Eric the Slayer: A Humble and Adventurous Beginning

[Azir L'Stros]

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Erik the Slayer: A Humble and Adventurous Beginning​

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Great warriors can be born rich,​

They can go out and bring back fortune,​

But to every story, there is a twist,​

And the greatest warriors​

Can have the humblest of beginnings...​

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[Azir L'Stros]

Chapter 1: A Taste of Adventure​

A man stood up, stretching his back which was sore from hours of farming.

“Damn,” he swore. “Where are those two boys? Supper was an hour ago, and I can’t manage this inn by myself.” The man continued to grumble, limping back to the inn.

“If it weren’t for this old war wound, I’d be looking for them myself...”

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It was a pleasant day in the small village of Rorikstead. It always was, with the sun setting over the horizon and a cool, refreshing wind blowing. The land was beautiful, with the rugged terrain of the Reach to the west, open, vast plains to the north and east, and a stunningly beautiful evergreen forest to the south.If you squinted, you could even see the peak of the Throat of the World, where land first met sky in the old Nordic legends. Summers were warm, winters were mild, and everyone was living comfortably and happily.

At first, it seemed like a good life. Who wouldn’t want to live here? But there was one bad thing - boredom. As it has been, and will be proved many times, boredom eventually leads to trouble.

A boy known for getting into trouble was Lokir. He was a tall, agile, and slender boy, with pale skin, blonde hair and dark eyes. He always had a sly expression, leading one to think he was up to no good, which was usually true. As a young boy, his parents disappeared, leaving him orphaned, and the town’s innkeeper, Mralki, took him up. Mralki’s son, Erik, treated Lokir as his own brother.

Erik, on the other hand was the opposite of Lokir. He had fiery red hair and sparkling blue eyes. He was generally well behaved, and was shorter and a bit more muscled than Lokir, although not by much.

The two Nord boys had done some exploring and caused some mischief, but on one warm night in Mid Year, they decided to go onto the hill to the southwest of Rorikstead. The one that everyone in Rorikstead warned them to never go to. Why were they warned? The boys didn’t know, and they wanted to find out. This one event would be the start of a lifetime of adventure.

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“Um...are you sure about this?” asked Erik.
“Of course I am. Don’t be a milk drinker,” snapped Lokir.

Erik looked up. It was a steep hill, with many rocky outcrops that would have to be climbed. Going up would be in one word, difficult.

“Do you have your sword?” asked Lokir.
“Yes.”

They both had wooden swords at their waist, ready to fight off whatever was there, whether it be bandits, bears, or sabre cats. Not that a wooden sword would help much.

“Let’s go,” said Lokir as he marched up the slope.

Erik stumbled on the first few steps. He had never really climbed a hill before. He was glad he had leather boots on, as they helped him climb. His face was soon covered with sweat. Both of the boys were breathing hard as they marched. About 30 feet up the hill, they reached an ledge of rock. Erik, being the stronger of the two, climbed it and helped Lokir up.

There were many ledges of rock, and each climb sapped Erik’s strength a little. But both Erik and Lokir were determined boys. By the time they reached the top, they were exhausted. But then they saw what was on the hill.

“Sweet Talos,” whispered Erik. It was a Forsworn camp. No wonder they weren’t allowed to go up there. Erik had read books about them - the "Madmen of the Reach", striving to take the city of Markarth from the Nords. And right there was a camp, right on the border of the Reach and Whiterun Hold.

They were very strangely dressed - a primitive outfit of furs, bones, and animal hides. There was a large campfire in the middle of their camp, and there were tents made of hide surrounding it. The air reeked of the pungent stench of acid and fresh blood. The Forsworn seemed to have some sort of discussion going on, and Erik’s eyes widened as he noticed their weapons.

Their weapons were crudely carved out of bone and wood, made to maim and kill rather than to be put on a wall as a decoration. Erik swallowed dryly. A wooden sword was nothing compared to these. He could be torn to shreds with those brutal weapons, and the Forsworn looked like they knew how to use them.

They seemed to be having a discussion, and they were huddled together in a circle. Most of them were men, and all of them looked strong.

One of them stood out, though. He was taller and leaner than the rest, with a helmet made out of the head of gods know what. He had an air of authority, and seemed to be the leader. Erik looked at the man’s chest and nearly retched.

There was a gaping hole in his chest, and between his ribs, instead of a human heart, was a Briar Heart. As Erik looked closer, he could see the ungrown flower beating and pulsing, almost like a real heart....

Erik’s head spun as he fought to control his stomach, and he tried to focus on something else. He closed his eyes and listened.

As Erik listened, he heard their conversation. After see the camp and their primitive lifestyle, Erik was taken aback to find their voices were surprisingly...human.

“- and what about that village down there? We need food, we can just raid the poor place.”

The man Erik guessed was the leader spoke.

“NO! This is the last time I will say it. We are here for the Reach and Markarth. There’s no need to bring another hold into this. We go west to find food, you understand?”

The other man grumbled and Erik heard footsteps heading away.

Lokir nudged Erik. “Let’s go,” he mouthed. Lokir silently snuck away, and Erik tried his best to keep up with him. Lokir was good at sneaking, but Erik had to put effort into keeping every step as silent as possible.

In his effort, Erik didn’t see a rock. He stumbled over it, and fell heavily in the dry, tall grass. Suddenly everything went quiet. Not even the animals were making a sound. The air was thick with tension, and Erik could feel eyes searching for him.

“There’s a spy nearby,” said the Briarheart quietly. “Find him.”

Erik considered his options. The Forsworn were now on their guard, and Lokir was one for sneaking away, not Erik. The grass was very dry, and would crackle with each movement. Moving was clearly not an option. But he had fallen in tall grass, and it was now dark too. Hopefully he would be concealed.

But then...footsteps. Heading towards him! Oh no, thought Erik. What do I do, what do I do...

A boot stepped on his back. Erik quickly stood up and backed away. “Please don’t hurt me!” he cried.

“It’s just a boy!” the man yelled out.

“I don’t care if he’s a boy or a man. Kill him,” the leader responded.

Erik ducked as an axe swung at his neck. Stumbling, he ran down the hill, slipping down the rocks and earning quite a few scratches and bruises. The man that found him maneuvered down the rocks with surprising agility, holding an axe in one hand and a sword in the other. Erik ran and fell down the hill.

“Forsworn! They’re coming!” he yelled. The whole village was on guard now. People came out of the inn, half asleep with swords and daggers. “Help!” Erik screamed as he fell on the cobblestones. Lokir came after Erik and hid behind a barrel. Erik wanted to do the same, but he was exhausted and in shock.

The leader came down the hill.

“What’s this all about?” Mralki asked, sword in hand.
“Two of your spies came to our camp and tried to sneak up on us,” the Briarheart responded.

Mralki glared at Erik.

“They should be killed for their insolence,” the Forsworn continued.

Erik wanted to shrink into a ball.

“No, they’re just children. What do you want from us?” asked Mralki.
“Five cows, and a season’s harvest.”
“No,” came the immediate response.

After much negotiation and arguing, the Forsworn agreed to stay off of Whiterun Hold as long as no one came to the camp, and two cows as well as a week’s worth of vegetables were given to them. Mralki sighed as the Forsworn left. Then his eyes smoldered with anger.

“Erik! Lokir!”

Erik got up with a sigh, and Lokir shyly got up from behind the barrel.

Mralki’s eyes seemed to burn into them. The boys had seen Mralki angry, but that was nothing compared to now.

Mralki led them inside the inn, and into an old, unused visitor’s room. “You’re staying in that room, and don’t either one of ya dare to come out!” he yelled as he slammed the door. Shortly afterward, they heard the door being locked. Erik glared at Lokir.

“This is all your fault,” he said accusingly.

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[Azir L'Stros]

Chapter 2: A Terrible Dream​

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“My fault!?” came the incredulous reply.
“Yes, your fault,” answered Erik.
“Well, you should've stopped me.”
“I’m not responsible for your stupid ideas.”
“You aren't, but Father always says you’re the responsible one.”
“He never said that.”
“Hmph. Fine.” Lokir rolled over, facing away from Erik.

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After a few minutes, Lokir sat up. “I’m sorry,” he sighed. Lokir didn't really know why he was apologizing. It was his fault, sure, but he wasn’t the kind of person that would apologize. But he realized that he might as well get over it if he and Erik would be stuck in this room.

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Lokir sighed again. “When do you think we’re going to eat dinner?”

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Suddenly, a voice yelled from the other side of the door. “No supper for either of you! As a matter of fact, it’s bedtime. Lights out.” Mralki came into the room and blew out all the candles lighting the room except for one. He left the room, locking the door again. “Well, we might as well go to sleep,” said Lokir. He said it with a bit of slyness, and Erik could tell he was up to no good. “Fine,” Erik said as he lied down in bed.

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A tall, muscular Nord entered the Forsworn camp. His armor, made of hide and studded with bits of iron, gleamed in the harsh sunlight. The Forsworn noticed him, and a few readied their crude, primitive weapons. His striking blue eyes gazed at one of the warriors. The man glared back. For a few tense moments, they held their gaze, and eventually the Forsworn dropped his eyes. The Nord’s harsh glare shifted to another brigand, and they immediately dropped their gaze. One by one, each Forsworn succumbed to his gaze.

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“I’m here for business,” he called out as he held up the heart of a daedra in his hands.

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There seemed to be a change in the air, and the Forsworn let the man pass through. He marched up to the small hill where there was a table with many dead bodies lying on it, and two Hagravens, burning the entrails of the bodies. The air reeked of burning flesh, and the Nord heard a heavy, raspy wheeze from the hags. One of the hags looked at him.

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To say they were ugly was an understatement. Their faces were absolutely revolting. It’s face was a horrendous combination between a bird and a man, with black, beady, squinty eyes and a hawk-like nose. Feathers sprouted randomly all over its body. It’s fingers were not fingers, but bird claws, and it’s skin was wrinkled and pale. It’s feet were bird talons, and its head was bald. The thing was hunched over, and from a distance it would've looked like an old, frail woman. But this was no elderly woman. This was a creature, a thing, once a person but sacrificed its humanity for immense arcane power.

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“Ahhh.....so the hero.....wants something?” it rasped. With each pause in its sentence, it took a strained breath.
“I seek the location of an Elder Scroll.” The Nord was impatient, and the smell was making him nauseated.
“You must...make a sacrifice, a....very big sacrifice.”

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The Nord held out the daedra’s heart.

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“So, a petty....daedra heart for the...location of an Elder Scroll?”

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It let out a horrible wheeze that could be barely interpreted as a laugh.

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“I think you’re….a bit foolish...Nord. The Old Gods...want more than this. You know it.”
“It’s all I have. You’d better accept it, because you’re not getting anything better.”

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The witch let out another long, agonizing wheeze and took a deep breath. “You’re...sorely mistaken.”

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The other hag let out a ungodly screech that made the hero want to jump off of a cliff, and all of the Forsworn looked at the Nord. They let out a yell and charged, and the Nord readied his weapons. He had dealt with Forsworn before, and knew how to handle them. He dodged the attack of one and shoved his sword through his chin. Another victim came, albeit a bit more cautiously. The Nord charged and broke their nose with his shield, then chopped their head off with one swift cleave. He let out a war cry, one that could bring the greatest warriors running to their mothers. This war cry shook the ground, and the heroes in Sovngarde could feel the earth tremble.

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He turned towards the hag, a bloodthirsty light in his eyes.

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“We have unfinished business,” he growled.

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"You'll....need to do...better than that," it wheezed.​

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Suddenly, a hand clamped over his mouth. The Nord jabbed the assailant with his elbow, turning around and bashing the Briarheart’s face with his shield. He shoved an armored hand inside the Briarheart’s chest and brutally ripped the Forsworn’s false heart out in his rage.

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“You want something better!?” he yelled. He threw the Briar heart at the hags.
“Well, here is your goddamn sacrifice, YOU POOR EXCUSE OF A CREATURE!!!”

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The Nord shoved his sword in the chest of one of the hags. It immediately fell over, dead.

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The other hag looked at him with an expression of pure fear. Then the expression melted, turning into an expression of...amusement? Yes, the creature had seen it’s comrade murdered, and it looked like it was going to laugh. “You have severely underestimated me,” it said. It’s voice was strangely calming, and it was much deeper. The Nord looked up at the hag, and his eyes widened.

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It was not a hag anymore. It was a grotesque mass of black, writhing tentacles, with eyes appearing, disappearing, and reappearing. “Do you really think you could get away with this?” it asked. “Did you think you could cheat Hermaeus Mora, the Master of all Knowledge?” It let out a deep chuckle. “You are sorely mistaken, my friend.”

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Tentacles ensnared the Nord, and he tried to struggle. “There’s no use to trying,” Hermaeus Mora said. “You cannot escape me.”

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His eyes closed, and everything faded to nothing...

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Erik woke up with a start. His head was pounding, and he felt sick. The faces of Mralki, Jouane Manette, who was the jarl’s stewart and the town’s healer, and Lokir looked on him. He seemed to be outside. The skies were blue, and the clouds were white. But what if they weren't? What if they were just part of an illusion? What was real life, and what wasn’t? Erik couldn't tell after that nightmare. Those words from the dream seemed to repeat in his head.

“There’s no use to trying...”
“You cannot escape me...”

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The concerned, strained voice of Mralki snapped Erik out of his faze.

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“You alright, son?”

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Lokir said, “You just woke up in the middle of the night and started screaming. You ran outside and fell down, and you've been asleep until now.”

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“What time is it?” Erik asked.
“Around noon,” replied Mralki.

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Erik frowned. "I had this dream..."

Mralki interrupted him.

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“You’d better get some rest, son. I’ll go over to Whiterun for a few days and see if anyone can help you.”

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Erik closed his eyes, but did not sleep, fearful of the horrible dreams.

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[Azir L'Stros]

Chapter 3: Headaches and a very drunk man​

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Erik felt like he had drifted into the sky. Although his eyes were closed, he was awake. He felt that he was in a bed that was very comfortable. The soft fabric and goose-feather mattress seemed to mold to his body and caress his skin, and the rays of the sun warmed his face. Erik didn’t want to open his eyes. The bed was comfortable, and he had a pounding headache that seemed to ring in his skull with every second. He just wanted to let go of it all and fall back into unconsciousness. But for some reason, he couldn’t. Nothing seemed to feel right. He was in an unfamiliar place, with an unfamiliar bed, and an unfamiliar voice. ​

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Voices!

It was a woman’s voice, Nordic, and very soft, yet the voice seemed to have years of experience and stress weighing down on it.

“Well, until he wakes up and tells me firsthand, I can’t do much about it.”

“Nothing?” The voice seemed to be Mralki’s.

“Well, not a lot, but we must not forget that he is a young child. His strength should return in a
few days.”

Erik heard a sigh coming from his father.

He opened his eyes tiredly. At first, Erik was confused about where he was, but then he remembered. He was inside Rorik’s manor. Rorik was the one who had discovered Rorikstead, and he lived in the manor with Jouane Manette, the steward. Erik blearily remembered that he had been inside the manor once, but he was not sure when, or why he was there. Erik turned to his side and saw a woman, dressed in distinct orange priest's robes, pacing back and forth on the wooden floor. She had a kind, yet sharp face, and it was slightly obscured by her yellow hood. She noticed Erik’s open eyes, and walked quickly over. Her leather boots made a quiet tap, tap sound as they crossed the floor. She looked at Erik with dark brown eyes that reminded Erik of pine trees and beautiful forests. She smiled kindly.

“So, your father says your name is Erik?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve been having...ah, nightmares?”

“Yes.”

“How long have they been happening?”

“Well...” Erik felt pressured. He felt like he had just woken up, and now a strange woman was interrogating him.

“It was only last night,” interrupted his father. Erik gave Mralki a look of gratefulness.

“Alright, alright...” muttered the healer. “By the way, my name is Danica. Danica Pure-Spring.”

Erik didn’t really care. He wanted to sleep, and hopefully erase all memories of his dream.

“Please Erik, describe the dream you had last night.”

Erik sighed and took a deep breath. He wanted to get away from it all, and just run. Or maybe lapse into unconsciousness. Either way, he was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. May as well get it over with, he thought. Erik took another deep breath, and recounted all he could from the dream, beginning to end. As he told of the dream, Danica’s brow deepened. When he finished, she said nothing except for, “Give me a moment,” and walked outside tersely. Erik, on the other hand, was relieved, and lied down on the extremely comfortable bed, closing his eyes.

Before he could fall back asleep again, Danica burst in the room - literally. She was full of a nervous, stressful energy. She muttered under her breath about madness, Hermaeus Mora, and other evil things. She walked purposefully towards Erik, a concerned, worried light in her eyes.

“Erik, open your eyes.”

Instead of letting Erik get up and open his eyes by himself, she pried them open with her fingers. She closely looked at his eyes, and after a moment she sat down on a nearby chair.

“Erik, how do you feel?’

“Tired,” came the immediate reply.

She sat for a few moments, seemingly deep in thought. Then she sighed and brought a bottle out. It was a fairly large bottle, about the size of a wine bottle, and it had the shape of one too, with a cork sealing the top. Through the clear glass, Erik could see that the liquid inside was a dark pink color, and it had the consistence of fresh wine.

"Drink it," she said.

Erik tipped the bottle into his mouth and swallowed a little. It tasted like honey, indescribably sweet, with hints of wheat and what seemed to be crushed mountain flower. The potion flowed like water down his throat, and he felt a sense of vitality flood his body.

"Drink a bit once in the morning, and once in the evening, and you should be fine," Danica said. She turned away stiffly and headed out the door, seeming to leave before Erik could blink.

After a few moments, Mralki and Jouane left, too. It took an hour for Erik to gather the energy and willpower to get up, but he eventually did. He took a few wobbly, unsteady steps, then marched outside. It must’ve been Sun’s Height by now, because drops of sweat already began to appear on Erik’s face. The sun shone brightly above him, and Erik looked up. The pale blue sky and rich, white clouds contrasted beautifully. He looked ahead and saw everyone farming, relaxing, or in other words, going on with their normal lives. But why couldn’t he? Why was he so...troubled? Was it the dream? Or something else? He quickly shook the thought away.

Don’t be stupid. You’ll be fine.

Erik walked out from the porch of Rorik’s manor. Erik’s headache seemed to be going away. It was not apparent at first, but he could tell that most were trying to keep their distance from him. Eyes were watching him, carefully, almost fearfully. He saw Ennis on the road with three horses. Finally, someone who will talk to me, Erik thought. The dark-skinned man was loading vegetables and meat into packs on two of the horses. Erik figured he was going to Whiterun soon for trading, and Erik decided he wanted to say goodbye. Ennis could be gone for days at a time in Whiterun, or other cities, trading, and Erik had always looked up to Ennis. He was never busy, and always seemed to have time for Erik. Well, except for when he was away. As Erik approached, Ennis noticed him. The Redguard brushed his strong, dirty hands on his pants before clapping Erik on the back.

“Haven’t seen you in while, lad! How’s it been?” he asked heartily.

“Oh, fine, I suppose. I just....er....wanted to say goodbye.” Erik said.

Ennis nodded understandingly. “I see.” He seemed deep in thought.

“Alright, travel safely.”

“You take care of yourself, too.” Ennis’ eyes twinkled with a warm light as he mounted the unloaded horse.

As he rode off, Erik looked toward the horizon. The sun was setting, and he realized he had not eaten since last night. Erik felt like he could eat a mammoth! He walked to the inn and sat in his room, which he shared with Lokir. Speaking of which, Erik thought, where was Lokir? Erik pushed the thought out of his mind. Mralki walk in shortly after Erik entered and offered him a bowl of venison stew. Erik smiled warmly at his father, and his father returned the smile. Erik drank the stew with gusto, and walked outside his room. Everything seemed to be the same. At least for now. As he sat on a bench, a man stepped in the inn. He was a Nord, dressed in a traveler’s clothes, but he carried an iron sword at his waist, and he looked like he knew how to use it.

“A pint of ale, and beef stew, please,” he said. His voice seemed...powerful, gruff yet gentle He seemed to have been everywhere, seen everything, and Erik realized he must’ve been an adventurer. He carried an air of confidence and sternness with him, and sat down on a nearby bench. Mralki walked over hesitantly to the man, and said, “Do you need anything else?”

The Nord laughed. “Another pint of ale. I’ll be damned if I ain’t thirsty.” He seemed to be in much happier mood than when he had arrived.

Erik walked closer to the man. “What’s your name, sir?” he asked. “You know, it isn’t everyday we get visitors in Rorikstead.”

The man looked down at the boy, taking a huge swig of ale. “Aye, boy, my name is Angrenor. And I’m the damned best at what I do.”

“Angrenor.” Erik nodded. “So, what do you do?”

The Nord leaned in close to Erik. “I’m a former soldier, undercover at the moment. I once killed six men single-handedly in the Great War whilst saving my brothers-in-arms.”

Erik’s eyes widened with amazement. This man was not a mere traveler, but a soldier!

“So what else did you do?” Erik asked excitedly.

Angrenor’s face grew weary. “I’d....prefer not to tell. I've lost many good friends in the Great war, and war is...not something to joke about.” His eyes glazed over for a moment, and he suddenly snapped back to reality, another wave of weariness washing over his face. “I need some more ale,” he sighed.

Erik went to his room. He felt extremely bored sometimes. There was nothing to do here! And Lokir...where was Lokir again? No one seemed to have noticed he was gone. In the events of last night, Erik had forgotten about him. He sighed. Lokir was probably out doing some sort of mischief. Erik lied down and shut his eyes, falling asleep within seconds.

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“There once was a bandit named Ragnur the Bed, who came riding from ole Roriksteeeeead!!! Wait, that’s not right...”

Erik woke up reluctantly. It was the voice of the man who had arrived at the inn a few hours ago, only a lot more drunk - and definitely a lot louder. Erik grumbled to himself about wanting to sleep. He just wanted some peace and quiet for once in his life. The headache from earlier that day was returning, which did little to help Erik’s mood.

“Heya, d’ya think that the man, Ragnerer, I think -” Angrenor hiccupped. “Y’know, the red guy, do ya think he really came from Rorikstead? ‘Cause who knows, he might’ve came from Ivarstead, or Winterhold, or mebbe even Imperial City!”

“Angrenor, Imperial City is in Cyrodiil,” Mralki said. His voice showed more than a hint of annoyance.

“I see, I see. Mebbe, I think I migh’ have had some ales too many, so I might be sleepin’ soon,” Angrenor slurred. “Or maybe I’ll change my name to Ragnur, and I’ll be riding from this lil’ hamlet here! Into a great city, like Imperial City!”

As he laughed loudly, there was a series of loud crashes and bangs, and then finally the sound of a door shutting silenced the inn.

“Thank the gods,” Erik muttered. The headache was definitely back now, and it felt like a nail was being driven into Erik’s skull. He grabbed his head and groaned softly. All Erik wanted to do was to fall into unconsciousness.

Erik reached for the potion bottle, drank a swallow of the sweet healing elixir, like Danica had told him too that morning, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

[Azir L'Stros]

Chapter 4: Bandits​

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Smoke.

The heavy, acrid scent filled Erik’s nostrils. It stung the his nose and throat, and Erik groggily got up, instinctively thinking that something was wrong. His eyes were hot and dry. Mralki burst inside, an iron sword in his right hand. His face showed a mix of fear and worry. “Stay inside, I’ll be back soon!” he shouted as he slammed the door. Erik sat on his bed, his brow furrowed. What could’ve happened? Why was there so much smoke?

He slowly began to relax as the smoke thickened. He felt light headed and giddy. The smoke wasn’t so bad, was it? What he didn’t know was that the smoke was slowly suffocating him, depriving his body of the oxygen it needed. Erik’s vision became fuzzy and dim, and he felt a strange urge to lie down and sleep. Sleep, that seems nice, he thought. Maybe this is just a dream. Yes, just a bad dream. A ball of fear punched him in the gut as he realized that this wasn’t a dream, and that if he lied down, he may never wake up again.

He had to do something.

His vision darkening further, Erik clumsily reached for the potion on his bedside. It fell and rolled on the floor, stopping with a small thud against the door. Uncoordinated and nearly blind, Erik reached for where the thud seemed to have came from. After a few long, tedious moments, Erik found it. He managed to uncork the flask and took a deep, long swig of it. The heat seemed to affect the liquid, as it tasted acidic and bitter, and it burned as it went down his throat. Erik gagged, wondering if the potion would retain its original effect. Suddenly his vision cleared, and the familiar sense of strength filled his body. It still worked.

What do I do, what do I do, he thought tensely. First, I need to get out of here. Erik began to head for the door, but then he remembered. Lokir! he thought. He managed to stumble over to Lokir, and Erik draped Lokir’s arms over his shoulders. With a grunt, Erik hefted Lokir and headed for the door. As he kicked the door open, a wave of thick smoke washed over the boys. Erik doubled over, coughing violently, nearly dropping Lokir. The air was stifling hot, and it seemed to suck the oxygen out of his lungs, and sapped his energy. It irritated Erik’s throat, and he felt like he could barely breathe.

I must go on.

Erik steeled himself, and he nearly charged out. A thundering crack resounded above him, and Erik suddenly stopped in confusion. He looked up, and his eyes widened. A giant wooden beam had snapped, causing the noise, and now hung perilously, only a few feet above Erik. Its rhythmic motion mesmerized Erik, and another crack snapped him out of his daze. He leapt to the side side as best as he could with another person over his shoulder, but it wasn’t good enough. The wooden beam fell on Erik’s ankle, and his vision blurred again as the pain shot all the way up through his leg. The ankle was definitely broken. But the pain would have to wait another day. Erik gritted his teeth and wretched his foot from under the beam, sending another blur of pain rushing through his leg. A wave of ash cascaded from the ceiling, coating Erik's face and turning his red hair a dull orange. Erik couldn't breathe or see through the heavy smoke and ash. He stumbled towards where he thought the door was, and nearly fell through the door, bringing with him a wave of choking smoke. Erik took several deep, rasping breaths. He coughed and spat, attempting to clear the ash from his lungs. Slowly lowering Lokir to the ground, Erik looked around.

It was chaos.

Bandits were plundering the village. Livestock was slaughtered mercilessly, crops were uprooted, and homes were being vandalized. The guards were attempting to fight off the pillagers, but to little avail. The plunderers had strength in sheer numbers, and this attack was obviously planned. None of the bandits had noticed Erik or his brother, but he knew he had to leave, and he had to do it soon. Erik wiped some sweat off of his brow, and roughly shook Lokir. “Wake up,” he said, quietly but firmly. Lokir did not wake up. His breathing was shallow and strained. Erik put a hand on Lokir’s chest, and found that his heartbeat was irregular and weak.

Lokir was about to die, Erik realized. Only one thing could save him. Erik looked back at the inn, weakened by age, now nearly destroyed. A worm of doubt grew in Erik’s chest. Should he really risk his life to save another? He looked back of his brother. His face was much paler than it usually was, and his dark, ash-streaked hair fell in ropy strands across his face. At that moment, Erik decided that he could not, would not let anyone die that day.

He took a deep breath and limped back into the seemingly familiar smoky inside. The smoke was so thick now that he could barely see his own hand outstretched in front of him, feeling the way. The intense heat dried his mouth and eyes. Erik stopped for a moment and tore a long strip of fabric from his shirt, tying it around his nose and mouth. He stumbled into the room he had slept comfortably in just moments ago, and groped for the potion. Finally, Erik felt the flask, its glass now nearly burning hot from the heat of the fire. Got it! he thought.

Suddenly, a massive hand grabbed his shoulder. It was not a familiar, comforting hand. No, it was a large, rough hand. Most likely, it was one of the bandits. “Let go!” Erik screamed in his mind. All that came from his dry mouth was a croak. “You’re comin’ wit’ me, boy,” the bandit growled. His breath was horrible, reeking of spoilt ale and half-rotten meat. The lowlife ripped the cloth from Erik’s face. He kicked and struggled, but a dagger was suddenly at his throat, drawing a drop of blood that fell to the floor. Everything seemed to go silent. “Cooperatin’ now, aren’t we?” he murmured. “Good.”

Erik was dragged outside, and he was somewhat glad for the fresh air. But his heart was heavy with sorrow and regret as he realized Lokir might die that night. He might have already been dead, murdered by one of the bandits, or simply have suffocated from the smoke. No, Erik thought. It can’t be.

His silent wish was answered. A loud thud was heard, and Erik felt a force on his back, like someone had pushed him. The bandit holding him captive let out a loud yell, and Erik was dropped onto the rough earth, scrapes and bruises added to his already existing ones. He looked up and saw the bandit had an arrow protruding out of his back, and Erik traced the path the arrow probably took to an archer, over a hundred meters away. The bandit let a low, animalistic growl, and drew two swords from their scabbards. The vandal seemed even more frightening now as he charged full speed at the archer, swords in hand.

Then he stopped.

The vandal fell to the ground, and Erik could see another arrow protruding through his chest. The arrow must’ve gone through one of the chinks in his plate armor, and pierced his heart. A lucky shot. A very lucky shot. The bandit coughed up blood in copious amounts. He struggled to get up for a few moments, and then stopped. Erik looked back at the inn and his eyes wandered to his brother. If Lokir was still alive, there was time.

Adrenaline speeding through his body, Erik sprinted towards the inn. He rushed inside, leaping over the beam that had crushed his foot. Erik charged into the room, grabbing the potion. He went back outside. He put a heart over Lokir’s chest and gasped. He had stopped breathing. If his heart was beating, it was very weak. No, Erik thought. There is still time. Erik tipped the bottle, spilling a bit of the precious liquid into Lokir’s agape mouth. Wake up, he desperately hoped. Wake up. He spilled a bit more into Lokir’s mouth. Erik put his hand on Lokir’s chest.

All hopes were dashed. Lokir was most likely dead. No, he thought. No, no, no! Tears streamed down his ash-caked face, and nothing could express the sense of utter hopelessness.

Erik saw now that the bandits were being driven off by the guards. Shaken by grief and exhaustion, Erik collapsed, falling into unconsciousness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~​

The rays of light beat down on his face. Sweat had dried into a rough, salty layer on his forehead. Erik opened his dry, strained eyes to the harsh light of the sun. What had happened? Erik turned to his side heavily. Then he remembered. The bandits. They had raided and pillaged the village, burning buildings and destroying lives. And Lokir...

Erik’s eyes misted as he realized what had happened to him. Lokir was no longer in sight. Most likely his body was dragged off somewhere, left for dead. Now that he thought about it, no one was in sight. He was all alone, just himself and a destroyed hamlet. For several moments, Erik lied there, his mind blank. What should he do? He got up and looked down at his clothes. They were in tatters, with holes and burn marks scattered all over them. Erik tried to wipe his face, only succeeding in smearing the ash on his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair, once thick and clean, now streaked with ash and ropy. The stringy, dull red locks hung in front of his eyes, and he brushed them away. What should he do? Should he try to survive here, in this destroyed village, or try to find help? Even traveling to Whiterun seemed like a good idea.

Suddenly, Erik saw a two figures in the distance, a horse and its rider. Erik waved his arms frantically back and forth, vying for the rider’s attention. The person seemed to notice Erik, and sped up dramatically. As the person approached Rorikstead, Erik saw that the person was actually Ennis. His face was cut and bruised. He had a long but shallow slash mark on his arm, and his horse had a severe limp. Ennis got off the horse and ran to Erik, his face lined with worry.

“What happened?” he asked tensely.

“Bandits. They attacked the village,” said Erik in reply.

Ennis looked towards the horizon. “Is anyone else here?”

“No, I woke up, and there was no one else here. I have no idea where they went.”

“I was attacked by bandits just this morning. I don’t think it was a coincidence...” his voice trailed off, and Ennis seemed deep in thought.

“No matter,” he concluded. “Let’s see if we can recover anything, and see if there are any survivors.”

They decided to check the inn first. It was nearly destroyed, with the beams that supported and held up the building mostly collapsed. Erik could find nothing valuable in the rooms, and it looked like the bandits had taken everything of worth from the inn. They checked the farmhouses. Nothing. Not even dead bodies. Erik saw that Rorik’s manor was mostly untouched, or as close as untouched as you get when ruthless bandits had raided and vandalized your home and all you had grown up with.

He motioned for Ennis to come to him, and they went into the manor. It seemed empty, and mostly everything was left intact. It was definitely suspicious. Erik went into the basement, and his eyes widened. Everybody in the village was there, and they were surprisingly unhurt. A figure who turned out to be Mralki rushed towards Erik and nearly suffocated him with his embrace. “Thank the gods,” he whispered. Erik felt tears soaking into his scorched and torn shirt. After a few long, tender moments, Mralki let go and looked at his son. His eyes were misty. In a low voice, he said, “I thought you were dead. We thought you were dead.”

“Erik.” The voice was thin and frail, but strangely familiar. Erik looked towards there the voice seemed to be coming from. It was Lokir! He seemed pale and thin, but he was alive. Erik rushed over to him. Lokir’s dark hair hung in front of his face, and it seemed to have lost its usual sheen. He was wrapped in a ragged, torn blanket, littered with pieces of burned debris and ash. His clothes underneath the blanket were burned and scorched. Erik immediately felt a deep worry for Lokir, and realized that he probably didn’t look much better himself. “Lokir....I....” Erik choked up, unsure of what to say. Lokir looked at Erik with an expression of deep understanding. No words needed to be said. Mralki put his hand on Erik’s shoulder. “Let’s go outside,” he said.

A wave of murmuring and whispers swept the group. They were all thinking the same questions. What happened? Where will I sleep? What happened to my home? As the people of Rorikstead came outside, surprise, anger, sorrow, and grief swept through them. Cries rang out, and many tears were shed. But what seemed to eclipse those emotions was a sense of somber resolve. Rebuilding Rorikstead would take a long time. It could cost much, but at least everyone was alive and together.






For now, that was all that mattered.

 

[Azir L'Stros]

Chapter 5: An Unexpected Surprise​

Erik looked longingly at the inn, now completely destroyed. He was lucky that he hadn’t died. He thought for a bit philosophically about how fragile life was, revealed all too well through Lokir’s near death. Erik glanced at Lokir. Lokir was wrapped in the same soot-covered blanket, and he sat on a nearby rock, shivering, not noticing Erik. The pungent, acidic smell of smoke hung in the cool air, and Erik glanced around. Nearly everyone was scavenging through the ruins of the village, searching for memories, signs, that maybe one day, everything would be all right again. As the sun’s last rays disappeared over the horizon, people began to stop searching. There was nothing to be found, except for the burnt remains of what was a peaceful hamlet. Erik lied down on the side of the rough cobblestone road, and fell into a restless, grey sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~​

The smoke enveloped him like a thick blanket, covering up all the things that didn’t need to be seen. Nothing really mattered here. He could leave all of his worries behind, and stay in the veil, where nothing could hurt him. The fire was no longer a source of burning and pain, but warmth and comfort, its heat increasing steadily. The crackle of burning buildings was soothing, rather than stressful. The smoke wafted over to him, covering his mouth. It became difficult to breathe. The heat continued to increase, growing unbearably hot. There had to be some way to escape.

He approached the smoke. It was less of a veil now, and more of a solid wall, forbidding him to leave.

No! No! No!

The fire burned his skin. The soot hissed and sizzled, scorching his clothes. Smoke blinded him, leaving him helpless. He lied down on the hot ground. No one could save him. As he felt his life slip away from him, a sudden prick of cold dropped on his face. As he sat up, another drop fell on his face. The drops continued to increase in speed and size. They washed the horrible memories from his mind, extinguishing the flames. A feeling burned in his heart. He laid there for several confused moments before he recognized the feeling.

Hope.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~​

Erik woke up with a gasp. The rain fell heavily, washing the dried, caked ash from his hair and skin. He felt strangely happy, and his heart was light. Erik felt a sudden reassurance that one day, everything would be back to normal again. He looked up. The aurora illuminated the clouds from above, casting an eerie glow on the village. Erik’s worn, tattered clothes were now soaked on top of what they had already been through. The water ran downhill, muddy and grey with ash. Feeling that strange sense of optimism, Erik lied back down. As he fell asleep, the heavy rain relented, eventually stopping.

Not an hour later, Erik woke again. But now there was another sound in the air. A strange skittering noise, followed immediately by a loud clack. A slow, long hiss came afterward.

Then, an eerie silence. Nothing. Erik got up from the ground. Something didn’t seem right...

A smell wafted in the air, reeking of decomposing bodies, rotten flesh, and many other horrifying things. It hung in the air like a heavy veil, yet pierced like a knife, stinging Erik’s nostrils. Another click, clack sound came, much closer than before. He crouched low to the ground. An eerie silence hung in the air, and Erik’s hairs were on end.

A skittering sound came behind him, barely 20 yards away, before that suspenseful silence again filled the air. Aside from Erik’s frightened, ragged breaths, nothing could be heard. The air seem thick with tension. His hands jittered. Suddenly, a crunch came from behind him. He swung a fist blindly at the figure, his heart pounding. Erik fell on the ground as the figure recoiled.

“Erik!” the voiced hissed. The voice was too familiar for Erik to second-guess who it was. He closed his eyes, trying to get rid of the fear that held him hostage. “L-Lokir?” he managed to splutter. He could imagine Lokir rolling his eyes. “No, it’s the High King,” Lokir said, voice thick with sarcasm. “Of course its me! Now get up already.”

Erik managed to crawl up from the ground, dusting off his elbows and knees. As he got up, he looked back to see Lokir. Even in the dim light, he seemed different. His face was still gaunt and hollow, but it showed a sense of determination. Erik let out a frustrated sigh. “By the Nine, why did you do that, Lokir? You nearly scared me half to death.” Lokir’s eyes gazed at him with an expression of confusion. “Wait, what?” Erik glared at his brother. “With the-”

He stopped. Suddenly a paralyzing fear gripped his heart. All instincts told Erik to move, run as fast as he could, but he couldn’t. “Lokir,” he hissed. Lokir stopped and looked at Erik quizzically, not sure what was going on. “Don’t. Move.” The two words came out of Erik’s mouth as a whisper. The suspense hung in the air like a thin cord over a canyon, ready to break at any moment. At that moment, as Lokir shifted his weight, a small twig snapped under his foot. Barely a second after that, all hell broke loose.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~​

​

A cold, sticky liquid fell on Erik’s face. He woke up with a groan as the liquid seeped into his eyes, causing them to burn with a fire like none other. He would’ve screamed, but a light, cloth-like substance covered his mouth. The same material enveloped his entire body. Erik managed to open his raw, dry eyes to see a small ray of light streaming through a hole in the cavern they were in. It was uncomfortably humid in the small hole they were in, and quite warm too. As Erik wondered what to do, the smell hit him. It was like that smell that got to him, right before he had punched Lokir, only a hundred times worse. He gagged and turned on his side, nearly retching. There was no way out. Most likely in a cave, full of monsters and spiders, and there was no way out.

The unstoppable tears welled up in Erik’s eyes, and spilled over, forming a path down his dirty face. “Oh gods...” Erik whispered. “Damn it all.” He turned to his other side to see an corpse, with a sword by its side. They most likely died trying to save themselves, Erik though solemnly. And right then, a brilliant idea popped into Erik’s head, one that would save his life.

He wriggled and scooted over to the corpse, and positioned himself over the sword, back raised and tense over the sharp blade. He relaxed just the slightest bit, pressing the tight cloth over the blade. He relaxed a little bit more, and a slow rip was heard. Good. Hopefully he was free. But it wasn’t over yet. Not quite yet. He thought for a few hard moments. First, get out. Then, find Lokir. After...

He paused. If he wasn’t mistaken, he heard a clack from somewhere in the cavern. A bead of sweat dripped down his face. He sensed, rather than heard or saw a form approaching him. Purely from instinct, he lied down, closing his eyes, pretending to be unconscious. Every hair on his body was on end. The form was right over his face. Erik dared to open his eyes and immediately regretted it.

Eight black, beady eyes started back at him, showing no hint of emotion or remorse. Right underneath the eyes, two immensely huge fangs hung, small beads of venom at the tips. The fangs moved slowly back and forth, almost rhythmically. Erik’s eyes moved back up to the spiders eight eyes. They seemed to move farther back, retreating from him. Erik wondered if the giant spider was leaving him, but he realized what was happening as the spider reared its head, preparing to finish him then and there.

He rolled to the side, ripping off the web wrapped around him. The spider was still in confusion, as its fangs tore through empty air. It turned and looked at Erik, those eight, emotionless eyes piercing. Its scuttled towards him at surprising speed, those eight hairy legs making a rapid click, clack across the stone. He looked behind the spider to see the corpse from earlier, and more importantly, the iron sword that lay beside it.

Erik lunged past the spider and hefted the sword. It was off-balance and unwieldy, nearly twisting Erik’s wrist as he raised it. Beneath the corpse, there was a bit of what looked like wood. He nudged the corpse away and saw a large ring of wood, reinforced with strips of iron radiating from the center, as well as an iron ring on the edge.

A shield. He braced himself, picking it up. Surprisingly, it wasn’t nearly as heavy as he thought it would be. He wondered if it would really help. All he really needed to do was to buy enough time to free Lokir and escape. Easier said than done, of course.

Erik heard a sound and looked behind him. His eyes widened. The spider had leaped in the air, flying almost gracefully towards Erik. Its enormous body sailed towards him, leaving seconds to act. Erik’s knew that trying to block with the shield would not help, as if he wasn't crushed to death by the spider’s weight, he would have to deal with the monster at a dangerously close range. No, he would have to go on the offence. And he knew just how.

As the spider fell, Erik let go of the shield and plunged the sword into the spider’s exposed belly. He moved to the side as best as he could, straining his arm and mercilessly ripping the sword out of its soft underside. The spider, injured and disoriented, swayed for a few moments. Erik raised the sword with both hands and plunged it into the spider’s head, cracking through its thick skull. It rolled over, green gore caked on its underside, and its legs curled up as it let out a long, drawn up hiss.

The spider was dead.

Erik felt sick. The disgusting spider gore covered him, and it reeked horribly. But there was no time. He saw a slim form on the other side on the cavern, covered in web, and instantly knew who it was. In one swift action, Erik ran to Lokir, cut through the web enveloping him and shook him awake. “Lokir!” Erik said in a loud whisper. Lokir got up weakly. “By the Nine Divines, that smells!” He exclaimed. “Let’s just stay here for a bit.”

Erik grabbed Lokir’s shoulders roughly. “Listen. We are in a cave, full of Frostbite Spiders and who know what else, and we have no idea where we are. We have to go. Now.” Lokir swallowed, nodded, and got up. Then, just as quickly, he shoved Erik’s head down. “What the hell was that for?!” Erik demanded. Then, on the wall behind them, a ball of web and venom splattered. It slowly dripped down, and Erik moved his ankle to avoid being near it. Erik’s throat went dry. Lokir gave him a nod, and his brother nodded back. Erik looked behind him to see a spider, and fear gripped him.

It was absolutely massive. If he thought the first spider was big, then this one dwarfed it. Its eyes regarded Erik with a cold hunger and it scuttled slowly towards them. The fear paralyzed him. Nothing could rouse him from it. The eight soulless eyes approached nearer and nearer with each footstep. “Erik!” Lokir screamed. Erik shook himself from the fear.

He didn’t even think before raising his right arm and, in one smooth motion, throwing the sword. It sailed through the air. Seconds felt like hours, as it headed towards the spider. It worked much better than expected. The sword’s point hit the spider right in the face, and it slid backward several feet from the momentum of the weapon. It swayed for some time before finally falling on its side, dead. The hairy legs twitched back and forth, and the eyes rolled around in their sockets. Pulling himself out of the paralyzing fear, Erik screamed, “We have to go! Now!”

The boys pumped their legs as fast as they could, with the rest of the spiders in hot pursuit. As they left the cave, it appeared the spiders weren’t willing to go outside. With no apparent threat, the boys slowed to a slow jog, and then a walk. They journeyed through the thick forest that surrounded the spider nest, stopping once to let Erik wash the gore off of his body, and as they emerged from the forest, they saw Rorikstead, only a few hundred meters away. They broke into a sprint, running and meeting the still confused citizens of Rorikstead. Mralki was the first to see them, and he looked absolutely furious. “In the name of the Nine Divines, where the hell were you?!” he demanded. “Our home is destroyed, and you decide to take a walk through the woods?” he watched impatiently as the boys caught their breath. “Well?!” he asked. Lokir stood straight up, and recounted the tale, beginning to end. Mralki’s expression changed the whole time, changing back and forth from anger, interest, and disbelief.

When Lokir had finished, Mralki was quiet for a few moments before saying, “It was a miracle you two survived.” He was deep in thought. The boys chose this opportunity to leave. Lokir went his own way, walking towards Rorik’s Manor, while Erik walked towards the Frostfruit Inn - or what was left of it. He sat on his bed, which, along with Lokir’s bed, was surprisingly untouched by the fire.

“Divines save us all,” he whispered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~​

The next months went by like a flash. People from Whiterun were always there, bringing food, supplies, and hope to the residents of Rorikstead. The Jarl even came once, handing a sack of coins and a few kind words to the people before returning to the relative safety of Whiterun. Erik’s and Lokir’s fourteenth birthday came on the same date, and Mralki prepared a stew for them, made from the vegetables and meat the citizens of Whiterun had donated.

Plank by plank, Rorikstead was being rebuilt, day after day. Erik was assigned to the heavier, more manual tasks, like cutting and carrying wood, while Lokir’s talent showed in his agility and dexterity. As such, he was the one usually securing the planks on the roofs. It was hard work, but paid off. And six months later, Rorikstead was finally what it once was. And when it was done, Erik would be put to the boring tasks of carrying firewood and farming, as was expected of him.

But no matter what, the redheaded boy would always yearn to see what was beyond - what could be seen, instead of what what was there. Erik would always yearn for adventure.

Always.

 

[Azir L'Stros]

Feel free to comment. My intent is to make it a prologue to a later thread I will start about Erik the Slayer's adventures. There may be more chapters later in this thread.

 

[Epic Keith]

Looking forward to this! contact Rayven to delete the other thread

 

[Azir L'Stros]

Alright, thanks.

 

[Chirurgeon]

I love Eric The Slayer. I thought about somehow incorporating him into my own story. Lots of directions to go with it

 

[Azir L'Stros]

I had the same idea with your story, Chirurgeon. It would be very interesting.

 

[Azir L'Stros]

Chapter 1 is up. Sorry if it's a bit rushed.

 

[Chirurgeon]

haha Lokir of Rorikstead...great idea mate...curious as to where this goes

 

[Azir L'Stros]

Chapter 2 should be up by tonight. If not, then next weekend. Finals will finally be over (see what I did there?) and school will be out by Thursday, so chapters will be coming out a lot more often by the week after next.

EDIT: I've also began naming the chapters too.

 

[Chirurgeon]

funny I am a teacher and our last day is Wednesday

 

[Azir L'Stros]

Chapter 2 is up, earlier than expected. I was a bit worried about putting something so dramatic so early in the story, and it's a lot shorter than I hoped for, but oh well. Anyways, hope you like it.

 

[Epic Keith]

Wonderful work!

 

[Azir L'Stros]

Wonderful work!

Haha, thanks. Chapter 3 should be up this weekend, but I'm not totally sure. My schedule's been really messed up the past few days. And Chapter 2 is definitely not up to my expectations, it's very rushed in my eyes. But I'm glad you enjoyed the story.

 

[Azir L'Stros]

Chapter 3 is up. Hope you enjoy it.

 

[Serperior]

Mooar! I needs chapter 4.