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Post by rig on Nov 7, 2012 5:12:56 GMT -8
[style=font-family: megrim; color: #000; font-size: 32px; margin-top: -20px;]the rigours of title ---
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sevrend had never liked whiterun.
her sloping green meadows, the harmonious murmur of her rivers. in those early years he'd found her too safe, too secure. the fires burning in his young blood had yearned for the front lines, craved the silvery thrill of adrenaline.
it was for hjaalmarch that his spirit had called. it still was.
now, more than a decade later, that initial rejection had died a slow death. the jarl still thought whiterun hold pedestrian to the point of tedium, but he no longer fled her for it, no longer felt so desperately the need to escape into carnage. now that safety prickled him with all the warmth of home, swelling his spirit with the memories of mead, reverly and kinship.
whiterun had become a sanctuary.
with a prolonged screech the doors of dragonsreach bowed before him, granting sevrend passage into the keep. the halls were as they had always been; bustling with the busy work of servants and the dancing shadows spawned of the braziers. the tables were the same, set with the understated finery so particularly charming of this city.
most of all, jarl balgruff - friend, mentor and brother - was the same, unkempt and bear-like upon his throne.
unable to contain the roguish mischief from his grin, servend approached with ambling steps, taking only a few before calling out so that the entire throne room might hear, his tone jovial.
"fair maiden, i had not expected to find you sitting upon the jarl's seat. though i must confess that you are an improvement. you are so much prettier than your lord. tell me, are you betrothed? i may see fit to make you lady of morthal before my stay here is at an end."
wider still his smile grew, the fullness of his love for dragonsreach enveloping him.
"it has been too long, brother."
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Post by Balgruuf the Greater . on Nov 7, 2012 23:05:08 GMT -8
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Be my faithful enemy. - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“You should be so lucky! I’ve heard my dowry is massive.” Balgruuf shot back at his friend, voice hearty with cheer. It had been a long time since he’d seen Sevrend and he was a welcome sight. Setting the tax-collection documents Avenicci had just handed him aside and heaving himself off his throne; Balgruuf embraced his friend, patting him on the shoulder.
The man was smaller than him, always had been and always would be as his Breton blood dictated, but Balgruuf respected him nonetheless. He’d earned his place as Jarl, it had not been his right as it was Balgruuf’s, and that struck a chord with him. Balgruuf held no fury that the ‘illustrious’ position of Jarl was held by a son of Highrock rather than Skyrim.
Perhaps Sevrend is exactly what we all need. Perhaps it is him who’ll end this trifle with the elves. Balgruuf endeavored to keep his thoughts positioned towards the future; towards something worth working for.
“Sevrend, Sevrend, Sevrend…you’ve brought the stench of that swamp you live in with you.” He chuckled, “I’m surprised you were even able to leave, isn’t everything there sinking into the muck!” With a wave from Balgruuf, two servants went about quickly clearing a portion of the long-table and bringing cups and pitchers of mead. When Balgruuf had heard Sevrend would be by Whiterun, he’d made sure to have plenty of Maven Blackbriar’s brew brought up from the cellars.
“But you speak the truth, as always. It has been far, far too long. How’ve you been, my brother?” He asked, settling himself into a chair. It was informal, perhaps even a bit impolite – but Balgruuf knew he would not be judged for it. This was a celebration of renewed kinship after all!
“You must forgive the tone of the city, right now. Everyone’s been holding their breath here, hoping for another night of peace as I’m sure you can imagine.” Balgruuf gestured to the mead before them, “Finest brew Skyrim has to offer. Shall we have a toast?”
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Post by rig on Dec 4, 2012 15:26:33 GMT -8
the rigours of title --- [atrb=border, 0, true]
322 words | private - balgruff the greater | mature content | [atrb=border,0,true]
“i carry it with pride.”sevrend declared boldly.
“from the sinking cities of hjaalmarch, all the way into your sovngarde upon my death. i’ll wear this stench as a mark of honour wherever i go.” though spoken with a tongue lathered in jest and merriment, there was a significant part of truth to the jarl’s statement.
if it was for the stink of her bogs that hjaalmarch was known, sevrend would reek of mud and stagnant water. if her sweeping tundras and southern farmlands were her trademark, sevrend would take up a hoe and turn the soil. the hjaal lands were as much a part of the jarl as his blood and viscera.
sevrend was hjaalmarch.
“as busy as always, brother.” sevrend settled into a seat across from balgruff before continuing.
“ensuring neither stormcloak nor imperial walk the byways of your land is a taxing undertaking, as i’m sure you’re aware.” that, above all other things, was what sevrend respected in the great bear of whiterun. at times it seemed he was the only other who saw the fullness of the world. so often their peers were insular of mind, consumed by the petty dealings of the civil war, indecisive to the point of indifference when it came to facing down true threats.
the lords of skyrim were struck still when it came to matters of dragonfire.
for a moment his mind turned to helgen. that conversation would come, but not yet.
“ha! at least your city has her high stone walls, balgruff. “ sevrend grinned wryly before breaking into a wizened chuckle as he took up his cup, raising it before his fellow jarl.
“may the people of whiterun suffer well. may they laugh boldly in the face of death and strike joyfully when these dark times demand it.” a decidedly hjaalian toast. they joined goblets with a ringing clang and drank deep.
“what of you, brother? how fares your rule?”
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