Summers in Skyrim were always cold, the winters doubly so. It was a land of blood and ice, if the beasts that stalked the wilderness didn't kill a man the cold surely would. Winter nights were plagued with harsh winds and howling wolves. Families locked and barred their doors at night to keep the werewolves out during the full moon and huddled around fires under layers of wool for warmth. By all accounts and appearances the Province of Skyrim was hardly a desirable place to live, but throughout history its inhabitants have proven resilient and stubborn despite the odds placed against them. The Nords were a hardy folk; fair haired and skinned, tall and strong and resistant to the harsh cold that permeated the land year round. They have built mead halls across the landscape and sing of the gods and glorious battle, their poets writing with one hand and slaying with the other. Countless wars and battles have been fought across the landscape but it remained pure and solid despite nearly constant bloodshed. Each of the land's numerous mountains stood as a testament to the strength of its people, defying any who would try and persecute them.

The Nords were formidable warriors, slow to trust be steadfast friends through and through. Honor and courage they valued above all else and cowards were looked down upon as milk-drinkers and no more worthy of their respect than the large rats they called Skeevers. To be honored amongst the Nord one did not need to wield a great weapon and run into battle screaming (though it certainly helps). Beyond strength of body there was the strength of spirit and companionship and this was the most important of all attributes a person could hold if they wished to befriend a Nord. To betray Skyrim's people was to know fury and wrath unlike anything the other races could offer.

Throughout time they have been called barbarians, primitive for their rough way of living and their insistence on clinging to tradition and worshipping the old gods but more and more scholars have come to realize that there is a certain wisdom in Norse thinking that few other cultures share. As a whole they are not keen on magic but acknowledge its usefulness, they prefer to settle disputes in combat rather than with diplomacy (with the exception of a select few) and above all else they revere their ancestors and the man-god, Talos, who rose from Skyrim to create the Septim Empire in Cyrodiil before the divines raised him to the heavens.

Nord civilization was simple from a distance but complex up close and wary of outsiders, for many have attempted to exploit the seemingly barbaric peoples in the past. Regardless, if you greeted a Nord with a mug of mead and a story or two they will welcome you with open arms and share their fire for a few moments of companionship.

Just never approach with a sword drawn unless you mean to test your skill against some of Tamriel's fiercest warriors.

——-

West of Whiterun and east of Solitude there was a little hamlet called Rorikstead. Its citizens were farmers by trade and they boasted no more than a handful of buildings including the "manor" of Rorik and the Frostfruit Inn. Among the farmers was a family of Nords, Agnar who once wielded a war-hammer for the Imperial Legion in the Great War and Hyala who was a priestess of Kynareth. Together Agnar and Hyala had a child whom they named Aegon and it was this boy who grew to be tall and strong as his father had been in his prime. He was a pale child even as far as the Nords go, with platinum hair and golden eyes that took in all the world had to offer with a singular reaction: curiosity. The boy spent his early years tending to the crops with his father or helping out on the nearby farmsteads in their small community, though occasionally he would slip away from his chores to ask a guard from Whiterun hold about any adventures he might have had in the past.

Largely, the boy's small rebellions went unpunished and were dismissed as the harmless fantasies of a child. The concerns of his parents were soon forgotten until the morning of his fifteenth nameday when they woke to find his bed empty and the single plow horse they owned missing from the stables. A note was tacked to the wooden post outside their small home with its thatched roof that said he had risen early and tended to the crops and went to Whiterun and that they should expect him back by nightfall.

Distraught, Hyala called for one of the handful of guards who patrolled Rorikstead to go after the boy. The man was named Skjorvar and he dismissed her concerns, simply stating: "He is a Nord and a man grown, I'll not go chasing after him unless he's to be punished for theft of your horse."

With the realization that the guard would offer no help in catching her misguided son, Hyala and Agnar turned to the driver of a carriage who had stopped in Rorikstead overnight, begging for passage to Whiterun. They had little enough coin to offer and hoped to barter with a handful of trinkets from their past. The man was an Imperial, a human born of a bloodline from Cyrodiil and agreed only when Agnar's war-hammer was presented. It was made of steel with the shaft wrapped in leather, scratched from use but clean and formidable. It would fetch a decent price in the Whiterun markets.

He agreed to take only one of them for the price of the war-hammer and so Agnar went, leaving Hyala at the farm to watch their crops and promising to bring Aegon back kicking and screaming if need be.

It was midday when they left and Hyala sat in a chair by the window facing the road to Whiterun with her eyes turned to the distant hills that rolled up on the horizon, waiting expectantly for the silhouette of an old plow horse and a boy and his father. She saw neither that night, nor did they arrive on the following morning.

——-

Hrongar's wagon was old and battered, groaning and shaking with every little bump in the rough road from Rorikstead to Whiterun. The benches in the back were hard lengths of roughly hewn wood that almost promised splinters if bare skin were to touch. Pots and pans rattled and clanked from hooks along the side of the wagon, a spade shook and threatened to fall but never did. The single horse that pulled it was old and feeble in appearance but trudged along dutifully at the behest of its master. In the back of the wagon Agnar sat with a hard frown furrowing his brow, wrapped in fur and leather with a war-hammer laid across his knees. In his youth Agnar had been a strong warrior, a veritable mountain of solid muscle. Now, however, with the coming of age and a love for drink his belly had grown rounder than it once was and his hair thinning and grey. He tugged at his hood to shield his face from the worst of the biting wind before folding his gloved hands over the haft of his hammer as his steely blue eyes closed.

Were it not for the voice of the driver as he began chanting the lyrics to an old song titled "Ragnar the Red," Agnar might have fallen asleep during the trip from Rorikstead to Whiterun. Instead he found himself envisioning the tale the old song spoke of, only Ragnar was Aegon and it was not such an old story as the original.

Oh there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red, who came riding to Whiterun from ol" Rorikstead!

And the braggart did swagger and brandish his blade As he told of bold battles and gold he had made

The image of a young Aegon astride the old black plow horse taken from the farm flashed in his mind. The boy had always enjoyed telling tales of adventure and glory, often spinning those told to him by travelers so that he was featured as the hero as any boy would. He saw Aegon riding up to Whiterun, his chest puffed out and his head held high as he boasted of deeds never done. The pale haired youth in his mind climbed the steps of The Bannered Mare, Whiterun's inn, and shoved through the doors with all the bravado of a young knight tested in battle, challenging anyone who would be insolent enough to doubt his claims of glory.

But then he went quiet, did Ragnar the Red When he met the shield-maiden Matilda who said;

"Oh, you talk and you lie and you drink all our mead Now I think it's high time that you lie down and bleed"

There stood Aegon, a drink in his hand with a reproachful look for the woman who challenged him. She too was a Nord, though she sported a suit of steel and leather bearing the scratches and dents of many battles fought and won. She brandished an axe and tossed him a sword, demanding that he prove himself as capable as he claimed. Foolish and prideful, the boy took up the blade and shouted right back as he cut through the air with a clumsy strike.

And so then came clashing and slashing of steel As the brave lass Matilda charged in full of zeal

And the bragger named Ragnar was boastful no more When his ugly red head rolled around on the floor!

The tale which had been widely thought of as whimsical and up-beat throughout Skyrim had taken a grim turn for the weary father of an impetuous young Nord. He was thankful that it was such a short song and reassured himself that while bold and headstrong, his boy Aegon was not so big a fool as to start swinging a sword at the first person who challenged him. He'd never so much as been in a fight in his early years, there were no other children in Rorikstead after all. All he knew of battle came from old tales and the gossip of travelers and drunken guardsmen. With this in mind he was able to drift off for a few hours of uneasy rest, his dreams occasionally disturbed by the images inspired by the tale of Ragnar the Red.

The sun was just a sliver of light on the edge of the horizon when a bump stirred him from his sleep. Agnar had slipped and was half lying across the bench in the back of the carriage when he woke, jumping to sit upright again as he groped at the air for his hammer. He found it lying on the floor at his feet and brought it up to rest in his lap again when he heard Hrongar's voice raised in a shout.

"Bandits!? the man cried, flicking the reins to stir the old horse that pulled the carriage on a little faster. Behind them the sound of hooves pounding on the grass and dirt of the surrounding plains reached Agnar's ears and he pushed to stand, letting the hammer swing in his grip before hoisting it up to rest against a broad shoulder. He squinted and pushed his hood back to look across the landscape as the moons rose into the sky and bathed Skyrim in their silver glow. Four riders were approaching, the horses sending dust kicking into the air. At their head was another Nord, brandishing a steel longsword in one hand while the other gripped the reins of his mount. He wore steel and fur and shouted a command to his comrades who spread out to slowly fall into a circle around the carriage.

Agnar growled under his breath and said a prayer to Ysmir, hefting the war-hammer so that one hand rested just beneath the head and the other farther down the shaft. He was old and slow but still strong, all it would take was one good swing to send the bandit flying off of his horse. Around him the three other riders began to close in. To the left was a Nord woman who gripped a sword in her hand, to the right an orc who had completely released the reins of his steed to curl both of his large, powerful hands around the hilt of his greatsword. The third had gone ahead of the carriage and Agnar craned his neck to try and follow his movement without losing track of the others. A Bosmer, or wood-elf, had tugged the reins of his mount to stop it short before lifting a longbow overhead and aiming down the shaft of an arrow nocked into place. He drew the string back and took aim.

The old Nord shouted his defiance at the bandit leader who charged up from behind the carriage and climbed to crouch precariously on his saddle. He lunged forward, blade flashing to keep the old man at bay while landing heavily on the groaning wooden boards. Agnar stepped back and swung, putting all of his might behind the powerful blow. His hand slid down the haft of the weapon to meet the other, letting momentum bring the head around full circle. The bandit ducked the heavy strike and stumbled to the side when the hammer connected with the wooden walls of the carriage, causing a chunk of it to explode into splinters from the brute force of Agnar's swing. He struggled to bring the weapon back to bear as the bandit lashed out again and hissed at the searing pain of a cut that traveled up the length of his thigh near his gut.

One hand released the hammer as his knee rose, meeting the bandit's chest with a hard kick. The younger Nord stumbled back near the edge of the carriage and Agnar stomped forward with a heavy foot, lowering his head to lung forward and let it connect with the man's nose. Blood and fury exploded around him and a white light blurred his vision. He stumbled back, dizzy and blinded by red from his split skin and the bandit's broken nose. He heard the sound of steel hitting the floor and blinked away his confusion to see the bandit clutching at his face. With another roar he swept the hammer through the air with both arms and watched a man's head cave in under its force. More blood and gore painted his hands and face from the explosion of contact before the dead man fell back onto the road, lost in the dust kicked up by the carriage's wheels. He whirled around to watch the other bandits and shouted for Hrongar to duck.

His warning came too late and the wood-elf loosed an arrow that whistled through the air and tore into the driver's throat. All at once the man slumped to the side, the horse panicked and tried to stop, the wagon shook and rattled and then came skidding to a halt, twisting in such a way that it nearly flipped over entirely. Agnar was spilled from his safe spot on the wagon and tumbled into a ditch beside the road. He lost his hammer in the fall and smacked his head against a rock, he could taste blood on his tongue and feel it trickling down the back of his head to wet his thin hair and groaned, taking in fistfuls of grass as he clenched a fist and tried to rise again.

The bandits made their camp in a cave just off of the road, in the hilly countryside bordering the plains between Rorikstead and Whiterun. Aegon woke to find himself in a rough, circular chamber with his hands and feet bound by coarse rope, his mouth stuffed with a cloth gag. His arms ached from being held behind his back for several hours and his head throbbed from the blow the orc delivered earlier. He struggled and pulled as furiously as he dared, the voice in the back of his mind reminding him to be cautious and quiet as possible lest his captor's discover that he was awake. It was no good, the ropes were pulled tight and struggling only caused them to rub at the skin of his wrists, leaving red sensitive marks and little else to show for his efforts.

He slumped and rolled over, kicking and struggling to sit upright at the very least. He leaned back against the cave wall opposite a poorly made wooden door that blocked this chamber off from the rest of the complex. His cell was lit by a single torch that lent a warm shade of oranges and reds to the otherwise dank and dark chamber. To his left were old crates and barrels of food and drink along with a few sacks of flour, gold, and a chest that no doubt contained more valuable loot and was secured by a strong looking lock. The young Nord's thoughts immediately strayed to his father and the last image he could recall, the sword cleaving through the old man's flesh as though he were made of paper.

He choked on a sob and bit back his tears and his sorrow. It was easier for a boy to feel anger and wrath and so he let thoughts of vengeance full him instead. With a growl of defiance he slowly began to inch around and feel for any possible sharp surfaces along the cavern wall. Jagged rocks and stones jutted out here and there and he tried his luck on one, wriggling up and down and back and forth to see if he couldn't start cutting away at the ropes around his wrists when he heard the sounds of footsteps and voices echoing through the tunnels outside of his door.

Aegon fell still and silent, straining to make out the words as their voices steadily grew louder until he could hear them plain as day outside his door.

"Frya wants me to check on our guest," the voice was male, though he did not sound like a Nord. His was a smooth, slightly higher-pitched inflection that suggested some elven heritage or maybe a Breton, the uppity humans from High Rock who often excelled as scholars and mages. The second voice was a deep and booming one, rough and guttural and decidedly orcish.

"Boy's still out, I decked him good," Urok replied. "Meet me on the bend, we got lookout tonight," Aegon listened as the lumbering footsteps of the huge orc began to fade into the distance before the door rattled and the sound of tiny bits of metal clinking together was made audible. He watched as the door swung inward. The doorway was only half filled by a short man with a face sporting a huge, nasty bit of blackened flesh all along his left cheek and jawline. His eyes were a dark green and with a prominent widow's peak and hooked nose, he looked quite a bit like a large bird of prey. The robes he wore were old and tattered and had once been black or a dark blue but by now had faded to a paler shade of gray.

Those green eyes flashed with malice and glee as they fell upon the Nord boy who sat up against the hard, rocky wall of the cave. He stepped forward and sneered down at Aegon, dropping to a knee in front of him as he waved his spindly fingers through the air and snickered with the coming of his words.

"Frya tells it that you sneaked up on old Lendal and drove a sword through him like a cowardly little cat," the man's breath smelled of drink and some foul stench akin to rotting corpses. "Urok says you came swinging at him like a mad sabre cat, they say your father died like an old, limp bear. But he couldn't be so bad, eh' Killed the boss before he went and got himself cut like an old fool. Now he's dead in a ditch somewhere along the road, do you think he's in Sovngarde now, boy' Does Shor let weak old men into the Hall of Valor?"

Aegon could only grunt and growl around the gag in response, glaring furiously at the Breton as he struggled against the ropes that bound his hands behind his back. The man laughed and reached up, curling a hand over Aegon's forehead and pushing his head back against the wall as his other hand rose and he plucked the gag away, tossing it on the floor of the cell. "Come again, boy?"

Snarling, Aegon lunged forward and bit. He felt flesh cleave away under his teeth and the warm rush of something wet painting his chin, his head throbbed when it slammed back against the cave wall, the ringing in his ears only just louder than the Breton's wailing screams as he fell back and clutched at his stump of a nose to try and hold back the torrent of blood that streamed between his fingertips. Aegon spat the man's nose into the ground and struggled a moment longer to tear at the ropes, using the rough stone behind him until at last, he felt them give way enough for his hands to wrench free. He reached down and fumbled with the rope around his ankles until he managed to slip the knot and stood up.

Though he was barely a man by the standards of his country, Aegon stood nearly eye level with the Breton who was now backing away and leaning against a wall, whimpering and cursing him a thousand times over. The boy reached down and picked up the rope that had once been wrapped around his ankles and lunged forward as the Breton turned and tried to make for the door. He managed to loop it around the man's neck and twisted it once, then turned to put his back to him. Aegon dropped to a knee and pulled until the Breton was hoisted nearly off the ground. He tugged on the ends of the rope and pulled them as close to the floor as he could until his arms screamed in pain with the strain and the Breton flailed and clawed at where it wrapped around his throat and cut off his air.

Before long the Breton's body went limp and Aegon let him fall to the side, turning to fish through his pockets for the set of keys he'd heard jingling outside his cell from before.

Two days earlier...

"Yes, I know. I KNOW! "As a daughter of the Jarl of Whiterun"," The golden haired girl quoted, mimicking her sister's voice. "I have an obligation to be present tonight to honor his guest. I said I would be here, Fraida, be about your own business." Anekke had heard those words more times today than she cared to count and she certainly didn't need to hear them again from her older sister. The girl muttered under her breath as she began to apply the layers of wool and fur that would help keep the bite of the chill wind from reaching her skin.

The fur lined hood of her cloak was pulled up and held taut by one hand beneath her chin as she finally stepped from the warmth of her father's home and out into the bright, cold Skyrim summer day. The glare of the sun reflected off of the ice and snow and nearly blinded the pale young woman as she bounded down the steps and away from Dragonsreach as quickly as she could.

Anekke had no intention of staying confined to her father's palace under the too watchful eye of her eldest sister. In fact, she had no intention of staying anywhere near the vicinity of her home. There were many things to be accomplished today before she was stuffed into better clothes and someone decided she needed to drag a brush through her short, uneven layered golden blonde hair.

No, today Anekke most definitely would not be sticking close to home. She had to meet the blacksmith's son, Leif, to finally get her new longsword. For this sword, she had saved everything she had earned from working as an alchemy apprentice to Arcadia; taking more and more responsibility at Arcadia's Cauldron. On occasion she assisted with healing at the Temple of Kynareth, but those instances were few and far between and only when the priests requested her assistance. They paid rather well for her healing magic but the risk of it being common knowledge was far too great so she didn't assist as often as they would like.

Anekke had approached Eorlund Grey-Mane, the Skyforge blacksmith, with what gold she had saved but it wasn't enough for the type of blade she wanted. His son Leif was her closest friend and since he was quite advanced in his own apprenticeship, he offered to forge the Skyforged steel blade she requested for less gold than she offered. His father thought this would be an excellent test of his son's knowledge, as well as his creativity and technique in crafting a special blade.

Once down the steps, the young woman quickened her pace into a full out run. Running served two purposes this early afternoon; keeping her warm and getting her to the agreed upon destination to meet Leif on time. She was quite a bit smaller than any of her siblings, as well as most Nords that were grown, or nearly so, but she was quick and in exceptional physical condition from all of the time she spent in weapons training with her brothers, father, and Leif. Due to this, she was able to reach their usual meeting place outside of town in record time.

Hopping atop a felled tree on the outskirts of the small wood, the spry young woman walked along its partially snow covered trunk as if it were a balance beam; one foot kicked forward with the toe of gray, fur lined boot pointed down before touching solidly so that she could repeat with the next foot. Arms were held out to each side to assist her balance as she hummed a hearty tune.

A massive pair of arms, bands of constricting steel, encircled her waist and dragged her from the fallen tree. Before her feet even left the snowy wood, Anekke was already fighting back by bashing her head backwards into the nose of her attacker at the same time as her heel was kicked back into his knee...She was dropped instantly, just as she had planned, and her hands moved to the knife sheaths buckled around both leather clad thighs. Blades were drawn in a reverse hand hold so that her thumbs were facing down and the blades were ready to utilize the full momentum of a downward swing. Except...she stopped in mid swing, just as her "assailant' roared out a laugh that belied the blood dripping from his nose down into the pale beard he was growing. The sound was enough to break through the methodical, automatic movements of her defense.

"Easy, Ane...is that any way to greet a man bearing a gift for yer lovely self?"

His laughter renewed as the feisty girl dropped the knives and lunged for him. Jorleif Grey-mane, known by most as Leif, was a near bear of a young man, all brawn and solid muscle and very much like a brick wall when crashed into. The far smaller girl collided with him, never holding the hope that she would topple him; instead she hooked a powerful leg behind his and swept it forward while pressing her weight forward against his upper body.

It was skill, not size, that brought down the much larger young Nord. The next thing he knew, there were a pair of knees pinning his shoulders down while small fists pummeled him. Regardless of the pain Anekke caused him, the gray-eyed Leif laughed harder, those eyes filled with genuine mirth as he peered up at her, while doing his best to dodge the blows from sharp knuckled fists.

When her temper had died down she glared down at him, still not moving to allow him to rise, though had he wanted to, he certainly could have displaced her from her perch upon his chest..

"Damn you, Leif Grey-Mane, for almost making me kill you!?

There was an awkward moment, albeit very brief, that the two stared at one another and realized the position they were in was less than appropriate. Both were scrambling then, trying to place a small distance between themselves while acting as casual as possible.

It never occurred to the blacksmith to tell the girl to run. She was much smaller, but Leif had been training with weapons and other combat with her since they were big enough to hold the practice weaponry in their small hands. He knew she was a formidable opponent; he also knew she would never back down from a fight no matter how poor the odds. She would never leave him. To ask her to do so would disrespect her.

As the riders began to encircle the two, Leif and Anekke kept a relaxed but ready stance, protecting one another by shifting their positions so that they stood back to back.

"We'll be drinking mead with Shor in Sovngarde tonight, my friend!"

Ane cackled as that new sword was twirled into position before arms were again raised shoulder level; her right elbow bent and extended. Knees were slightly bent as she bounced lightly, leg muscles tightly coiled and ready to spring. Where fear was absent, thrill filled the void. What better way to test out her glorious new sword!

Anekke was young and brash, having not yet experienced a true battle that laid a man open to bleed his life force into the snow around him; she was far too eager for the testing of spirit and fortitude that was to come. Leif was just as ready, though less excited; he had nothing to prove to anyone like Ane felt she did due to her size. He viewed battle for what it was, nothing more and nothing less. Testing oneself in battle was glorious, watching another man die should be contemplated with quiet reverence, so he thought.

The clash of steel on steel, horses neighing, and the general din of battle filled the otherwise quiet area for what seemed like hours. Anekke and Leif fought valiantly but to no avail; the bandits had much more experience as well as greater numbers.

Despite Ane's best effort, Leif was not going to walk away from this unscathed. He had fought on despite being wounded, but she watched him fall, blood pouring from a deep wound to his side. The orc cracked him across the skull with the pommel of his sword after he was down, but refrained from killing the blond giant. Frya had recognized the blacksmith and the girl as they had approached and they had decided to capture and ransom the pair. Ane didn't have the time, nor the presence of mind, to think about the fact that the orc withheld a killing blow. All she saw was that her friend had fallen and was wounded, possibly even dead.

She screamed her fury, filled with a red hot rage that threatened to consume her as she watched Leif lay there so still, unsure if he was dead. Suddenly everything went eerily calm. There was silence within Ane's mind as she focused that fury into energy that fed the spell whose words sprung to her lips; a spell she had no memory of learning but that she knew, nonetheless. She could feel the magic coursing through her body, leaving her quaking as one hand left the soft, leather wrapped handle of the sword Leif had forged for her. That hand lifted towards the sky as if she would rip the power needed from the Pantheon of Gods. The sword was raised once more, used as a conduit for the magic. As the blade was pointed and a raging stream of pure energy shot forth from the tip,the Redguard bandit fell where he stood, charred beyond recognition.

Anekke had used up her last reserve of strength; maintaining the spell as well as holding the greatsword became too much for her after such a physically and mentally taxing battle. The sword fell from her hand to thump upon the ground, followed closely by her unconscious form. She had little experience with battle magic or with the price a spell such as she used exacted from its wielder; had she known, it still wouldn't have altered her course of action.

"Get them trussed up and on the horses. Urok will go to Silent Moon's Camp so the boy can get patched up by a healer, then meet us back at the cave." Rhorlak, the bandit leader, spoke as he swung his big frame onto his horse.

"That would have been easier if we could kill them! What the hell did that girl do to Trithik?" Urok, the orc, was already squatting next to the boy, tying his hands and feet together then connecting them with another length of rope. He lifted the young Nord and slung him across the front of his own horse before swinging up behind him. Without another word, the orc was moving Northwest of their current position, riding as fast as his burdened horse would carry him, glad it wasn't that great of a distance.

Frya was admiring the craftsmanship, along with the bejeweled pommel of Anekke's new sword, while the Bosmer was busy tying the unconscious girl up. "Don't forget to put a gag in her mouth, unless you want to go the way of Trithik." The Nord woman smirked at the Bosmer as she fitted the hilt of the new greatsword beneath her belt so that it was somewhat lashed into place, she would have to take the scabbard off of the Nord girl once they got settled in the cave.

* * * * * * * * * *

Ane wasn't sure how long she had been down in the bandit's cave, since there was no light to judge such things. She had awakened in a cell, disoriented and with a pounding head, feeling as if she had run fifty miles. Once her eyes had adjusted and she remembered the events that led up to her waking up here, the young Nord looked about wildly for Leif, whom had been pouring out his life's blood when she had last laid eyes upon him. Was he dead?

That was when the screaming started.

The sound of steel clashing answered her demands. In the chamber just outside her cell, Aegon had come charging in with the elven blade from the chest in one hand a steel one in the other. They flashed in the firelight as he charged Frya, ducking under her vicious cut and tearing at her legs with the elven instrument even as he stepped around to slice along her back.

Unlike most fighters, he did not favor a particular style, a set of rules to go by. Aegon was untrained, but not untested; a furious whirlwind of steel that lashed out at anything he could reach. Frya shouted and grunted in surprise and rage, swinging her blade around to block as many strikes as she possibly could. For each blow parried there was another, and before long her arms grew tired and her hands numb from the vibrations that kept running down the length of her blade.

The sounds were cut off at the roar that echoed in the cavern, the sound of metal falling to the cold, hard ground and the thud of a body slumping to the side as Aegon's blades sliced back and forth again and again, tearing through Frya's armor and flesh and bone until her torso was a mass of metal coated red and cut to ribbons. He stood over the corpse, glowering and shaking with fury. There were others that needed killing, more bandits to hunt down, and a Nord's rage was not so easily quelled.

The sound of clashing steel echoed close by. Ane would have rushed the door and began throwing her body against it to be sure she had the attention of whomever was fighting, but she had been chained to the wall early on after she had tried to rush the bandit that brought her bread. Her loud voice would have to suffice.

She yelled during the entire fight, and when the clashing of steel had stopped, she redoubled her efforts. "LET ME OUT OF THIS CELL RIGHT NOW!"

Then she grew silent, waiting and listening for the movement of either her rescuer or the bandit he fought. Whichever had survived. She wasn't sure yet.

The door rattled across from her. She'd be able to hear the faint, jingling sound of a ring of keys as Aegon tried to find the right one to fit the lock on the door. After several moments of this he released a frustrated growl, stepped back, and kicked with all his might. The wood was old and partially rotted and gave way in a shower of splinters as he broke it free of the lock. He stomped forward into the dark, dank cell with his sword in hand, more than ready to gut another bandit. He didn't expect to find some highborn girl chained to the opposite wall.

Immediately, upon the door crashing in, Anekke held forth her wrists in expectation that he would remove the bindings. The highborn girl was less surprised than he was, as she had heard the keys rattling, the growl and finally the door being kicked in.

She took a moment to study the would be rescuer as best she could in the darkness of the cell. Unable to make out specific characteristics, she was able to determine the outline of his body and was surprisingly comforted by the fact that he was nearly as giant as Leif was. Then she was painfully aware of how much smaller she was in comparison, which brought forth the "little dog" attitude ..."bark" louder at the bigger dogs and show no fear.

"Finally! By the Gods, I didn't think I was ever going to get out of here! Are they all dead or did you save a few for me" I have a score to settle with that ugly orc!? Then she let out a growl of her own as all of the waiting, fear, and anguish turned into pure rage. She was finally going to be free and someone was going to rue the day they had ever laid eyes upon she and Leif.