Blood. Strength. Curses. Death. [Durfang's Story]

Durfang

The child's eyes were wide with fear, her small green-skinned hands reaching out to him as his feet beat the ground. The snow crunched with every rapid footfall. His hide-covered legs burned both inside and out, the exertion of movement causing as much pain as the cold. His lungs felt like they were going to freeze solid from the frigid Skyrim air he was slamming into them. The sword-hilt in his right hand was a line of steely pain across his bare palm where it had taken its cue from the winter season.

The werewolf simply ran faster, outpacing him with its loping gait.

"No!"

He had meant for his voice to boom outwards, to split the night air and give the fleeing beast pause. Instead, what emerged was a rasp that lost itself in the howl of the Northern wind, which continued to blow through the valley, ignorant of the dramatic scene that was coming to a close.

Hircine's servant ignored its pursuer and pressed on, dissolving into the darkness while the Nord fell to his knees, his panting breaths steaming the air around him as he slumped, exhausted, into the snow.

He looked up at the moonlit sky, eyes welling with tears that threatened to freeze before they could even cut lines down his cheeks. The wind seemed to echo the screams of the young Orc's family. He could not shut them out. He could still hear the sound of their flesh being rent, their bones snapping like twigs as the werewolf tore through their stronghold...

Durfang awoke with the echoes of old screams, lost for years, sounding in his mind. His bare, scarred chest shone with cold sweat as the candles on the nighttable flickered, their dancing light playing across him. He sat up in bed breathing heavily.

"Red diamond, red diamond... The heart and soul of men... Red diamond, red diamond... Protect us till the end..."

The song drifted up through the floorboards of his room, snapping him back into the present and away from his memories... His nightmares... But the sounds of revelry that accompanying the bard's lute seemed to fall away again as he laid his head in his large hands. After a few seconds his shoulders began to shudder.

Some wounds never heal.

Durfang

“Durfang... Durfang... Durfang...”

The Guard Captain spoke slowly, almost chewing the name as he tapped his gauntleted fingertips on the varnished oak of the desk he was sitting at. “The people here in Glenumbra have started to talk about you.” He said, eyeing the large man standing before him with a wary expression. “Word is that you’ve been giving the werewolves and bandits in the area a good bit of trouble.”

“That’s the intent, Sir.” The heavily armored Nord replied, nodding curtly. “I did not come to the Covenant to lie around and drink uselessly in taverns. I could’ve done that back home.”

The smirk playing across his lips, which followed the less serious part of his reply, faded quickly as Durfang saw the hardness in the Breton’s eyes. It was painfully clear that the man did not trust him.

“Right. Well. Why did you come here anyways?” The Captain asked, his voice flat and unfriendly. “Don’t tell me you left everything behind just to come help us fight against the threats we have in our lands... There are more than enough in yours to keep you busy.”

”The reasons I left...” Durfang trailed off, looking down at his hands. After a few tense moments of silence the Captain seemed about to raise his voice once again, but was cut off as the Nord continued, looking back up at him. “I came to the Covenant because the Pact is a mistake, and the Dominion wants to nothing more than oppress any and all who are not Altmer. My people will see it soon enough, I hope, and separate themselves from the Dunmer and Argonians. Perhaps even make a stand against them and move to kick them out of Skyrim altogether.”

“I see... That, however, seems an unlikely course for your people to take.” The Captain replied.

"I can but hope they will see the light, Sir."

The two men stared at each other for a few more moments in silence, the Breton’s suspicious expression seemingly fixed to his features. The Nord seemed unphased, and simply returned the man's gaze.

“The High King has begun deliberations on what is to be done with all you refugees...” Said the Breton guardsman. “...especially those of you who seem intent on fighting for the Covenant, because you, Durfang, son of Wulfgar, blood of Varul, are not alone in that respect.”

The Nord nodded mutely, standing tall before the man who was still staring at him with distrustful eyes.

“Report back to me in a week. There might be word from Wayrest by then on what is to be done about you and the rest of those who have come to us from Dominion and Pact territories.” The man concluded, motioning to the door of his offices.

“As you wish.” Durfang replied before inclining his head respectfully, turning on his heel, and stepping out into the hall.

The Guard Captain watched him leave before relaxing back in his chair, his chainmail hauberk rustling metallically as the tension went out of his muscles. He did not trust the Nord as far as he could kick him. He hailed from a land that he and his kin saw as the enemy, and they were currently at war... But tales of Durfang’s heroics were beginning to spread among the commoners in Glenumbra, and if even half were to be believed, he was more than doing his part for the Covenant.

“Strange days we live in...” The man sighed, shaking his head. “...strange days.”

Durfang

Some blades are for piercing, they rely on their points to be effective. They are most useful against armored targets, as a fine point can sometimes pierce stout plate or hides that would shrug off other blows. Some blades are for slashing, and they rely primarily on the sharpness of their edges in order to be effective. They are most useful against bare flesh or thin hides, as they can cut very easily, separating these to deadly effect. Then, there are blades like the one that was being swung through the air to the sound of Durfang's warcry. Those blades, they counted on their weight and momentum for effectiveness, because in the end weight can cut as well as sharpness... Sometimes better.

Durfang knew these facts both inside and out. They had been the first lessons his father had taught him when he was a boy. He had every word of them etched into his soul. They were part of who he was. They were part of where he came from. Whether the werewolf he was fighting also knew them, however, was completely irrelevant. Death has a way of making all learned lessons into moot points.

The Nord stepped back, easily dodging a wild, clawing strike as he brought his heavy iron greatsword up in a sweeping vertical arc. It was a good weapon. He was proud of his construction. He was, after all, the one who had not only gathered and selected the ore of which it was formed, but slaved over the anvil for hours to beat it into something of worth.

The four feet of solid, polished, folded, sharpened metal completed its task to perfection. The beast howled in pain and rage as its sinewy arm was cleaved apart at the elbow, sending it reeling backwards, its hot blood misting the air.

Durfang stepped forward, shifting his stance again as he brought the blade back and up, holding it parallel to the ground, its honed length inches from his face, perfectly still in his large, gauntleted hands.

"Your form is either right, or it's wrong." His father had told him. "You're either fast, or you're not. You're either strong, or you're dead..."

The voice haunted the dark parts of his memories, even in moments like this, even in the heat of battle.

"Well?" It demanded. "Which are you, Durfang?! Strong or dead?"

The answer was always the same. It had to be. He would not allow for anything else, and as he slammed his massive, heavy arms into a thrust that skewered his bestial opponent through its chest, putting it violently out of its misery, he grunted it into the mists of Glenumbra's marshy air.

"Strong."

His foot came up, finding the werewolf's midriff just below where his greatblade had pierced its sternum, becoming lodged in the bone. It came out with a sickening crunch as he kicked outwards, his metal boot leaving a bloody impression on the cursed one's fur.

"Always strong." He grunted, shaking the crimson coat from his weapon as he turned to face another form charging at him through the fog. With a deep breath, the Nord shifted his stance and raised his blade once again. He was not yet done repeating his father's lessons. He had not yet finished his instruction. He was not yet dead.