Boudica
English Yao Ming
Chapter One
The Forsworn
The sun was beginning to rise over Skyrim, tenderly illuminating the diverse landscape of the Nords with its gently shining face. It had not yet wakened enough to have the ferocity with which it burned in the mid day and was, in a strange way, waking up with the rest of humanity in the pale blue dawn. Birds began their respective parts in the grand chorus that rang across Skyrim in a united harmony, the predators and the prey started their daily cycle of cat and mouse, and the more sinister creatures that lurked and lived underneath the fullness of the suns brother, retreated to their holes and their caverns for the sanctuary and sustained realms of darkness.
But what of the creatures that were neither classed as humane or sinister, that were never seen as something as distinctive as predator or prey? Well, they awoke like the rest of the living creatures, they rolled over in their bedrolls in the first conscious throes of consciousness and rubbed their eyes free of sleep. Some pulled the furs closer up to them in order to snatch a few more minutes of peaceful dreams, whilst others were settling down into their comfortable bedrolls to grab the sleep that had been denied to them during their watch shifts in the cold, dark nights. When others would quickly busy themselves, determined to squeeze every opportunity out of the day, there would always be the other half that that treat their mornings with a laid back attitude, washing themselves, eating, wandering the encampment with no real purpose or simply trading one resting place for another in the form of a chair or rock.
In short, the Forsworn encampments awoke like any other settlement in Skyrim, with a smooth mixture of activity and laziness. Fire pits that were now ashen and cold were relit, the bellows from the dawn horns bounced and echoed against every nook and cranny which the primitive roar could reach and people soon began to do whatever it was they had set out to do for the day...be that lazing in their beds and catching up on missed sleep, helping commune with the Old Gods, or going out raiding and hunting to help provide for the community with either Nordic trophies or the hides and meat of game and stolen cattle.
Herne was never an early riser and he was rudely awoken by the thundering of the dawn horn which jerked him awake in his bedroll; the spasm of his shocked limbs sending the deer fur that had provided extra warmth, out of his small, open fronted tent and splayed onto the stone ground outside. He ended up sat up in his thin bedroll, back slouching as he yawned widely and rubbed the remnants of sleep from his eyes. He had to blink a few times to get his sight to focus.
Once he had gained full, sharp clarity of his surroundings, he peeled his nude form out of bed to retrieve the deer skin and then to quickly return to the shelter of his hide tent as the bitter mountain wind had nipped him in order to fully awaken him. Yet, whilst he stood, making his sleep addled limbs function properly to help him dress; he heard a distinctive whistle and turned – seeing two forsworn women wolf whistling at him and then laughing playfully as they left due to Herne’s shooing.
“Just testing your reflexes Herne,” he heard one of them call as he finished tying his loincloth into place and a smile alighted itself upon his face. He turned to see them again yet they had retreated inside the ancient stone redoubt to commune with the Old Gods. Usually, Herne would have joined them for the dawn prayer, yet as today it was his honour to lead the raid, he must eat and prepare himself with his fellow raiders on the ground floor of the ancient ruin in which they made their collective encampment.
So, after armouring himself, he collected his weapons and his large deer head helmet and emerged, not as Herne the Breton, but Herne the Briarheart, the most respected man in the encampment.
Or, that was the effect he wanted to have...yet he never managed to pull it off so fearlessly among his own as they usually witnessed him bumbling down the stairs in the early hours; almost dragging his helmet on the ground and occasionally bending down to fiddle with the fur in his boots.
It always took him a little longer than most to wake up. However, when he was awake, he was one of the most fearsome men in the Reach, perhaps the most so.
But right now...you wouldn’t have guessed...
This was how the day began...but by its end, Herne and his fellows would be dancing in blood and singing praises to the Old Gods whilst they bathed in crimson tides, becoming like savage madmen; hacking, slicing and burning in their horrific and primitive dances of death. Yet then they would return to the settlement, to their kindred forsworn, with their trophies and prizes, and the night, all night, would burn red as oxblood and shimmer with fire, blood and passion.
The Forsworn
The sun was beginning to rise over Skyrim, tenderly illuminating the diverse landscape of the Nords with its gently shining face. It had not yet wakened enough to have the ferocity with which it burned in the mid day and was, in a strange way, waking up with the rest of humanity in the pale blue dawn. Birds began their respective parts in the grand chorus that rang across Skyrim in a united harmony, the predators and the prey started their daily cycle of cat and mouse, and the more sinister creatures that lurked and lived underneath the fullness of the suns brother, retreated to their holes and their caverns for the sanctuary and sustained realms of darkness.
But what of the creatures that were neither classed as humane or sinister, that were never seen as something as distinctive as predator or prey? Well, they awoke like the rest of the living creatures, they rolled over in their bedrolls in the first conscious throes of consciousness and rubbed their eyes free of sleep. Some pulled the furs closer up to them in order to snatch a few more minutes of peaceful dreams, whilst others were settling down into their comfortable bedrolls to grab the sleep that had been denied to them during their watch shifts in the cold, dark nights. When others would quickly busy themselves, determined to squeeze every opportunity out of the day, there would always be the other half that that treat their mornings with a laid back attitude, washing themselves, eating, wandering the encampment with no real purpose or simply trading one resting place for another in the form of a chair or rock.
In short, the Forsworn encampments awoke like any other settlement in Skyrim, with a smooth mixture of activity and laziness. Fire pits that were now ashen and cold were relit, the bellows from the dawn horns bounced and echoed against every nook and cranny which the primitive roar could reach and people soon began to do whatever it was they had set out to do for the day...be that lazing in their beds and catching up on missed sleep, helping commune with the Old Gods, or going out raiding and hunting to help provide for the community with either Nordic trophies or the hides and meat of game and stolen cattle.
Herne was never an early riser and he was rudely awoken by the thundering of the dawn horn which jerked him awake in his bedroll; the spasm of his shocked limbs sending the deer fur that had provided extra warmth, out of his small, open fronted tent and splayed onto the stone ground outside. He ended up sat up in his thin bedroll, back slouching as he yawned widely and rubbed the remnants of sleep from his eyes. He had to blink a few times to get his sight to focus.
Once he had gained full, sharp clarity of his surroundings, he peeled his nude form out of bed to retrieve the deer skin and then to quickly return to the shelter of his hide tent as the bitter mountain wind had nipped him in order to fully awaken him. Yet, whilst he stood, making his sleep addled limbs function properly to help him dress; he heard a distinctive whistle and turned – seeing two forsworn women wolf whistling at him and then laughing playfully as they left due to Herne’s shooing.
“Just testing your reflexes Herne,” he heard one of them call as he finished tying his loincloth into place and a smile alighted itself upon his face. He turned to see them again yet they had retreated inside the ancient stone redoubt to commune with the Old Gods. Usually, Herne would have joined them for the dawn prayer, yet as today it was his honour to lead the raid, he must eat and prepare himself with his fellow raiders on the ground floor of the ancient ruin in which they made their collective encampment.
So, after armouring himself, he collected his weapons and his large deer head helmet and emerged, not as Herne the Breton, but Herne the Briarheart, the most respected man in the encampment.
Or, that was the effect he wanted to have...yet he never managed to pull it off so fearlessly among his own as they usually witnessed him bumbling down the stairs in the early hours; almost dragging his helmet on the ground and occasionally bending down to fiddle with the fur in his boots.
It always took him a little longer than most to wake up. However, when he was awake, he was one of the most fearsome men in the Reach, perhaps the most so.
But right now...you wouldn’t have guessed...
This was how the day began...but by its end, Herne and his fellows would be dancing in blood and singing praises to the Old Gods whilst they bathed in crimson tides, becoming like savage madmen; hacking, slicing and burning in their horrific and primitive dances of death. Yet then they would return to the settlement, to their kindred forsworn, with their trophies and prizes, and the night, all night, would burn red as oxblood and shimmer with fire, blood and passion.
