Viarco Strong-Head
By Azura, By Azura, By AzuUURUURAUURAARA
Hiya, thanks for checking this out! This is an idea I've been playing around with for a long time, so I hope you like it! The chapters will be much more "meaty" than the prologue, I assure you; just wanted to get the general setting thrown out there quickly. Thanks again for giving this a look, and enjoy When Hearts Grow Cold!
When Hearts Grow Cold
a Skyrim Civil War fan-fiction
Prologue
Hjolmund's knuckles had turned white from how he'd been gripping on to his mace during the battle, but he dropped it out of shock when he saw the sight before him. At the base of a Whiterun guard tower, uniform stained scarlet, was a female Imperial soldier. Tears ran down her cheeks as she clutched the body of a Stormcloak, an Imperial sword protruding from his gut. Hjolmund was able to recognize his fallen comrade as an acquaintance of his, Thomar.
He also recognized the Imperial soldier as Thomar's wife.
The conversations Hjolmund had heard underneath the tents at camp, in the days leading up to the attack on Whiterun, came flooding back to him almost instantly. "My wife Roana and I haven't seen each other in months," he remembered Thomar's gravelly voice as the men recounted stories of home. "She called me an imbecile for joining up with the Stormcloaks, before we left Whiterun for Windhelm; no word from her since."
Having been one of the men leaving Whiterun that day, and having seen this argument, that was about the extent of Hjolmund's relationship with Thomar outside of small talk. However, it was enough for him to fall to his knees, and be rendered completely immobile as he watched the scene before him from underneath his rusted helmet.
Roana slowly took the sword out, and threw it onto the ground with a loud sob. "My love...my love, I'm so sorry..." Hjolmund could clearly hear the woman lament, even from where he watched a fair distance away; which made it all the more easier to leave his mace where it lay, and run the other direction.
"HJOLMUND! What's the matter with you, soldier?!" He could hear his commanding officer calling to him above the fray, just before the Stormcloaks broke through the walls of Whiterun. The young Nord paid no mind, as he kept running and running, collapsing into a row of potato plants in the nearby Battle-Born Farm.
He had joined the Stormcloaks to fight for Skyrim's freedom. To fight for the right to worship Talos. To be the blade that met the Thalmor's, as they tried to cut the head off the Nords' very culture.
He didn't join to see Skyrim be torn apart. Lovers killing lovers, kinsmen killing kinsmen, family killing family. He knew what the cost of being a soldier was, and he knowingly joined up in the ranks, but he loved his home. And it was the same love that fueled the fire inside him to fight for his home, that he couldn't stop from drawing him back from watching it fall apart from the inside.
Sure that the Stormcloaks had broken through now, Hjolmund got to his feet, wiping the dirt from his face. He turned around to start remorsefully on his way back, and was greeted with a dagger to his throat. Its owner was neither Imperial or Stormcloak; rather, a man clad in black robes, with fluorescent orange eyes making direct contact with his.
Joined by a similarly ominous-looking Orc, the man smiled. "We were hoping you'd stay down. The best meals are always the ones that don't see it coming," he remarked. Immediately realizing who these people were, Hjolmund instinctively reached for the hilt of his mace; he realized that his weapon was not there all too late, though, and all he saw was the Orc's fist hurtling towards his temple before it all went black.
When Hearts Grow Cold
a Skyrim Civil War fan-fiction
Hjolmund's knuckles had turned white from how he'd been gripping on to his mace during the battle, but he dropped it out of shock when he saw the sight before him. At the base of a Whiterun guard tower, uniform stained scarlet, was a female Imperial soldier. Tears ran down her cheeks as she clutched the body of a Stormcloak, an Imperial sword protruding from his gut. Hjolmund was able to recognize his fallen comrade as an acquaintance of his, Thomar.
He also recognized the Imperial soldier as Thomar's wife.
The conversations Hjolmund had heard underneath the tents at camp, in the days leading up to the attack on Whiterun, came flooding back to him almost instantly. "My wife Roana and I haven't seen each other in months," he remembered Thomar's gravelly voice as the men recounted stories of home. "She called me an imbecile for joining up with the Stormcloaks, before we left Whiterun for Windhelm; no word from her since."
Having been one of the men leaving Whiterun that day, and having seen this argument, that was about the extent of Hjolmund's relationship with Thomar outside of small talk. However, it was enough for him to fall to his knees, and be rendered completely immobile as he watched the scene before him from underneath his rusted helmet.
Roana slowly took the sword out, and threw it onto the ground with a loud sob. "My love...my love, I'm so sorry..." Hjolmund could clearly hear the woman lament, even from where he watched a fair distance away; which made it all the more easier to leave his mace where it lay, and run the other direction.
"HJOLMUND! What's the matter with you, soldier?!" He could hear his commanding officer calling to him above the fray, just before the Stormcloaks broke through the walls of Whiterun. The young Nord paid no mind, as he kept running and running, collapsing into a row of potato plants in the nearby Battle-Born Farm.
He had joined the Stormcloaks to fight for Skyrim's freedom. To fight for the right to worship Talos. To be the blade that met the Thalmor's, as they tried to cut the head off the Nords' very culture.
He didn't join to see Skyrim be torn apart. Lovers killing lovers, kinsmen killing kinsmen, family killing family. He knew what the cost of being a soldier was, and he knowingly joined up in the ranks, but he loved his home. And it was the same love that fueled the fire inside him to fight for his home, that he couldn't stop from drawing him back from watching it fall apart from the inside.
Sure that the Stormcloaks had broken through now, Hjolmund got to his feet, wiping the dirt from his face. He turned around to start remorsefully on his way back, and was greeted with a dagger to his throat. Its owner was neither Imperial or Stormcloak; rather, a man clad in black robes, with fluorescent orange eyes making direct contact with his.
Joined by a similarly ominous-looking Orc, the man smiled. "We were hoping you'd stay down. The best meals are always the ones that don't see it coming," he remarked. Immediately realizing who these people were, Hjolmund instinctively reached for the hilt of his mace; he realized that his weapon was not there all too late, though, and all he saw was the Orc's fist hurtling towards his temple before it all went black.