[centre][h2]Something Else Begins…[/h2][/centre]

[hr]


Fjolte Sorikson was of Skyrim, through and through.

Blood ran cold in his veins and his heart was wild at its core, embalmed in steel. His hands were weathered from the work of a men's labour. Of war, and of subsequent retirement from it. The lines were buried deep now, softened, and the callouses worn down.

The man likened Skyrim to being carved with harsh lines, displaying long cracks in hard surfaces, and where he was now was as foreign from Skyrim as ice was from fire. But Valenwood wasn't soft. No,  not soft. It was [i]alive[/i], like Skyrim, but in a different way. Skyrim was a screaming song - breath across the mountainous vistas. Valenwood felt like the lungs that gave the breath. Hollowed trees were homes and structures - palatial in their architecture in a way that the Nord's eyes had never before witnessed.

Skyrim was brick and stone and with strong foundations built by the strong hands of strong men and women, but Valenwood appeared as some ethereal vision - growing from the ground in towering, captivating beauty. So green, so alive.

As he moved through it, he felt it all around him, every drop of life that responded to his surprisingly gentle and unobtrusive step. Moss from the ground grazed his ankles, and he consciously held out one hand to touch whatever brushed past him. Vines, leaves, the silken air.

Fjolte felt so out of place - as if he was simply existing in his own waking dream. It wouldn't be the first time that his mind projected images before him. The substances. The healing. The potions. They always brought in hallucinations and then occasional fits of terror but this was different. He was out of place, and yet, the shifting softness beneath his feet paved the way for him as if he was home.

Surrounded by the life of Valenwood, Fjolte was no longer standing deep in his own ache.

Even the hike to their destination had been refreshing. [i]Their[/i]. His companion, a stray-of-sorts just like himself whom he had stumbled upon, took a liking to, and found they were headed on the same path anyway. Gwilym.

"So brother," Fjolte began - his voice a patient trailing breath. "Shall we find ourselves a drink and take a rest here? The festival shall begin soon enough, no?"

Gwilym was busy picking the latest of their detestable companions from the back of his neck- a leech this time. This morning it had been a spider the size of his head, the trauma of which still hadn’t left his mind. When the nagging little parasite finally came free from his skin he crushed it in his gloved hand, scowling at Fjolte and his wistful, beautiful, infuriating eyes. “I hate this place.”

He said, hurling the bloody leech carcass as hard as he could back into the endless brush that looked just like the last hundred miles of endless brush, half expecting the creature to come back screeching at him, “Is it too much to ask for a [i]bloody road?[/i]” He moped, “Or at least whatever counts as a trail to these heathens.”

“We won’t be here long,” Fjolte answered with a gentle shrug. “We’ll leave and you’ll find yourself missing it,” he added with a smirk— reaching to Gwilym’s neck again to pluck a second leech free from behind his ear. 

As they walked further forward, the low sound of drums could be heard just off in the distance. Drums, lutes, flutes— the music of celebration reverberating through the thick air to greet them as they broke free of the brush and out into the opening. A lush village, outlined in long strings of dyed fabric from tree to tree, reds, yellows, and blues that had been hung up for the festival. A welcoming sight. “See!” Fjolte exclaimed, holding out his arms to gesture at the splendour. “You don’t find magic like this following a carved out road my friend!” 

The lights flickered in Gwilym’s eyes as he stared inward and past Fjolte. Whatever mental maladies ailed him seemingly vanished at the sight of all this beauty. It was unlike dripping, damp, horrid jungles around it, standing out like a shining beacon in a sea of diseased mosquitoes and sucking leeches. Like a lighthouse to a sailor lost adrift. And this sailor needed a drink and a fuck.

“I don’t know how you do it, Fjolte,” Gwilym said, finally succeeding in the task of ripping his eyes away from all the lights- and a pair of passing voluptuous bosoms and buttocks, “But you seem to redeem yourself every time you fall into my displeasure.”

“You’re not bad for a goat herder or whatever you were before this.” Gwilym smiled, “Let’s find some drink so I can forget the damned walk here.“

“Goat herder?” Fjolte repeated, his brows furrowed and a hand shifted to run through his beard. “I like it,” he added. The Nord could tell that Gwilym was itching for mischief, for excitement. He’d earned it, Fjolte supposed as he reached into a pocket to grab a small pipe. He’d earned something too.

“That damned walk did you good,” he said, taking a drag from the pipe with a smirk. The smoke tingled in his throat, and soon came the familiar soothing sensation, and the light buzz behind his eyes. “Drink though, mmm, could do with that,” a twinkle appeared in his ocean blue eyes as, just like Gwilym, he let his eyes follow some of the women that walked by— jubilant and ready for the celebration. 

“Just remember, Gwilym,” Fjolte chuckled, “we’re honorable guests here— don’t go getting yourself wrapped into too much trouble…” With a humorous warning on the table, he handed over the pipe to the man with a wink.

“Trouble?” Gwilym scoffed at that, as if the mere mention of it was like saying Stendarr hated the meek. Gwilym rolled his eyes and waved Fjolte’s words off as he took the pipe and drew on it, smoke leaking from his lips as he smiled, “Trouble, bah. They’ll all miss me when we’re off.”


That brought a strange feeling to the Nord, and his eyes softened just so momentarily. Bringing himself back to the moment, he cast a glance to Gwilym, taking back his favoured pipe with a nod. “Aye they’ll miss you, that’ll be sure,” he commented, exhaling long tendrils of smoke from his nostrils.

It didn’t appear that there was really anything in the way of a tavern or an inn as Fjolte may have imagined one; nothing about this was familiar to him at all — but beautiful nonetheless. There were, however, a row of vendor carts, tables, and displays — merchants singing out to the swathes of people who also seemed to be arriving. Soon enough, Fjolte and Gwilym were simply just two faces in that crowd.

The festival had begun.