A Slayer Comes

The Slayer

The winter season had come proudly to the Tundra. Where once the Amber fields rolled for miles over hill and abreast to crystaline streams. Now the winter of the Pale met with the seasons kiss upon Whiterun Hold. Snow joining Snow to coat the land in the raiment of the Bitter Season in the Old Kingdom of Skyrim.

The winters of Skyrim have ever been met by farmers as a traditional adversary. One met with preparation and an abhorrence for wasted time. Else the winter would take their hard earned harvest. A Nord farmer has a mind for such a struggle. Some have even said that it is the struggles of Skyrim that carve a person down to their true self. And can even see it in the native Nords who populate the Old Kingdom, as they sing of her hardened past.

But not all who come to live in Skyrim have a personality or mind for hardship. And may view such struggles as oppressors or tormenters rather than strengthening experiences. Thusly the winter season has always brought greater challenge for them that come to live in Skyrim from elsewhere in Tamriel. Such is the lot of Vantus Lorius and wife, Curwe.

As Curwe gathered up the grain newly ground by the windmill whilst the wind bit at her cheeks. Vantus had his own struggle with the wind. Curwe at least had the shelter of the windmill. While he chopped wood for the fire in their house. Cursing at the winter gales that blew down from the Pale. Gales chilled by the icy winds from the Sea of Ghosts.

Vantus' nose became runny as the air bit at his face. The Logs were thick and difficult for one eager to escape the cold. The eagerness thwarted his swings. And he would have to wrestle the axe from within the half split logs. "Damn the wind!" Vantus exclaimed with bitterness in his voice.

Vantus then began to think back to when Curwe and he decided to come to Skyrim. Oppertunity seemed to burst from the ancient land. At least in rumor. The Imperial had never seen such harsh thunderstorms, bitter winters, or even such harsh and rugged terrain. The Imperial Province was all he had ever known. Yet he left it behind at the mention of the profits to be had for farmers in Skyrim. Though he considered the words a curse now.

Curwe leaned out from the shelter of the windmill to call out to Vantus "Husband! Don't forget to finish planting the posts!" Reminding him of the seasonal duty of rural residents to plant posts connected with rope in the ground along the road. So that travelers could find their way during the blinding snow storms that frequented the deep of the winter season.

"Yes my love." Vantus said frustratedly. Lamenting the task in the face of the task he had already. For there was still much firewood that needed chopping. Especially before the terrible storms came. When all one could sanely do is stay indoors and be prepared to dig oneself out when the storm had passed.

Vantus placed the axe against the chopping stump and went down to the road, where he'd left off the day before. All the way up to the guard post at the top of the hill running down along the aged stone road. A procession of posts tied together with rope ran the roads length. And in the opposite direction too. Along the length of road headed for Dawnstar.

After digging out the hole with his weary spade. Vantus dropped the post into the hole and hammered away with an oak mallet. One, two, three hits of the mallet. But the winter hardened dirt was stubborn. And would not give the post good foundation.

After another four hits. The post found purchase. Vantus took the weary spade and began to shovel the dirt back into the hole. As he scooped up another glob of loosened earth, the weary spade surrendered to the ravages of time. Snapping at the head, inches from the hole. As if to spite Vantus. At least to his mind.

Vantus groaned with poorly restrained anger. His head tilted back bringing his gaze to the winter pale sky above. Bearing his teeth, Vantus shouted "Divines! I hate Skyrim!" But the howl of the wind muffled his protest. Making it probably that even the Gods didn't hear him.

"What's that you said Vantus!?" Curwe asked from the windmill back up the hill. The wind stifling her shouts as well.

Vantus' eyes rolled before clinching into an inpatient expression. Returning the angle of his head to his front, believing Curwe was trying to tell him something rather than asking after his condition. He began to shout "Oh! For the love of Mara what..." Vantus cut off. His attention was wrenched from his speech to something on the road. "Now?..." He whimpered. Lite terror strangling his frustration.

Vantus looked in front of him to behold something like a tale of old. A dark steed clad in the bones of conquered beasts. Carrying a rider of intimidating quality. The rider was clad in dusky steel armor and cloaked by black furs. A grim and shadowed face peering out from under the hood with luminescent amber eyes. The like of which, Vantus had only ever seen on the face of a Wolf.

Vantus was awestruck and wrecked with new found dread. The dark steed carried a giant. With the only thing towering over him, being that of a wide steel sword sharp and menacing with only a few meager chips in the edge. Beholding the grim warrior, Vantus could do naught but stand still as the post he had driven into the dirt.

The Dread Rider passed him by as he led his dark steed along the road. Giving a Stoic nod as he passed. While Vantus could only attempt a hurried nod in return. The mystique the grim warrior radiated was that of battle hardened bravado. This man was a Slayer. A wandering warrior selling his bloody services for coin and the spoils of the kill.

The rider passed in but a few moments. But to Vantus those moments felt like hours. After the warrior had gone far enough up the road headed for Whiterun. Vantus called to Curwe "My love!? Who was it you said was interested in buying the farm!?"