Skyrim, Chapter 1: Seven Thousand Steps

   Howling winds tore at Dovahkiin, threatening to rip him off the mountainside and send him plunging into the darkness below. His blonde hair and braided beard - what could be seen of it from beneath his steel helmet - was encrusted with ice and snow. The cold burned every inch of exposed skin, and even the thick bear pelt draped over his shoulders gave little protection against the vicious temperatures that threatened to freeze the blood in his veins.
   He forced himself to keep moving through the knee-deep snow on cold-numbed feet. He was not the first to brave the Seven Thousand Steps in order to reach High Hrothgar, and he would not be the last, but many never made it back alive.
    He had to watch his step. Night and flurries of snow took turns blinding him, and one false step would send him to join his ancestors.
   Yet despite the weariness of his body, his eyes shone bright and alive with purpose behind the dark steel of his helmet. He was a Nord, a true son of Skyrim. No mountain would best him.
   A brief flash of color in the white curtain of snow was all the warning he had before a grey mountain wolf came hurtling out of the darkness, fangs bared in a vicious snarl.
   It went for his throat, as he knew it would, and he brought his shield around in a vicious arc to catch the creature mid jump. The metal rim of the shield cracked against the side of the wolf's head with a sharp crack, and it fell to the snow in a bloody heap. He spun around in time to dodge the second wolf that had come up from behind him. It snapped at his legs as it leaped past, but there was no real spirit behind the attack. The wolf was wary now.
    He knew there were more of them out there, hidden by the darkness, but they stayed back. They had recognized a predator. He looked into eyes of the wolf standing only a few feet away from him. Bright yellow eyes seeming to regard him as one might regard a bull.
    The wolf disappeared back into the snowy night, leaving behind only one of its dead, blood already frozen on its fur.

Coming Home, pt. 3

    He kept his eyes fixed on the slowly growing dark spot. It was larger than he'd thought. As he came within a hundred strides of it, he realized that it was some sort of structure unlike any he'd ever seen. A square slab of gray stone stood 30 feet from end to end and twice the height of a man. As he stumbled into the cooling shade it provided, he looked in amazement at the stonework. It must have been carved from a mountain, he thought. To his right, a metal door was set into the stone with no obvious means of opening it.

Coming Home, pt. 2

    Time passes.

    He felt the burden of the curse upon him still. The black mark, spreading across his chest like cobwebs, felt numb and cold to the touch. He could no longer feel his own heartbeat. The pilgrim let out a half-choked cough and spat a drop of grimy saliva on the dry and cracked soil. His last drink of water had been almost two day ago, and it was starting to show. His legs felt incapable of supporting his gaunt and corpse-like frame. His boots dragged on the ground. His mind seemed to try to escape from the confines of his sagging head. If he had been a romantic, he would have said that he could almost hear the angels calling his name. But he wasn't, so he didn't.
    A dark spot in the distance caught his attention. The distance was too great to make out what it was - if anything. Likely it was just another mirage. He'd seen plenty of those the last couple of days, his hopes crushed time and again.
    Didn't make much difference, really. He was still going to keep walking, follow the sun. Keep heading west, he told himself, and eventually he'll find his home.

***
Author's note: The 'Coming Home' stories are inspired by The Dark Tower series by Stephen King. Credit where credit is due.

Fall of Halberds

    The noise was deafening. Twenty - now eighteen - men clad in heavy plates of armor crashing into each other, shouting in anger and screaming in pain. Rook danced and weaved between them. Whenever he spotted an opening in their armor, he struck, his hands lashing out to snap bones and rend flesh. His arms were covered in blood.

    

    The noise lasted for less than a minute. Then silence. A single soldier remained standing. He'd lost his helmet at some point. He couldn't remember when. He took a step backwards, away from the man, and stumbled over one of the bodies.

--
Music of the now: Fighting Trousers, by Professor Elemental

The Four

"Sit down, children. Sit down, and let me tell you the story of the gods," the ancient, gnarled man said to the sailors, wenches and sellswords that had gathered around him. The inn was full to bursting, but his voice carried over the hubbub easily.

"Once upon a time, before gods were gods and time was time, a great beast was born. Vast beyond imagening, the beast ruled the cosmos for millennia, travelling among the stars, devouring all it came across."

The old man leaned forward, and, lowering his voice, continued "But from the great beyond, the Old God witnessed the destruction the beast wrought upon his creation. It awoke a great anger in the Old God's heart, and in his rage, he made The Four."

He pointed to a mural hanging on the wall. On it were four figures, but the mural was so worn and faded that it was impossible to distinguish one from the other. Every person in the inn knew about The Four, as did everyone in the kingdom, but the old man went on nevertheless.

"First of his Four was Ish'Nahmel, the heart of rage, gifted with the strength and fearlesness of the Old God himself. Second came Meen'tesh, the sister of secrets. She was blessed with cunning and the sharpest mind existence had ever seen. Third was Al-Jebel, the mountain that walks. The only creature that rivalled him in size, was the beast. Finally, the Old God made his fourth, and last, creation. The Stranger."

At the sound of The Stranger's name, a ripple passed through the crowd. Men and women alike made protective wards with their hands and muttered prayers. A gypsy woman whispered urgently to herself.

"Betrayer, deceiver, outcast, kinslayer," she said with the feverish eyes so common in soothsayers. "Betrayer, deceiver, outcast, kinslayer."

"The Stranger," the old man intoned, his rasping voice both hard and melodious, "was neither man nor woman, yet it was both. It was young. It was ancient. It was everyone and everything. It was matter and it was void. The Old God sent forth The Four to battle the beast. The Four felled the beast and scattered its remains throughout the universe. After the battle, The Four were weak and exhausted, having fought for nearly an eternity without rest or respite. They were all tired."

The old man paused and looked around the inn. The entire room had fallen silent, his story the focus of everyone's attention.

"All of them," he said. "Except The Stranger. In their weakened state, the siblings could only watch as their brother struck each of them down in turn. The Stranger turned to its creator and roared its defiance."