The following is an excerpt from The Saga of Regine (Biography of a Vampire) as told by Brunhilde the Bard.
ONE
Regine approached Treva’s Watch from the shoreline of the Treva River. The fort sat large on the northern shore of the river. The southern wall faced the river, and a single gate secured the entrance. Several timber ramparts protected most of the wall sections, providing cover for archers or mages. The fort’s tower occupied the northwest corner, providing an elevation advantage agains any assaults from the north where enemies could attack along a hillside. A campfire provided some orientation on the northeast wall where bandits could rest and eat when not on patrol.
East of the fort another campfire offered some illumination against the growing darkness of night. As Regine approached she notice three Nords sitting in a half-circle around the fire. They were engaging in conversation she couldn’t quite make out.
A man named Stalleo sat on a wood stump. He had gray hair cut in a thick stripe and the sides of his head were shaved to the scalp. A large beard extended well beyond his chin, almost to the chest, and matched his hair in color. His eyes were deep set and blacked with war paint. Across from Stalleo a female donned in heavy steel armor sat, her features muddled by the firelight and steel helmet. A male in fur armor and a hunting bow sat to Stalleo’s left. He turned toward Regine, and asked if she was there to help, mistaking her for a mercenary.
She told him he was and she would be better than anyone else he could find. Her fee was high though. Stalleo agreed, and told her a story.
It was about three or four months ago when everything started going bad. My friends here, and my family, we’re doing work to the exterior of the fort when a Stormcloack courier arrived. He walked to the gate and asked if he could come inside to discuss the militia that was forming. As a good son of Skyrim, I agreed to hear him out. I opened the gate and let him in the courtyard.
It turned out he was visiting every village and city in Skyrim. He didn’t have a horse, or carriage ride to hold capitals. Only his own two feet as mode of transportation. He looked exhausted and weary. He limped profoundly. His eyes were sunken and dark, the whites more red than not, and his cheekbones looked like they would burst free at any moment. “Come on in and have some meade,” I said. He started to refuse but I cut him of with a hard glance. “You’re coming in for some meade and a meal. You look like you’re an hour away from being a draugr that escaped the Ansilvund crypt.” He mulled it over for a moment then nodded his head slightly as if too much movement would cause it to tumble off his neck and roll into the Treva River. I slapped him on the shoulder and guided him toward the door where my wife stood ready to ring the dinner bell.
I led him into the dinning room and offered him a seat. “What’s your name, soldier?”
He sat down, slowly, and with a grimace splitting his face into one part pain and one part exhaustion. He sat for a moment before speaking, and when he did the words seemed just as pained as his face, “We aren’t supposed to give anyone our names, sir.” He shrunk farther into the chair, head bowed, arms limp to his sides.
I finally noticed this man wasn’t in his late twenties or early thirties but not even out of his teens. He likely took the courier job to show his loyalty and patriotism, but didn’t account for the severe impact such a job would take on his health and body. Walking long distances for hours and hours, avoiding wolves, frostbite spiders, trolls, and Imperial patrols could age a man years within weeks. And here he sat so worn down from trying to prove himself to the Stormcloak cause he appeared to be decades older than his years actually accounted for.
I felt a knot of sorrow and sympathy far deep inside tying up my guts and heart. This is the toll that war takes on not only those on the frontline but by everyone. When this conflict with the Imperials finally ended the whole of Skyrim and her people will bear the burden for generations. Friends and family will be dead from enemy attacks, others will die of starvation, and more still will succumb to disease and illness. Proof sat at the table, broken and scarred physically and emotionally.
“Here you are,” my wife said, placing a bowl of tomato soup, a plate of carrots with apples and cabbage, and a platter with beef steak and crab cakes in front of our guest. “Ale or meade?” She waited for a moment, but he didn’t answer. She placed a flagon of ale on the table. My wife handed the rest of us a bowl of tomato soup and ale. Then she sat down and gave me a slight glance, I nodded in reply.
The message bearer sat for a time, staring at the food and drink before him. I didn’t think he would eat on his own. “Go ahead. Dig in.” He grabbed a fork with a shaky hand and took a mouthful of crab cakes. It must’ve been tasty as he ate without so much as a look up. Every morsel of food was consumed in less than five minutes. None of the rest of us had done anything but watch him eat.
