Noemi Snowborne : A most unusual Nord

Azzuria · February 2021

It was unusually cold in the Ashlands, but she didn't mind. She preferred the cold, having grown up in the snow and wind of Skyrim. The wind, so often sweeping down from the fire-topped mountains, had shifted, bringing in a blessedly fresh zephyr from her home in the North.

Her armor rattled melodically with every step, the shield on her back and sword at her hip a comforting presence, all the more needed considering the alien surroundings.

She recalled her mother's words. ' Be as good a guest as you'd want to have in your home, love '. Her mother, not by blood but by choice, was a strong Northerner. The kind of Nord that everyone thought was a stereotype. Hard working, hard drinking, loudly-swearing, no non-sense but with a course and cutting sense of humor. And that laugh... a laugh that crinkled the corners of her eyes, lit up her leathery face and soften her otherwise stern countenance. A laugh more infectious than Hircine's own bite.

Helga Snow-Borne had found the youngling in the snow not far from her home near Whiterun, crying, shivering and nearly dead. Being barren, Helga's young love left her before they were to be married, left her alone and childless. She took to the mewling infant like an Argonian to muck. She brought the babe into her home, a simple, rustic farmhouse in the Nordic style, all rough-hewn timber and dark comfort, dominated by a riverstone fireplace that turned the house into an oasis of warmth in the dead of a Skyrim winter.

In the house and on that farm, the youngling had grown up quickly. Too quickly for Helga. Knowing her daughter would be some be affected by the wanderlust that often took hold of her race, the Nord woman cherished every moment the two had together.

The girl's first drink of mead, to which she quickly developed a taste that might later cause her no end of grief. Bringing in the harvest of cabbages, hunting for herbs in the nearby foothills, trapping game, learning to shoot a bow and handle a weapon. The young girl took to weapon-play quickly and hunting even faster. Before long the two of them had more meat than they needed and enough pelts and leather to sell for extra gold. The extra gold didn't change how they lived, and that didn't bother the nearly grown girl.

As Helga feared, her little love seemed to grow more restless. Hunting trips were longer, nights in the tavern more often ended in fights. Not unusual for a Skyrim tavern, but Noemi was not like other Nords. The locals never fully embraced Helga's daughter and it had never really bothered the two of them. They had each other and that was enough.

Or it had been.

The day finally came when Helga knew her daughter, the little bundle of love she had found and that had made her lonely life so full, could no longer stay. It broke the old Nordic woman's heart, but also filled the cracks with pride. Her Noemi was strong, proud and fierce. She would make a fine addition to the Pact. The recruiter was hesitant at first, given who, and what, Noemi was. But a dozen fights later the young woman was the only recruit who wasn't looking like 25 miles of bad road on a rainy Morndas.

On the day they all left for Dunmer lands to join the Pact, Helga was there to see her off. The Nord woman held a bundle in her arms and she beamed with pride, even as a tear of grief seeped out from creases around her eyes, made all the deeper for the broad grin. Holding it out toward her daughter in upturned hands, the young woman deftly parted the homespun cloth to see the fine hilt of a sword resting in a delicately tooled leather sheath. Picking it up, she drew the weapon, judging the heft, swinging it to test the weight and balance. Perfect. It was simply perfect. It fit her hand, it rested there as if it were made to do so.

Noemi sheathed the sword and took her mother up in powerful arms. The women wept and held one another like it would be the last time. As they parted, the young woman gently wiped away a tear from her mother's face. ' Thank you, mother ', she whispered, barely able to get even that much out from behind the lump in her throat. The Nord woman cleared her throat, straightened her shoulder and to all the world once again became the stern, taciturn Northerner that everyone knew. But to Noemi's eyes she was still crying, the young woman could read both the pride and the grief in her mother's countenance.

Strapping the sword to her side, settling the shield to her back, she waved goodbye to the woman who had loved her in spite of everything, and joined her fellow soldier on the wagon for the long ride to the Dunmer city that was the capital of the newly formed Pact.

......

The young Khajiit woman walked into the inn, took a seat far from the fire. Peeling off her helm and letting it fall to the table, she leaned her shield against the wall and her sword, a gift from the woman who had found her and raised her as her own, rested on her lap.

The Dunmer waiter came by and eyed the armor-clad cat with a touch of suspicion.

'Mead', she stated flatly with a thick Nordic accent. The waiter nearly tripped. People who had been eyeballing her slyly did double-takes and jaws all over hung open in confusion, disbelief and, in some cases, amusement.

The mug of honeybrew found its way to the table and the cat paid and added a healthy tip. ' No innkeeper will turn away a well tipping customer, little love ', her mother had told her. A wise woman, Helga Snow-Borne.

A few more Nords, fresh recruits like Noemi, came clattering in and saw their compatriot sitting in the corner. 'SNOW-PAW!" they shouted, knowing damned well her name was Snow-Borne, like her mother. It didn't bother her. Much. These were some of the ones she'd whipped to earn her place in the Pact. It only raised her hackles a touch and her fellows knew to back off when her tail started to bristle and twitch.

Noemi Snow-Paw. It had a nice ring to it. Her mother would laugh and that was good enough. (less)

Azzuria · February 2021

Noemi cursed. A colorful, creative string of invectives that left a trail of offended Dunmer, laughing Nord and confused Argonians behind her as she limped towards her room. Her feet were blistered and painful. The iron boots she wore were a world of difference from the soft leather shoes her mother had crafted for her. The boots had no give and were entirely the wrong shape for her feet.

Hobbling up the stairs and into her room, she collapsed onto the narrow bed with a crash and clank of armor. She delicately pulled off the boots to reveal swollen, blistered feet. Even her toenails ( she couldn't really imagine saying 'claws' ) hurt. She hurled each boot in turn at the stone wall of her room and damned each to Molag Bal's good graces.

Laying back, forearm resting on her forehead, she stretched and wiggled her toes, wincing occasionally from the annoying pain. It wasn't 'painful', really. It made walking difficult, running hard and fighting almost impossible. And that was what annoyed her the most. She lost a fight. She doesn't lose fights! Not to the likes of Jannik! Milksop Jannik. Oh, the embarrassment. The shame.

Reaching back to a small bureau next to her bed, Noemi fished out rough bandages and a tin of ointment her mother had packed for her trip. Sitting up, she examined her poor feet. Red and blistered, she began tending her wounds ... and pride. She opened the tin and inhaled deeply. It smelled of home. A blend of herbs and extracts she and Helga had gathered, cooked in rendered fat. Noemi could close her eyes and see her mother tending the pot over the fire that burned in their hearth. While no apothecary in the strictest sense, Helga knew to produce a few good tinctures and ointments to handle most of the small ailments that troubled a farmer. Blisters were always a problem, even for hands calloused by decades of work in the field.

Noemi lanced the blisters, slathered them in ointment, wrapped each foot up tightly and stood to test her work. Her feet were still sore but the bandages and ointment had taken the edge off the pain. Removing the rest of her armor, she changed into a pale blue homespun dress and leather boots. Not exactly 'fashionable', she knew, but she also didn't care. Dunmer cared. The smug 'noble' Dunmer cared too much. Noemi snorted as she imagined their homes, every doorway with a notch in the top to keep the prideful prisses from clipping their noses as they ponced through their expansive abodes.

Strapping a serviceable dagger to her belt and stashing another in a boot, she pulled back her hair and tied it with bit of white ribbon. Her body was covered with a dense, mottled white fur and the hair on her head was long, thick and the same off-white.

Hunting around for the thrice-damned boots, she gathered them up and headed out to the forge to see if something could be done about the ill-fitting ( and fight losing! ) torture devices.

......

The forge sang. The deep rumble of fires being stoked, the chiming of hammers on anvils. And it smelled of sweat and fire. Inside the dim workshop, it only took a moment for Noemi's eyes to adjust. Being Khajiit did have its occasional advantages.

She never thought of herself as one of the cat-people. I mean, she was. Obviously. The body fur, the sharp claws at the end of her fingers, they slitted eyes. But that only what she was. Not who she was. She was Noemi Snow-borne, daughter of Helga Snow-borne and Noemi had thrashed enough people who questioned that fact that it was no longer in doubt. Thrashed, and drunk under the table while singing bawdy tavern songs with her fellow Northmen.

In the dim light of the forge the metal shone a bright white and sparks flew about with every hammer blow. Noemi had wanted to apprentice to the blacksmith in Whiterun but had not just denied but bodily thrown from the forge. Not everyone in Whiterun... ok, almost no one in Whiterun... had really taken a liking to Noemi. Khajiit had a reputation, a bad one, and no matter that she didn't speak like them or act like them or even want to be seen with them, she was still Khajiit and that was enough for some to dismiss her out of hand. Not everyone, mind you. Helga had to do business with the blacksmith while Noemi stayed home. It irked her to no end.

She stood just inside the forge and watched an apprentice pounding out a bit of steel plating. She knew him to not be a master by the wild swing and poor hammerwork. A unusually muscular Dunmer walked up to her, standing between the apprentice and Noemi.

'Can I help you', he said. It wasn't so much a question as a queue for Noemi to start talking or get moving. She appreciated the Dark Elf's tact, or lack thereof.

'My boots', she said and held them up. ' They don't fit proper.'

If the Dunmer gave no reaction to the woman's thick Nord accent. Apparently he'd seen it all. Twice.

'S'matter with 'em?'

Noemi nodded quickly down at her feet, ' They weren't made for my kinda. Pinch about the toes '.

The Dark Elf nodded knowingly and replied, ' Oh, I imagine. Them were made for Nords. Big people, big feet. I'm guessing it's 'round about the big toe knuckle where you're blistering up. '

Noemi nodded. It seems the blacksmith had seen it all.

He took the boots from her and walked over to a nearby bench, picked up a pair of pliers and began bending metal. A few moments later he handed them back. ' That oughta do for now. Can't fix 'em right, but a new pair could be made to fit better.'

Just then a loud crash echoed across the dim shop. The apprentice's hammer had flown from his hand and landed in a pile of scrap. Noemi was not aware Dunmer could blush so deeply.

'Three take you, Ginsel! ', the blacksmith bellowed. And it was a bellow. A shout that could have stoked fires from here to the Rift. Noemi smirked while everyone else within earshot winced and cowered.

The blacksmith trod over to where the apprentice was shrinking into himself, as if to minimize the severity of the tongue-lashing he knew was imminent. 'Out! Get out! You're useless! ' the blacksmith bellowed again. The young Dunmer man slinked out of the shop quickly.

'Almalexia's left ***... I'm surrounded by incompetents'. He shot a glare around the suddenly silent forge and immediately everyone turned back to their work and the music of activity reached a fevered pitch and rhythm.

Noemi had moved to where the apprentice had been working, eyeing his work. The iron plate was unevenly heated, the glowing metal was white hot on one end and only slightly orange on the other. Bad way to work. The blacksmith stood behind her, beefy hands on his hips and watched her. Over her shoulder, she gazed at him and he nodded quickly.

The woman picked up a pair of tongs and put the ill-formed plate back into the fire and pumped the bellows a few times. She moved over to the pile of scrap where the flying hammer had fallen and retrieved it. She got back to the forge just as the metal was reaching an evenly heated state.

Picking up the plate, she set in on the anvil and proceeded to pound it out.

' Fold it over once or thrice. Ginsel was a useless *** ', the blacksmith stated. Noemi started to fold the plate over and pound it down. Back into the forge it went, heating it up to be pounded and folded once more.

The blacksmith walked over to a nearby wall covered with tools and patterns, returning with one that looked like a misshapen boot. ' Found this a while back. It's a Khajiiti boot form. Ya know about the size of your feet?' he asked.

Noemi nodded and began. The crotchety old Nord blacksmith in Whiterun wouldn't train her, but Noemi did spend quite a bit of time watching him. She know about how things were supposed to work, if not how to do so in practice. Her hammer blows were slow, but powerful and sure. The blacksmith at her shoulder gave her a few words of advice every now and then, correcting her posture, her swing and generally offering softly spoken guidance.

In what seemed like only a few hours, a pair of roughly crafted, oddly shaped boots sat upon the anvil, or at least the begging of a pair. Noemi was drenched with sweat, her arms felt like lead and she was suddenly very, very hungry. Her dress, not the finest quality to begin with, was scorched and singed about the apron and arms, as well as being soaked through. She looked a fine mess. But she felt great, if exhausted.

'Rindol' the blacksmith stated.

'Hmm?'

'My name's Rindol. Come by tomorrow, we'll finish these boots off. And I'll have a leather apron for you. Can't have my apprentices looking like I put them in the forge, can we?'

Noemi grinned widely, showing all of her teeth. Rindol laughed. ' I like you, too, Snow-borne'.

This caught Noemi by surprise, ' You know me? '

'Not many Khajiit about the place and none with your accent. Only ever met one other who wasn't "this one" and such. '

Noemi nodded. Khajiit were an odd lot, to be sure.

She turned away from the anvil to look outside. It was pitch black, the only light were the torches carried by patrols. Where had the time gone?

'Don't forget your boots, ' Rindol stated, pointing over to the bench where the boots he had adjusted sat. She took them up, nodded to the muscular Dunmer and headed back to the barracks. Hopefully there was still something to eat.

Azzuria · February 2021

The sounds and smells of the barracks rolled over her like a gentle wave. The cool Ashland night was washed away by the din of voices and click-clank sounds of food and drink being enjoyed. The scent of bodies, alcohol, pipe smoke and food mingled together into an not altogether unpleasant bouquet.

She passed through the common room, moving to mount the stairs and return her boots to their place in her room with the rest of her simple but well maintained armor and weapons.

Returning down to the crowd, she moved toward the hearth and the large cast iron pot hanging near the low flames and the rotund Nord tending it.

His head was completely hairless but his body was covered with a thick pelt of wiry brown hair, as if every hair that fled his scalp prompted dozens more to bloom across his shoulders, back, chest and arms. He was ugly, too. Nose bent from too many breaks and flattened unevenly, too small eyes set too far apart, heavy brow, heavy jaw, jutting chin and lips so thin as to be nonexistent. His hands were massive, as was everything about him. Including his smile.

His grin was horrid but had an appealing quality. Both of his front teeth were missing and the ones that remained were yellowed and crooked, but his entire ugly face lit up when he smiled. He wasn't a smart man but he was kind and gentle and wise in the way that only someone without guile can be.

He was bent over the pot, gently stirring with a long wooden spoon. His face scrunched in concentration. 'What's for dinner this night, Korsten?' Noemi asked. The bald Nord looked up and his thin lipped mouth spit into a silly grin. ' Stew ' he said, simply.

As if it were anything else. Korsten could turn anything into a stew. Shoe leather? Stew. Rocks and grub? Stew. And swear on Dibella's ***, it would be good. He also had a knack for scrounging. Not stealing, exactly, because he'd never think to do that. But if thing was left out or misplaced, he'd find it and into the pot it went. Most of his miraculous creations were some kind of meat, some kind of ale, some vegetables and what and spices, added in an order that made sense only to him but were none the less works of magic on par with any from the Mage's Guild could muster.

Noemi bent over the pot and inhaled deeply. Was that mead she smelled? And lamb. She winked at the Korsten and pick a tin bowl from a small stack next to the hearth and Korsten ladled up several heaping spoon-fulls. She took up a spoon and, blowing on the stew to cool it, moved toward the back of the common room where it was cooler, darker and the barrels of mead sat on a high table. Setting down the bowl she fetched up a large mug and filled it with honey-brew. With mug in one hand and dinner in the other she found a small round table in the darkest corner of the room.

It wasn't until she started eating that she realize how truly famished she was. The bowl was empty before she realized it and the mead was still untouched. She moved toward the fire for another helping.

Korsten saw her coming and busied himself scraping out the last of the stew and what remained only filled the bowl to half. His ugly face looked ashamed and disappointed. Laying a hand on his shoulder, Noemi said, ' It's enough. ' Korsten sighed in relief, clearly pleased.

Noemi returned to her table, drained the entire mug of mead in one long pull and started to finish off the rest of her meal.

She looked up from her once again empty bowl at the sound of a chair being dragged across the floor. The chair stopped at her table and a bearded Nord in full armor, save helm, stat down heavily, eliciting groans of strain from it.

'Training day tomorrow', said the Nord tersely.

Noemi nodded quickly and dismissively. She knew who he was and what he wanted.

Ingvar was a cocksure young man who fancied himself quite the warrior. He was good. Fast on his feet, strong and knew his way around weapons. He'd mustered up with the Pact a month or so before she arrived so thought him her better. He had taken it upon himself to 'teach' all the newly arrived 'how things worked'.

Leaning in closer to the Khajiit, his breath ripe with the smell of mead, he said, ' You're done playing about like a kitten'. Noemi's tail flicked but her face remained impassive. ' Tomorrow you'll be training with me an' the men'. He emphasizes 'men' as if some how breasts made Noemi inferior. She could name off a half dozen Nord women, including her mother, who would love the chance to put him in his place, but still she said nothing.

Ingvar leaned back in the chair, stretching his arms wide with a deep breath, then laced fingers behind his head and eyed Noemi up and down. He was wide open. It would be too easy to gut-punch the yellow-haired fool. But still, she remained calm.

'Me and the boys were just listening to your mates tell about how you got yer place here. Beat up a few farm boys, didja? '

'There were a couple rounds. I won some'. It was a lie. She had won most.

'Tomorrow, won't be no farm boys for you to smack around, cat', he sneered and pushed his chair back onto two legs.

Noemi moved swiftly, foot reaching out to strike one of the two legs holding all of the braggart's weight and he fell back and over into a clanking heap of flailing legs and arms.

The room erupted in laughter, everyone joining in. Even the inscrutable Argonians hissed and guffawed... she assumed it was a guffaw, one can never really be sure, along with the amused Dunmer and boisterous Nords.

Ingvar stood quickly, his face flushed bright red. Noemi imagined it was embarrassment but could as well be rage. Either way, it was fun to see.

'Tomorrow... cat... You'll get yours!' he seethed at her. She nodded slightly and shrugged her shoulder a bit. The indifference seemed to fuel the redness in his face. Rage it was, then.

Looking around quickly to see all the laughing faces, Ingvar growled and stomped off to the stairs and disappeared.

Noemi wiped off the table with dingy apron of her dress, the apron ruined by small burns from the forge where she spent most of the day. Taking bowl and spoon to the wash bucket, she clean up after herself as she had always done, put them back wit the other clean dishes and returned to her table and retrieved the empty mug.

Filling it once more, she waved good night to Korsten and headed back to her room.

Azzuria · February 2021

Noemi awoke before dawn, as was her habit. Growing up on a farm, work started early, ended late and continued until everything was done.

She threw back the thin blanket and stretched, claws in toes and fingers extending as she did. It was a long, languid, body-arching stretch and she imagined that the others in camp envied her in that moment. It was a very, very good stretch.

She swung her feet out of bed and sat up, giving her head a moment to clear up from the bit of fog still in her mind from that last mug of mead. She stood and stretched again. Donning her armor, she buckled and fastened it tight then strapped on her sword and took up her shield. She tossed the blanket back over the bed and left.

She went down stairs and into the common room where the previous evening's fire had been stoked back to life, with a kettle and the same iron pot hanging over the flames. The table that held the mead barrels was now stacked with empty mugs, bowls and spoons and tins of coffee and teas. She took up a mug, threw in some tea leaves, an empty bowl and a spoon and moved back toward the hearth. The Argonian tending the flames, she couldn't remember her name, poured water into the mug and spooned some stewed oats into the bowl. Moving to her table, she sat and ate.

She was long done with breakfast and sipping the now cooled tea when people began to filter down to the common room. The room's quiet comfort slowly built to a busy buzz as the sounds of eating and conversation built to a crescendo.

Just a short time after sunrise the front door opened and broad Nordic woman strode in. The morning sun glinted off her armor and the sharp edge of the axe that sat at her back. She cut an imposing figure. She was also there to put the new recruits through their paces.

She was a thick woman. Broad of hips and shoulders. Shorter than average, but it seemed what she lacked in height she made up for in girth. She was not fat, but big. The kind of big you get from working sun up to sun down, every day. Working muscles. Noemi imagined surviving a shield-bash from her would be worth of poem and song.

'Round up, you lot! ' she bellowed. It seemed a bellow, though the Nord woman seemed for all the world to no more than chatting. At volume. Chair scraped the wooden floors and the sound of weapons being hitched up sounded across the room and they all began to file out in no particular order. Some good natured shoving among the Nords, haughty sniffs from the Dunmer and Argonians weaving around so as to keep the Dark Elves at arms length.

They all filed down the stairs and into a loos half circle surrounding the beefy Nord woman, who stood amidst the crowd with a look of utter and complete disgust.

'Shor's bones... why me?' she asked the heavens with a sigh. ' What a lot. What a utter load of dung. I swear ... ' she muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear, and continued with colorful description of just how cursed she was to be saddled with such a collection of rabble, lay-abouts and simpletons. Some took offense, some looked around sure she not speaking about them and Noemi... she just waited for it to begin.

' I'm here to learn ya ta fight' she finally stated. ' We're gonna see whatcher good at and then split ya about to train ya up. ' She pointed to a rack filled with serviceable weapons, from daggers to swords and mauls. Noemi picked a sword and dagger, other Nords gravitated to larger, two-handed weapons.

'Pair up! ' the stout woman yelled, and they all did. Slowly, in a haphazard fashion. Noemi stood alone among pairs of her fellows.

A huge mitt landed on her shoulder, eliciting an 'oof' from the woman. It was Korsten, and the 2-handed axe he held didn't look big enough for two of his. He smiled his ugly, lopsided smile. Noemi nodded and her mouth twitched into a quick, small smile.

They faced off, a few steps apart. Around them, others paired off wielding their preferred weapons. Korsten's axe spun around in a loose grip. The smile no long on his face, he took on the bearing of someone who meant to injure someone.

'FIGHT!' the Nord woman yelled.

All at once everyone began battle as was their custom. Nord bellowed, trying to induce a moment of fear. Dunmer took battle poses, graceful and lethal. Argonians slunk down, coiling their lithe bodies, ready to strike. Noemi and Korsten both let forth loud, aggressive shouts and charged at one another.

Korsten's axe drew up and arced over in a powerful downward swing. Noemi dodged quickly, spun and drove the fist holding the dagger into Korsten's belly. She moved away as Korsten huffed, breathless.

She returned to a ready stance. Left hand up, dagger blade facing out. In her right, she spun the sword in quick circles, eyes on Korsten's feet.

Korsten spun and the axe followed around with a whistle. Noemi rolled forward, under the blade and came up close to Korsten and her sword hand struck his belly again before rolling away. Korsten doubled over and gasped again. Her punch had landed true. Standing again she faced him.

Around them the sparring had wound down. Not all fights won, but all stopped to watch. No one had wanted to fight Korsten. While a good enough cook and a gentle soul, in a scrap he was terrifying. He swung an axe like a woodcutter bent on denuding the world and angry that the task was keeping him from his cups.

At the ready, Noemi danced lightly from foot to foot, both still sore from the day before but feeling better for the poultice, bandages and hasty adjustments to her boots done the day before.

Korsten stood straight again, swung the axe around in his hand, roared and charged.

Noemi stood her ground, digging in her feet. As Korsten's powerful side swing approached her, she deflected the weapon up and over her head, setting the charging Nord off balance. He staggered past her as she stepped aside to let him.

Trying to catch his feet, Korsten staggered and stumbled and eventually fell face first onto the ground. The assembled crowd burst out in laughter. The enormous Nord rolled over to face the Khajit. His ugly face was beaming a wide grin. ' I'll be dipped in dung and left for dead... you're fast!' he exclaimed.

Noemi dropped her guard, sheathing the sword and, flipping the dagger around to snatch the blade, threw it to stick up the hilt in the ground at her feet.

She walked up to Korsten and offered him a hand. His meaty mitt engulf her hand and she gave him a hefty tug. He tugged harder. She flew over his head and landed on her back, stunned and breathless. Korsten guffawed as he lay back, his head not far from hers. The crowd cheered. Noemi, when her breath finally returned, chuckled as well. 'Well played, Korsten. See if I help you again! '.

The big Nord clambered to his feet and offered Noemi a hand up. She eyed it suspiciously for a moment, then took it. He gave a might pull and it felt like Korsten was trying to rip the arm out of the socket, but she was up on her feet again.

They both looked around at the audience for their performance. Noemi nodded to them slightly. Korsten put his meaty paws on his wide hips and laughed infectiously.

' What're you lookin' at?' bellowed the female Nord who had ordered the bout. ' Get busy! ' The crowd broke up and went back to sparring in pairs. Noemi rested an arm on Korsten's broad shoulder a moment. Just beyond the sparring recruits stood Ingvar and his lackies, sneering.

Noemi plucked the dagger from the ground, drew her sword and she and Korsten practiced parrying and she showed him how she had dodged his strong but slow attacks.

Ingvar walked away but Noemi had a feeling he would be back again. Some people never learn.

Azzuria · February 2021

Ingvar leaned against the wall, his cohorts spread out to each side. They joked and shoved each other roughly, but with that teasing, good nature of comrades-in-arms. While the others were playing about, Ingvar was watching the new recruits at their training drills. He thought of them as younglings, even though most were years older. Some practiced with large weapons, some with a weapon in each hand, others with sword-and-shield. That cursed ... cat ... even in his thoughts he spat out the word ... was with the latter group.

She moved with that same uncanny grace and power he had seen the day before during sparring matches. She wielded the shield as a weapon, both blocking and bashing the target dummy. Her sword strikes were swift, sure and powerful. Her feet, though... she seemed to be favoring them. A weakness?

The drills ended when that lumbering cow, Hildr, sent them off to lunch with a stream of invectives and insults.

The cat, after stowing sword and shield, bent over to fuss about with her boots. Yes, he thought... that's the spot.

She stood up, rocked back and forth on her feet, winced a bit and then followed the crowd back to the barracks.

Ingvar shoved his way past his pack of comrades and slowly walked away, keeping that damnable cat always in the side of his vision.

* * *

He was watching her again. Did that milksop ever do anything but stalk her? Had she not known better she'd imagine he was moonbrained in love with her. Likely story, that.

Most of the Pact soldiers tolerated her. Some even liked her, once they realized she wasn't a scooma-addled thief like so many of her race. That thought stuck in her head. She may be Khajiiti by birth but she wasn't by any other standard. She didn't think like them. Didn't talk like them, with their backwards 'this one' speak and she certainly did not act like them. She stood tall, no skulking or crouching for her, no shifty eyes, no dissembling. She stood upright, looked a person straight in the face and said exactly what was on her mind. And she'd lop off the hand of anyone who thought to steal from her.

No, she was a cat only insofar as she had fur and a tail. In all the ways that mattered, at least to her mother and she, she was Nord through and through.

Noemi rocked back and forth, heel to toe, checking the fit of her boots. They were better and fresh poultice and wrapping were helping a great deal. Her new boots, custom made by her, mostly, should be ready the following day. She had asked one of the Argonians who shared her barracks to make some leather liners and she had happily agreed. I think more because Noemi had asked politely than out of any desire to help the cat. The lizards were an odd lot and Noemi felt a sort of kinship with them. The Nords didn't understand them and the Dunmer, nearly to a man, either despised, denigrated or dismissed them.

Rindol the Black, she liked to think of him that way because he was a blacksmith, obviously, but also because there was usually some kind of soot mark across his face, darker than his already deep grey complexion. It was apparent he bathed regularly because the black streak changed places on a daily basis. Rindol had shown her how to build her new boots around the leather lining and the idea of being able to charge and dodge again without stabbing pain in her toes was far more exciting than it really should have been.

Noemi followed her fellows into the barracks for lunch, bringing up the rear. Not out of any deference to the others, just to avoid being jostled. She didn't like feeling hemmed in.

* * *

Lunch was, of course, stew.

Korsten had started the kettle simmering before morning drills and it smelled divine. As usual. The common room was comfortingly loud and friendly as soldiers lined up with mugs of mead or ale, half loaves of fresh bread and empty bowls, awaiting a heaping helping of the ugly Nord's latest permutation of this singular culinary creation.

Noemi took her bowl, bread and mug to a small table away from the others, as was her habit.

She was barely a spoonful into lunch when in swaggered Ingvar and his lackies. Did that preening twit have nothing better to do?

You would imagine Ingvar an Elf noble the way he ponced about. He and his clot of clods made their way to the small, shadowed table where Noemi was trying, in vain in appeared, to eat in peace.

'Cat', Ingvar spat, as he stood before her, feet spread, arms akimbo. He was wide open. He really should not do that.

'Milksop', she replied flatly in her very think Nord accent. Chuckles bubbled up around the room, mostly from other Nords.

Ingvar snarled at her. Noemi reached for her mug of mead but Ingvar snatched it up first and drained it dry in one gulp.

There were insults, and then there were insults.

Noemi growled. Well, to her it was a growl but coming out of her throat it sounded more like a cross between a Nord's belch and an angry lion. A thoroughly annoyed and truly intimidating sound that anyone with half a brain would understand meant imminent danger.

Ingvar ignored her, slammed the empty mug back on the table and leaned over slightly towards her as if to offer challenge. Before she could move, though, Ingvar's foot moved quickly and stamped directly on top of hers. She let out a screaming yowl that silenced the already hushed room and seemed to echo.

Ingvar was looming ever closer, his boot atop her, pressing and grinding. The pain would have been worse yesterday but it still hurt like mad and it put the otherwise annoyed Noemi into a truly foul temper.

From out of nowhere a bright light flashed and pain erupted in her head, so profound it eclipsed that in her foot. She felt the world moving in odd ways, tilting and swirling without cause, to come suddenly to a stop when the floor smacked her on the side of the face. She rolled onto her back to see Ingvar above her, flexing his gauntled fist. It took a moment and several slow blinks for her to gather enough stray thoughts to realize he had blindsided her.

Over top her, Ingvar and his half dozen lackies were staring down and braying like jackasses at her.

It was then that a guttural roar from across the room suddenly got louder as it moved swiftly their direction and ended in a 'oof!' as Korsten tackled half of Ingvar's cohorts.

Big as they were, Korsten was bigger than any two and it took everyone but Ignvar to pull, shove and push and drive the ugly, raging Nord , from atop the squirming mass where his meaty fists were landing solidly on faces and in guts.

The three other Nords with Ignvar, the ones not subject to the pummeling of a lifetime, tossed Korsten towards the door and all six managed to get up and between him and Ingvar and still prostrate Noemi.

'If you know what's good for you... cat... you'll leave and never come back. We don't need or want you kind here. ' He put so much hate between the words 'cat' and 'kind' you would be forgiven for thinking they were the worst curses imaginable.

'Go home', Ingvar said and spat at Noemi. The globule just missed her face, but the insult had landed.

He turned to leave and his friends followed him, all of them keeping between Korsten, still panting and hands opening and closing.

The door slammed shut behind the last one.

Korsten's entire countenance changed. He went from charging bull to childlike concern in an instant and with speed the belied his bulk, moved quickly toward where Noemi lay.

She was flat on her back, eyes closed, and made no move to get up. She had been here before. Spat upon, dismissed, hated and it felt terrible. Before she could rely on her mother to pick her up, offers some words of wisdom and make it all feel better.

She opened eyes to see Korsten's face looming just above hers. What a sight. ' Y'ok Nemi? ' he asked. He'd never actually called her by her name before and she just didn't have it in her at the moment to correct him.

' I'm fine. Wasn't the first time. Won't be the last', she said and took Korsten's offered hand. He yanked her up with a tug. She laid a hand on his shoulder and looked up at him. 'Thank you'. He smiled his ugly smile.

She returned to her seat and started to finish her lunch.

The Argnonian who had crafted her boot liners walked up to her and said, ' That was not right' in her slithery, raspy voice. It was a statement of the obvious but the way she intoned it left Noemi with the thought that maybe it was more.

Around the room there were nods and the occasional colorful description of Ingvar's mother and her mating habits. Even the Dunmer seemed aghast at such uncouth behavior from a Nord. Given the low expections the Dark Elves had for their allies from the North, that said a great deal.

The Nords were loudly talking among themselves about the cowardice of the whole affair. 7 on 1, a sucker punch... They were offended that one of their own could act so.

Noemi just stayed in her quiet, dark corner and ate her lunch. Chewing hurt and so did her foot, but each throb only stoked her rage. She always carried a small spark of anger within her, but Ingvar had thrown coal onto it, stoked it and left it to burn. He thought to have put the fear into Noemi.

That was his third mistake.

TheImperfect · February 2021

Oh boy, Ingvar's in trouble.....

A really good read.

Azzuria · February 2021

Sundas. Finally.

Noemi's mother, Helga Snow-borne, hard working Nordic woman that she was, even she did not toil on Sundas without good reason. There were always chores, always things that needed doing, but Sundas was the day when that list was shorter, the urgency lessened and the pace slowed.

Noemi turned over in her bed, pulled the blanket up around her face, sighed heavily and drifted back to sleep, to the dreams of home that were her sole comfort in this far off land.

* * *

When she finally roused from slumber it was a long, slow, languid journey. Her eyes finally opened to see the daylight streaming into her room from the high window on the wall opposite her bed, like the blessing of Shor reaching down from on high. She lay for a moment longer to stare at the brilliant beam of light as it slowly traveled down the wall towards her face. She sat up in bed and the light slowly came down to lay upon her head, eliciting thought of the warm summer days of her youth.

Stretching in a way that only one of the cat-people can, she finally sat up and started her day. Rindol had promised to take her own as a part time apprentice at the smithy and after a week of sparing, training and avoiding / being bested by Ingvar, the idea of pounding something with a hammer appealed to her.

She donned the same dress she had worn on her last trip to the forge, the one burned and singed. No use ruining both her dresses. Lacing up sturdy leather boots she proceeded downstairs with a spring in her step and small smile on her face. She loved Sundas.

She bounded down the stairs to the common room to find it mostly empty. The kettle was on over the low flames in the hearth and breakfast was set out but few were up to enjoy it. She had heard the chorus of snores in the other rooms as she had headed down and imagined most were sleeping off a hangover or trying to sleep through them.

She made short work of stewed oats and prunes and a mug of strong tea then headed outside.

The sun was up, just topping the low buildings around Mournhold. It reflected off the faceted faces of the Temple of the Three. Around her Dunmer guards in their fine armor glinted like the goddess herself in the crisp morning air.

A fine mood had taken her and she greeted everyone with a smile, disconcerting as it may have been to some when she showed her sharpened teeth, a warm hello and refused to allow anyone to bring her down.

The night before Ingvar had tried again. He was not overly bright.

Returning from a punishing run around the outside of Mournhold's walls for some infraction no one completely understood, she stood outside the barracks panting and sweating profusely beneath her plate armor. At least her feet didn't hurt. The adjustments Rindol and she had made to the boots, as well as the wrapping, had proved far more effective than she could have hoped. She stood imagining how it would feel to have boots actually made for her.

That's when Ignvar and his minions came around the corner. They were deep into their cups. All carried mugs of something or another, half staggered and they were all very loud. Were it any other group of Nords Noemi would have found the sight comforting as a reminder of home. That lot just got her hackled up.

The sun had recently hidden itself behind the hills around the city and the sky was the dark purple of a day old bruise. As the sky darkened Noemi's noticed not at all. Another gift of her heritage. The dark was very much her friend.

Ignvar strutted up to her and, waving his mug around regally, began to descript her shortcomings in impolite and, frankly, physically impossible ways.

Noemi stood by and allowed the buffoon to preach to his compatriots, all of whom were taken with fits of drunken guffaws.

'We have one thing in common, Ignvar', Noemi said as the lout paused in his dissertation to take a breath.

Ingvar paused at the interruption as his mead-addled mind tried to catch up.

'Neither of us knows who our father is.' She had called him a ***.

Ingvar blinked then turned red with rage. His fellows burst into an even louder bout of laughter, several falling on their arses in the process.

Noemi tapped her lip a moment as if deep in thought while Ingvar sputtered and spat and tried to think of a retort.

'At least you have options, your mother being so friendly with the entire village.'

Howls of laughter, even louder than before erupted from Ignvar's mates. Ingvar, near blind with rage, threw his mug at Noemi and missed by a wide margin. She had never seen him this mad. Or drunk. This was going to be fun.

He charged her, roaring, both arms out as if to sweep her up in a hug.

She stepped to the right and he bowled past her and directly into the fence post he had been leaning against.

Ingvar was fortunate he was still wearing armor because the top of the post was nethers-high on him. A loud CLANK rang out and Ingvar fell back onto his back, eyes rolling back into his head and hands clasped over his crotch.

As he writhed in pain his fellows were howling and coughing and gagging and falling down in a fit of drunken laughter. None were able to help the man as he lay and nursed his groin.

Noemi stood over him and smiled. All he could do was groan and growl.

'Saved some poor little milksop from being YOUR ***, now, didn't I?'

Ingvar snarled impotently and Noemi turned and walked away. Victor was her with not a punch thrown.

'A battle can be won before it's fought' her mother had said to her.

Noemi, her skirts flowing in the morning breeze, proceeded to the smithy where Rindol awaited her. She was in a fine, fine mood today. She adored Sundas.

LadySinflower · February 2021

This is really great! Thank you for posting it here for us. I look forward to the next installment. She needs to kick Ingvar's @$$!

Azzuria · February 2021

The forge was dark even in the bright, clear Sundas morning. The light that streamed between the open door frames only served to show the roiling smoke of the forge. The anvils keened sharply at every hammer blow.

In a simple, rugged dress in the Nordic style, the Khajit-who-was-not-Khajit wobbled into the forge, retrieved a leather apron from a peg on the wall and tied it about her slender waist as she moved gracefully towards the bald, pot-bellied Dunmer casting questioning eye upon an ingot in the flames. Peering over his shoulder at the heart of the forge she 'harrumphed' softly in the Dunmer's ear and he shot her a brief sidelong glance.

'About time?' he asked, turning his gaze back to the ingot and pulling on the bellows to stoke the coals higher.

'Almost' the cat replied in her odd Nordic accent. 'See there, the heart of the bar is not yet fully heated', she said as she peered through the one eye that would open. ' It will create a weak spot, probably snap when you quench.'

The Dunmer nodded once, sharply, and shifted the bar around with one hand while pulling the bellows a few more time. The stood like that, Dunmer at the forge, Khajit at his side, both staring into the heart of the forge waiting for the heat to have the desired effect. She grunted again and the Dunmer nodded, pulling the ingot out with a pair of tongs and taking directly to the anvil, where he lifted a hammer and added his own percussive chimes to the musical din of the shop.

'What have you learned about the racial styles of the races? ', he asked while the cat studied his hammer blows.

'Each has their benefits. Excepting Altmer. Too pretty. ' she replied. 'I'd be afraid to scratch it, lest I offend some High Elf's sensibilities.' The Dunmer man barked a quick laugh and nodded with a smile. 'Orcish? '

'Tough. Sturdy. But too rough about the edges. It lacks any grace at all. If you just want to stand there and take a beating, it would probably be my first choice. But I prefer the Nord style', she stated plainly, as if the superiority of all things Nord should be self-evident.

Rindol sharply barked a laugh. 'Who would have imagined... a Nord who prefers all thing Nord. '

Noemi couldn't keep the silly grin from her face. All her life she'd had to fight to be accepted and here, in the heart of the Pact, surrounded by her kith and lizards and haughty Dunmer, someone other than her mother finally understood and accepted her at without pause.

'What happened to you? ' Rindol inquired.

'The usual', she replied coldly.

'Mhrm' was the only reply.

They two of them spent most of the day working on the new boots. Fitted for cat feet but decidedly Nord in style and function.

As the sun was nearing the horizon and Mournhold was awash in the golden dusky glow, Noemi Snowborne returned to her room, carrying a well-enough made, very well fitted pair of sabatons. She was eager to try them at training in the morning.

But now she was ravenous and the smell of what Korsten was crafting downstairs had set her stomach roiling, complaining and demanding. She stashed the boots with the rest of her armor, washed up in the basin and headed down to the dining room to appease her restless stomach.

* * *

The night was a pleasant one. Ingvar and his handmaidens were nowhere to be seen, the stew was another miraculous creation of lamb and root vegetables and the mead was sweet. Noemi spent the night in her dark corner, sipping mead and listening in on the more boisterous conversations that floated her way over the relaxing din of the common room.

As her fellows passed by they would offer up a nod or wink. Support, she supposed, and solidarity. A reaction to what Ingvar had done. All's fair in love and war but he'd acted the coward and it seemed to have drawn a rift between her fellow soldiers. Those that supported Ingvar were quick to smirk at her. They that felt she had been wronged, while not actually supporting her, she was a Khajit after all, met her gaze with a quick lift of their chins.

Tomorrow would bring more troubles but tonight was about as peaceful a night as she'd has since leaving home.

TheImperfect · February 2021

Thanks for posting more, can't sleep and they are really entertaining.