Chaqery

Village of Hyr

Falkreath Hold

Skyrim

20th of Sun’s Dusk, 2E553

 

This is the story of Baldir Toov, but it is also the story of his people: the Gaesgro, an old Nordic tribe that traced their migration to Falkreath Hold to the invasion of Ysgramor from Atmora centuries before. For generations, they had carved out a living for themselves from the ore-rich southern reaches of Skyrim. Miners, Smiths, and Warriors by tradition, the Gaesgro tribe had served as an important source of men, materiel, and trade for the Jarl of Falkreath. For this, their ruling family, the Toovs, traditionally bore a title as one of the Thanes of Falkreath and lived above the walled village in their fortified manor, Kyne’s Rest.

 

The din of hammer striking hot metal echoed loudly through the misty air of the Hyr, a common sound of this remote mining village nestled into the foothills of the Jerall Mountains. What separated this sound from any other day’s work in the forges, was the purpose. Today, the firstborn son of the Thane, Tolfdir Toov, and his wife, Auda, was to be born. As was customary for such an occasion, the entirety of the village was  gathered around the Thane’s manor and personal smithy in anxious anticipation of the heir’s arrival. The large, strong-figured Gaesgro women were busy in and out of the manor, working as a large family to care for Lady Auda and assist her in labor. Alongside this, Tolfdir was hard at work in the smithy, preparing a master-crafted bastard sword in their tribe’s ancient style that, in their culture, represented a firstborn son’s status and position. There were rules, though: the sword had to be started when the mother entered child labor, and finished by the time the son was pulled from the womb. For the Gaesgro, the father must toil in his labor just as hard as the mother is forced to. All about their Thane, the other men of the tribe had set to work in aiding him. In the distance, you could hear a few of them chopping wood. Still more were carrying the wood to and fro, supplying the smithy's furnace with an endless supply of fuel. In addition, a few bricks from the bottom of the furnace had been removed, and extra air pumps fitted into the gaps. A whole crew of men were hard at work pumping the bellows, keeping the furnace (and more importantly, the precious metal being used) at a precise temperature. Tolfdir himself was hard at work hammering the metal into the proper shape and thickness, and his rhythmic hammering provided a beat for the incantations of the three village elders that stood nearby, blessing the sword in the name of Kyne, and imbuing it with the attributes that were most important to Gaesgro society: Bravery, Strength, and Leadership. As the day wore on and dusk settled upon the mountain villahe, the air of anxiety weighed heavily upon the tribe. Large Nordic men huffed their braided blonde hair from their soot covered faced, and always was the continuous clanking sound of Tolfdir hard at work with the metal, beating it into the proper shape, tempering it, sharpening it, and in the last few hours, engraving the large gilded pommel. As Tolfdir finished his work, and sank the blade into a barrel of icy water from the natural spring on top of the nearby mountain Affe, a loud hissing filled the air. Only a few moments later, the sound of crying was audible from the interior of the manor. It was done.

 

Tolfdir set down the finished weapon, and wiped his brow. He made his way inside, to see his newborn son as the village women cleared a path through the room for him. In the arms of his sleeping wife lay the child, healthy looking and peacefully asleep as well. For the first time in his life, Tolfdir sat down and cried.

 

+++

 

Growing up, Baldir spent much time in his father's smithy, pumping the bellows, retrieving the wood and coal, and smelting metal ores into bars. In his free time, his father instructed Baldir in the tricks of the smithing trade, as well as a standard martial instruction expected of all men of their tribe. Baldir developed a passion for both blacksmithing, and the heat of battle, using the two pastimes to fuel the each other. As a smith, Baldir could craft his own armor and weapons, made to better fit his large stature, with the added addition of the intense heat exposure and strength required to forge the equipment increasing his stamina in combat. As his training continued , Baldir became well versed in the use of claymore and battle axe (as was customary of all Gaesgro men), accustomed to moving fluidly in heavy armor, and adept at utilizing a sword or axe and shield to defend himself. It was these precious years spent training with his father that would very much define who Baldir was, and save him several times on the fields of war to come.

 

At 16, Baldir came of age to undertake the right of passage trials to become recognized as a man in his village. To begin, Baldir had to conquer a mountain troll in solo combat. While to many in Tamriel the feat may seem improbable, one must take into consideration the build of the Gaesgro people. Faming themselves as "half giants", the Gaesgro are notably larger and than the average Nord, and as of such much less agile. To take on a troll in this manner was a challenge, sure, but for a Gaesgro, hardly impossible. It was during this bout that Baldir earned the scar that cross nearly his whole face. It’s become a signature of his appearance, and the memory of the experience has always stuck with him.

 

For his second trial, Baldir was to scale the unforgiving cliffs of the nearby Mount Affe, and bring back a blossom from the jet black "Todesfall" flower that only grew near the frigid peak. Contrary to the business with the troll, this task might seem easy enough for your average person, being much lighter and agile, but for a large Gaesgro male, scaling this sort of cliff is a much more serious challenge.

 

As he walked the small, horse cart rutted path back to the village, Baldir began to realize just where he was going. This was no longer the journey back from these trials, but his final steps as a boy, and soon to be his first as a man. When he brought the bundle of black flowers to his father, Baldir might have sworn to have seen a tear gather in the old man' eyes, only to be blinked away as he took down the master crafted bastard sword from the wall, and offered it finally to his son. In Gaesgro culture, the sword is an extension of the man, a symbol of his character and definition of his position. As was befitting, it fell to Baldir to name his blade, and so he named it Dreyrugr, after the blood stained appearance of the metal in the sunlight.

 

At last, the final part of Baldir’s coming of age ritual was upon him: it is custom for Gaesgro sons to leave the village and serve in the larger world as mercenaries or soldiers, and it is only after two years abroad that these sons may return and be fully recognized as heirs and men. Those experiences would help shape Baldir into the man he is today.

Nearly 2 years later…

High Rock, near the border with Skyrim.

 

"Step by step, heart to heart

Left right left, we all fall down

Like toy soldiers

Bit by bit, torn apart

We never win, but the battle wages on

For toy soldiers..."

 

The battle had raged on for hours. To this day Toov was never fully sure of its location, or even the name of the castle they had laid siege to. But even without the detail, the day would be forever burned into his memory. It was a part of who he was.

 

"Sergeant Toov, I want you to lead your men through the breach."

 

This was their commander, the Captain of their mercenary group the White Rose.. It had only been a few weeks since Toov had been promoted to the rank of Sergeant. A "reward for potential" bestowed upon the eighteen year old nord. In the span of a sentence he'd gone from being one of the gang to the leader of it. His squad was his family. They were integral to the development of our young protagonist, and each's influence touched him in some way.

 

"Jawohl. Of course, Captain. It will be ours."

 

After saluting crisply and being dismissed, Toov wheeled around in an about-face, sauntering off towards his squad's small cluster of tents in the siege camp. The flicker of their fire glinted off the slimy mud of the camp,as the gathered warriors sharpened their blades, or carried out the seemingly meaningless pre-battle rituals common amongst career soldiers. Eating a certain meal... rubbing a special trinket... humming the same tune as they got ready. It was customary.

 

These activities died down at the site of Toov, and the men and women all stood from their lounging places, mustering into a shabby line. The sergeant had returned from the command pavilion. That meant they were headed to battle soon.

 

"The toy soldiers march again, Sergeant?" came the inquiry, finally, from Rynir. The dunmer was tall, about Toov's height and much thinner. As for the complexities of Elven aging, he was considered as young as Toov. As unlikely as it may have seemed, the two were best friends. The Two Towers of the mercenary group, and also two of it's youngest members.

That wasn't their only connection though. They were both orphans in their own way. Exiles even. Toov wasn’t allowed home until the end of his two years, or he would risk losing his position as heir. Rynir, alternatively, had been disowned by his parents and banished from the Dark Elven lands. Back to back the two would fight, surrounded oftentimes by number far greater than their own. They were shield brothers-no, they were nearly blood brothers. No matter the odds, not matter how bad things got, Toov knew that Rynir would always have his back. A Dark Elf and a Nord. Backwards, right?

 

-And so they entered the breach. Arrows whizzed past the squad as they rushed through the crumbling fortifications, and through the smoke and dusk a wall of defenders met their advance. Typical. After an hour of intense fighting the squad, along with their steady stream of reinforcements from the main army, had established a foothold in the courtyard of the bastion. Battered, bruised and exhausted they rallied around the breach in the wall, their previous gateway into hell. Everything was going as planned. All they had to do was hold position and maintain the breach's security. Easy enough.

 

...Or so they thought. It started when Rynir stood from his spot under a nearby tree, elven ears twitching. Through the smoke, shadowy figures began to appear. The cold hiss of steel from a scabbard, that of Rynir's longsword, caught the attention of his squadmates. The small band of mercenaries gathered together as the shadows drew nearer. The tension was so palpable that it would've snapped the neck of lesser folk. They were surrounded. Somehow, the defenders had made their way outside the wall to complete their ambush. A death trap.

The high-pitched "thwing!" of an arrow being released broke the dreadful silence, followed by a heavy thud and gasp. Everything seemed to reduce to slow motion as Rynir stared in horror at his chest, where the fletchings and shaft protruded. The tall Dark Elf fell to his knees with a heavy clank of armour. Another arrow flew through the mist and smoke, burying itself next to the first. The force sent the elf sprawling onto his back, reaching up towards the sky. Grasping for air, and for his life.

 

"NO!" was the desperate cry of Toov, watching his closest friend incapacitated so. His face was paled and frozen a visage of terror, panic, and grief.

 

Instinctively, the squad broke ranks, charging into the enemy positions. Toov turned his grief into anger, swinging Dreyrugr about in a fury that would cower a dremora. The shadows, Rangers, fell to the blades of the squad. Toov was covered in blood by the end as he rushed back to the fallen Rynir, collapsing onto his knees beside his Dark Elf companion. Tears began to stream down the giant's face as the others quickly lifted Rynir upon their shoulders and left the scene. Toov followed behind the squad, feverishly rubbing his hands together and tearing at his long hair.

 

Back at the field hospital, the squad gathered solemnly outside the tent's entrance. Toov stormed out from the inside, throwing his sergeant's helmet in rage since the orderlies had escorted him out. Why couldn't they understand that Rynir was his best friend? He wasn't about to let the Dark Elf die if there was -anything- he could do about it. How had he let this happen? The squad was his responsibility as sergeant. How had he let this happen, to his best friend of all people?

He fumed for what felt like days, before the field surgeon exited the tent, quickly closing the flap closed behind him. Toov rose his gaze from the blood-soaked mud to meet the surgeon's eyes, a faint spark of hope gleaming deep inside.

 

It was quickly snuffed as the surgeon managed no more than a solemn shake of the head.

 

Dead. Rynir was dead.

Toov had let him die.

 

The silence was deafening before Toov finally manage to shake off his paralysis. He left without a word, making his way back to his tent. Everything he owned (not much to speak off) was quickly thrown together and tied into a bundle, slung over his shoulder. His life as a mercenary was over. There was nothing left in it for him. A void.

As he made his way from the camp in brooding silence, more thoughts began to ring in his mind.

 

What if the priests were right? Toov had admittedly never had much faith in the gods... and as far as he knew neither was Rynir. Was his friend condemned to burn forever for not having believed? Was their anything Toov could do to prevent such?

 

The questions smouldered like coals in his heart. A decision was made that very moment: Toov would set out on pilgrimage. He would save Rynir's soul whatever the personal cost. He would not lose his friend and then let his soul burn for eternity. It would have broken him to even consider that reality. He had to prevent it. He had to.

And so our large son of Skyrim set off into the countryside.

Kyne's Rest
Village of Hyr
Southern Falkreath

It had only been about a week since Baldir had returned home to the misty valleys of Falkreath, where the roar of furnaces and din of smiths hard at work filled the air from dawn till dusk. His journey from Highrock had been long, but productive: as fate (or Kyne) would have it, he discovered that his journey home -at least as far as Whiterun- was a pilgrim's path. Built in the First Era by dedicants to the Nordic Gods, this ancient road snaked through most of the holds, following the mythical path of Ysgramor's invasion before finally ending at the blessed and blossoming Gildergreen tree at Whiterun's heart.

Here, the fires of religious zeal and Nordic pride were kindled in the young Gaesgro heir. Exposed to both the beauty and hardships of Skyrim beyond the misty valleys of his home, Baldir came to appreciate the proud heritage of his people, and the fervency of their devotion to their gods. Further still, for the first time in his life, he began to read and truly understand many of the religious texts and tales. It was like a door to a new world had been opened to him.

The whole week since the return to Hyr had been spent in celebration- this too was tradition for the Gaesgro tribe. Having returned home alive from his two year rite of passage, Baldir was now officially considered heir to the thanedom of Hyr. By day, there were competitions if all sorts: everything from mining, smelting, and cart loading to forging, axe throwing, and even foot and horse races. As night fell, the mead casks were broken out and nearly everyone had their fill. A ceremony was held to dub Baldir as one of his father's housecarls. Everything was exactly as it should be.

On the sixth day, ill news reached the village in the form of a royal messenger bearing the seal of Prince Jorunn. A foreign army of invaders had made landfall, and burned their way to Windhelm, sacking the city and slaying High Queen Mabjaarn and Crown Princess Nurnhilde. Despite Falkreath's allegiance to the Kingdom of Western Skyrim, any true son or daughter of Skyrim knew that a foreign invader was a threat to them all. Further still, the Gaesgro tribe was no stranger to combating the Akaviri. Centuries before, the first Akaviri invasion had been stopped at Pale Pass, just a short journey from Hyr. To answer the call to arms, Thane Tolfdir ordered the mobilization of his banner forces-  local men and women (for the daughters of Skyrim frequently marched to war with the men) sworn to take up arms in the Toov name. They would ride to Riften and bolster the defenses there, and push the Akaviri back into the frozen waters from whence they came.

 +++

A few months later...
Near Ebonheart
Stonefalls
Morrowind

For weeks they had pursued their foe- weary and demoralized from such a long forced march through foreign terrain, until finally the sons and daughters of Skyrim caught up to the Akaviri invaders just outside of the Dunmer city of Ebonheart. After only a few hours of rest, the Nords assembled into their battle lines, and crested the hill they had used to mask their arrival.

As the dragon banners were hoisted, a voice from Skyrim's past rose up:

"I am Ysmir, Dragon of the North. The Ash King. Like you, I was born into this world- a world of unceasing war, and endless terrors, but with a nation of men at its heart. A bastion of hope and courage. Skyrim.

Since the arrival of these Akaviri invaders, we have been weakened and exposed. Forever on the defensive. But no longer!


Arise! Arise, sons and daughters of Skyrim! Now, we stand ready to purge the evil that dare set foot on Tamriel's soil! Follow me, and we will banish this darkness! I swear this, as your ancestor!"


With a shout that shook the very ground, the warriors of Skyrim fell upon the rear of the Akaviri horde just as they began to breach the walls of Ebonheart.

Shields splintered.
Blades were broken.
The blood of great heroes and vile fiends intertwined in the ashen soil.


In the heat of battle, the banners of House Toov fought ferociously, doing their best to honor their small village and the Gaesgro tribe. As the front lines waxed and waned, they saw a Nordic standard fall as one of Prince Jorunn's units became overwhelmed. With fire in their hearts they made their way to the ground, and bolstered the line where it wavered. Baldir lifted the standard from the mud, and held it high. Fate would have that it bore the symbol of Kyne, and it inspired all those nearby to stand firm.

And so they did, even as the battle lines ground to a halt. Even when the Argonians arrived with two legions of Shellbacks, and the three races finally put the Akaviri to the blade. One Dunmer general is said to have observed the action, and when issuing orders for reinforcements, said "Rally there, to the Nords standing like a steel wall!" (Some Dunmer officers rumor that he really said "those big dumb brutes" instead of Nords, but when told to the same "big dumb brutes", a slight word change seemed more political).

For their courage, Prince Jorunn informed Baldir and his soldiers that the banner would be returned to their village, alongside  news of their triumph and a gift of coin.

"When the cold of winter comes,

Starless night will cover day

In the vieling of the sun,

We will walk in bitter rain.

 

But in dreams,

I can hear your name

And in dreams,

We will meet again."

 

 

After the victory was properly celebrated, East Skyrim's armies marched home, thinking of peace but preparing for war. With the enemy thrust into the sea, eyes now turned to the throne in Windhelm. The two princes were at odds over who should claim it. Prince Jorunn advocated for diplomacy and rule through wisdom- a means to keep this fledgling "Ebonheart Pact" together and to one day reunite East and West Skyrim under one banner once more. His brother, Fildgor felt that to rule by force of arms was the true way of Skyrim. Inevitably more conflict was to ensue.

 

Things finally came to a head as Prince Fildgor and his Stormfist Brigade clashed with the loyalist forces of Prince Jorunn, with Baldir and his newly named “Kynesguard” Regiment among them.. Put down as quickly as they rose up, the Stormfists were pushed west, out of Eastmarch and into scattered pockets of resistance and roving bands of brigands. Finally, the warriors of Hyr were free to return home.

 

But winding down the cart paths and remnants of old Imperial roads from days of yore, they found the smoke rising from where their village out to be a bit larger than usual. Anxiously, the weary travelers quickened their march. It was too late.

 

Instead of returning home as triumphant heroes, Baldir Toov and his soldiers returned to their quiet corner of Falkreath to find little more than corpses and ash waiting for them. The Stormfists, that wicked regiment, had beaten them home. Worse still, amidst the scattered and terrified survivors, Thane Tolfdir, Lady Auda, and the young Lady Ana were not accounted for. After clambering through the rubble and sifting through the ashes of Kyne’s Rest, Baldir discovered the worst: his father, mother, and youngest sister had been shackled and executed before their home was burnt down around them. Their charred corpses still clung to one another, wrists still enchained.

 

This was hardly the homecoming any of them had imagined.

 

+++

 

After days of mourning and ensuring the proper burial rights had been met for his people, Toov finally held the funeral procession for his own family. Keeping with tradition, theirs was somber march of the fallen’s remains, bore upon the shields of their warriors into the Toov family crypts below the manor. One of the survivors, the village’s chief blacksmith’s daughter, put her skaald training to use in honor of her fallen liege lord and his family:

 

Nú on théostrum licgeth Tolfdir se léofa

Now dear Tolfdir lies in darkness,

 

hæ´letha holdost.

most loyal of fighters.

 

ne sceal hearpan sweg wigend weccean;

The sound of the harp shall not wake the warrior;

 

ne winfæ´t gylden guma sceal healdan,

nor shall the man hold a golden wine-cup,

 

ne god hafoc geond sæ´l swingan,

nor good hawk swing through the hall,

 

ne se swifta mearh burhstede beatan.

nor the swift horse stamp in the courtyard.

 

Bealocwealm hafað fréone frecan forth onsended

An evil death has set forth the noble warrior

 

giedd sculon singan gléomenn sorgiende

A song shall sing sorrowing minstrels on

 

Falkreath thæt he ma no wære

in Falkreath that he is no more,

 

his dryhtne dyrest and maga deorost.

to his lord dearest and kinsmen most beloved.

 

As her words were carried off into the mists Baldir lay a single black flower, another Todesfall bloom, at the foot of the stone door sealing his family’s tomb. As he rose to his feet, another song lifted from the gathered remains of the Gaesgro tibe.

 

Langt lifðu en

Long live the thane

 

Megi ríki hans varir að eilífu

May his reign last forever

 

Megi styrkur hans …

May his strength …

 

Mistakast hann aldrei.

Fail him never.

 

And so Baldir Toov became Thane of Hyrr, Lord of Kyne’s Rest. Defender of the Southern March of Falkreath.