Skyrim [grizzly and Koe-chan]

[BlaqueCatt]

Koe-chan's Character

 

 

 

 

Glade

Age 23

Bosmer (Wood Elf)

 

Glade stands at 5'0" in height and weighs 90 pounds. He has a thin body type with lean muscles, which makes him fast and agile but not very strong. His skin is extremely pale, and his eyes are a striking bright blue. His hair is straight and slightly wavy at the ends, and gray in color. When he was young he kept it shoulder length, but as he became an adult he cut it short so that his hair only brushed the tips of his ears and his bangs touched his eyebrows. He has extremely good eyesight and is very skilled with a bow and dagger. He dresses very simply and only utilities light armor so that it is easier to move quickly and sneak past enemies; his specialty is striking silently from a distance. Glade is quiet, reserved, and shy. He is very gentle and kind-hearted - he does not eat meat and adores animals and children. He dislikes killing and fighting, but has begrudgingly come to accept its importance in surviving in a place such as Skyrim, which is far different from his home of Valenwood.

[grizzly]

 

 

Torvald the Unyielding

Age: 25

Nord

 

Torvald stands at 6'2" and weighs nearly 200 pounds. His strength matches his reckless nature as he tends to face each enemy head on . Keeping only a large long sword strapped to his back, Torvald is always prepared for combat. He was born and raised in a farm outside of Windhelm where the bitter cold of the blizzards and the faint smell of the sea always welcomed him. His skin is covered with scars from previous battles, all of which he takes great pride in. His eyes are a forest green that compliments his light auburn hair that reaches down below his shoulders. He is dressed in dark heavy cloaks over his steel armor and keeps an amulet of Talos around his neck. Torvald is known around Windhelm as an altruistic and friendly face, but from the Dark Elves that reside there, he is but a cruel and callous man.

[BlaqueCatt]

Though it had been a little over a year since Glade had first arrived in Skyrim from his homeland, the elf was still not accustomed to the bitter cold. He gaped at the Nords who passed by him wearing nothing but sleeveless tunics in the middle of a blizzard, his own small body trembling beneath several layers of thick fur. Their hardiness amazed him, and he would have been in awe of their strength and resilience if not for the looks of contempt that they sent his way. No matter how polite or kind he was to them, they immediately dismissed him, acting as though he were nothing more than a lowly insect. It pained him to know that he was vermin in the eyes of so many people, but he handled the taunts and physical abuse as best as he could; he had to, or else he would not survive.

 

The Nords' universal opinion towards elves in general made it hard for him to find work, but he had managed to find odd jobs scattered across the country, working for whomever would hire him, no matter what the task was or how low the pay. It was especially hard for him, being a Bosmer, as there was very few of his kind located throughout Skyrim, and the other 'misfit' groups catered only towards their own kind; the Dark Elves had their own district in Windhelm; the Khajiit Caravans were secretive; and the High Elves see themselves as beings that are too magnificent to be seen with one such as himself. It was a lonely existence, and despite the fact that someone was bound to single him out, he found himself in The Bannered Mare in Whiterun, sitting alone at a table, wistfully watching the Nord men talk and laugh amongst themselves. Why do they hate me so much? I have never done anything to them.

 

Glade did not necessarily crave social interaction, but after being a lone for so long he needed to be near other people, even if he did nothing but observe them. In fact, he preferred observing them. He was a socially awkward person, always saying the wrong things at the wrong times. Many people considered him to be naive, but after only a month in Skyrim that was starting to change, and it scared him. He didn't want to become cold-hearted, to become someone who wasn't himself. That thought was enough to make him shudder and his stomach to roll uneasily. He tucked his legs beneath him and drew his tankard closer to himself, the cold metal biting into his skin, which had just lost it's numb feeling. He stared longingly at the fire, wishing he could be closer to its warmth but knowing that doing so would only draw attention to himself; it had been hard enough ordering a drink without being punched, and he didn't want to even attempt talking to anyone.

[grizzly]

The savory taste of Honningbrew mead remained the same, even after his fourth tankard. The more he drank, the more he was sure the next tankard would be even better. Torvald was almost ashamed for liking the mead so much, as if he was betraying the mead that was a favorite back home in Windhelm. The weather was also better in Whiterun, with the temperature being too hot for him to carry around his fur cloak, forcing him to leave it in the room he rented for the night. On his trek to the city he was amazed by how well the crops grew on the farms and he could picture the pathetic leeks his father had tried so hard to grow in the nearly uninhabitable cold of Windhelm. It was safe to say that Torvald was already homesick, but the mead and the music from Mikael's lute helped in lifting his spirits as intended.

 

He enjoyed the company of the tavern's owner, Hulda. She was an older woman, but she was tougher than Horker's skin, a notable trait in Skyrim's women. Her Redguard cook was easy on the eyes, but she couldn't compare to the beauty Ysolda had. He was always enamored by the women whenever he caught glimpses of her in the city, but she never did acknowledge his interest. Torvald was never good at wooing women, but it never bothered him. With the work he did for a living, it was better not to leave another widow in Skyrim. It was custom for him not to get too close to the people he surrounded himself with, because by the next week, he would be in another city. There was no point in making friendships that would last only a few days.

 

Despite the savory taste of mead and the graceful strums coming from the lute, Torvald still felt bothered. It wasn't the thoughts of home, however, but the fact that an elf shared the same room as him. The elf wasn't doing anything to wrong Torvald, but he only needed to exist for the man to already hate the knife-eared elf. It didn't matter if they were Dunmer, Bosmer, or Altmer, their very existence disgusted Torvald. They had already filled the streets of Windhelm after the explosion of Red Mountain in Morrowind, and now they were making their way to Whiterun. All he could do now was glare at the cretin, noting how he looked longingly into the fire.

 

"Cold are ye' elf?" His smug grin was hidden behind the tankard he brought to his bearded lips. "Valenwood must be real warm, perhaps you should make your way back there."

[BlaqueCatt]

Even before the man had decided to speak, Glade had felt the familiar sensation of hateful eyes burning holes into the back of his head. The harsh glare was nothing new, and he wouldn't have been alarmed if not for how large the offending Nord was. Most of Skyrim's native people - including the women - had impressive muscle masses, but this man was almost twice the size of those Glade had previously come into contact with. One meaty hand could wrap around his neck completely, and the thick, scarred arms would have no trouble snapping him in half. The man would have no need of a weapon in order to kill the elf, and Glade's trusty bow would have little effect on something so large, what with the enclosed area and the lack of hiding places, which were essential to his personal style of fighting. He would have absolutely no chance of winning a skirmish that could easily turn into an all-out brawl, and it was unlikely that he could manage to get away unscathed, as there was no doubt that bystanders would block the exit. If a man like that wanted to rough him up a bit, he would be unable to move for weeks, even with the best healing potions.

 

He had tried to avoid lifting his head at all, not wanting to attract any more unwanted attention, but his curiosity got the better of him and he spared a glance at the man, only to feel his blood freeze. The man was staring right at him with a sneer on his face, and Glade quickly ducked his head; nothing short of the word terrifying could accurately describe the human in front of him. "Cold are ye' elf? Valenwood must be real warm, perhaps you should make your way back there." He internally berated himself for appearing weak, as it was looked down upon not only by Nords, but they were the most adamant about the strong overpowering those who were lesser. He breathed in through his nose in an attempt to calm himself, and pushed away all of his gentleness, putting on the face that had helped him survive this long.

 

"It is indeed much warmer there," he agreed, acting as though the taunt had been nothing more than an astute observation. He met the Nord's gaze levelly, his own expression neutral, before taking a small sip of his drink, which was, in fact, water, as alcohol made him extremely ill. "I would like to return, but I must remain here for the time being." He mentally winced at how greatly his accent stood out, and it took all of his willpower to keep from looking away; if he backed down from the challenge so soon, they would be on him like vultures to a deer.

[grizzly]

Torvald bit the inside of his cheek. That was not the reaction he was hoping for. He wanted an elf full of pride and a head even fuller with hot air, but the one before him remained calm. He had yet to find an elf who could keep their eyes on his while being so serene. He finally broke eye contact to fully observe the elf before him. He was tiny like most elves, but he appeared as if he truly did not belong in Skyrim. Most elves Torvald saw had been in his homeland for many generations. Such elves have never even seen their own homelands, but those unfortunate elves never elicited sympathy from Torvald. Many have died to the freezing temperatures; it was not uncommon to see the body of a dead elf by a smoldered fire.

 

"And for what purpose must you remain here?" He inquired while signaling to Hulda for another serving of mead to which she quickly complied. He noted just how thin the elf was and how he could easily break each bone in his body as if they were but meager twigs. He focused his glare on the elf, hoping he could somehow provoke or strike fear into him. Torvald was completely aware that he was making a scene in the tavern and felt the gazes of the other patrons of the tavern on him. Even Uthgerd the Unbroken sat quietly in hopes that a fight would break out. All Torvald needed was an excuse to destroy the elf before him, and he would gladly wait for the opportunity with a tankard of mead in his hands.

 

"Skyrim has no use for you," he threatened, "or your people." His voice was colder than the bite of an Ice Wraith and it chilled the ambiance of the tavern. "Go home while you still can," he snarled as he slammed his empty tankard on the table. He stopped Hulda from pouring him any more mead as he had important work to do the next morning, but kept his eyes on the elf.

[BlaqueCatt]

Glade was incredibly grateful for the dim lighting of the room and the distance between himself and the Nord, as they provided him with enough cover to hide the faint trembling of his hands and shoulders. Even though the elf had learned how to control his facial expressions, he had yet to discover the secrets behind body language. His physical reactions to emotions had betrayed him more than once, and his life had been put at risk almost every time. It was hard for him to remain expressionless; though he was a quiet and reserved being by nature, he was not impassive, and back home in Valenwood he was known for his sensitivity and empathy. Few people acknowledged the importance of emotions, and he was one of those who did. It pained him to see people live a life of misery because their feelings had been locked away for such a long time, and yet now he was beginning to understand why they did so; in a world such as this, those who remained open were hurt the most.

 

The elf held his breath as the man across from him stared him down, and he exhaled softly through his nose when their eye contact was broken. He removed his hands from their place wrapped around the cool metal tankard on the wooden table in front of him and folded them neatly in his lap, lowering his gaze back onto the table. For a brief moment, he felt relieved; for once, it seemed that he had won the challenge. I really should stop coming to these places. It's probably safer to camp outside. However, his hope of escaping the tavern unharmed was shattered by the Nord's voice. "And for what purpose must you remain here?" Glade bit the inside of his lip to steel his resolve, and as he lifted his head, his sky-blue eyes - an odd color for an elf - remained clear. "Skyrim has no use for you, or your people." The harsh words hit him hard, and the familiar ache in his chest returned. Verbal abuse hurt him more than any punch or kick because he took it all to heart. He knew, logically, that what the man said wasn't true - he was useful, in his own way - but he had always lacked self-confidence - since he was a child - and the thing he hated most was disappointing others.

 

Glade hesitated for a moment, then replied as calmly as he could, "Skyrim may have no use for me, but I have a use for Skyrim. I would not be here otherwise."

[grizzly]

With the dim lighting of the tavern and the added distortion from all the alcohol he consumed, he still couldn't read the elf. He saw trembling in the shadows, but dismissed it as the alcohol's doing. The elf remained stoic since the beginning of his confrontation, and it aggravated the Nord. There were no satisfying pleads or laughable insults, and he could only imagine there wouldn't be any for the rest of the night, which infuriated Torvald. He tapped his calloused fingers on the wooden surface of the table, listening to the elf's defense. "Skyrim may have no use for me, but I have a use for Skyrim. I would not be here otherwise." He was sure his face was flushed from mead, but he must've turned five shades more crimson with the elves words.

 

"You Bosmer are as cowardly as the Altmer. You take innocent people whose only crime is devotion to Talos and send them away from their families, never to see them again. Skyrim and all of Tamriel would do good without you knife-ears." He bit the inside of his cheek again and tried to calm down. He didn't want to hear another word coming from the elf. It was a mistake to associate all elves with the disgraceful Thalmor, but the mead and years of built up anger could never break down the wall that Torvald built. He felt ashamed to be under the authority of the high elves, enough for him to project the shame unto others. It was why he desperately wanted to join the Stormcloaks at one point, but being with the Stormcloaks meant fighting Imperials, not elves. Deciding he had enough, Torvald stood from his wooden stool. There was a reason why he was in Whiterun, and it wasn't to argue with a lowly elf. "By Talos, may we never again cross paths," he spat before stumbling to the bed he rented for the night.

[BlaqueCatt]

Glade stiffened when the man stood, his blue eyes narrowing as he prepared himself to flee from the tavern; he knew that it was beyond his ability to hold out against the Nord if he decided to release his anger through physical means, but it was possible for him to evade a large portion of the man's attacks and escape from the building relatively unscathed. The elf had faith in his speed and agility, yet fear was an important limiting factor to consider. Fortunately, Glade did not have to put his skills to the test. "By Talos, may we never again cross paths." He nearly melted into his chair due to the intensity of his relief once the man vanished into his rented room, but by this point the eyes of all the patrons were on him, and he didn't want to endanger himself by staying put. He silently slipped out from behind the table and dug into his worn leather satchel, placing a few septims onto the faded surface of the wooden table before swiftly taking his leave. It wasn't until he had stepped out into the darkness of the city that he noticed his cheeks were wet with tears.

 

The elf stopped short, lifting a hand to his face with a surprised expression. Had the man's words affected him that drastically? It seems that even with all of my effort, I'm still naive... Glade had tried to become hardened like those around him, but he feared losing himself; he liked the way he was, but he was worried that he would not live long if he continued to act that way. It was a great dilemma for him, one that he didn't want to face at the moment. He sighed and wiped hastily at his eyes before making his way towards the city gates, as he had no choice but to sleep outside for yet another night.

 

The guards standing at the gates glared at him as he passed, as was to be expected, and said nothing. He shook his head to clear it once he was outside of the city, and he squinted in the darkness, searching for any potential dangers. All he could see was the usual Khajiit camp in the distance. I hope I don't run into another bear... Bears were terribly annoying, as they always seemed to pop out of nowhere. Glade shifted his bag on his shoulder and made his way into the forest to the right of the city, climbing up a small hill and finding an open clearing. He knelt onto the grass and undid the clasp of his satchel, taking out a blanket and unrolling it. Then, he gathered a few pieces of wood, all varying in size, and set up a makeshift fire-pit. It wasn't a safe place to spend the night, but he would rather face wolves than Nords.

[grizzly]

It had been weeks since the last he slept in an actual bed. The bed he was curled up in was a simple one with worn furs on top of dry, itchy hay that covered a wooden frame. Though it wasn't the most comfortable bed, he was thankful for not camping out in the woods once again. Too many times had he trekked through the woods hunting for elk, only to stumble across a pack of wolves, or better yet, bears. As much as he respected the wilderness of Skyrim, he preferred a bed any day over the hard ground. When he awoke to the small beacons of light that slipped through the wood covering the window, he wasn't aware of the awkward position he had slept in throughout the night and instantly felt a crick in his neck and a pounding headache. So much for holding back on the mead he thought while propping himself up from the bed. He darted straight for the wash basin across from him, splashing cool water across his face with a sigh.

 

Thoughts of the elf he encountered last night came up and he couldn't help but wonder where the pest scurried off to. No matter he thought, damn sure I'll never see the bastard again. He continued to equip his gear, feeling safe in the heavy shell that is his armor and grabbed the two-handed sword that he kept dear to his heart. Torvald strapped the impressive blade onto his back where it would stay out of his path and kept his small hand-axe on his hip. He was to meet an unknown client, as usual, for a job that was more than likely too dangerous or dirty for officials to do. With his grogginess, personal appearance was the least of his worries and he tied his unruly hair loosely at the base of his neck.

 

((Hey there, how was your day? I was wondering about the client and the work they will offer to both our characters.Also, sorry for the short reply.))

[BlaqueCatt]

A relatively thin layer of snow had fallen overnight. The cobblestone streets of Whiterun reflected the sun's rays almost blindingly, the gleaming shine causing many passersby to duck their heads and squint as they went from place to place. Such brightness would have been a sign of warmth anywhere else, but in Skyrim, the chill in the air remained, even with the clearness of the sky. These conditions were received quite poorly by Glade, who not only woke up to a soggy bedroll and a bag nearly buried in white powder, but also had to suffer through the harsh bite of the wind, which was especially rough for the tips of his ears. How can Nords handle this kind of weather year-round? he wondered as he dusted off his satchel and tied his bedroll to the top with a piece of rope. It isn't even winter! The elf used his foot to scatter the embers of his fire, his pale hands trembling as he did so; despite the heaviness of the fur cloak he was wearing, he could feel the cold reach his bones.

 

Hopefully this next assignment won't require camping outside. Ruins and tombs were filled with nasty creatures, but they were usually warmer than the wilderness, and Glade could hold his own against creatures - it was the cold he was most worried about. He sighed, having a sinking feeling that things would not go as he wanted, and he cautiously made his way down the hill, trying not to slip and fall into the snow; he couldn't risk wetting his clothes and falling ill with hypothermia. The guards once again said nothing to him as he entered the city, adjusting his bow and quiver as he walked. His blue gaze peered around the city curiously - he had not yet seen it during the day, as he had only arrived last night - and eventually focused on the male Redguard standing at the intersection. Glade picked up the pace, coming to a stop in front of the man. "Hello, I'm--"

 

The man held up a hand and nodded. "I know. You're the archer I hired. We'll head out soon; I'm waiting for my swordsman." The whitette sighed inwardly. It was not unusual for a client to have various fighting styles at their aid, but Glade worked better alone. He didn't like to sound rude, but most people got in his way and made too much noise. They were careless, and it interrupted his techniques. I hope whoever it is isn't one of those brute types. They make it so much harder than it has to be with the way they barge in head-first.

[grizzly]

When he stepped outside of the Bannered Mare, the first thing he noticed was the thin blanket of snow that riddled the path to the gate. There were many footprints already in the snow, and he added his own to the collection as he trudged along through the gate. Skyrim's weather was unpredictable at times, and he wondered if there would be more snow later, despite the clear skies. Not quite sure where to look for his client, he reread the letter with instructions and followed the steps to an intersection close to the city. It was difficult to see far with him squinting from the brightness of the snow, but he saw what appeared to be a Redguard and a much smaller man. He immediately recognized the man for the elf he had seen the next beforehand in the tavern and already felt his blood boil.

 

He had to recheck the letter from his pouch to confirm that this Redguard was in fact his client. Torvald straightened his back to make him appear even taller when he approached the two. He quickly shot the elf a burning glare before looking to the Redguard. "I'm the swordsman," he muttered, not bothering to give out his name. His discomfort was obvious, but he had to act professional in front of his client. It took every shred of his resolve to not knock the elf off his feet. "I wasn't aware that I would be working with an elf. Is there anyone else I should be expecting?" Talos forbid he worked with another elf. One was already too many for him, but the job paid too well to give it up for some pathetic elf. Looking at the elf once more, he had to laugh internally. He wouldn't last too long in the ruins. It may be dry in the caves, but they were filled with more dangers than the snow.

 

More than likely, the elf would just be a liability for Torvald. He could see the dainty bow on his back, and he bit his the inside of his cheek. It would be difficult to fight with his sword with arrows whirling past his head, and since it was a dirty elf, who's to say he wouldn't get an arrow in the back? Elves are crooked like that, they would slit a person's throat in their sleep rather than fight them with honor. He had to watch his back around this elf.

[BlaqueCatt]

Glade caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and he turned to greet the swordsman - or swordswoman - whom he would be working with. The small, timid smile on his pale face vanished when he recognized the swordsman as the Nord who had been harassing him the previous night. His neutral expression wavered, and for a moment the shock he felt was obvious. His blue eyes widened considerably, and his body visibly stiffened. He subconsciously took a step back, and it was only because their employer began to speak that the elf managed to refrain from wincing when the Nord cast a heated glare his way. "I have no use for those who complain," the Redguard man replied, and though his tone was calm his dark brown eyes held a warning within them. "If you don't want the job, I'll find someone else." He stared Torvald down, and Glade couldn't help but admire the Redguard's strength.

 

After a few moments of silence in which Torvald remained where he was, the Redguard nodded and took out two small coin purses, tossing one to each of them. "There will be more when the job is complete," the man said. "We're going to investigate Ragnvald, near Markarth. Are you two up for it? I won't have you running away at the last minute." The elf hesitated, unsure of how he felt about the implications behind the Redguard's words. It sounds like he expects it to be extremely dangerous... He bit his lip, staring at the ground with his brows furrowed. But I need the money. He also wanted to prove himself to the Nord, but he ignored that part of his mind.

 

"I will go," he said, his voice steady; he hoped that he sounded confident. The Redguard nodded and turned to Torvald expectantly.

[grizzly]

There was a certain feeling of satisfaction when he saw the elf go rigid in the shoulders. The look of uneasiness that teetered on fear in his eyes gave him a sense of accomplishment, as if he did himself a great deed. Then there was the booming voice that alarmed him. He made a great effort not to roll his eyes at the Redguard's warning, but he knew that they were well known for keeping their word, so he bit his tongue. "I'll take the job," he protested while staring back into the Redguard's dark eyes. It wasn't until a coin purse was thrown at him that he relaxed. Immediately he opened the pouch to hastily count the coins and felt a little joy bubble up within him. Despite it being only a small amount, he loved seeing the glimmer coming from the coins and the jingles they make when he had enough in his pouch.

 

Then came the haunting name that brought chills down his spine. "Ragnvald?" he inquired with his lower lip between his teeth. There was a hint of fear in his voice, but he saw the elf give his answer and turn to him. Feeling his pride being threatened, he quickly replied to the Redguard. "Bah, as if Torvald the Unyielding would go running for the hills, I'm still determined to finish this job," he told the Redguard. The Legend of Ragnvald was older than he could ever guess, but it was just an old wives' tale told to children at night to scare them straight. Besides, the place was way out west near Markarth, a city built on Dwemer ruins. The biggest threat would have to be the rumored Falmer he heard of, and he would prefer to avoid crossing them as much as possible. But he wouldn't have to worry about that until they actually made it to The Reach.

[BlaqueCatt]

In Valenwood, the forest is considered to be a sacred place, and, in accordance with the Green Pact, remains undisturbed. This results in almost constant port activity, as the Bosmer must import various natural resources from other provinces. Glade was – and still is – very shy, but he would occasionally accompany the other children to the docks and listen to the stories that the sailors told while they loaded and unloaded cargo from the ships. Many of these tales involved the natives of Skyrim. The older elves would liken Nords to animals: large, strong, fierce, and incapable of feeling human emotions. They were violent creatures who cared not for each other, but only for war.

 

At the time, Glade had been terrified of Nords and used to hide under his bed until the fearful images had ceased plaguing his mind. As he grew older he came to understand that Nords were not monsters, but he had continued to see them as not quite human; they were callous, rude, and selfish beings who were unable to feel anything other than anger. However, as he turned towards the man behind him, he realized that perhaps he had been wrong.

 

Glade’s hawk-like eyes did not miss the faint shudder that passed through the hired swordsman. The man was desperately trying to hide the fear that he felt behind his steel armor, his rough voice, his powerful body and his impassive expression, yet the elf’s senses – mainly his eyesight – had been enhanced by years of archery training, and there was little that he did not see, including the anxious light in Torvald’s eyes. It occurred to Glade at that moment that maybe, just maybe, the pride and egotism that Nords were infamous for did not stem from warped personalities, but from the painful history and the harsh landscape that had created a culture in which only the strong survived; a culture in which emotions were dangers in their own right.

 

The meager amount of confidence that Glade had managed to scrape together was struggling to maintain its form as the severity of the situation weighed down on his shoulders – if a Nord was unable to contain his fear, then their task was going to be much harder than he had initially thought – but he was distracted by his new revelation. Nords acted the way they did for a reason, not out of spite (though it did come across that way, and may have been true for some). Their harsh exteriors were just a part of themselves; there was much more beneath the surface, and they were just afraid to show it after years of strife, which was understandable. Glade would never be able to be like a Nord, but he could learn to respect who they were as a people.

 

Glade found himself staring at Torvald with softness in his gaze, and he quickly averted eye contact, knowing that doing such a thing would only anger the Nord. I have to earn his respect and trust first, he thought, suddenly determined to show at least one Nord that elves such as himself were not all the same. I just hope he gives me the same chance.

 

“There are horses waiting for us.” The Redguard had started walking towards the gates as soon as Torvald had agreed to journey to Ragnvald. Glade’s eyes widened and he hurried over to the tall man, his light footsteps pattering almost inaudibly against the paved streets. He fell into step behind his employer, wrapping his scarf tighter around his neck as walked. Suddenly, the silence was broken by the Redguard, who glanced over his shoulder with the expression of one who had just experienced a trivial afterthought. “Archer. Can you fight on horseback?” The elf was taken by surprise. There had been little need for horses in Valenwood, but he had made it a priority to learn to ride and shoot as soon as he made it to Skyrim. He could fight on horseback, but he was not as skilled at it as he would have liked.

 

“I can,” he replied quietly, keeping his gaze on the ground, watching as the snow barely crumbled beneath his weight.