Both men sat in silence, the air so awkward one could cut it with a knife.
“So…
Do you have any plans for today?”
Jon shrugged.
“Not anymore, I don’t.
What about you?
What’s an Imperial planning to do by joining the companions?”
“Well, I was told of the task just last night, so my plans also went with the wind.” Septimus leaned in the creaky chair.
“As for what I’m doing here, I left Cyrodiil, came to Skyrim to start a new life, and joined the companions to learn how to fight from famous warriors”
Jon looked at him for a long moment, sighed, then called over the barkeep and asked for a mead.
“Isn’t it a bit early for a drink, suns barely up?”
“HA, there’s no better moment for a drink than the present, trust me on that!”
Septimus reached over and plucked a string on the lute; it let out a clear, vibrating note.
“What about you?
You live in Whiterun, right?
What’s life like here?”
“Aye, that I do.
Have all my life.
We Battle-Borns have been here since the beginning.
Along with the Gray-Manes.
Our families been close as kin for generations.
Now seems we can scarce look at each other without comin’ to blows.
Petty and foolish, that.”
“What’s the conflict all about anyway, how did it start?” Septimus asked, intrigued.
The mead arrived, and Jon took a long sip.
“Depends on who you’re asking.
My family says the Grey-Manes are treacherous, money-hungry scum, while they say my ancestor stole some wench and so we have no honour, so, who knows.”
“Hmm, neither sounds like a good enough reason for a generational conflict, but nords be doing nord stuff, I guess.”
Jon raised his mead in salute.
“That they do!” He took another sip and looked Spetimus in the eye.
“So, why did you really come all the way to Skyrim?
It can’t be only to join the companions, right?”
“The short answer would be to seek my fortunes.”
“Ah, so it’s gold you’re after, then?
You need only ask about.
Plenty of folk in Whiterun with too much fat and gold to be bothered doing anything for themselves”
Septimus looked at Jon, intrigued.
“Like what?”
“Undercutting the companions for one!
If you have the courage and the mettle that is.”
Septimus rolled his eyes.
“Come on, Jon, you’re a clever man; you know that never works, there’s not enough steel in Skyrim to save you from the consequences.”
Jon laughed.
“True that!
There’s also completing some more, let’s say, dubious requests.”
“No, no, I’m not interested; I’m an honest mercenary!” He moved his gaze away from Jon.
“So what you’re saying is you’ll kill, but only for enough gold?”
Septimus placed a fist by his mouth and coughed.
“I never said that!”
Jon guffawed, slapping his hand on the table.
“HA, I like you!
A man to my own taste!”
. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
====================.
After their talk, they both left the tavern and began wandering the streets of Whiterun.
“Jon, could you tell me if you have any plans for this week, so that I can prepare?”
“I told you, I have no plans; we are going to spend the week idling about, let the old man waste his coin!”
“About that, is there a reason he hired guards for you?
Did something happen recently?”
At his question, Jon cringed.
“Nothing happened; the old man has probably heard some things and grown paranoid!”
Septimus did not believe him for a second; it was much too suspicious.
“If you say so.
Are we heading back to the tavern in the evening?”
“In the evening?
Of course not, we’re going at lunch!”
“You really like the place, huh?
Any other one where you can get a drink?”
Jon shook his fist.
“There are a few other ones, but you’ll want the Bannered Mare.
See old Hulda, she’ll keep you swimming in mead.
But mind the bard, Mikael.
Poncy little milk drinker, that one!”
Septimus frowned, finding the name familiar.
“Mikael, you don’t like him?”
Jon frowned, seemingly displeased at the thought of mentioning him.
“Man gives bards a bad name.
We Nords have a long history as warrior poets.
I am proud to count myself among them.
But Mikael…
He sings only for gold and the affections of wenches.
He dishonors our traditions!”
“I see, what’s that about being a warrior poet, heard you’ve got a reputation for it!”
Jon beamed.
“That’s right!
I am a proud warrior poet; not only do I write the greatest of epics, but also take part in their very creation!”
Septimus looked at him dubiously.
“You don’t say…
So how many of these epics have you written?”
Jon’s smile froze.
“A few are a work in progress…”
“If you say so, I understand the poet part, but what of the warrior?” Septius smirked.
“Ah, I am trained in combat; therefore, unlike a measly bard, I am also a warrior!
A Warrior Poet!” He spoke loud enough for other people passing by to turn and look at him.
“Alright, take it easy, everyone’s watching!
Why not join the companions then?
Many warriors dream of the chance, no?”
Jon once again froze awkwardly.
“Well, about that, I did intend to join but, well, some things happened.”
“What things?”
“That is for me to know and for you to find out!”
Septimus shrugged. Find the original chapter at g.com.
“Keep your mysteries then.
So if we’re going to idle about, do you want to go train?
Make good use of our time?”
Jon nodded.
“A good idea.
Let us go to my house; we have a training ground there.”
“Why not go to Jorrvaskr?
The training grounds are open to all warriors.”
“No…
Let us not; my own are more than good enough!” Jon walked ahead.
Septimus narrowed his eyes, finding Jon’s avoidance of anything companion-related somewhat…sus.
.
====================.
It didn’t take long for them to reach the Battle-Born estate; it was built inside the rich district, and it was the classical image of a rich man’s house, large with a tall fence surrounding the yard, high enough to not allow passersby to see inside.
They did not enter the house proper, but took a side door directly to the training grounds located in a secluded corner of the garden.
Jon turned to Septimus.
“Alright, here we are, shall we spar?”
“Easy there, let’s warm up first.
Also, do you have a staff or training spear I could use?”
Jon nodded and went to fetch one for him.
It was different from the one he used with the companions, but it would do.
Together they began with some light exercise followed by some not-so-light weight training.
Both of them were breathing hard; the sun was high up in the sky.
“I’m already warmed up.
What about you?” Jon asked.
Septimus wiped his sweat and picked up his training weapon.
“Couldn’t be warmer; let’s do it.”
They took up arms and stood facing each other; Septimus stood with his knees bent, his spear held down low, tip facing Jon’s legs.
Jon wore his iron armour and held a classical Nord one-handed sword.
Septimus was the first to move; he charged straight at Jon, who tried to move back while swinging to create space.
Seeing Jon’s retreat, Septimus pushed harder, stabbing at Jon’s midsection while simultaneously flanking him.
The hit did not land, as Jon was fast enough to deflect the strike; what he did not expect was Septimus’ hard flank.
As the spear bounced back, Jon tried to turn, but his footing was unstable.
He grabbed his sword with both hands and tried to stand sideways to minimize his profile, but it was too late; Septimus had already struck.
His attack was fast; the wooden tip seemed to blur as it went past Jon’s guard and hit him in the collarbone.
“OUCH!
Fuck, that will bruise!”
Septimus lowered his weapon and offered some advice.
“Nice one, Jon.
You’re a bit passive tho; try to attack maybe?”
Jon looked offended.
“When was I supposed to attack?
You ran at me, stabbed right at my crotch!
By the time I blocked, you were almost behind me!”
“I wasn’t stabbing your crotch!”
“It sure looked like it to me!!” Jon said while gesticulating wildly with his sword.
Septimus laughed out loud, almost choking on his spit.
“Whatever you say, Jon, want to go again?”
Jon went back into a stance, this time looking more serious.
“You’re goddamn right I want to go again; let me teach you how a warrior poet fights his battles!”
And so they faced each other until dinner, and Septimus did learn one thing: warrior poets have very little warrior in them.