The Road to Whiterun

The Imperial lay groaning by the side of the road, and was carefully lifted and put in the cart.

“It’s not too bad,” the claymore-man said. “We’ll drop her off at the temple of Kynareth, she’ll recover in no time at all.”

After that was done, the pair of still standing warriors introduced themselves as Farkas, the one with the big sword, and Aela, the huntress. The Imperial was called Ria. Since our horse was dead, and Ria couldn’t ride, hers was put in front of the cart, and when the sun rose we set off towards Whiterun.

“You were good with that spear,” Aela said, as she rode next to the cart. “Where’d you learn that?”

“Hunting around Bruma,” I said.

She nodded slowly. “You like fighting?”

“Sure,” I said. “It’s what I’m good at. At least, better than other things I suppose.”

“And where did you get that helmet?”

My stomach turned. “I- uh,” I stammered. “I bought it.”

“Did you now?” Aela still had her eyes on the road, but suddenly I felt like I was being interrogated. “And whom did you buy it from, I wonder.”

Hod’s eyes narrowed, and he shifted uneasily. “From a blacksmith. What’s the problem?”

“There’s only one blacksmith I know who’d make something like that,” Aela said. “And those who wear his armour never give it away, so tell me, who’d you kill to get it?” She pulled out a dagger, and stared at me.

Farkas was riding on the other side of the cart, and chuckled. “Really Aela,” he said. “You think she’d be able to kill a companion?”

“In his sleep, maybe.”

“It was Sigrid,” I blurted out. “Of Riverwood. She gave it to me, in exchange for my help.”

Aela’s eyes jumped from my left eye to my right, and back again.

“Okay,” she said, and she sheathed her dagger. “Guess you’re right Farkas.”

I sighed. “You know Sigrid?”

“Yes,” Aela said. “And you couldn’t even kill her in her sleep.”

Farkas laughed at that.

That’s how I met my first companions. I told them of my arrival in Skyrim, and the days that had followed. They didn’t believe me about the dragon, though Farkas did believe it would “be a prey worthy of Ysgramor.” After we reached the foot of the mountains, we rode for a few hours through dancing fields of wheat.

“A large city needs a lot of food,” Farkas said. “And a lot of food attracts a lot of vermin. That’s where we came in. Giant has been stealing cattle and destroying crops for weeks. Guards couldn’t handle it, so the jarl hired us.”

“You get a lot of giants?”

“Nah, they keep to themselves mostly. Guess this one was braver than most, or dumber.”

We reached the cobblestone walls of Whiterun by nightfall. It was almost as if they grew out of the rocky hill the city was build upon, coiled around it like a giant grey snake. On top of it, roofed wooden towers stood watching the fields, guarding against outside threats. Then, I saw why the city was named Whiterun, as a clear stream of cold water flowed out of the city, creating a natural moat in front of the gates. The gold-and-white horse-banner flew proudly in the wind, echoing the golden wheat in the hold’s fields, and the white water of its rivers.

“Home sweet home,” Farkas grinned.

We rode up a winding road surrounded on all sides by battlements, crossing the stream twice. It was clear this city had seen wars uncountable, and I could only imagine the warriors smashing themselves upon its coarse defenses.

The guards made their rounds, lighting fires on the walls, preparing for a cold Skyrim night.

“You’re late,” a helmeted guard called out to us, as we rode into the gatehouse.

“Are we?” Aela answered. “Since when have we ever concerned ourselves with that?”

The guard laughed. “Never. And who is it you’ve brought today?”

“Hod of Riverwood,” Hod said. “Delivering wood for Wintersand Manor.”

“Ah,” the guard said. “Well, don’t let me keep you then. Good luck with your customer, I heard he and his wife both love wood.”

The guards chuckled at his remark, and let us continue.

Suddenly, I felt home. Before us, a long street of cobblestones, surrounded by thatched roofs as far as the eyes could see. The sounds of the city, the hammering of craftsmen, the laughing of children, and the shouts of merchants touting the last of this day’s wares welcomed me. The smells of fires and roast meat drifted on the air as we travelled through what Hod told me was called the Plains District.

“That’s The Bannered Mare,” he pointed out. “I’ve stayed there every time I’ve visited Whiterun. I could go for a mug of mead right now…”