A Warrior's Heart

Beginner's Luck

Cyril was staring at the horse. It seemed rather dull, uninterested in his presence. He heaved a breath of uncertainty. “Alright, steed. Your time has come. I paid good money for you,” he said, almost whimpering when he looked down at a nearly empty coin bag. Geimund was happy to have sold a horse to him, stripping him of one thousand septims. Originally, Cyril was going to pay Beirand in Solitude for the armor, but the blacksmith had a last thought of supreme generosity and simply gave it to him. It was even fashioned by the Dragonborn. Cyril smiled at that thought again, contemplating the sheer luck that had come to him from this adventurous endeavor, hoping that it would remain throughout the duration of his quest.

As he mounted the horse, he began to ponder what the guard said before he left Solitude. The Dragonborn was accompanied by Faendal the Ruthless, something Cyril could hardly picture. He imagined the Dragonborn to be the bright and glorious Nord woman his mother made her out to be; why would she associate, let alone travel with, such a dark individual? Granted, Cyril knew that this almost equally as legendary Bosmer wasn’t evil, he found it hard to wrap his head around. The Black Arrow, the Shadow Warrior, the Night Mage; all were names given to Faendal the Ruthless over the years. He was known everywhere in Skyrim, and he was the nightmare of bandits and thugs.

Yet, though such a daunting character existed, Cyril thought of their meeting exciting. Perhaps after a few explanations concerning the Dragonborn, the famed warrior may be generous enough to teach him some combat moves, or even a few spells. As Cyril trotted down the road upon his new horse, he slowed the steed’s pace so he could write a letter requesting Faendal’s attendance in Riverwood. Cyril figured that was the best place for the two of them to convene, since it was the Bosmer’s home and, he presumed, where he and the Dragonborn first met.

Sometime after he finished, he stuffed it away and found his way into Dragon Bridge a few hours later. The trip through trail wilderness had been seamless. He even spotted a few deer grazing in the woods along the path. The horse, which he decided to name Ambara—after a girl he knew when he was young—bobbed her head as she strode calmly through the village. Cyril had his eye out for a courier. He noticed one leaning against a fence, and steered over to him. He pulled out his letter, and the remaining coin he had.

“I would like for you to deliver a message for me,” he said. The courier sighed.

“That’s my only purpose here in Skyrim, isn’t it?” He took Cyril’s letter and skimmed it, eyes widening. “Faendal the Ruthless? Sweet Divines—either this is a death wish or you have some pretty tough friends.” Cyril had no desire to correct the courier, he realized with a slight grin.

“The letter explains everything. I’d appreciate if you could give it to him as swiftly as possible.” They nodded a farewell and Cyril left, leading Ambara out of the community across the bridge. As they moved, he took notice of the sculpted dragon head, looking at it in quiet awe. He knew the dragons have returned to Skyrim (though, since the fall of Alduin, their numbers have dwindled). He’d never seen one himself, but he heard of the treachery they caused. If not killed soon enough, they could wipe a village off the map overnight.

Now, he was off to Riverwood. He’d been there once before with his father when he was a boy. They’d passed through and stayed a night at the Sleeping Giant Inn while on a hunting trip. His father, an Imperial soldier, settled in Solitude after meeting his mother. He’d wanted Cyril to be a soldier as well, but seeing he had a natural talent for singing and instruments, he figured it would be best he become a bard instead. Of course, all of this was put into a letter sent home upon the news of his death in an Imperial camp.

 -

Nightfall approached, and Cyril found himself nearing Rorikstead. He’d run into a few wolves on the way, but they were quite easy to kill. Ambara actually managed to crush one unfortunate wolf’s skull with her large hooves. He skinned them of their pelts and dragged their carcasses into the trees. He did, however, suffer a bite on his thigh. Cyril knew that it was very likely they’d transmitted a disease to him, so he hoped he could find a potion that would solve such a problem at some point soon.