This story takes place just prior to the opening events of the new game and will tell the tale of several characters of different race, ambition and skill as their lives are intricately woven together, chaining some of them to the destiny that awaits them at the start of Skyrim.

I hope to be able to release a couple of chapters a month leading up to November 11th and so please note that this is a work in progress.

Enjoy.

(The first chapter starts off a little slow, I know, but the second makes up for it, and although the story may seem simple right now I promise it will become increasingly complex and involving as more characters are introduced)

The Chains of Destiny


Chapter 1


With his horse Thor, in tow—the brown and white chestnut burdened with the weight of their journey’s take—Hrorgard came around the tail end of a small bend in the icy trail and breathed a sigh of relief at seeing the impasse that lay ahead. It was a welcomed sight for the Nord; a sign that progress was being made.

The two travellers had been slowly ascending the mountainside, since the first light of day, however, the trail’s navigability had severely deteriorated along the way and Hrorgard was looking forward to finally being done with it, and moving on to some new terrain. The precarious path; once comfortably wide and easy to maneuver, had constricted into a terribly narrow ledge, forcing the man and his beast to walk the tight space in single file. Now a precipitous drop of nearly a thousand feet flanked the two closely on their right, while a sheer rise of jagged rock rose up on the left, keeping the travellers uncomfortably pinned to the icy edge. The two slowed their steady, sluggish pace, before coming to a complete stop at the spot in the trail where it came to an abrupt end.

What had appeared, at first, to be a dead end was actually a point in this little-known pass through the Jerall Mountains, where the incline became so steep that it seemed insurmountable to the naked-eye. Hrorgard knew from experience, however, that even though the climb from this point on was dangerously difficult, it was possible to scale. The hardest part would be getting Thor up and over the first bump in the trail—a protruding wall of sharp stone, that rose nearly as high as the Nord was tall, and whose lip was crusted over with a thick sheet of frozen snow.

After nearly an hour of Hrorgard pleading with the stubborn animal to jump his way up, Thor finally made a mighty leap of faith and cleared the icy obstacle. Once up and over its lip, he stomped his hooves and trotted unhappily about, spewing forth a stream of snorts before a strong tug from the Nord put an end to the horse’s aggressive display.

Aggravated by the long and drawn out delay, Hrorgard; with Thor’s reigns firm in hand, eagerly pressed onwards, sternly urging the lagging beast forward as they resumed their sharp ascent up the slope.

What had been a rather levelled trail that slowly wound its way around the mountain, now banked nearly straight up, leading them into a hard climb up its powdered face. The scenery at this height was mostly dominated by a vast sea of frosty white, but the dark grey of stone and rock—jutting out in places from beneath the snowy shawl the mountain had wrapped around its top—popped into view from time to time as the two cautiously made their way up the forlorn trail.

It wasn’t long after clearing the first obstacle that Hrorgard stumbled across another one—this one, a particularly icy patch of stone, concealed beneath a light layer of loosely packed snow. As he passed through it, the flaky snow suddenly broke away, catching the big Nord by surprise as his feet skid across the glassy surface below. He struggled to find his footing, but it was already too late; the ice was spread wide on all sides and each slippery step he made, only sent his equilibrium into a greater state of disarray. His weight teetered backwards as his body spastically swayed until his hold on the mountain finally broke, and gravity’s grip carried him away.

The sudden stumble sent his heart racing as he flailed wildly about for balance. Death may have been a long way down, but he knew it was only a short trip away. His pulse pounded in his ears as he fought, in vain, to anchor himself to the side of the mountain.

Thor let out a gruff snort of discomfort as Hrorgard yanked the reigns tight, snapping the horse’s body around with him as he slid uncontrollably past the startled animal. The stunned horse immediately kicked up a fuss, squealing his contempt for the clumsy man before turning to dig his hooves into the icy snow; effectively planting his bulky weight into the side of the slope, but at an awkwardly, unstable angle.

With Thor anchored loosely in place, Hrorgard’s body jerked to a halt and then slid around like a pendulum, scraping across an exposed slab of rock as his leather lifeline went taut. His body twisted and twirled as he rolled back across the icy stone, finally coming to a stop facedown in the snow.

Gripping the reigns for dear life, Hrorgard looked up to see a troubled Thor struggling to hold his ground on this terribly steep slope. Quickly coming to his senses, he splayed his body out wide and low, digging the tips of his boots as deep as he could into the icy snow before beginning a slow crawl back up the slope. When Hrorgard got close enough he pulled down hard on the reigns to bring Thor’s head in low for a little extra leverage.

With his lips curled back, his teeth bared and his eyes wide with panic, the shaken beast reluctantly obliged the request and staggered forward a step, to help his dangling master.

With a great deal of heart-pounding effort, a little luck, and a lot of help from Thor, Hrorgard had managed to stop the slide before it could gain any serious momentum. Muttering an endless string of obscenities under his breath, he pulled himself back to his feet, and brushed away the crusty snow clinging to the furry hides that lined his leather greaves.

Firmly rooted once more, Hrorgard’s composure began to calm. He swept the last of the snow from his gear and straightened to his full height; stretching out his tired, muscular frame before giving Thor a pat across the back and a scratch under his chin in an attempt to relax the visibly distraught animal.

Happy to be alive—rather than a cold corpse at the base of the mountain—Hrorgard took a moment to glance around in wonderment at his surroundings and soak it all in. The sight from so high was invigorating, but the impossible angle of the precarious slope upon which he stood was somewhat disorienting for the Nord, especially after what had just transpired.

Adorfan trail, as this place was known, was a treacherous little pass named after a young Bosmer who had supposedly met his demise near here centuries ago, but looking around at it now, Hrorgard couldn’t help thinking that it hardly deserved the title of ‘trail’ at all. In truth, it was no more than a depressed groove in the vertical rise of stone, that provided him with just enough traction to press on against gravity’s pull. A few steps in the wrong direction and Hrorgard knew that his life would be lost. He had been lucky once, but feared tempting fate a second time, as losing his footing here again, would most likely result in a swift slide down the mountain’s slope, followed by a thousand-foot drop into the trees and the scree below.

Putting one foot ahead of the other and securing a good grip on Thor, Hrorgard continued with his slow climb up the mountain. Each crunching step he tread through the icy snow, filled his ears with the gruesome sounds of cracking skulls and snapping bones. The grim, ghastly noise created underfoot was a constant reminder of the fate that awaited him should the mountain suddenly decide to let him and his horse go.

The day dragged on as he put more and more space between himself and the earth below. Despite the whistling wind and cold, arctic air that whirled along these crags and cliffs, Hrorgard’s brow had begun to run thick with beads of crystallizing sweat. His breathing had taken on a frenzied pace; coming out in short gasping bursts of steamy mist that clouded his face while his chest heaved tirelessly to supply his strained lungs with more and more air. His struggle for breath was not from the altitude, mind you, for he was a Nord and thrived at such staggering heights, nor was it from his earlier scare. Rather, it was the mountain itself; with its unrelenting, unforgiving slope, that was taking its toll on the big, burly man.

It was a stubborn rock, he thought, as he looked up from beneath a pair of frosted eyebrows, to gaze at the clouded summit and the dreary draqe of overcast sky at its back—a rock that would have tested the enduring might of even the most powerful of the Gods.

He scowled rebelliously up at its proud height, and then directed an angry glare at the rising path ahead, before letting his sight settle on his fur-clad feet and the icy ground slowly slipping by, below.

Hrorgard knew these parts well. He was well travelled and had ventured these obscure routes several times before. Very little life survived in this rugged, nordic terrain, but some of the more extreme creatures and beasts, capable of tolerating the harsh climate that reigned at the top of the world, had made their homes in the many caves, crevices and cavities that nature had carved in the mountain’s face. Vegetation, however, was sparse and rarely ever seen, but the little flora or fungi that could be found, was often invaluably rare. That in itself, was one of the reasons the bullish Nord was here in the first place.

A local smith back in Riften, regularly contracted him to mine these mountains for precious stones and ore, but Hrorgard, ambitious as he was, often did freelance work during these expeditions as well; retrieving any alchemical ingredients he could find for a reclusive Breton who lived in the hills outside of town. Now the two saddlebags that hung heavy from where they sat; strung across the wide girth of Thor’s arching back, were bursting with the bulk of mined silver; golden nuggets; fists of iron and mithril ore, and all the little pouches dangling from thongs, fastened to the thick leather belt wrapped tightly around Hrorgard’s waist, were packed full of crushed caps, fats and waxes; seeds, salts and stems, and each seemed to swing with the full weight of its worth in gold, as he fought against gravity’s force and worked his way onwards, up the mountain slope.

He knew, of course, of many easier ways through these mammoth, rocky rows of jagged teeth that guarded his homeland and the throat of the world that rose near its core, but such passes were well out of his way and would have added days, perhaps even weeks to what had already been a long and arduous expedition.

It hadn’t all been hard work though. Weary from weeks of living off the land; of battling creatures large and small; of sleeping in damp caverns and atop icy plateaus; of picking and hammering at rock for days on end, and all the while facing the blustering bite of bitter winds as he made his way across the range of snow-capped mountains, Hrorgard had eventually come out the other side, and been welcomed by the glorious sight, that even a town the likes of Bruma can provide, when viewed through the eyes of a withered warrior, weakened from survival in these harsh and desolate lands. It was there that he had taken a much-needed and well-deserved respite from the rigors of wandering the mountainside, and the hard labour of ripping at its stone with his hands.

His stay in Bruma had been roughly a week in length, but the tension surrounding the small town had made his short time spent there seem far too long. Imperial soldiers had set up outposts in and around the city gates as a pre-emptive line of defence against any uprising that might happen to make its way down from the north. Hrorgard’s arrival had caused quite a stir amongst the city guard; almost too much trouble to go to for just one man, he’d thought at the time, but then again he was a Nord—the fiercest of all the warrior breeds—they had had good reason to be scared.

Upon his approach across the gullied terrain that rimmed the north side of the town, dozens of alerted archers stationed around the city walls had swept into action; fanning out along the top of the bank to take cover behind various boulders and trees. Arrows had been nocked in unison, followed quickly by strings being tensed to their extreme as a line of bows were levelled on Hrorgard; a wave of piercing death, cocked and ready to be unleashed. While this had gone on, more soldiers with swords in hand had rushed forward into the gully to encircle Hrorgard until a ring of sharpened steel had surrounded him and Thor on all sides.

Weapons were thrust in his face while questions were shouted again and again about his identity, about his business and about his underhanded intent, until Hrorgard, with his arms up in a state of surrender, finally settled them down long enough to convince the riled lot that he meant them no harm. From there he had managed to strike a sour deal with the greedy leader of the suspicious troop—a Captain Darrius—who, in the midst of the frenzy, had taken reign of Thor to curiously rifle through Hrorgard’s bags of hard-earned ore.

Upon receiving a small satchel filled with raw gold, Darrius had reluctantly opened the gates for the tired Nord, informing Hrorgard before he passed through the arched gap in the towering city walls that he’d bought himself a weeklong stay and that was all.

Darrius’ words; sharpened by his arrogant tone, had done little to help ease the tense situation, and had ultimately pushed Hrorgard’s tolerance, not to mention his temper, to the edge.

The unjust extortion had been one thing, but to have this crook of a man then place further conditions on what had already proven to be a costly stay, was something else altogether—it was personal.

With his fists clenched at his sides and his tongue flexed tight in his throat, Hrorgard had spun to face Darrius head on before letting his right hand settle deliberately on the steel mace he kept hooked to his belt. It had been a silent but overt challenge of the man’s authority. In that fleeting instant, and despite the long odds against him, Hrorgard had been ready to go to war.

The glare he had set upon the corrupt Captain had been so intense; so utterly ferocious, that the small cluster of soldiers at his back had each shuddered at the sight of the Nord’s silent fury. They had managed to hold their ground against his penetrating stare, but the air around them had taken on the unmistakable stench of fear as each and every man had shifted nervously about in his gear.

The Captain, however; arrogantly confident and feeling quite secure with the small battalion behind him, had returned Hrorgard’s menacing gesture with no more than a sinister sneer. Antagonizing as he was, the Captain followed that up by stepping close and blatantly shaking his sack of newly acquired riches in Hrorgard’s face. It had been at that moment, though, when Darrius had seen for the first time, the resolve that resided within the Nord’s eyes—they were the eyes of a warrior—a warrior preparing himself to strike.

Unwilling to test Hrorgard’s temper any further, the pompous Captain had quickly put an end to his provocative display. In an attempt to save face however, he did stand tall in close proximity to the Nord’s quiet wrath; maintaining his smug air of superiority while he casually slung the sack of gold over his shoulder. The two men then shared an uncomfortably long moment of awkward silence before the Captain finally turned his back on the seething Nord and walked away—vanishing with a dusty drift of windswept snow as he rounded a corner with his gaggle of rattled soldiers in tow. It had been the last Hrorgard had seen of the man.

The bitter memory of that encounter and the sacrifice he’d had to make was still eating away at the Nord as he reached the breaking point in the mountain’s slope. Disgraced by the abashing experience, poor Hrorgard had even felt the need to explain himself to Thor—for fear that the haughty beast now thought him a coward of some sort. He had assured his loyal companion on several occasions during their journey this day, that if he hadn’t been so severely outnumbered, he would have painted Bruma’s walls an Imperial red. Thor, however, seemed rather doubtful of his boastful claims, often responding with nothing more than a twitch of his ears, a swish of his tail or with a short but steamy, cynical snort.

Even now as they topped the icy crest, a part of Hrorgard wanted to storm back down the mountain and make his desire a reality, but with the worst part of his trek behind him, he decided it would be best if he left the ordeal in Bruma behind him as well. He conceded the fact, that it had been a wiser choice to lose a small portion of his profit and a little bit of pride, rather than be stripped of all he’d had—including his life—which he reasoned would have been the alternative cost to the Captain’s expensive bribe.

Standing on the brink of this conquered cliff, Hrorgard turned and took a moment to look back at the trail he’d carved up the mountain’s slope. He let out a self-gratifying grunt of accomplishment then gazed out at the horizon as a final vow of vengeance flashed through his mind. He knew he wouldn’t be visiting Bruma again anytime soon, but one day…one day he would return, and when that day came, he would have more than a few Nord brethren at his side.

A light fall of snow began to drift down and dot his panoramic view of the world below. Hrorgard pulled himself from his reverie of reprisal and turned his attention upwards to scrutinize the heavy, iron-coloured clouds that sheathed the sky. At this height he could almost feel the frigid turbulence concealed within their cover. There was no doubt in his mind that a whiteout was on its way, and with it getting so late in the day, there would be no immediate rest for these two weary travellers—they had to press on.

He walked over to Thor and pried open a sack tied to the saddle’s horn. Inside were a variety of supplies he had purchased while down in Bruma. He fished out a carrot and then an apple, feeding them both to the hungry horse, then grabbed a sweetroll for himself; stuffing it whole into his mouth before digging back into the bag to retrieve a bottle of slushy liquid. With the small bottle in hand, he pulled the drawstring closed on the sack, swinging it and the remaining supplies over the horse’s back.

Popping the cork from the bottle, he flicked the spongy lid into the snow then focused several small flames across the bottle’s bottom; melting the semi-frozen liquid with a basic fireball spell that his friend—the Breton—had taught him to throw. Satisfied with the drink’s consistency, Hrorgard guzzled it back, washing down the last few bits of half-frozen sweetroll that were caked to the roof of his mouth. Drizzling drops of the drink ran from his lips as he drank; streaking through the layer of frost that his bushy beard had been collecting all day.

The blackberry-flavoured beverage was a little bitter, but did a quick job of not only quenching his thirst, but quelling his fatigue as well. Hrorgard turned and heaved the empty bottle as hard as he could out into the open space beyond the small cleft in the mountainside; hoping that with a little luck granted from the gods and a lot of help from the whistling wind, it would fly all the way to Bruma and fall on that thieving Captain’s head.

Feeling revitalized by the small bit of food and drink, Hrorgard once again grabbed Thor by the reigns and led him onwards, through the narrow crack in the rock that lay directly ahead. There would be no more climbing on this journey. This was as high as they had to go to cross the range of mountains. From here the trail passed in-between two massive walls of jagged stone, through a part of the mountain that had been cracked open from the very tip of its crown. This cut in the rock was so thick, so deep, so straight, and went so far down that Hrorgard thought it could only have possibly been made by the will of an angered God—his divine fury unleashed on the mountain with a vicious slash from his mighty blade. The Nord’s flesh tingled with excitement at the very thought of it as he crossed the threshold and squeezed Thor into the tight tunnel of stone.

Somewhere within this deep gouge in the mountain’s top was the edge of the Cyrodiilic border; along with the outer fringe of the great province he called home. Once through this confined space, Hrorgard would not only be content with the knowledge that his feet were on Skyrim soil once more, but he also knew, from having travelled these parts before, that the mountain opened up considerably on the other side, making the trail much easier to maneuver. However, despite the more forgiving terrain that lay ahead, he still knew that it would be a long and slow descent before the two reached the forested woods of the Rift below.

Passing between the stone was an uncomfortable prospect for both man and beast, but Thor especially had a difficult time along the way. His wide, rounded belly just wasn’t well suited for travel through such a narrow stretch of road and on more than one occasion he got sliced open by the sharpness of the stone.

The air that lingered within the tiny space was surprisingly warm and its subtle heat seemed to be contained and sustained by the sheer height and length of the crevice. Those two immense dimensions, combined with the narrow width of the passageway, shielded the two travellers from the elements raging high above. Any snowfall that found its way into the slit in the stone was quickly captured and dispersed by the protective walls and never found its way to the ground below.

Funnelling between the pair of rocky walls had taken the two more than an hour to complete. The journey through had been mostly uneventful, with the exception of Thor getting himself worked up into a frothy frenzy whenever he inadvertently got himself wedged between the suffocating walls or snagged his saddle on a butting piece of stone. When they finally emerged, Hrorgard was amazed to see just how strong the storm was, that had taken hold.

Even as they had ventured down the final stretch of rock-enclosed road, the full force of the storm that raged ahead, had kept itself well hidden and masked within the day’s dull glow. The strip of light painted at the end of the tunnel; dull as it was, still managed to bring a little life to the vapid darkness that thrived within the mountain’s core. The muted glow stood out in high contrast and acted like a distant beacon, guiding both man and beast onwards, through the web of shadows held captive within the corridor of stone. Hrorgard had initially thought the white to be nothing more than the light of day, but what it turned into as he neared the exit, was a thick wall of uninviting snow. Streamers of white flakes were spit in his eyes as he stepped beyond the protection provided by the stone, and a breath of arctic air blasted him in the face; sending a chill all the way to his bones. Nevertheless, Hrorgard considered it an appropriate greeting from his Mother Skyrim as she welcomed her son back into the fold, and he couldn’t help but smile a big Nordic smile in celebration of having finally returned home.

Thor however, seemed far less amused by the situation, and as usual, he made his displeasure of the entire ordeal well known to the man with an anxious, angry display of movement and sound.

Being far more concerned with the thick storm consuming them from all sides, and with finding proper shelter from its wrath, Hrorgard paid little heed to the beast’s disturbed temperament and quickly went about straightening the horse’s saddle and rearranging his gear. He took a moment to inspect the bloodied gashes the mountain had left along Thor’s belly, and even though the scars were plenty, none seemed serious enough to need immediate care.

With his curt examination of the beast complete, Hrorgard turned his attention to himself; taking a quick account of all his weapons and gear. He pulled his shaggy fur cuirass up a little, trying to angle it just right so the snow would stop collecting in melting mounds along the exposed parts of his neck, then he started tugging at the criss-crossed leather strapping, which wrapped around his lower ribs and up over his shoulders to fasten a Nordic-made rondel at his chest. The silver, circular plate of armour bore decorative markings representing his home and his Hold—the Rift. Once he had them comfortably fitted, he reached around and checked to make sure that the big iron battleaxe, which the two straps supported at his back, was still secured in its place. From there he fluidly moved both hands to the final two weapons that rested along his waist, drawing them both in perfect unison with the efficiency and ferocity of a warrior preparing for a battle to the death.

The spiked steel mace he kept hooked at his right side popped loose with a grim elegance and a gentle ease as he snatched it up and into his grip. Meanwhile his left hand slithered around his body to draw the silver dagger being held horizontally in a surreptitious sheath embedded in the back of his belt. His body tensed as he brought the weapons up into a defensive posture around his face. Hrorgard held the pose for no more than an instant before securing the steel and the silver back into place, carefully ensuring that none of the leather thongs and pouches; dangling from his person, were tangled up around the blade or the mace. He couldn’t be sure what awaited him amid the falling blanket of dense snow, but he was no fool and would be well prepared for whatever the whiteout had concealed within its flaky ranks; ready to go to battle with any fierce or vile creature the mountain could throw his way. He was an experienced traveller, not to mention a skilled warrior, and would dare not wander through these blinding, frosty swirls of whipping white, without at least ensuring that his weapons were clear in their holds.

Hrorgard took a deep breath before finally mounting Thor. He shifted about in the saddle until he found himself a comfortable groove in which to rest, and then he pulled his Nordic bearskin helmet down tight around his head. The feel of its fur brought him great warmth; not only because of the enchanted protection it provided from the frost and the cold, but because it had been passed on to him from his great grandfather long ago. He too had been a great explorer in his youth, or so Hrorgard had been told. He said a silent prayer for his elder’s departed spirit and asked that he watch over him for the rest of his journey home. Then with a nudge of his boots into the sides of Thor, the two were off and quickly swallowed by the hefty power of the mighty storm.

Chapter 2


Despite being mounted, Hrorgard’s speed of travel had become dauntingly slow. The blizzard blotted out everything but a few feet on either side of him and Thor. The snowfall was so thick and so dense that the altitude of the mountain they trekked had completely vanished from sight; its height and enormity, devoured whole by the stormy white. With the poor visibility, Hrorgard maneuvered the pass as well as he could from memory alone. His goal was a spacious cave he had stayed in once before, located a little further down the slope.

The wind whistled and howled relentlessly along the way, hollowing out Hrorgard’s ears with its mournful bay. The powerful gusts were ever changing in both direction and in flow, pelting the two tired souls from all sides with icy sheets of swirling snow. Hrorgard tucked his chin down low and pressed on with grit and with gall. He had experienced far worse than this and took to taunting his Mother Skyrim’s resolve.

“Is that the best you can do!” he bellowed with a grin. “Cyrodiil has more bluster and bite in its savage winds!”

He laughed a hearty laugh and released a maniacal howl into the blinding white, “I am Hrorgard Wind-maker Mother…believe me when I say that I do not so easily fright.”

The brash and wild Nord couldn’t have known at the time that he would come to regret those brazen jeers, and before long a sizzling crack in the wind began to fill his ears. Next, a wispy flash of icy blue flittered past his sight; then disappeared just as fast into the snowy white.

Hrorgard brought Thor to an abrupt halt. A look of concern; etched in frost, formed across his face. He wasn’t sure what he’d seen, or even if he’d seen anything at all, but the longer he sat there, stone still, waiting to see if the icy shape would reappear, the more he became aware of the crispy crackle resonating through the air. It had a snap and a pop to it, like the sound of a log giving its life to feed a fire, but there was nothing warm or inviting about this particular noise. It pierced through the wail of the winter storm with a cold, shrill, hair-raising din, and the persistent peal seemed to sing with the promise of a frosty, frigid end. Its sound was that of ice forming, of glass shattering, of crystals being ground into grainy specks of gritty dust. It was the sound of a frozen lake splintering into a thousand veins at once.

Hrorgard lifted his helm a little and tilted his head to try and pinpoint the origin of the sound, but the high-pitched hum seemed to echo in on him from all sides, making its exact source impossible to identify. Worse though, it was gaining depth, getting louder, amplifying and reverberating in his mind. Something was definitely wrong, and Hrorgard could all but see the danger that was near. A danger he could hear; could feel deep down in his gut and in the pound of his chest, but a danger left invisible to the naked eye. His instincts screamed at him to run; to flee; to get away, and to do it fast. How is a man supposed to fight an enemy he cannot see or track?

Suddenly a mystical blue flash darted by on his left. Then another one careened through the dense fall of snow on his right; a trailing drift of white flakes left spinning wildly about in its wake. Hrorgard immediately reached for his mace and kicked his heels into the sides of Thor’s waist, but right at that moment another sinuous and ghostly streak of blue, sliced right past the horse’s face.

In a frightful panic, Thor reared up on his hind legs, shook his head violently from side to side and bucked Hrorgard free from the saddle. The man landed hard on his back in a mound of wet and heavy snow, which did very little to help soften the severity of the blow. His battleaxe was jarred loose in the fall, snapped back awkwardly beneath him and punctured his armour; ripping a hole in his flesh.

The Nord looked up in a daze from where he lay, grimacing from the stinging pain embedded in his shoulder. He could hear the clop of hooves; the squeals; the whinnies and the grunts emanating from Thor somewhere off in the distance. His cries were muffled by the density of the storm and drowned out by the icy crackle still ringing in the air. Hrorgard could only catch glimpses of blurry blotches of brown and of blue in his sight, as the streaks of fluctuating colour were heavily smeared by the swathe of tempestuous white. Suddenly his eyes went wide with angry understanding and he pushed his own pain from his mind—Thor was in dire need of assistance and seemed to be struggling just to survive.

Hrorgard leapt to his feet with a furious scowl on his face, and an evil glare in his eyes. Hearing his loyal beast’s cries of lament and dismay overwhelmed him with a seething, steaming-hot rage. Thor may have been a smug and ornery creature; impossible to please and difficult to get along with at the best of times, but despite his disagreeable and haughty nature, he was a true friend, a mighty companion, and the finest horse Hrorgard had ever owned—he would be damned if he was going sit back and listen to him suffer at the hands of some evil mountain ghost. With his steel mace in hand, he brought his other arm up to help shield his face from the snow and pressed forward into the whirling wall of wicked white.

The sound of Thor’s panic, of his fright and of his relentless fight became louder as Hrorgard pushed his way through the blinding storm. The farther he walked, the more the muddled colours of the battle ahead began to take shape and gain form, until finally, he stepped out of the thickness of the falling snow, and into a small clearing, sheltered by a warped roof of overhanging stone. The sight he saw put his heart in his throat.

Thor; his body and face blistered in places with large welts of bloody ice, stood frenzied and fatigued amid a swarm of sinisterly spinning, ghostly creatures, the likes of which Hrorgard had never seen.

When Thor saw Hrorgard approach from beyond the menacing swirl of those three icy wraiths, he lifted his head up high, stiffened his stance, let out his signature snort and then burst through the spherical, icy-blue cage. He neighed a wildly painful squeal as he passed through the writhing blockade. His hindquarters smoked with a frosty steam and patches of crystallizing ice began to form on his legs.

As Thor broke free from their clutch, the icy wraiths immediately gave chase, but then in a deep and potent voice, Hrorgard instinctively screamed at them to leave his horse be and to go away.

“GET BACK!” he yelled with a vigorous verve and a punctuated power. His words carved a trench out ahead as the snow below exploded upwards in a winter-white shower. In the midst of his shout the ground seemed to quake; ice seemed to crack and then turn into flake. A windy curse flew from the angry Nord’s lips, striking the wraiths like a tongue wielded whip.

The creatures were struck and scattered by the grievous might of Hrorgard’s words, giving Thor a chance to stagger away and vanish within the cover of the storm. Hrorgard listened closely as the beat of hooves dimmed in the distance, eventually coming to a complete stop. The wraiths hissed and crackled and hovered in place as they spun around and turned their attention on the Nord. Hrorgard called them forward with a sharp grunt and a taunting wave of his arms. He wanted nothing more than for them to draw near, so he could shred and batter them relentlessly with his spiked steel mace—oh how they would come to feel the torment they had inflicted on Thor.

Round, vile maws opened up on the ghostly creatures as they glided about in the air. The sharpened pairs of fang-like mandibles, which framed their mouths suddenly spread back, as each of the serpentine creatures spewed forth a magical, misty-blue globule of venom. Three glowing, airy orbs sped across the clearing towards the Nord—each seeming to gain greater momentum along the way. Hrorgard was slow to react because of this fact and barely got himself out of harm’s way. He spun to his right just in time to avoid the first as it coolly whistled past, then he immediately jumped back the way he came to sidestep the second blast, but the evasive movement he made put his body on a collision course with the last. Without thinking; without worrying; without wondering what it was he should do, the Wind-maker simply reacted viscerally and rolled beneath the humming ball of icy-blue. Its chilly essence grazed across the top of Hrorgard’s armoured head, piercing the protection of his enchanted bearskin helm and stinging his scalp with an awful, icy dread.

He rose up from his tumbling dodge just as the glob of magical venom crashed into a heap of snow at his back. An eruption of white flake, frosty hail and slushy sleet flooded the air upon impact, leaving the empty crater to freeze over with a thick, sizzling sheet of icy, arctic glass.

Another barrage of frosty poison came flying his way. This time Hrorgard immediately cut right, racing alongside the rising wall of snowy grey stone that provided the small clearing with its canopy of cover. His dashing sprint around its arcing face was quickly closing the distance between himself and the wraiths. The misty-blue bombardment of magical shells continued to come his way as he circled around the unrelenting creatures; approaching them swiftly in a wide arc on their right flank. The orbs exploded in a quick successive string of blue flashes against the rocky wall at his back. They slammed into the stone with deafening, strident bursts, and coated its rough, jagged surface with thick, slick layers of infectious ice.

Two of the creatures suddenly broke free from the pack; slithering through the air like snakes on the hunt for their prey, while the third one continued to spit its frosty venom at the Nord from several yards away. Hrorgard was well aware of the pair of wraiths whirling ever closer on his left, but before they could get near enough to pin him in against the wall of stone, he threw his weight back and quickly came to a brusque halt; digging his heels sharply into the snow, and narrowly avoiding a lobbed glob of venom which glazed a strip across his front with its iridescent, misty-blue glow. Next, he pivoted in place—spinning to his left amid a spray of rocky shards and splintered ice kicked up by the spewed spell of glacial carnage as it crashed home into the stone at his back. With a look of icy madness in his eyes, Hrorgard lunged at the two creepy, curling creatures writhing through the air—driving right between them without mercy, without kindness, without care.

He swung his spiked steel mace wildly and ferociously, striking again and again with precision and flair. No movement was wasted during his unyielding attack, but every blow he landed, only seemed to batter and beat at the air. The wraiths seemed absolutely unaffected by his attacks, and Hrorgard couldn’t be sure whether he was doing any damage at all. Their bodies simply wavered in the wind whenever his mace passed through their diaphanous, wraith-like skin.

Despite the futility of his attacks he continued on with a warrior’s rage, dancing between the evil, icy elegance of the sinuous creatures as they coiled around him with their streaming, wispy tails of smoky blue, their scaled bodies of arctic ether and their heads of stringy feelers and sharpened fangs.

Forward slashes would find their marks and lead Hrorgard into evasive crouches and spins, from which he would unleash snapping backhanded bursts with his mace before repeating the steps again and again.

The third wraith finally ceased its ranged assault of magically toxic blasts and joined the other two in their pressing attack. As it joined the fray, the three of them began to collectively carve through the air in a distinctly spherical pattern, ensnaring the big Nord within their grasp. Once he was fully encapsulated by the wraiths circular formation, the screeching squeal exuded by the three creatures amplified to the point that it became unbearably painful to hear. Hrorgard gripped the sides of his head to brace himself against the power of their penetrating peal. He let out a roar of anguish, then steadied himself and continued to fight through the pain without a shred of fear.

As he swung, beat and battered the wraiths with his studded, steel mace, the air inside the writhing bubble of blue began to fill with a frigid cold unlike anything Hrorgard had ever experienced before. It was so severe that his muscles began to seize, causing his body to stiffen and his movements to slow. The thick sheen of sweat dripping from his brow, which he had accumulated whilst holding his enemies at bay, froze over almost instantly in the iciness of the air, however, this sheet of frigid glass tightening around his skin was quickly shattered by the Nord’s rampant fury. He dug down deep and found new warmth within the purity of his own Nordic blood; using it to fuel his fiery rage, accelerate his movements and quicken his pace of attack from within his icy-blue cage.

The extreme frigidity of the air made his steamy breath appear as dense as a Black Marsh fog. As Hrorgard flailed wildly and violently about, the exhaled product of all his intense effort began to blend with the swift swirl of the living, blue blockade and rotate around the perimeter of the shrinking space; encasing him in a thick blinding barrier of his own frosty breath.

The wraiths continued to constrict and tighten their formation around Hrorgard, leaving him little room to maneuver. A step in either direction was the best he could do. He maintained a central point within the circular prison that whirled all around and had to move where the wraiths moved as they slowly directed him back towards the jutting wall of stone. Despite his overwhelming fatigue, he continued to do battle violently and voraciously along the way, hoping that eventually all his effort would crush one of the cold creature’s will to exist and shatter its essence into a whining wind or an icy mist.

His mace was now tremendously heavy in his hand and bore the venom of the icy wraiths all over its spikes, its ball and its shaft. His weapon had become coated in layers and chunks of semi-translucent ice from all of his vigorous and relentless attacks. The thick frosty glass was not only weakening his arm with its added heft, but like a cancerous disease, it was slowly destroying the integrity of the weapon as well, until finally, with a careless backhanded swing, the mace flew through one of the wraith’s bodies and shattered against the looming wall with an ear-piercing ring.

Hrorgard pulled back a jagged, dagger-sized nub of frostbitten steel. He looked down at it—at first with awe and with worry, but then his expression shifted back into one of hatred and of fury. He gazed up with anger at the whirling blue blur created by his captors three, and then tossed the broken weapon aside; lodging it into a churned heap of snow at his feet. “Oh you’ve asked for it now,” he warned as he reached back with both hands to pry his great battleaxe free. However, a look of surprise was all he retrieved, when he realized the clasp at his back had already been emptied.

Before he even had time to wonder where it had gone, one of the wraiths lashed out and snapped at Hrorgard’s exposed arm. It clamped down hard on his right wrist with its chilly mouth of icy teeth. The Nord’s hand was completely consumed by the viselike jaw of the vile beast and yet he could still see its shape contained within the translucent cover of the creature’s ghostly skin. The wraith’s body pulsed and thrashed in a series of fast undulating waves as it tried to rip Hrorgard’s hand right off his limb. The other two continued to swirl about as Hrorgard screamed out in agony at the icy pain and frosty sting of the biting teeth embedded in his flesh. He was utterly frozen by the sheer magnitude of the crippling pain, and was suddenly overcome with a strong sense of nauseating despair. In the face of this frosty doom, Hrorgard did the only thing he could will himself to do. He summoned all of the magical might he could manage to find and released a blazing ball of flame from his fist—searing the evil creature’s insides. It hissed and squealed and recoiled in pain, releasing Hrorgard’s hand as it spit up the fire and the flame.

All three creatures ceased their weaving ways amid the sudden blaze and Hrorgard took the opportunity to stiffly stumble from their snare. He fell to his knees a few feet away, nursing his badly bitten arm. The effects of the icy bite had quickly begun to take hold—the ice wraith’s venom was turning his blood cold. He could feel its nasty chill coursing through his veins. His arm was bent and frozen at the elbow; the wound on his hand, crusted over with ice. He watched in horror as frost and crystallized flake grew from his swollen flesh, spreading like a disease down the length of his arm. His whole body began to tingle. He could hardly move he was so cold; could barely lift his chest high enough to heave a decent breath. He coddled his right arm with his left; held it close trying to generate some warmth, while at the same time trying to pinch off the swell of the frosty growth.

The pound of his heart was growing faint in his chest. He could hear its dim beat in the depths of his ears. It sounded distant—as though his spirit had already been freed from its mundane shell. He gasped a shallow breath and looked up through a pair of tired, defeated eyes at the imposing, snaky, streaks of hovering blue—an evil, bitter wind, they were—a menacing mix of ice and air; of sinister serpent and ghostly wraith. In his stupor, Hrorgard wondered which of the devious, demonic Gods was responsible for creating such a horrific triptych of icy-blue death, and hoped to meet him in the approaching afterlife so he could vengefully extract from him, a pound of flesh.

Icy fangs began to spread wide on the looming creatures. Their crisp, shrill cackle resonated in the air and carried with it the sizzling hum of icy venom frothing forward from their mouths. An all too familiar misty-blue glow began shine from the tips of their fangs. Hrorgard bowed his head in surrender; in acceptance of the chilly end that he knew was near.

That’s strange, he thought, as he slumped into a submissive state of misery and despair. Despite being frozen to the core and on the brink of death, his heart suddenly seemed to be beating wildly in his chest. Its sound was becoming so loud, that it drowned out the incessant squeal and fizzle of the icy wraiths. He had to admit, it was an odd sensation. He felt completely devoid of the warmth necessary to sustain his life and yet at that very moment the ground seemed to tremble with the strength and vitality of his pounding heart. Perhaps, he thought, I’m already dead.

Suddenly the world came alive and quaked with a rattling set of thunderous booms. Hrorgard looked up from his icy grave and saw a blur of brown rush past his face. The colour kicked and reared and spun all about in a swirl of snow. The triple blast of magical, venomous death—prepared by the wraiths—was sent awry in the sudden confusion; the glowing blue orbs sailing high over Hrorgard’s head. A long, ice-encrusted snout bowed down and snorted a big steamy snort in the Nord’s frosted face.

“Thor?” he questioned in a cold, quiet voice as the horse leaned in low and kicked at the creatures with his mighty hind legs.

The enraged beast gently nudged Hrorgard as he lashed out at the wraiths hovering at his back; urging the defeated man to get up and join in on the attack. The poor horse’s body was spotted with huge patches of crimson-coloured ice, which seemed be growing right out of his skin. His lips appeared a frigid blue and he was blind in one eye; shards of bloodstained glass sprouting in large clusters from a face-long gash down its right side. Hrorgard watched the surreal fight unfold from his frosty place between this world and the next. The horse stood strong as the Nord’s guard against death, providing him with valuable cover and with precious time. He held his ground, blocking every movement, every attack the creatures made with his thick, icy-brown hide.

Hrorgard felt a deep shame at that moment. Poor Thor appeared just as broken and as beaten as he, and yet the stubborn horse refused to just lay down and die; continuing to fight the good fight so Hrorgard would have a chance to survive. He looked down at the ground in dishonour and disgrace and saw all the little leather pouches he carried, splayed out in the snow around his waist. The answer; the solution to his icy problem suddenly flashed through his mind. Everything he needed to cure and to conquer the cold chill clotting his veins was right there at his side.

Hrorgard began to rigidly rifle through the pouches with his left hand, stiffly searching for the ingredients he would need. First he pulled a fistful of dryad saddle polypore caps from one pouch, crushed them in his fist and stuffed them in his mouth. Next he found the pouch bursting-full with the fire salts he’d collected after clearing out a mine a few weeks ago that had been infested with a rather unfriendly group of flame atronachs—disgusting creatures. Hrorgard poured half a handful of the hot salts into his mouth and smeared the other half all over his frozen hand while grinding the two ingredients together with his teeth. Chewing was a difficult prospect, but at least the plaguing cold managed to numb the awful flavour it produced. He reached for a fistful of snow to help liquefy the concoction, and watched with terror as Thor was staggered and knocked to the ground by a brutal attack from all three ice wraiths at once.

The collapsed animal neighed and squealed as he churned and rolled around in the snow, but managed to right himself before the wraiths could grab hold. Thor shot Hrorgard a sidelong look as he rose, then he tensed his icy frame, kicked up a storm and galloped away. The silent glare from the horse was a message that rang loud and clear; now it’s on you, old man…get up off your ass and help.

Hrorgard stuffed the snow in his mouth as two of the wraiths hissed at the horse and then spun and gave chase. The third one, however—the one the Nord had set ablaze—viciously gazed down at Hrorgard and then lunged right at the frozen man’s face.

The curve of the creature sliced straight down and missed its intended mark, slamming instead into the silver rondel at Hrorgard’s chest. The creature let out a screech as it hammered into the silver plate. Its body contracted from the impact and then pulsed erratically as it recoiled and regrouped. Hrorgard swallowed hard as he was struck, gagging on the mush caked in his mouth. As awful as it was he forced it down his throat; amazed that he was still alive after that blow. The creature circled about, hissing maliciously as the Nord looked down at his chest and inspected the circular piece of armour that had saved his life. It was aglow with the same icy-blue colour of the wraith, as though it had absorbed a part of its essence. It was all beginning to make sense now; all the information Hrorgard needed was coming together in his head. He felt foolish for not realizing it sooner. The silver was their weakness and soon all those foul creatures would be dead.

He could feel the effects of the makeshift potion begin to take hold; could see the fiery salts embedded in the frost of his frozen hand slowly eating away at the layer of ice, healing him of his cold. He began to stretch; began to stir, testing his muscles, his joints and his bones. His Nordic blood flowed strong once more, hotter than ever and more potent than before. He picked himself up out of his bed of ice and snow and reached for the silver blade in the back of his belt.

It was freed from its sheath with a sweet slicing ring—the sound of retribution—the sound of death and the pain it would bring. Thor suddenly appeared in the distance; bursting through the draqe of falling snow that hung at the edge of the small clearing. The two wraiths were close behind the crazed horse, gliding gracefully through the air as they gave chase. The three of them darted about, zigzagging in and out of the blinding storm that raged beyond the protection of the stone.

Hrorgard; his right arm still folded up stiffly near his chest, lined the last wraith up in his sights and approached the creature with the silver dagger glinting at his side. As he neared the entity—its slinking shape drifting horizontally in front of his eyes—the wraith briskly banked left and dove at him with its mouth open wide. Hrorgard hastily shuffled to the side, pulled his right arm back, and let the creature feast on the plate of silver at his chest. Again, the Nord absorbed the serpent’s force with his unwavering might and then began to slash viciously at its skin with the power of his silver knife. He gouged and ripped and tore and sliced while the wraith squealed and shuddered amid sprays of ethereal, smoky, blue ice.

The wraith was quickly being shredded and diced into dust. Wounds up and down its long arcing body, gushed with a hazy blue mist. The air was filled with clouds of particulate, which lazily drifted away in the wind. Hrorgard was merciless in his attack and was literally ripping the creature apart at the seams. A slice across the belly, a deep jab in the face and then sensing that the wraith was on its last legs, he painfully straightened his arm with a cringe and offered his injured hand to the beast—baiting him in. Drained of its life, the writhing, screeching creature, with streams of dusty blue spewing from its wounds and trailing off into the wind, fell for the Nord’s trap and desperately lunged for his hand.

Hrorgard felt the icy cold jaws clamp down around his fist, but before the bite and the sting of its frosty teeth could puncture his flesh, he harnessed his magicka and released a fireball straight down the creature’s esophagus.

The fire salts that were still smeared on his hand ignited in a sparkling blaze and made the magical blast even more potent; shattering the crusty sheet of ice clinging to his hand, as the flames took root and then sped along the entire length of the creature’s ghostly skin; consuming and devouring it, until only a wisp of smoke remained, where once, the ice wraith had been.

Hrorgard smirked a sinister grin as the creature evaporated before his eyes, then he let out a deep sigh and dropped to a knee to collect himself and replenish his reserves. He flexed his healing hand again and again, loosening up his tight tendons and forcing life back into his numb flesh. As he knelt he could feel a faint vibration surging through the snow below. A terrifying squeal suddenly echoed in from the far side of the clearing. It was Thor, and by the high pitch and sheer intensity of his cry, things were not going well. Hrorgard jumped to his feet and started off in the direction of the noise. A small victory had been had, but the battle had yet to be won.

Before Hrorgard had even taken three steps forward, the frantic horse exploded onto the scene, racing along in a panic and at a feverish pace. The Nord’s heart skipped a beat when he saw why.

As the distressed animal broke through the whirl of white, Hrorgard could see that both wraiths were latched onto his hide; their flimsy blue tails trailing behind like flags flapping in the wind. They hung on like a pair of leeches, svcking the life from the horse. Thor made three or four long strides before his legs finally gave out and he was dragged down by the relentless serpents; collapsing in a twisted heap.

The wraiths relinquished their grip as Hrorgard set off on a mad dash through the snow. The icy creatures began to circle the downed beast, watching while the horse kicked and shivered and mournfully neighed. Thor tried to pick himself up, but each time he did the wraiths would strike down and sting the wounded beast with their venom; pecking at him like vultures, picking clean a fallen prey.

Hrorgard screamed and shouted at them from a distance, but this time, no wind came. He cast a fireball as he continued to press forward, but missed with his poor aim. He spun his knife around in his hand, pulled his arm back and whipped it at the wraiths. It whizzed through the air and miraculously carved through both blue bodies as they hovered in place.

The annoyed creatures hissed and screeched at the sharpness of the silver blade, then spun around and went after Hrorgard who was now without any weapon to keep the wicked creatures at bay.

The Nord stopped dead in his tracks. His efforts to get the wraiths away from Thor were a success, but now with them gliding in ever closer, and him without a weapon, he was defenceless against attack. He glanced down at Thor. The poor beast, sprawled out lifelessly on the ground; his body sheathed in layer upon layer of ice; his skin split and carved open in too many places to count. Hrorgard was both heart-broken and enraged by the gruesome, saddening sight. He swallowed back his sorrow, his pain and his regret, leaving only his anger still stirring in his head. He gazed hard at the wraiths with pure hatred and complete disgust, then without taking his eyes off of the swirling, whirling serpents of windy mist and ice-blue dust, he ripped a leather thong free from his belt, reached into the pouch at its end and pulled back a fistful of fiery salts.

Hrorgard began to spin the thong and its pouch wildly at his side while keeping his other hand clenched tightly around the fistful of fiery dust, waiting patiently for the perfect time. He cursed and spit at the wraiths when they were but a few feet away.

“You vile scum…you wretched things, I send you to Shor and pray that you burn for an eternity.”

With that said, he loosed the pouch full of fire salt from his grip, lobbing it right between the two lunging wraiths. At the same time his right arm thrust forward, his fist opening along the way, releasing the remaining salts from his hand in a lustrous, streaking spray.

“For Thor” he shouted with a cold and vengeful rage as his hand began to sizzle and spark with the making of a flame. A small ball of fire sprang to life in his upturned fist, and then with an elegant flair matching that of any master wizard, he spun his hand around and flicked his wrist, casting the fireball away.

The fire salts were ignited instantly by the sudden blaze. The roar of the heat and the rush of the flame spread so quickly and became so powerful so fast, that the shrill screech of the two creatures wasn’t just drowned out, but rather, their high-pitched squeals were completely devoured by the burning might of the scorching hot wave. The blazing inferno expanded and sped through the air with such forceful haste that time itself seemed to stop by comparison. Hrorgard looked on; his expression emotionless and unflinching, even as his face was burned and blistered by the searing heat of the tremendous flames. He watched with grim satisfaction as the wrath of the fire engulfed the two icy wraiths; torching them; charring them; inflicting a lifetimes worth of torment on them in a single instant of utter pain, and just as they were about to succumb to the might of the blaze, the small pouch between them ignited, setting off a massive explosion that completely removed the two creatures from existence in an impressive and dazzling display.

As the last of the salt was burned up the fire imploded and was svcked away, leaving an amorphous cloud of smoke behind to waver in its wake.

Not far from the point of the implosion, Thor gave a meagre kick with his hind legs. Hrorgard quickly rushed over to the horse’s side, fearful of what he would find, but hoping he would be able to help ease his companion’s pain. The sight, when he arrived, was anything but pretty and put a lump in Hrorgard’s throat. He swallowed hard as he knelt down alongside his troubled friend and rested a hand across the frosty mane at his icy neck. Hrorgard shook his head sadly as he gazed down at the broken, bloody carnage that had once been a strong and healthy horse. Thor’s front legs laid mangled in the snow, shattered and twisted around at impossible angles. Jagged ribs were splintered and stuck out awkwardly from his skin. His brown hide was stained red with the blood from countless wounds and gashes; turned blue in places from the cold, and was nearly completely covered in a growth of thick, sharp shards of slick, white ice. Even now, in this crippled state of absolute disarray, Thor continued to fight the good fight, kicking his hind legs ever so slightly; fending off the cold grip of death. He struggled for a shallow breath and lifted his head a few inches so he could shoot a final snort Hrorgard’s way.

The Nord stroked his hand along Thor’s face, leaned in close and whispered earnestly in his ear. “They paid dearly for this my boy...and suffered painfully before their demise. Now rest easy my friend and find peace from your strife.”

With that, the horse’s body seemed to relax as he rested his head atop Hrorgard’s bent legs, but soon after that the mighty beast’s battle was ended, as death finally arrived and rode Thor away.

It was too cold for tears right then and there, but that didn’t stop the distraught Nord from weeping unchecked on the inside. He eventually managed to pry himself away from his passed friend and pick himself up. His heart; heavy with grief and stained with sorrow, Hrorgard gathered his supplies, strung the hefty saddlebags of ore over his shoulders, collected his silver blade from a mound of snow a few feet away and set off into the storm in search of a cave. His journey would continue; he would live to fight another day, but only because of a great steed named Thor and the ultimate sacrifice that that brave horse did make.