The Fire-Marred One of Hjaalmarch [Vörin Snow-Rend]

0: Forge-Born

It was early First Seed. Aetherius has been sharing little of its light to the mortals dwelling on the northern tundras of Skyrim. That particular season passed unremarkably for the small fishing settlement nestled on the spine of River Hjaal, just south-west of the great salt marshes by the Sea of Ghost. For months, the river's bounty has been modest, enough to feed the village but not enough to bring trade from outside. The winter has blanketed the tundra to the east and west with gentle ice. Hjaalmarch was not a hospitable land, but few of Skyrim's nine holds were.

When the midwife from Morthal arrived to the village, the sun was still dwelling low on the grey horizon. She was led by the carriage-driver who fetched her to the village's smithy. There, the pregnant Sígurlina sat by her forge outside, still working on iron nails and boat-making tools. Her water broke hours before sunrise and much to her surprise she found herself still bearing enough strength to work her trade. The midwife joked that it had something to do with her strong and big build before scolding her with an urgent tone. Assisted by the carriage-driver, the midwife ushered the headstrong woman inside her modest house.  

The cries first echoed near midday. Sígurlina's sweat erupted in pebbles on her forehead as pain and movements flood her body. Her legs split open to make way for a new life.The midwife instructed and encouraged her from the foot of the bed, though Sígurlina could hardly make out the words from her own gasping and screaming. All she knew what to do was to push and let her body took charge. She would eventually cracked open and a pink newborn's head emerged in all the garish splendor of childbirth. The infant, too small and frail for the midwife's liking, was brought to their mother's embrace.

It was a girl. She was cleaned and clothed in embroidered blankets and fox fur that her mother had prepared months in advance. At first, Sígurlina worried how a strong, ample woman such as herself produced such a small offspring. Barely any flesh on the infant's bones. The midwife reassured her that the baby was otherwise healthy and would surely fatten up with plenty of milk. Sígurlina cooed at her daughter and gave her sustenance from her breast with the midwife's help. She smiled bitter-sweetly as she nursed, thinking of what her child would inherit and the fate that would surely take her away from her land.

This expression on Sígurlina's face was misunderstood by the midwife as grief.

"You will need plenty of help from now on. I understood there's no father. Is he in Kyne's graces?" The plump middle-aged woman had assumed he died in the war. She shook her head in pity. "Too many of Skyrim's sons and daughters have gone..."

But Sígurlina would not feel anything from the sympathetic words. She had been content with living herself in her remote idyllic birthplace, surrounded by landscape hostile to those whose veins do not house Ysgramor's blood. Few in the village knew of her child's father and she had hoped he would know nothing of her whereabout.

"He wasn't a son of Skyrim. He was no Nord at all. I'll have help from the people here." Sígurlina replied with a carefully-chosen tone, hoping it would be enough to douse the midwife's inquisitive mood. Nevertheless, there was a kind longing in her eyes when she cast her glance towards a set of armor in a corner of the house.

When the midwife opened the windows to let fresh air in, the wind carried laughter from the villagers outside. The fisherfolks have returned with a good catch and the sun peaked higher in the sky than it had been for months. Air surrounding the still-lit forge bent with warmth. The carriage man had walked to the neighbours bringing news of the birth. Later, some of the fisherfolks approached the forge with gifts of fresh fish. Others came with herbs. That day, Sígurlina named her baby Vörin after the coming Spring.