Kjorvir sat and watched as Zhar told tales of the Dawnguard and Dwemer, of vampires and bolts quick as lightning. He thought on about the first crossbow he saw, a steel one similar to Sander's propped on a barstool in a tavern, belonging to a Dawnguard. So fascinated Kjorvir had been, and yet disappointed when they left before he'd had chance to ask them about it. He had only been young then, younger than Sander now, and he smiled as he thought back to his boyish amazement.
"The most unique characteristic of a crossbow is the sound it makes when it unleashes a bolt, very distinguishable. In almost an instant your target will be impaled before it realizes what hit it."
"Aye? I shall make sure not to stand in the boy's way, then"
Kjorvir laughed as he stretched his legs and stood, Zhar had taken to his feet and was squinting into the darkness. The Nord followed suit in vain, seeing nothing through the obsidian night.
"Stoke the fire, my friend. Food has arrived."
As he looked into the fire, Kjorvir was reminded of an old time years ago, when one of the other men had sung a song he had never heard before. The tale of the Dragonborn was big news across the taverns and grand halls of Skyrim, and everyone sought to make a few Septims from it. The man thought himself a Bard, but judging by his songs he was little more than an adventurer, though he loathed to admit it. To the tune of Ragnar the Red, Kjorvir quietly murmured the tune as he stoked and fed the fire.
Oh there was once a tale of three heroes of old, of Gormlaith and Hakon and Felldir the Old.
And Alduin sought to devour them all, so the three took their refuge in Ysgramor's Hall.
That was til their saviour, the Dragonborn came, the mists of Sovngarde their Voices did tame.
Alduin fell and he was torn asunder, the sound of defeat shook all Nirn like his thunder.
And when Shor caught word of their harrowing taaale, they returned with their Valour to drink all the ale!
"The most unique characteristic of a crossbow is the sound it makes when it unleashes a bolt, very distinguishable. In almost an instant your target will be impaled before it realizes what hit it."
"Aye? I shall make sure not to stand in the boy's way, then"
Kjorvir laughed as he stretched his legs and stood, Zhar had taken to his feet and was squinting into the darkness. The Nord followed suit in vain, seeing nothing through the obsidian night.
"Stoke the fire, my friend. Food has arrived."
As he looked into the fire, Kjorvir was reminded of an old time years ago, when one of the other men had sung a song he had never heard before. The tale of the Dragonborn was big news across the taverns and grand halls of Skyrim, and everyone sought to make a few Septims from it. The man thought himself a Bard, but judging by his songs he was little more than an adventurer, though he loathed to admit it. To the tune of Ragnar the Red, Kjorvir quietly murmured the tune as he stoked and fed the fire.
Oh there was once a tale of three heroes of old, of Gormlaith and Hakon and Felldir the Old.
And Alduin sought to devour them all, so the three took their refuge in Ysgramor's Hall.
That was til their saviour, the Dragonborn came, the mists of Sovngarde their Voices did tame.
Alduin fell and he was torn asunder, the sound of defeat shook all Nirn like his thunder.
And when Shor caught word of their harrowing taaale, they returned with their Valour to drink all the ale!