Warm Winds of Whiterun

The Tundra Homestead

His dark-green fingers showed through the fur of his warm gloves, as his hand reached to the keys. It stopped right before touching another person's hand. He never said a word all this time, but his gesture spoke for itself, demonstrating a silent agreement. A middle-aged Nord quietly grunted, reluctantly passing the key to Orc's hand.

ʺYou can move in as soon as you sign these papers friend,ʺ Nord grunted ʺJarl Balgruuf needs an official document with all signed.ʺ

ʺGive me a guill,ʺ Orc replied quickly, leaning inward.

A Nord named Ormrinn didn't say anything this time, silently passing him a quill and official-looking paper. For a moment he thought about asking Orc to go back into the house and sign the papers like they were supposed to be signed, on the table, so the handwriting could be readable, but decided against this idea. A few moments passed as the Nord watched his purchaser write on the document. «This day has been awfully quiet...,» he thought. The air was cold, and every breath he took, left an unpleasant feeling inside his lungs. It was familiar though. It was almost the middle of Frostfall, so no surprise that the wind turned coldly sharp, driving the cold air from the mountains that surrounded Skyrim.

Soon, the sound of the quill scratching paper passed, and Orc sharply turned to the Nord. He handed the papers to him, as his yellow, cat-like eyes watched the Nord's expression.

Ormrinn took the papers and made a quick look at them, checking. The document started with the words «selling», and the house name, following it with the house description and its location. Under all this black nonsense was a place for signs, already filled with cursive handwriting. One of the fields said «Buzgul», and the other contained Jarl's signature. There was only one, waiting to be filled with Ormrinn's name. He spared a large orc another glance, considering his decision. It was a nice house, with a perfect location. It was not too far from the city, but neither it was far into Whiterun Hold's wilderness. He gave a worthy price for it, seven thousand and five hundred Septims. Maybe selling The Tundra Homestead to the orc named Buzgul was a mistake. Most likely. But Buzgul seemed pretty self-conscious for an orc, and pleasantly presented himself, even if sometimes Ormrinn could feel the chills running down his spine from the purchaser's gaze.

He returned his glare to the paper and raised his hand with a quill to leave his signature. The decision was made. He will ride to Whiterun later this day, to give the document to Proventus Avenicci.

ʺWell, I guess that's it,ʺ Ormrinn said, exhaling a heavy sigh.

ʺIt is.ʺ Buzgul replied, his gaze never leaving Nord's face.

ʺI'll ride to the city today and give conformation of purchase to Avenicci,ʺ as Nord spoke, small, foggy, clouds of warm breath left his mouth, ʺThe Tundra Homestead is yours now.ʺ

Buzgul didn't say anything this time, just nodded in agreement. Awkwardly coughing a couple of times, Ormrinn turned on his hill and trotted to his horse. He jumped on it, ready to leave, leaving an overgrown orc to attend to himself. One last time he looked at his former homestead, memorizing its appearance in a moment. Ormrinn was sure - it was the last time he would see it in its normal look. While he looked around, his gaze noticed a tall figure standing, and he unconsciously let his eyes wander toward it.

Ormrinn tensed for a second, as he noticed the sharp look in Buzgul's eyes. For all this time, this orc just stood there, ogling Ormrinn. He felt himself getting petrified. He gripped the straps of the horse's bridles, turning it, and took a leave in a rush. Even if he tried not to look too scared, this detail hadn't slipped from Buzgul.

Once the Nord took his leave, everything seemingly relaxed. This poor man was so scared of Buzgul that he started to feel uncomfortable being himself. But now he was gone, and everything that was left of him — was this beautiful homestead. It was built in the same style as other buildings in Whiterun, but still, it looked out of place. Farms and meaderies that surrounded the capital of Skyrim looked cheap compared to the homestead. If you squint your eyes enough you could see a moss growing somewhere from the top of the roof, a threshold overgrown with grass and stones on the ground that served as a small road to the door, now almost completely covered in dirt and gravel. On the right side of the house stood two average-sized stalls, with fresh hay on the ground. It seems before Ormrinn left, he left a small gift for the new homestead owner. The stalls were nothing extraordinary, made for everyday use. The Whiterun Stable's looked better. But it's unlikely for Buzgul's horse to complain. Rigmor, Buzgul's gorgeous mare, once spent a whole rainy night without the roof and never showed her attitude. She was resting at Whiterun Stable's right now, and Buzgul sincerely was curious to know her reaction upon seeing her new home. Their new home. For a muscled orc, it was still too hard to imagine. After so many years of meaningless traveling in Cyrodiil and Black Marshes, so much dirty work and injuries he was finally settling! The final decision of his home location seemed almost ironic to him.

He spent a good half of his life running away from his homeland, preferring to forget rather than accept. The orc wasn't sure now in which stronghold he was born, and where it was located, but he knew for sure that it was somewhere in Skyrim. Buzgul also wasn't sure that he'd ever return and, Gods have mercy, live in one of orc strongholds ever. He had seen enough in his life while he traveled, but somehow, stories about other orc's cruelty managed to surprise him.

As Buzgul stood there, he could feel his thoughts slipping away in the wrong direction. He still hasn't finished with the house evaluation. From the left of the homestead stood the main reason why he decided to buy it in the first place: a compacted forge. Before he became a mercenary, he used to work in forges in cities. Starting from Anvil — a fisherman's and sailor's city, and moving to something bigger. This job was practical, meaning it could make him rich, but it is also what folks called «an undying profession».

He took big pride in his work, and with each passing day, his work became better. Unfortunately for the Orc, after the war period crisis made his works value less, so he left the forges and became a mercenary. Buzgul could already imagine the works he'd create here, a smell of hot steel sneaking into his nostrils, despite the furnace being cold. Looking around one last time, he entered the homestead, thinking about how he should come for Rigmor this evening.