Shadow's Ascent (Closed RP)

Shadow’s Ascent (Closed RP)

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The night was cold and silent as Endaros Ilmori made his way across the Velothi mountains and into the ancient artic lands of Skyrim. The only sound that could be heard was the trudging of his footsteps through the snow and the shallowness of his breath in the air. Above him black clouds shrouded the sky, blinding both moon and star from Tamriel. And so the path ahead was cloaked in shadows, as if a terrible curse had befallen the world.

Still the buoyant armiger pressed onwards. There was no time to be meek or fearful of what laid in the dark. He was in pursuit of Felres Sul, a powerful sorcerer, and planned to bring him to justice for the crimes committed against the people of Resdayn.

Three weeks ago, the sorcerer stole the Bleakhaven scrolls from the city of Necrom and proceeded to head west. Those unfortunate enough to be in his path would have their souls ripped from their bodies and siphoned into wretched soul gems as black as the deepest depths of oblivion. Those brave enough to attempt to stop him were brutally ended by his two accomplices, a masked warrior and a ruthless archer.

Endaros had considered waiting for assistance, ordinators from the Order of War or other buoyant armigers, but things were moving too quickly. Plus much of the Tribunal’s forces had other concerns to worry about, namely the growing threat in Cyrodil. But if he did wait for any assistance from Resdayn, Felres Sul would be long gone. Although it seemed foolish to pursue three deadly adversaries alone, he had to try.

As he descended to the foot of the mountains, he did not notice the charred remains of a nord farmhouse until he was nearly upon it.

It was a morbid sight. The wooden frame that still stood was like a skeleton in the ember light while a thick smoke rose from the ashes. Drawing closer he could see two blackened corpses strewn within; more victims of those he pursued.

A slight scuffling noise brought his attention to an overturned wagon not too far away. Endaros drew his blade and steadily approached the wreckage. Perhaps one of the attackers lingered, and if that was the case he was anxious to meet them.

He slowed his pace as he drew near before swiftly rounding the edge of the wagon.
He did not find whom he was expecting however. Before him was a child huddled in the corner. The boy’s hands appeared badly burned and one of his legs had a deep gash in it. It was possible that the injuries came from escaping the burning farm, or perhaps more tragically, trying to save those within.

Endaros sheathed his sword and slowly knelt in front of the child; who quivered and stared fearfully at the stranger. Steadily, the armiger removed his helm and facemask before speaking softly to the child.

“Let me see your injuries. I can help you.”

The child only pulled himself back further into the corner and covered his head with his arms, obviously unconvinced that the stranger held good intentions.

It occurred to Endaros that his own appearance was strange and potentially frightening to the boy. He was clad in bone-white chitin armor, a rare sight in Skyrim and a clear sign that he was an outlander. Now that he thought about it, revealing his face probably didn’t help either. It wasn’t as if ashen skin and red eyes were friendly facial features to human children.

He sighed at his own foolishness before reaching a hand out gently. A few moments later a soft glow appeared in his palm before enveloping the wound in the boy’s leg. As the spell continued to flow the gash began to close until only a subtle scar was left in its place. It was at this point that the boy peaked from beneath his arms and saw that the frightening looking mer spoke the truth.

“See that? I’m a healer, now if you show me your hands I’ll—“

The child took off quite suddenly and began to run pass the ruined farmhouse. Endaros stood up to follow, only to stop once he saw where the boy was fleeing. Off in the distance he could see the faint torchlights of a village, still brimming with life. In another direction however he could spot three sets of footprints in the snow.

The boy would be able to make it to safety. Endaros had his own path to follow.


As the night gave way to morning Endaros found himself on high clefts overlooking a river. The trail he was following had ended there. It was puzzling to say the least, perhaps he was mistaken and they had gone another route.

A rustle behind him was all it took for Endaros to swing around, and narrowly dodge a battle axe that surely would’ve hewn him in two. Before him stood a mighty figure clad in adamantium plating from head to toe. Another swing of the axe forced the armiger to the roll to the side before he could draw his own weapon. His opponent wasted no time in continuing the assault, striking with great force and speed that the armiger had difficulty in countering.

The familiar sound of a released bowstring caused Endaros to instinctively raise his chitin shield, blocking an arrow that was meant for his throat. A dunmer clad in a thin suit of bonemold emerged from the woods and expertly unleashed arrow after arrow in rapid succession. The armiger could only block and dodge them as best as he could; while still contending against the armored foe.

The combined relentless flurry of attacks was overwhelming. It wasn’t long until he found himself backed to the edge of the cleft with nowhere to maneuver and hopelessly outmatched against both of his assailants.

It was at that point that the masked warrior then ceased his assault and lowered his axe in a passive manner while the archer lowered his bow. An elderly dunmer stepped forward from behind them, dressed in extravagant red robes. His dark crimson eyes stared towards Endaros, who responded by raising his chin defiantly and returning the stare.

Felres Sul held his gaze, considering the young dunmer who dared to pursue him alone. The armiger maintained his ground, keeping his sword and shield raised in front of him. He was ready to continue the fight even if it meant certain doom. The sorcerer smirked, thoroughly amused and raised his arms in front of him in a peculiar manner.

In a single sudden movement he threw his hands forward and unleashed a thunder bolt that cracked through the air, striking Endaros and sending the armiger to the river below.


“Why would you save a dark elf!? He’s probably one of them!”

“Easy there Thorald. This elf healed my nephew, and on my family’s honor I will return the favor.”

“Your own sister is dead, and now you risk saving her murderer!?”

“I’ve had enough of this, out with you!”

“This is a mistake Holof!”

“Out!”

Endaros opened his eyes and though his vision was blurred, he could see a heavy-built nord chasing another man out a door before slamming it shut. As his eyes adjusted to the light he inspected his surroundings. He appeared to be in a small home with typical Nordic comforts; animals pelts, bottles of mead, and a warm blazing hearth on the wall opposite the door. Upon noticing that the dunmer’s eyes were open, the nord approached him with a friendly grin.

“You’re finally awake. Good. Now we can finally figure out who you are!” He tapped a closed fist against his chest. “I am Holof Half-Shield, blacksmith of Farstead, which is where you are now.”

“I’m En… Endaros Ilmori. I’m a knight-errant of the Tribunal Temple.” Still a tad disoriented, he rubbed his head in a clumsy manner. “How long have I been here?”

“It’s been three days since we found you along the river. You were lucky my nephew, Isgren, was there to vouch for you or else my fellow kinsmen may have strung you up like a horker!”

On the other end of the room he could see the child he previously healed, hiding timidly behind a barrel. The dunmer raised a hand to his forehead in a gesture of gratitude.

“I’m afraid that strange armor of yours is in even worse shape than you. You’re fortunate that it took the brunt of whatever hit you though.” The nord laughed half-heartedly and gestured a hand to the damaged chitin armor on a table. His expression however quickly grew solemn as he continued to speak. “Word has spread across the hold of these attacks and of your presence here. I’m afraid many have come from across the country side to see you. They’re demanding an explanation to why dark elves are here in Skyrim.”

Endaros laid his head back on the pillow and sighed. He wasn’t look forward to dealing with the local Nords, but perhaps they could offer assistance in his journey. He was grateful that he had survived his first encounter with the sorcerer, but he had doubt he would be so lucky a second time.

If he was going to defeat Felres, he could not do it alone.

Grimhild nodded. “How long?”

“He left two days ago, Grim, due west through Volrune’s Pass. But you know the country better than he does. It may be that you can catch up to him.”

“Who is this mage he pursues?”

“A renegade sorcerer named Felres Sul. The one who stole the Bleakhaven scrolls from Necrom.”

“For what use are these scrolls?”

“I know not. Enderos should be able to tell you.”

“There’s a small village just on the other side of the pass,” said Grimhild. “I forget the name just now, but I’ll ask after Enderos there. It’s unlikely they would have failed to take notice if he passed that way.”

Ekara raised herself stiffly from the bed and kissed his cheek. “Blessings of the Three, Grim,” she said. “I wish I could go with you.”

Grimhild shook his head, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Not this time. Rest and get well. I will bring you news of Enderos after we’ve found this renegade mage of his.”

Ekara took his hand and smiled, a concerned look in her eyes that Grimhild was unaccustomed to seeing.

Amateurs. Farmhands, shopkeepers, hunters. He had been promised an Orc war party, by Shor, and what had he tracked down? Five old, tired amateurs, and only two Orsimer. Waste of a week.

Thorfinn grumbled softly to himself as his boots crunched through the crisp new-fallen snow. Dammed innkeepers and their rumor mongering, he would never listen to them again. What do they know of Orc war parties? He had been a fool to waste his time with such nonsense. Of course, it rather detracted from the force of his resolve that he was traveling to Farstead on the word of a peddler. But times being what they were, Thorfinn didn't have much of a choice. He knew that he had poetic licence to exaggerate his deeds, but he couldn't stand the idea of them being invented. The village in the Rift might know him as the man who killed an Orc war party, but Thorfinn knew it was no great deed. But he would find one, by Shor he would.

The peddler had mentioned a sorcerer, accompanied by two warriors, who had appeared through Volrune's Pass and razed steadings and homes to the ground in a trail of fire and blood. Probably a meddlesome conjurer and two feckless bandits trying to extort some coin from fearful locals. Two minutes work? On he walked, dull blonde hair scattered through with snow, armor hidden beneath a thick woolen cloak and fox-skin mantle. The hilt of a sword reared up on his right shoulder, with a ring for a pommel and wolves snarling across its semicircular cross piece. He carried a steel reinforced shield slung across his back, but no travelsack or provisions. But it was no matter, he would make Farstead before darkness took hold of the sky, he reckoned.

“Grim,” Ekara called, just as he was leaving. She tossed him a slender glass dagger. “For luck.”

He smirked. Luck, the enchanted glass dagger that killed his father.

“You should keep it,” he said.

Ekara glanced at the ebony dagger on her nightstand. “I have Silence here to keep me company. Never you worry.”

“I never worry,” Grimhild said with a laugh.

Ekara laughed too, clutching her mending ribs.

~~~

Grimhild mounted a particularly shaggy trailhorse named Gurda, hanging his round wooden shield from his saddle such that it covered most of her rear left hindquarters. He patted her on the neck. Her thick mane was already collecting frozen morning dew. It was going to be a long, frigid ride this time of year; colder still once they reached the pass.

“Get on, Gurda,” he grunted, spurring her forward with the back of a steel-shod boot. His heavy steel mace swung like a pendulum to the steady rhythm of Gurda’s loping gate. He whistled a traveling ballad into the wind, a bittersweet melody about leaving home called “The Longest Road.” He couldn't remember the words exactly... something about a girl. It made him think about Ekara, and not for the last time that day.

Grim and Gurda traveled north for a short ways and then turned sharply left, the snow-capped Velothi Mountains gray and purple in the distance.

The pounding on the front door of the home continued, followed by muffled shouting. Holof muttered in irritation before heading outside to meet the visitors, slamming the door shut behind him. It appeared that quite a few nords wanted to see and question the foreigner from Resdayn and Holof did his best to keep them at bay. He held fears that some would be too aggressive in their meeting with the dunmer. Afterall, many suspected he was partially responsible for the deaths occurring throughout the hold.

It crossed the dunmer's mind that perhaps they were right in a way. If only he had been a more powerful fighter, perhaps he could have prevented the death of the nords' kinsmen. It was a foolish notion of course, his foes were deadly and cunning while he was alone. It wasn't as if he was Lord Nerevar reborn or a living god. Still, Endaros felt guilty for his defeat.

He did his best to push the guilt away, and banish it from his concious. His efforts to speed his recovery through restorative arts and meditation were coming along well. Soon he would be able to confront the inquiring minds outside the home as well as continue his pursuit. Perhaps he would be able to rally a few of the locals to assist him, as he was sure they were eager for justice much like himself. But farmers and woodsmen are not warriors. He would need more seasoned fighters; veterans of war or talented armsmen.

Endaros pondered the possibilities as he continued his meditation.

Through the scattered pines that dotted the land, Thorfinn caught sight of Farstead in the distance. He had made excellent time. Readjusting his shield on his back, he set off down the path, whistling a few throwaway notes as he walked. Soon he began humming The Tale of the Tongue's, and he sung the last too verses in a low, melodic tone. He cleared a bend and strode the last few steps down into the town proper. A way along the paved road running through Farstead he spied a small gathering of townsfolk, and he could tell tempers were frayed. The town didn't look like it had been attacked, but in Skyrim homesteading's dotted the land around the larger towns, if they needed room for crops or the like.

He approached the group, which looked to be gathered around the village smithy. As Thorfinn drew nearer, the door swung open and was slammed shut with some vigor by a burly man. He appeared to be remonstrating with the villagers.

"Greetings" called Thorfinn. "I've come for this sorcerer". It was stated plainly, calmly, and without inflection. The time to boast was after the deed, not before.

The shouting and barrage of questions continued, as it appeared the majority of the crowd paid little heed to Thorfinn. The crowd, made up of mostly local civilians with some armed men seemed all quite focused on the single burly nord in front of the home. But one rugged looking fellow with a rough beard and a single blinded eye turned towards the newcomer, his arms crossed in a disapproving manner.

"Get in line," he growled before spitting on the ground. "Holof Elf-Lover here is keeping one of those filthy dark elves in his home. One of the sorcerer's stooges I'm sure."

The nord eyed Thorfinn carefully, noticing the swords of uncommon design. "Soon I think a few of us will be barging in there to get answers from it. Are you with us kinsman?"

Thorfinn looked over the situation again. Evidently something had happened before he arrived that had driven the townsfolk into this excitement. And if there was an ally of the sorcerer here, in Farstead, he might be able to get answers, information. And his location. But evidently, the villagers were so whipped up against outsiders in general and whomever was inside the smithy in particular that it wasn't likely he, a stranger, could calm matters down any great measure. If he tried to browbeat them in this state, it would likely end up a brawl, and he didn't fancy his odds in a fistfight against this many. And his honour wouldn't be served by drawing his blade against townsfolk of this kind, brave men, but not warriors. Besides, they were his kinsmen, not matter how irritating their excitement was. Thorfinn gazed at the one-eyed man before him. He understood he had to act, or at least to try and sort this out so he could get after this sorcerer. He casually flicked his cloak aside, revealing iron and fur, and the hilt of his saex, Hradrafn.

"So I take it you will all be joining me in the hunt for this sorcerer, then? Once we find out where he his from the elf, we will need numbers. I've heard he can blast apart men with fearful dark sorcery, evil magic." He raised his voice to a loud, clear tone. "I'm glad you are all so eager, most men and women wouldn't have your courage. I'd be glad to have such shield siblings in Sovngarde!". Of course, the sorcerer was probably some minor conjurer. A chance at a real challenge would be a fine thing.

Perhaps once they realized they weren't thinking clearly, caught up in the moment, they would leave him to deal with whoever was inside. He didn't expect many of them to really want to join him in the hunt. They were angry, but that didn't make them warriors. They would realize that eventually, and if he could plant the seed in their minds, they quicker he could be off after the Dunmer.

At the sound of Thorfinn's voice rising above their own, the crowd quieted and turned to him. Some held their expression of determination, but others faltered and seemed to grow fearful. Regardless, for a few moments they were all silent as they considered his words. The peace was however quickly broken when the one-eyed nord raised a fist in the air.

"Aye! Have no fear in your hearts, sons and daughters of Skyrim! We must rally together against this elf sorcerer and make him pay for what he has done!" At his words, the crowd once again was spurned with a sense of livelihood and righteousness. Their doubts and fears melting away in favor of vengance and justice. "...and we shall begin by wringing his location out of this dark elf in our midsts!"

"Thorald, stop this madness!" The burly nord raised his arms, standing fast in defending his home.

"Out of the way Holof. We've waited long enough! Stand aside or by the divines we shall--"

His words and attention was cut off at the sound of a creaking door. At that moment, the wooden door of the home swung open slowly. From within, a mer with ash grey skin and red eyes stepped onto the front porch alongside Holof. He surveyed the crowd thoughtfully, who looked towards him with a mixture of determination, fear, and suspicion. After a few seconds, the dunmer bowed his head towards the crowd in a humble manner.

"I apologize for the time you have spent waiting." He raised his head looking towards the nords. "Like yourselves I seek to bring the sorcerer to justice and I shall answer whatever questions you may have for me."

Gurda seemed relieved when Grimhild dismounted. She neighed and prodded her hooves against the cobblestone.

“Aye,” he said to the shaggy gray mare, “we finally made it.”

It had not been a hard road, but long and cold though the night. He had not allowed them more than a few minutes rest along the way lest they might not catch up to Enderos in time. Stiff-legged and saddlesore, he led her to the small Farstead stables, which oddly enough, were empty. He helped himself to a feedbag full of oats for Gurda and tied her off a the post.

“Where’s the tavern?” he muttered, mostly to himself. It was time to fetch some morning mead and perhaps news of Enderos. But much to his dismay, the tavern was as silent as the stables, and the door was locked. No mead, he silently cursed. Where is everyone?

It didn’t take Grimhild long to find out. Farstead was not very big, after all.

Behind the tavern was a small orchard, and behind the orchard, what looked like a smithy. There stood many Nord men and women, bustling about the smithy looking much bothered, though from the tavern stoop, he could not discern what they were saying.

But there stood Enderos; a distinct and upright figure standing in the midst of the crowd, at the center of it really, near the front of the smithy. He seemed to have the villagers’ undivided attention.

It didn't take long for the villagers to begin bombarding the dunmer with questions. The first was asked by Thorald Stonearm, and predictably was on how they could trust this stranger mer. From there, Endaros revealed a gruesome blackened scar on his chest, a wound that could not be delivered by steel or beast but rather magic. He told the story on how he was bested on the clefts of the White River, and then explained his allegiance and assigned task. He spoke of how Felres had stolen the a set of ancient scrolls and rampaged across Resdayn. He spoke of the many dark elves who were killed; from simple peasants to temple priests to great warriors. Though some of the crowd still held their suspicions, primarily Thorald; it appeared they had settled down and decided against unleashing their wrath upon the dunmer.

The next question came from a farmhand, asking why the sorcerer had come to Skyrim. To this Endaros did not know, but spoke of the souls siphoned and how they traveled in a consistent direction-- indicating a specific destination in mind. He could only offer ideas of what that may be, whether it was some sort of stronghold or one of the cities in western Skyrim.

More questions followed of different natures from the rest of the crowd. One woman asked if her livestock would be safe, to which Endaros assured her they would be perfectly fine. One man couldn't quite grasp on what exactly a "Buoyant Armiger" was, to which Endaros had to explain how it was not some sort of exotic entertainer. Some of the questions were ridiculous, and grew only from panic. It was tiresome on some level, but he held his patience and answered them nonetheless.

When at last the crowd grew silent, having exhausted their curiousities, there was a final subject to acknowledge. How would the sorcerer be defeated? Endaros would need help, and looking across the crowd he saw many faces both meek and determined. He had no intention of forcing anyone to join him, but he was sure if he would ask many would come to his aid. But not everyone were experienced in the art of combat, and if he were to take too many they would be too slow in their pursuit. He would have to choose carefully.

"These are indeed powerful foes which walk your lands, and I am sure many of you are willing to risk your lives to see them defeated. But only the capable should dare embark on this task. Which of you shall step forward?"

There was quiet muttering amongst the crowd. Many of them thought of their lives, their families, and what they might leave behind. But the Nords are a brave people, and it only a few moments before a young man stepped forward towards the dunmer; a steel long sword at his side. Boldly he raised his chin and announced his name.

"I am Kjeld of Windhelm. The sorcerer murdered my father on the eastern road, and by his sword I shall avenge him!"

The nord named Kjeld raised a fist which envoked some cheering from the crowd. Endaros peered at the young man, nodding his head steadily as he considered the first volunteer.

"Your words are brave, Kjeld of Windhelm. I am sure your father would be proud. Have you fought before?"

"My father trained me with the blade before he passed."

Endaros raised his chin slightly, noticing the question was dodged. "Are you a warrior, Kjeld?"

The nord shifted uncomfortably at the question, his boldness fading, before quietly muttering, "...stableboy."

Endaros was momentarily silent before stepping down from the porch to meet the nord, sword in hand. He gestured to Kjeld to draw his own weapon to which he did in a clumsy manner. He would give the boy a chance to prove himself.

The crowd took a step back giving them space. The two held themselves in a combat stance and eyed each other silently upon the clearing in Farstead. In a single swift movement, Endaros stepped foward and with a twist of his sword; disarmed Kjeld, sending his weapon skidding across the dirt. The nord was surprised at the maneuver as he stared at the blade pointed to his chest. Endaros withdrew the blade and held it to his side.

"I am sorry for your father, and you are noble to seek justice for his murder. Someday you may defeat foul sorcerers and slay terrifying monsters, Kjeld." He took a deep breath as he stared towards the nord. "But that time has not yet come."

Kjeld seemed shocked at the words, but his expression soon grew saddened. His gaze fell to the ground and did not rise as he retrieved his sword and disappeared into the crowd.

The next to volunteer was a large and grizzled nord with a scar descending from his eye. He wore studded hide armor and held a great claymore in his hand. He came forth from the crowd, a slight limp in his step, and stared down at the dunmer. When he spoke, his voice was low and gutteral like the growling of a wolf.

"I am Roggvar, a veteran of the Akaviri invasion." He puffed out his chest out proudly. "I have seen many battles in my time, and have survived the most harrowing of wounds. If you were to face me, you will see I speak the truth."

Endaros nodded his head and raised his sword once again. They sparred in the midst of the crowd for all too see; and indeed Roggvar showed himself as an experienced warrior. His swings were powerful and his strikes were true. It appeared he could defeat many lesser combatants in battle. When the fight was over, the crowd applauded for Roggvar who stood his ground against the Dunmer. Surely he would be a worthy companion to have against the sorcerer!

Endaros bowed to the nord respectfully. "You are indeed an admirable warrior, Roggvar! Many Akaviri must have fallen before you during the invasion." The nord beamed proudly, certain that he would be accepted into the journey.

"...but, could you perform one last demonstration." The dunmer stood upright and pointed towards the tavern on the otherside of the village; a small length away. "Could you run there and back?"

The crowd muttered to each other skeptically at the strange request, and Roggvar furrowed his brow. He carried it out however and began to set off on a run towards the tavern.

It was immediately clear that his limp would be an issue. Roggvar's pace was slow and haphazard, almost stumbling as he tried to maintain what speed he could. As he reached the tavern and turned around, the crowd could see the pain on the nord's face. When he at last returned to Endaros, they both knew the problem at hand.

"It was a long time ago..." Roggvar's voice was soft and pained. "...when an Akaviri drove a spear into my leg. It never did quite heal right."

The dunmer nodded his head, saddened to hear the tale. "We must travel swiftly in pursuit of the sorcerer across mountains and wilderness. I'm afraid I cannot take you, but you can defend the people here should the sorcerer return."

Roggvar knew that the dunmer's words were true, and silently drifted back into the crowd. Endaros looked across the nords and surveyed who else would step forth. The most notable seemed to be a young nord with a unique blade, and another man in the distance whom seemed slightly familiar.

"Is there anyone else who would step forward?"

Thorfinn smiled as this 'Buoyant Armiger' flicked Kjeld's blade away with a practiced twist. That was why you looped a leather cord around your blade. The Dunmer had shown little real skill, Kjeld was no warrior, and fancy tricks didn't blood your blade. However, as he watched Roggvar and Endaros spar, he noticed the admirable footwork and skill with a blade of a true warrior. Perhaps these Armiger's were not so bad after all. And he appeared to know his own mind, this Dunmer, and know the value of speed in tracking this sorcerer. Indeed, the whole matter had taken a turn for the better. The fact that the elves had sent one of their own after the sorcerer indicated he might be a true challenge. This Endaros appeared to be another.

Thorfinn turned away and set his harp down beside a house, un-slung his shield and tightened his breastplate a notch. He slid both blades out of their scabbards, in case the frost slowed them when he needed them. The young Nord unhooked his helm from his belt, and slipped it on over his matted hair. All this was done with a air of ritual, as if it were done a hundred times before. Finally, he fastened the leather cord tied to his ring-hilted longsword, Tuzkodaav, around his wrist and made it secure. When he looked up, he realized that the crowd and the Dunmer had been watching him while he prepared in near silence. Or perhaps that was simply how it seemed to him, caught up in the joy of battle as he was. He smiled, and those who could see his eyes might notice the slightest hint of wide eyed fury. Thorfinn stepped into the space the Dunmer had used to test Kjeld and Roggvar, sank back into a slight crouch, shield ready, blade low and vertical, almost hidden behind the shield. He would let the Dunmer come to him, of course. That had always been his way. His wide, muscled bulk stood in contrast to the elf, though he was by no means small. They were not far off level eyeline, and Thorfinn met Endaros' eye without any hesitation.

Another nord had stepped forth; the one geared in the equipment of a mercenary perhaps, and who carried a blade uncommon amongst ordinairy armaments. He did not present himself, nor state his intentions; but took a stance against Endaros all the same. Already it was apparent that this newcomer was an experienced fighter by the way he held himself. Within the nord's unwavering eyes he could see a familiar look that he had seen in those who lived for battle. Although this one was young, around the same age as the stableboy, he was something different.

Endaros could tell that the nord wished for him to strike first. Wordlessly he took the time to pace from side to side in the clearing and observe his opponent. A defensive warrior was no less dangerous than an offensive one; and no foe should be approached carelessly. The dunmer steadily closed the space between himself and the nord; before lunging forward and striking his blade foward. He knew that such a strike wouldn't find its mark, but it was the counter attack he wanted to see.

Thorfinn waited patiently for his adversary to advance, feeling the familiar rush as they finally crossed blades. As it so often did, time seemed to slow and things became so instinctive, so clear, so obvious. He caught Endaros' first blow on his shield, threw it away to the side and aimed a powerful thrust upwards toward the Dunmer's exposed chest. Even with the frenzy enveloping him, Thorfinn knew that they were not enemies. He had not intention of striking a fatal blow. But he also knew that shouldn't lead him to let his opponent off lightly.