

“I’m an alchemist. I was here to pick some herbs…that, and I had been kicked out of Whiterun for winning a bar brawl,”Svongar explained with a grin.

Grinning himself, Thorvus nodded at Svongar, and the two Nords moved towards the North, to the mountains. As night fell, they set up camp in a small clearing. By some stroke of luck, a rat came by their camp. Thorvus grabbed it by the neck with his strong arm and smashed its skull against a tree. Roasting it above their campfire, the rat meat would have to be their meal for the night, although it could not fully fill their hungry bellies.

“Ye been to Windhelm before?” asked Svongar.

“Yes, by both road and mountain pass,” replied Thorvus.

“Never seen a mountain pass myself,” answered Svongar with a chuckle, before devouring his portion of the rat meat. “Why are ye going to Windhelm?”

“To see an old friend.”

The Nords slept soundly, as if the gods, for no creature of the wilds came near the camp save for the rat. As the shadowy cloak of the night lifted from the world, the two Nords immediately set off Northward once again. Soon, wood gave way to stone, and they were standing at the stone feet of a magnificent, towering mountain. Ahead of them, a narrow, winding route that led up the mountain could be seen. Dangerous as it was, these two men were no strangers to danger.

“Tread carefully, the path here is not very forgiving for now,” Thorvus warned Svongar.

“Aye, the treacherous snow hampers our vision,” Svongar complained.

As they ascended the mountain, the path soon became wider and more stable, although the two men still had to walk in a file. From mountain to mountain they climbed, up and down, through deep valleys and rocky outcrops. Snow followed them every part of the journey, but so did luck, as Svongar found some fruit in the valley that kept them going. Not long after, they were at the base of the mountain before Windhelm. It was especially tall and rocky, but a greater danger lay unseen to them on the mountains.

“We can go around this one, instead of over,” explained Thorvus.

“That’s a relief,” Svongar said, panting and exhausted.

After a short period of rest, they ascended the mountain. Navigating the treacherous rocks amidst the mist and snow was by no means easy, and they could not tell which step would be their last. With the freezing, strong winds blowing against them, they trudged onward at a snail’s pace. They did not know, however, that their death might not come from below, but from above.

With a deafening roar, an ice troll leapt down from the ledge above, rearing backwards to show its brutality. Both Thorvus and Svongar were taken by surprise, and nearly fell off the edge of the mountain. Thorvus stood in the front, unarmed and unarmoured, but Svongar had no way to get in front on the narrow passage. Thinking quickly, Svongar passed his sword to Thorvus, whose sword arm had recovered by now, though not completely.

As the snow troll charged at Thorvus, he knew that if the troll made contact with him, he was going to fall off the face of the mountain to his death. At the most opportune moment, when the troll lifted its mighty arm and reared its ugly head to strike, Thorvus plunged the sword with both hands into the heart of the troll, and pulled the blade out. The death throe of the troll was as terrible as the troll was in life, but soon it went tumbling down the rocky face of the mountain.

“Hah! Nice work!” exclaimed Svongar.

“All thanks to your blade,” replied Thorvus with a smile, handing Svongar back his blade.”
“No, ye keep it friend, ye deserve it”

“It would be an honour then.”

By noon they came to the end of the pass, and in the distance towering bastions of stone emerged, and the magnificent palace of Ysgramor stood out above all else. Windhelm was just ahead.

The gates of Windhelm. A stalwart guardian of the city yet dwarfed in comparison to the old palace of Ysgramor, the jewel of the First Empire. Though the First Empire was long since gone, Windhelm remained a city of an Empire, the Imperial Empire. The symbol of the dragon flew high on the walls of Windhelm, and the city was crawling with Imperial Legionaries. Despite all the Imperials here, however, the city’s proximity to the Dunmer homeland of Morrowind gave Windhelm its distinct culture and look: A mix of Nordic and Dark Elven culture, two people under one banner.

Upon entering Windhelm, Thorvus and Svongar were greeted by a melting pot of cultures; Dunmer refugees and workers scuttled along the streets, Imperial Legionaries stood watch with great vigilance, and Nordic craftsmen put hammer to steel.

“Never seen so many Dunmer in Skyrim before,” commented Svongar.

“Then you’ve never been to Windhelm before,” replied Thorvus with a grin.

“Hah! Indeed, I was always happy with the mead in Whiterun.”

Thorvus led Svongar through the crowded streets, though alleys and up some stairs, until they came to a long house that was distinctly of Imperial construct. An Imperial Legionary stood in front of the door, leaning against the wall and drinking some mead. He was rather old; his hair was thinning and white, and the wrinkles and scars on his face was a testament to his years of experience and in the Legion.

“Avanus!” cried Thorvus.

Looking over, the old legionary gave a suspicious look before his eyes widened, and shouted, “Thorvus! My friend, it has been too long since I last saw you!”

“Too long indeed. My village is no more,” Thorvus said bitterly, “and I need the help of the Legion.”

“What? Your village…”

“Bandits attacked. Led by a mage, they burned down everything, killed everyone, stole what they could and left. Only I survived and by Shor I swear I will kill them all!”

“The mage, was he an Altmer?”

“No, or rather I don’t know, I didn’t get to see him clearly. He was tall, yes, but all I know is he is living on borrowed time. Will you help me?”

“As much as I’d like to my friend, the Dunmer have been increasingly troublesome here, with all that smuggling and…”

“Very well then,” Thorvus muttered, with a disappointed look on his face.

“Thorvus, my friend. I would not leave you to go hunt that mage with nothing but tattered rags and a sword. If it is indeed the Altmer, he has killed two of my men by himself. He is not to be trifled with,” warned Avanus.

“Don’t ye forget about me!” Svongar said.

“Two men with one sword won’t accomplish much. Come with me,” Avanus beckoned, and walked into the Imperial building.

Thorvus and Svongar followed, and Avanus led them into a room filled with crates and barrels and more importantly, arms and armour.

“Take what you need; the Legion will always be at your side against those murderous outlaws, even if not in person. Also, it would not do for you to just scour the land for weeks at an end to find that mage. Imperial sources believe his hideout is in a cave south-west of here, North of Whiterun.” Avanus said with a smile.

“I thank you, my old friend,” Thorvus replied, shaking Avanus’ hand.

“I thank ye as well, Imperial!” Svongar exclaimed. When Avanus and Thorvus turned to look, Svongar was not in the armoury, but in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of mead. The three men shared a hearty laugh, and the two Nords both knew that it might well be their last.

Clad in steel and armed with the sword of Svongar, long-haired Thorvus almost looked like nobility. His blue eyes glimmered with hope as he bade farewell to Avanus, and left the Imperial building, followed by Svongar, whose bald head was now covered with a Nordic helmet and wearing an Iron cuirass, as well as armed with a new sword. They carried some supplies as well, all courtesy of the Imperial Legion.

As they approached the gates of Windhelm again, an iron-clad Nord stepped into their way. He had bow and arrow, an axe and a shield on his back, but his arms were folded. His beard covered his mouth, and his helmet covered most of his eyes, but this Nord was no fool or drunkard.

“You hunting an Altmer sorcerer?” the Nord said, his words a little muffled under his thick beard.

“I hunt a mage but I know not who he is,” replied Thorvus, “and who might you be?”

“Forgive my manners,” said the Nord, taking off his helmet to reveal his long curly hair. “They call me Hfaljar Beard-Mouth, and I suppose I don’t have to explain why,” he said, making what seemed like a grin beneath his massive beard.

“Ye put me to shame,” Svongar said, smiling and stroking his own beard.

“So then, Hfaljar, how did you know we were on the trail of a mage?” Thorvus questioned.

“I happen to have heard your conversation with the Legion captain while passing by, if you don’t mind that. The Altmer sorcerer I seek is Terondil, and I too seek his blood for he killed my brother while he was travelling on the road. I knew not where to seek him out, but since we both heard the Captain, I guess we’re going the same way.”

“I would welcome a companion with open arms, but we only have supplies for two men.”

“I’m a hunter,” Hfaljar said, pointing to his bow on his back.

“Onward then!” cried Thorvus, and the three Nords marched south-west, leaving behind civilization and seeking out the heart of danger. The three men, however, were oblivious to the dark spot in the sky that had been following them since they left Windhelm.

“Well done, my raven,” a hooded figure remarked, gently stroking the head of the raven. “They think I cannot see, but I have seen it all!”

“Hormad!” the hooded figure bellowed.

“What?” Hormad, a tall Nord, replied.

“Take your men north-east and intercept those three men. I want their heads.”

“I’m tired of taking orders from you, elf. If you’re so great, why don’t you-“

Before Hormad could continue any further, claws emerged from the shadows of the cave and tore Hormad apart. It was a Clannfear, a terrifying Daedra with razor-sharp claws summoned by the hooded figure.

“Mavaril! I trust you would do what Hormad failed to do?” The hooded figure threatened, glaring at the frightened Dunmer at the mouth of the cave.

“Y-yes, of course!” Mavaril stuttered, and went off at once with a band of bandits.

By nightfall the three Nords, Thorvus, Svongar and Hfaljar had passed through a forest, and were on the top of a hill. Before them lay a valley and further south was Whiterun. None of them had been here before, not even Svongar, for the valley was blocked off from Whiterun by mountains. They set up camp for the night, and gathered around the fire. Earlier on in the forest, Hfaljar had managed to kill a deer with his bow, so they were able to cook venison for a hearty meal. Though without mead, they had some bread and water as well.

This night would not go as soundly as the one before Thorvus and Svongar ascended the mountains, however. While they were asleep, dark figures crept up on their camp. A Khajiit carefully crawled on all fours and entered the tent of Thorvus. As he drew his dagger above Thorvus and prepared to plunge it into his neck, Thorvus awoke and drove his knee into the Khajiit’s stomach while wrenching the dagger from the furry claws of the Khajiit. The Khajiit growled and immediately swiped his claws at Thorvus’ face, but he was overpowered and soon he found his own dagger in his throat.

The commotion had awakened the other two Nords, but it had also alerted the other bandits to the Khajiit’s failed assassination. Led by the Dunmer Mavaril, they stormed the camp with ferocity. Caught by surprise, the three unarmoured Nords had to fight off twice their number. Svongar quickly ran a charging bandit through with his sword, and distracted another bandit long enough for Thorvus to behead him. Hfaljar’s axe took the life on another bandit, but he was overpowered and his shield was shattered by a massive Orc wielding a warhammer.

Disarming and killing a bandit, Thorvus quickly grabbed the axe of his fallen foe and hurled it at the Orc. Before he could bring his gargantuan hammer down upon Hfaljar, the Orc’s face met his fellow bandit’s axe.

“Looks like you owe me one,” Thorvus said with a grin.

At that moment, Hfaljar quickly got up on his feet and fired an arrow, seemingly at Thorvus. Thorvus dodged and was about to charge at Hfaljar when he heard a ‘thud’ behind him. Looking around, he saw a Dunmer with Hfaljar’s arrow sticking out of his head.

“He was invisible. And it looks like we’re even,” Hfaljar remarked.

“How did ye even see him?” Svongard asked, puzzled.

Hfaljar lifted up the amulet from his neck. “I can detect life, even if I cannot see it.”

With the night and their camp spoilt, the three Nords moved on, downhill and through the valley. As dawn came, they came across a pack of wolves, but the wolves were too busy feeding on a deer they had killed to bother about them.

Not long after, they saw the entrance of a cave, from which emanated ominous vibes. They could sense strong magic within; they had no doubt the sorcerer they seek was inside. At the mouth of the cave, however, there stood two Nords in chainmail, armed with maces and shields.

“We can’t fight them there, they’ll have the support of a cowardly sorcerer throwing spells from behind,” Hfaljar commented.
“Indeed we cannot, but I have just the plan,” Svongar whispered, and began heading away from the cave.

“What do you plan?” Thorvus questioned.

“Ye will know soon enough,” teased Svongar

Crouching in the cover of the trees, Thorvus and Hfaljar waited as Svongar headed off to the other side. Soon, they heard a bellowing sound, as if that of a war horn. The two bandits at the mouth of the cave looked at each other, and Thorvus could hear some talk about the Imperial Legion before the two bandits darted away and started making for the hills. Two arrows from Hfaljar made sure would never make it. The three Nords regrouped near the mouth of the cave.

“What was that? Magic?” asked Hfaljar.

“My father’s war horn,” boasted Svongar, holding up an ornate horn carved made from silver with designs and etchings that would put royalty to shame.

“A most grand gift from your father then,” Thorvus remarked, “but come now, our quarry awaits.”

The three Nords marched into the mouth of darkness, not knowing what lay before them. As they entered the cave, Svongar threw one of his potions on the floor and the liquid in it emanated a bright glow, and soon part of the cave was lit up. At the end of the small cave they could see the hooded figure, dressed in crimson robes.

“How foolish of you to come here, Nords. Do you think yourselves Ysgramor? Are you three the avatar of Gods? No, and even if you are, I will crush you all the same!” the hooded figure shouted, his eyes glowing with a magical fire.

“Watch out!” cried Hfaljar, as the raised his axe against seemingly nothing, but that nothing turned out to be the Clannfear, hiding in the darkness of the cave that Svongard’s potion did not expose.

Bolts of lightning thundered forth from the fingertips of the sorcerer, and one struck Svongard, debilitating him and causing him to crash to the ground. Hfaljar was engaged in a duel of the fates with the Clannfear, and Thorvus was the only one left to face he sorcerer. Embracing his destiny, Thorvus charged head-on with his sword towards the sorcerer. The sorcerer threw a fireball on the ground, throwing Thorvus off his feet. With a telekinesis spell, the sorcerer then took Thorvus’ sword.

“You are not even worthy to challenge me, filthy Nord!” the sorcerer boasted, charging a final spell to slay his foe.

At that very moment Thorvus took sight of something on the sorcerer’s table. A silver axe. Not just any silver axe; it was his family’s silver axe. Reminded of the tragedy that had befallen his village, Thorvus flew into a rage and grabbed hold of the sorcerer’s neck. His hood fell off, and it was evident that the sorcerer was indeed the Altmer, Terondil. The sorcerer was not someone that could just be strangled to death, however, and soon Thorvus found himself thrown back by another fireball.

Svongar, through sheer will, had managed to shake off the effects of the shock spell, and charged straight at the sorcerer. However, he was caught by a freezing spell and could do nothing but curse the sorcerer. For once, though, his curse came true, for before the sorcerer could turn around to finish off Thorvus, his head was cleaved straight off by the silver axe, wielded by Thorvus.

The clannfear fell out of existence like its master, coincidentally right after Hfaljar had stuck his axe into its throat. Svongar was freed from his icy prison, and the once-feared Terondil was no more.

“The gods smile upon us this day!” Hfaljar cheered, looking out of the cave and into the heavens.

“Hah! That was quite an adventure. Ye know, we should do this more often; I think we’re even better than the Fighters’ Guild!” cried Svongar.

“If we do, we’d better have a name not related to mead,” Hfaljar joked, and the two Nords shared a laugh.

Thorvus calmed down from his rage, and held his axe up high.

“The Silver Axe!”