Brynja WhiteHand
Race: Nord
Sex: Female
Age: 29
Family Origins: Whiterun, Skyrim
Birthsign: The Steed
:
Brynja is a towering woman, standing in at 6’8. All her life she has been teased for being unnaturally tall, and most folks can’t seem to look past that. Most people, or rather the simple folk flock to the topic of her height like a beacon. Even the boys teased her relentlessly, calling her “giantess”, or “Troll”. When someone manages to look past her impressive stature, they take in a pair of scrutinizing cloud-grey eyes. Her skin is pale despite long hours spent under the sun travelling. Tresses of the murkiest copper-brown tumble in loose waves to her shoulders, though she pulls the top layer back to keep the hair from her eyes.
When looking at her, it is clear that she is a Nord, through-and-through. Her face has a distinctive oblong shape, like a horse. Her face is gaunt with high pointed cheekbones and a long thin nose. Her lips are thin, which seemingly bear a permanent frown. A set of practically non-existent, straight eyebrows further accentuate any emotions. A gnarled scar stretches from the left side of her chin to the left side of her brow.
Beneath a full suit of steel armor, which covets her womanly figure from prying eyes, is a body hardened from the constant wear of sporting her armor. When it is time for peace and quiet, Brynja favors a leather jerkin, and a pair of leather trousers. If one were lucky enough to catch a peek of her completely undressed, they would discover a series of scars littering her upper torso. One such scar, runs from her collarbone down to the pit of her arm, where she was cut in a brawl. Even her hands are adorned with faded scars.
Equipment:
- Steel Longsword
- Steel Chainmail
- Steel Plate Armor
- Steel Helm
- Steel Gauntlets
- Steel Greaves
- Wool Cloak
- Leather Boots
- Leather Jerkin and Trousers
- Leather Belt
- Leather Gloves with Fur Lining
- Iron Dagger
Misc. Possessions:
- Rucksack
- Coin purse with 75 Septims
- Flagon of Whisky
- Dull Knife
- Letter of Release - A letter from Rorik decreeing she has been released from his service so she may pursue her life dreams.
- Leather Journal
- Quill
- Ink Bottle
- Key to Family Home
- 1 Potion of Cure Poison
- 1 Potion of Cure Disease
- 1 Potion of Healing
- Roll of Bandages
- 2 Bone Needles
- Spool of Thread
Family & Associates:
Wulfgar - Father -
DeceasedEydis - Mother, 46yrs of age
Jorrid - Eldest Brother -
DeceasedIvor - Second Eldest Brother, 32 yrs of age
Elyse - Youngest Sister, 23 yrs of age
Mige - Youngest Brother -
DeceasedCerys - Altmer Woman that taught Brynja first aid and alchemy
Rorik Bone-Breaker - Thane of Windhelm, Brynja served as his Housecarl
Favoured Skills:
Highly Proficient Two Handed Blade - Brynja has practiced since a very young age with her brothers. While they often shunned her from their games during their younger years, that didn’t stop her from practicing alone and then forcing her way into their games. Eventually, Ivor decided to take her under his wing and show her how to properly swing a blade. Over the years, she upgraded from a pointy-stick to an actual longsword. During the civil war, Brynja didn't engage in battle as much as she would have liked, but her skill grew when she came into the service of Rorik Bone-Breaker. It comes as no surprise when she is engaged in battle how much ease she has when wielding the weapon, it like an extension of her arm.
Highly Proficient Restoration - Growing up, her mother did her best to keep Brynja from swords and studying the art of war. Alas, it all seemed in vain. However, she can say that she did teach her daughter the importance of Restoration magic. She pushed her daughter to study spell tomes as much as possible. Any Restoration spell time she came across became the next lesson for her to learn. Her mother taught her the importance of knowing how to heal herself, and others, how to protect herself through wards, but also the power of causing the undead to flee.
During the Civil War of Skyrim, Cerys taught the art of healing through first aid. Brynja treated the Legion soldiers for injuries, where she tended to their physical wounds with poultices, stitches, cleaning the wounds, and on the more than rare occasion, performing an amputation. She prefers to treat wounds medically before resorting to magical means.
Moderate Heavy Armor - While Brynja has not worn armor for as long as she has wielded a sword, over the past seven years, she has ventured little from wearing steel plate armor. The more protection ensures her the chance of living longer.
Somewhat Proficient Speech - Brynja’s mother not only pushed Restoration on her daughter, but she also compelled her to learn her letters. By doing so, Brynja became well-versed in song, lore, and sagas in her lessons. Her mother wanted nothing more than for her daughter to become a well-mannered lady.
Somewhat Proficient Alchemy - A strange sight, truly. Picture 6’8 Brynja bent over an alchemy table. She learned how to grind ingredients into potions and poisons during her time spent in the Civil War. Though she does not practice it as often as she could. It is a tedious, though helpful, task that she has little patience for. She learned Alchemy from Cerys, an Altmer woman assigned to the same unit as her.
Spell List
- Fast Healing
- Close Wounds
- Greater Ward
- Heal Other
- Turn Undead
- Circle of Protection
- Grand Healing
History:
Born in Whiterun, Skyrim to an affluent family, Brynja is the third-born out of five children. Her mother, Eydis, hailed from Solitude and her father, Wulfgar came from Winterfell. Her parents met at the College of Winterhold where they became prestigious members. Eydis excelled in Restoration while Wulfgar possessed an uncanny knack for Destruction. They left the college after discovering Eydis was heavy with child. Within two months, they had relocated to Whiterun. They settled down into a quiet life, where Eydis found herself called upon more frequently than she imagined for her skills, while Wulfgar opened a shop of his own, selling arcane curiosities, spell tomes, potions, and alchemical supplies. He elicited the skills of his wife whenever possible for ailing clients.
Brynja was third-born, her eldest siblings being Jorrid, and Ivor. Eydis had hoped for a little girl after birthing two sons, and she soon became the apple of her mother’s eye. Even Wulfgar doted on her, and it became evident who the family favorite had become. After Brynja, her mother bore two more children, Elyse, and Mige. Brynja favored her little brother, and often times, Brynja, Mige and Ivor could be found in each other’s company, while Jorrid ran amok outside with the other ruffians. Unfortunately, Mige was a sickly child, and passed before his fifth name day. Eydis turned her attention to Elyse, as the fear and worry of losing her youngest daughter drew out an over-protective nature.
Brynja spent days on end tagging after Ivor, where she would accompany him to watch the soldiers practice their daily training routines. She yearned to follow after her brother, Ivor. She admired him, and the two became inseparable, save for when it came for her lessons. Like her mother, Brynja discovered the ability to cast restorative magic. Elated that at least one of her children could wield magic, Eydis pushed her daughter to learn the art of healing. Yet Brynja fought tooth-and-nail, she wanted nothing more than to swing a blade with Ivor.
One night, after a series of arguments with her mother, Brynja stormed off to her room where she flung herself onto her bed wailing, not before long there was a knock on her door. It was Ivor. He had come to console her. As he comforted his little sister, explaining to her that their mother only wanted the best for her, she confided in him that she didn't want to learn magic. She wanted to fight, to swing a blade, and to one day, be an honorable knight. There, in the still darkness of her room, Ivor promised to teach her how to defend herself. The only condition? Finish her lessons each day that mother gave her, and he would teach her the proper way to fight.
And so, for the next several years, Brynja studied restoration as her mother insisted, along with other proper etiquette of associated with a woman of status; singing, dancing, and the like. At night, she practiced with Ivor. She drew the attention from the boys in Whiterun as she sprouted like an oak tree, and towered over Ivor when she reached eight-and-ten years. They teased her, and called her names like “giantess”, and “troll-face”. Even her own brothers teased her for her rapid growth.
When the Civil War came, Brynja was two-and-twenty. She helped run the shop with her father, and provided what healing help she could when her mother wasn't around. However, a family struggle came to light after Ulfric Stormcloak escaped from Markarth. Growing up, Brynja never took notice of her father’s love of Talos. Rather, she never cared. Religion and politics held little concern for Brynja. In a strange way, Jorrid supported the Stormcloaks for little more than the belief that Skyrim belonged to the Nords. She noticed a change in her eldest brother, he had no kindness in his heart for any Man, Mer or Beast that wasn’t a Nord. Yet, her father’s support for the rebellion stemmed from hatred towards the Thalmor. Who had the authority to say who he could worship? His father, and his father before him worshipped Talos, how could that be a crime? Ivor’s support lay with the Legion, he had faith in the Empire, and saw no reason for his kinsmen to change the way of life. After all, Skyrim needed the Empire. It was a family torn in half. What started out as heated dinner arguments lead to Ivor and Jorrid throwing fists at one another. After the fight, as Brynja recalled, Ivor was gone by the morning, not even a letter. Months passed without any word from Ivor. There was not a moment that passed where Brynja did not find herself thinking of him. To make matters worse, the division in Whiterun led to an uproar, not only amongst her own family, but every person in Whiterun seemed to have taken sides. Any Altmers in the city were regarded with suspicion for being Thalmor spies, and the Dunmers were treated worse. Neighbors held one another in a gaze of suspicion and contempt, no one was safe.
By now, Elyse was eight-and-ten years of age, old enough to take care of herself. Eydis closed the shop shortly after when Wulfgar and Jorrid left to join the rebellion. She elicited the help of both of her daughters to help treat the wounded soldiers that made it to Whiterun. That was her first taste of the war. There were men lying in cots with festering wounds made from axes and swords. Some were pinpricked with arrows, their lungs struggling to breathe, while others were missing entire limbs from a battle axe or longsword. The stench of death hung in there. She had read many a tale of how glorious death was in battle, but this… there was no glory here. Only the smell of shit, piss, and blood. For the first few months after her father’s departure, Brynja did little else except tend to the wound, her hands a continuous white-gold light of restoration.
A turning point came in Brynja’s life when a courier brought news of her brother, Ivor. The letter was vague in nature, but was intended for her mother. Ivor had been
missing in action for the past month, in other words, he was dead and no one had found his body. Brynja hid the letter from their mother, hoping to spare her the grief it would cause. After losing Mige, she worried her mother could not handle the stress. Instead, Brynja decided to head for Solitude, and enlist as a healer. She had nothing more than hope to hang onto, that she would somehow find her brother safe and sound.
The Legion were desperate for any healers by this point in the war, even though they had won many battles so far. She would come to learn that despite whose side her kinsmen fought for, they were merciless on the field of battle. Brynja swore her oath of allegiance to the Legion where she was quickly assigned to a mobile unit. There, she would travel with the soldiers, and tend to them as needed. However, she wasn't the only healer.
An Altmer woman by the name of Cerys Anduiel, guided the young Brynja in healing the wounded. Eydis taught her daughter everything she knew at restoring the body with magic, but that was as far as her knowledge extended. After the unit’s first clash with the Stormcloaks, Brynja came to take care of a red-haired farm boy from Falkreath. His arm was severed at the elbow, blood spurting as he screamed aloud. She knew if she couldn’t stop the bleeding fast, the lad would die before her eyes. She stood there, frozen in fear as the soldier before crept closer to death’s door. It was then that Cerys shouldered aside, shoving a roll of bandages into her hands.
“Is this what you signed on for? To watch people die while you stand around and do nothing?” The Altmer’s words cut her sharp.
“I…” “Quick! Hand me that pitcher.” She barked holding out her hand as she pinched a tourniquet just above the severed limb. Without so much as a quip, Brynja passed the pitcher as told, her eyes on Cerys custard-yellow hands. She poured water over the bloody stump, before turning to find Brynja unconscious on the floor of the tent.
From that evening on, Cerys instructed Brynja on the art of first aid, and how to handle traumatic injuries. She slowly worked over her inner fears, and before long, the two became an effective team. The blood covering her face and clothes no longer bothered her. Cerys taught her how to stitch wounds and how to clean them, how to amputate limbs, and even alchemy. As Cerys explained, while Restoration magic was beneficial to know, sometimes a wound could be easily treated without the use of magic. So Brynja learned how to make potions and poisons, what herbs could heal, and relieve pain, and what herbs could kill.
An entire year passed as Brynja served the Legion. She hadn’t forgot her original reason for being there, she still searched for Ivor. Though, seemingly everyone she asked, had no idea who Ivor was. That was, until her unit was sent to Markarth on a mission to provide support. Another attack was rumored to happen from the Stormcloaks any day, and they would need the extra men. The Legion had hold of the city, and refused to let it fall into enemy hands.
When she arrived, the carved stone city did little to impress her. She had but one concern on her mind. Her brother. All hope seemed lost until one man, pointed her in the direction of a tent near the water. As she pushed open the canvas flap, she saw her brother seated on a cot. He had changed drastically since she last saw him, almost unrecognizable behind his face gaunt from the horrors of war, even a thick scraggly beard reached his chest. She was overjoyed to find him, and they shared joy in their reunion, though it was a rather bleak one filled with moments of heavy silence. However, Ivor had news of their father, and of Jorrid. Both were slaughtered in battle during the battle for Riften. He had been taken captive during the battle at Markarth, yet due to his injuries, he was not immediately killed, and when the Legion recaptured the city, he learned of the news of their father and brother through a comrade that had witnessed their deaths on the field of battle. The war ended shortly after with the Legion taking back Windhelm and declaring the Stormcloaks defeated.
Brynja returned to Whiterun where she found her mother, and sister waiting for her. Eydis’ once fiery copper hair had lost its luster, now peppered with gray hair. Elyse, while she relished in the fact that her sister had come home, had fallen in love with a local guard. She rarely saw much of her sister during her time at home, and her mother seemed a ghost of the person she once knew. Brynja felt guilty for leaving, in all those years spent searching for her brother, she hadn’t bothered once to write home. Eydis refrained from chastisement, yet her eyes followed Brynja like a hawk, a look of disbelief on her aged features. Much to her surprise and relief, Ivor returned home weeks later, and for a few months, the family tried to move past the death of her father and brother. The house was filled with an eerie energy, one mixed with sadness and a ray of happiness.
One particular evening, Ivor pulled Brynja aside, where he revealed to her that a close comrade of his was rewarded with the position of Thane of Windhelm for his outstanding service in the war, and he was in need of a dutiful Housecarl. Originally, his comrade had extended the offer to Ivor, but he declined, insisting that he had had enough fighting to last a lifetime. However, he had recommended Brynja in his stead, and if she wished to pursue her dream of becoming a swordswoman, she had her chance. Even though the war brought a new perspective to her on the glory of war, she still held onto her childhood dream of being a fierce and widely-respected warrior. She readily agreed, and caught a carriage ride to Windhelm the following week, shaking away the cloak of grief that had surrounded her inside the family home.
Her life began anew in Windhelm, where she pledged her service to Thane Rorik Bone-Breaker. Her days were filled with a wide array of tasks. There were days where she tended to Rorik, ordering supplies for his home, hiring new help, carrying his burdens around the northern city, and the like. On other occasions the Jarl sent Rorik on missions to deal with bandits, exterminate bears or wolves causing havoc with farmers or miners, or to eliminate a rogue mage. On the first mission to exterminate a pack of wolves decimating flocks of sheep near Kyne’s Grove, Rorik invited her to accompany him. She accepted without a second to delay. So the two of them saddled up their steeds and rode south to the grove.
When they reached Kyne’s Grove, they located the farmer plagued with misfortune. He was an elderly man, Ognar Broken-Toes, who in his condition, had no ability to defend his flock of sheep. If the wolves couldn’t be stopped, he would lose his income before the winter and be forced to begging. Ognar pointed the duo in the direction of a cave, an overgrown path led to a rocky incline shrouded in the shadows of ancient pines. All the while, Brynja thought little of how much trouble a pack of wolves could be.
They reached the cave by late in the evening, they were certain it was the one from the gnawed bones of animal corpses littering the area. Rorik and Brynja dismounted, where Rorik drew his weapon. At this time, Brynja had yet to acquire her own blade despite being employed by the Legion during the war, nor had she any armor save for the leather jerkin and trousers she wore. She followed Rorik into the darkness of the cave, only to enter an expansive cavern. There was a hole in the roof of the cave, allowing light to filter in and break up the darkness. The sounds of growling and bones crunching echoed off the rock walls. Rorik moved forward, inching his way in deeper, careful not to draw attention. Ognar believed that the pack of wolves was four or five strong, but they found was nearly double.
Brynja and Rorik had cleared the entrance when the sight of the wolves feasting stifled their approach. It was in this moment that Brynja felt incredibly weak and vulnerable, why had Rorik brought her along? She would only get in the way and act as a hazard. Rorik turned once to face her, indicating she wait where she stood. He left her alone at the edge of the entrance, and continued on alone. Her anxiety skyrocketed as she realized that he intended to eliminate the pack all by himself.
When Rorik neared the wolves, he dipped behind one of the few large boulders in the cave. As she watched on in fear for her Thane, she felt her nose itch. An itch that hinted at the approach of a sneeze. Her eyes began to water as the tickle grew stronger, her mind begging her to release the sneeze, yet Brynja fought it back. Her shoulders drew up as she fought to keep quiet, her vision turning black as her eyes closed. She couldn’t do it. She let loose a loud sneeze, one so loud that the wolves stopped in their feast to look at the source of the sound. Her concern lay with Rorik, and not herself. Yet he surprised her by springing from behind the rock as the wolves turned to Brynja. He drove his sword through the nearest wolf, running the steel blade through its ribcage. Now the wolves had a new target, and wheeled about to face him. Brynja’s eyes widened in realization that she might witness his death if she chose to stand by. She raced into the opening, her arms waving above her head, lungs bellowing a fearsome cry to distract the wolves.
The fight happened so quickly that Brynja remembered only a few fragments. She remember grabbing a rock from the cave floor and pelting it at a wolf leaping for Rorik. The rock struck the wolf in the side of the head, causing it to drop to the floor. She grabbed another rock, smashing the stone into a wolf that had turned its focus on her. When the fight had ended, both Brynja and Rorik were littered with bite marks, moreso her than him. As she tended to his wounds, coming to understand that he wanted her in his company for healing purposes, not for fighting, he couldn’t help but smile at her.
“Those wolves didn’t know what to make of you.” He said, his voice sounded like gravel crunching underfoot.
“Pardon?”
“You’re so tall. I think they thought you were a giant.” Rorik’s pale blue eyes twinkled at his own remark.
“And now they’re dead.” She muttered through gritted teeth, finish off healing his hand that had once bore a series of bleeding bite marks.
“Can you swing a blade?” He asked.
“I told you I could the day you took me in as Housecarl.” She rocked back onto the heels of her boots.
“Aye, but I mean, do you
know how to hold and swing one?” He rose to his feet, his eyes traveled over the wounds that were no more.
“ ‘Course I do. Isn’t that why Ivor suggested I be your Housecarl than he?”
“Not a word of it. He said you’d serve me better as you have a knack for healing, and I see that you do now. Come, when we get back to Windhelm I’ll find you a sword.”
Her life became exciting, and while the honor of Housecarl wasn't always romantic, she finally felt that she was living her life the way she always imagined. After her first year in service, Rorik gifted her with an entire set of steel armor, complete with chainmail, helm and greaves. He insisted that were she to be his Housecarl, she would need to protect herself properly. In her spare time, dictated by Rorik, she would spar with him, or by herself using a practice dummy.
And for the next several years, she served Rorik Bone-Breaker. Until he decided to release her from her duty as Housecarl. He gave no clear explanation, though he did hint at the thought of her desire to settle down and start a family of her own. She suspected that he wished to send her away to avoid conflict with his new wife, Ethelred.
Three years into her servitude, Rorik suffered a grievous wound that nearly cost him his life. During his recovery, Brynja never left his side. Perhaps some would call her naive for what followed suit. As Rorik lay in bed for weeks on end, Brynja dressed his wounds, burn marks that covered his upper torso, forearms and legs. His mind wavered through a feverish haze, uttering incoherent words while he slept.
Brynja feared that she would lose him. She slept on the floor beside his bed during those long weeks. The attack by a rogue fire Mage had left him hanging on by a thread.
By week six, his fever broke. She remembered the afternoon distinctly to this day. She had fallen asleep reading
Ingol and the Sea-Ghosts when a hand caresses the top of her head. Brynja stirred at the sensation. She twisted around to see Rorik’s pale blue eyes gazing at her.
“B-Brynja?” He asked, his voice croaking at not having spoke for a month and two weeks.
“Rorik!” She exclaimed out of joy.
For the rest of the day, Brynja helped bathe him, dress him in fresh clothes, and prepared a bowl of hot chicken soup for him. Her heart rejoiced on seeing him recovered. She felt her persistency in overseeing his care had kept him alive, even when she thought all was lost. It would take another two weeks before Rorik had regained strength in his legs.
It was the middle of summer by then, when it happened. She remembered the way the evening sun sank lower over the west wall in the garden. The air pregnant with the fragrance of blooming flowers. Her hands curling around the stems of the lavender she harvested. Rorik expected guests for dinner, the Jarl himself, his wife and daughters, along with some friends of the Jarl that had traveled from Solitude. The banquet was to be one that rivaled the wedding of Vittoria Vicci in Solitude many years ago. The smell of roasting meat wafted through the open windows, causing her stomach to rumble. The soft footfalls of leather boots broke her concentration.
She stood to greet whoever came, and much to her surprise, she found Rorik. He had combed his brown locks, and even trimmed his beard. He wore his finest tunic, red with silver embroidery.
“My Thane, what may I do for you?” Her eyes traveled to a rose held loosely in his hand, thinking nothing of it.
“Brynja… I wanted to thank you. You have served me well these past three years. I have you to thank for my still being here. I never expected such devotion from you.” He lifted the rose, twirling it between his forefinger and thumb before extending it to her.
“Rorik, I would have done what I did regardless of your illness.” Her eyes flickered to the rose and then back to him.
“Then take this rose as a token of my affection.” He closed the gap between them, coming to stand only inches apart from her.
“...Affection?” His choice of words confused her. In all three years, he never hinted at any such emotion towards her.
“There isn’t much time before the guests arrive.” His words were lost on her as he reached out with his free hand, and cupped her chin. He stood just an inch or two shy of her. She balked at the sudden brush of his lips against hers. Nothing prying, just a peck really. But when he stepped back, he passed the rose into her hands full of lavender before turning to head inside. Rorik left her standing there alone in that fragrant garden. She knew in her heart of hearts, she wished that day would never end.
The banquet was a lively fest, Brynja had removed herself from the main table to eat with the other house servants. The cook, Aelda, winked at her from time to time as they enjoyed each other’s company, implying that she had seen Rorik with her in the garden. They were to wait in the kitchen until the guests had left or gone to bed. Brynja, Aelda, and Hralgi passed the time by sharing stories of the War, and how it affected them. Halfway through a story from Aelda about her flight from Winterhold when the Stormcloaks claimed the town, Brynja’s mind had wandered off into dark waters.
Her thoughts were occupied on what conspired in the garden just hours ago, Rorik’s words pounded in her head like a waterfall crashing onto rocks.
‘...a token of my affection’ , what did he mean exactly? Was he trying to profess his love for her? Her heart skipped a beat as the thought of someone genuinely loving her crossed her mind. She sat there, staring down into the silver goblet cradled in her hand, when Aelda called her name.
“Brynja?” The woman’s voice drew her attention to her like a moth to a flame.
“Aye?” She asked, clearing her throat with a cough.
“The guests are leaving for the night, let’s clear the tables and turn ourselves in.” Aelda said, she placed her hands on the small of her back as she stood, the bones popping into place.
By the time they finished that night, the hour was well past midnight, dwindling into the early morning hours. Brynja climbed the stairs to her quarters when she heard the door to Rorik’s bedchamber open. She stopped on the landing to see a young woman, perhaps no more than two-and-twenty past her nameday, emerge from the doorway of his chambers. Her cheeks were red, and the neat plait she had had come loose. On seeing Brynja, she approached her, clutching at her dress.
“You there.” She whispered, loud enough for her to hear.
“My lady?” Brynja asked, the woman’s face was awash with an expanse of emotions.
“Can you fetch the carriage?” Her face contorted into an expression of pure disbelief.
“I am sorry, but the driver has turned in for the night, he has gone home to his family this evening.” Her concerns skyrocketed. What happened?
“What of you?” She seemed desperate now.
“I… suppose I can.”
Moments later, Brynja readied a mount instead of a carriage so as to reduce any sounds drawing attention. The young woman slipped from the door of Rorik’s homestead, and moved through the shadows without a sound. With an arm extended, Brynja pulled her into the saddle, letting the woman sit behind her.
They set off down the road until they came to a set of crossroads leading north towards Windhelm, south to Kyne’s Grove and west towards Nightgate. The ride had passed without conversation until then.
“My lady, where am I taking you?”
“Home. Take the north road to Windhelm.” Even though the night was warm, she shivered against Brynja, her body shaking like a leaf.
“What happened?” Brynja tried, hoping to uncover the mystery ride to Windhelm in the dead of night.
“I do not wish to speak of it.” And so, they continued on in the darkness.
She returned when dawn graced the eastern sky, the darkness above fading to a pale gray light. Even though she was exhausted, Brynja set about her daily chores. As for Rorik, he spent the majority of the day in the comfort of his bed, recovering from a night filled with copious amounts of alcohol. Her mind led her to believe that his display of affection, was one of gratitude. She felt like a child, feeling naive that she could be led so easily astrayed. Yet her mind recalled the show of affection, she tried to remember the sensation of the kiss he left her.
Brynja thought little of the event, deciding it were best to forget the matter entirely, until a courier arrived at the property with a letter for Rorik three months later. He didn’t say who the letter was from, and so she left the matter for him when he returned later in the day.
“Thane, there is a letter for you.” She said passing the sealed parchment to him. He had shorn his woolen cloak, and deposited it onto the backside of a chair. His gnarled hands reminded her of tree roots as he received the letter.
He peeled off the wax seal, his eyes skimming over the black ink. Rorik’s expression changed as he read the letter, one of surprise to shock. She watched all color drain from his face before he folded the letter up and settled into the nearest chair. His hand covered his mouth, an attempt to suppress his own emotions, however vain.
“Rorik? Is all well?” She asked, he received all forms of news rather well, but this seemed to unsettle him.
“Brynja… I… need you to take a carriage and ride into Windhelm. There will be a meeting of sorts. You are to speak to no one, until you return here.”
“Where am I headed exactly, my thane?” Her mind wandering to the local shops inside the northern city.
“You are to go to the stables and wait there. A woman and a priest will approach you, and you will bring them both back here.”
“And why not send Hralgi? He is the carriage driver.”
“Because
you are my Housecarl. Brynja, I entrusted you with my own life countless times, can I trust you with this task to hold your tongue?”
“Yes, Rorik.” She said, her head dipping into a nod.
Moments later, Brynja has set off down the road for Windhelm. She thought much on why Rorik wishes to hold her to secrecy on the matter. What had the letter entailed? And why was she meeting a priest and a woman at the stables?
The leaves painted a fiery image across the rugged terrain, hinting at the slow approach of winter. The carriage ride to the stables proved a tedious ride, with Brynja seeing no one on the road save for a herd of deer. When the bridge leading into Windhelm came into sight, she sat up higher, her eyes searching for the woman and priest.
Pulling the draft horse to a halt, Brynja remained seated on the bench, her eyes sweeping over the horses in their stalls. Just then, as Rorik had mentioned, a priest emerged from the shadows of the byre, with a woman shrouded in a cloak at his arm. She remembered Rorik’s words, and watched as the priest ushered the woman into the back of carriage, where he took a seat next to her. He lifted his hood, and nodded at Brynja, indicating for her to begin the return trip. Her eyes had to be playing tricks on her, she thought, turning back around in her seat, was that priest wearing an amulet of Mara?
They arrived at the homestead at dusk, the last rays of sunlight were slipping into the western sky. Rorik had heard the approach of the carriage, and greeted them as Brynja led the horse off to its stall.
“Iona, I have anxiously awaited your arrival,” Rorik said, rushing to the mystery woman. Hearing the woman’s name made Brynja look up just as Rorik pulled back her hood. She nearly cried aloud in shock, it was the same woman from the banquet three months ago. Her eyes travelled to the priest, his own hood pulled back. The priest was an olive-toned Imperial with a cropped brown hair. And indeed, he wore an amulet of Mara.
“Brynja, when you finish up, I need you to join us in the garden at once.” Rorik said, their eyes meeting for a split second.
“Yes, my thane.” She never spoke at length with him, as actions spoke greater volumes than words ever could.
Once securing the horse, she ventured into the garden where she discovered the Imperial priest, the woman named Iona, and Rorik. The priest had started what Brynja knew to be a marriage ritual. She kept her mouth shut, and came to stand off to the side. Why was Rorik marrying this woman in such a secretive fashion? Perhaps…
Brynja peered around to the side, craning her neck as far as it would go, and unearthed the need for secrecy. Iona, carried a child. She wasn’t mistaken. Her stomach had a slight bulge, which, came to explain Iona’s peculiar actions three months ago… She had lain with Rorik…
Brynja felt sick.
After the ceremony, a brief one at that, Rorik passed Iona into her hands. Brynja set about taking care of her, she could only imagine what Iona was experiencing mentally. Brynja was to give her quarters over to Iona, until she was ready to join Rorik in his bed. And Brynja was to move to the spare room under the stairs. She had gathered what she would need for the night, before drawing a bath for Iona.
“Lady, I have drawn your bath.” Brynja said, rising to her feet, her eyes taking in the woman seated on the edge of her bed. Iona was a Nord like her, her face square with high cheekbones. Some would call her beautiful. Her brow was smooth, and her hair the color of fresh honey. Yet her brown eyes were frightened. Her slender hands trembled as she held onto her stomach.
“Ah… yes. Thank you.” Iona cleared her throat, she rose to her feet, and made her way to the edge of the basin.
“I will leave you now.” She turned her back to her, a woman needed privacy when bathing.
“Wait!” She whispered, “C-can you stay with me?”
“If you wish it,” Brynja turned back around to face her, “do you need my help to bathe?” She asked. Perhaps Iona was used to people waiting on her.
“It would be appreciated.”
After disrobing the woman before her, Brynja helped her into the basin, where she then knelt behind her to scrub her back. She applied a bar of soap to a rag, lathering up her pallid skin.
“Rorik is the father.” Iona broke the silence and the tension that had come to fill the air.
“I suspected so.” Brynja agreed, “I remember you from the banquet.”
“Aye…” Iona fell quiet, focusing on Brynja’s hands dragging across her flesh. “Thank you.”
“I beg your pardon?” Brynja wasn’t entirely paying attention to Iona, her own thoughts wandering down other paths.
“For helping me that night. And for now, again. I am grateful for your discretion.” She explained.
“There is no need to thank me, lady.”
“My name is Iona, and I am no lady.” She flinched at the title.
“In this house, you are a lady.” Brynja said with a shake of her head. They fell again into silence before Iona proposed a strange question.
“Is Rorik a kind man?”
“He is kind to those of us that live here. Though he is far more just in nature.” That much, Brynja knew to be true.
For the remainder of the evening, Brynja was released from her duties, leaving Iona alone with Rorik to discuss private matters. Brynja decided to turn in early for the evening, her head ached something fierce.
Over the next few months, Brynja was given charge of Iona. She was to act as her handmaiden unless Rorik needed her. She did everything in her power to ease Iona’s discomfort with carrying a child. She brewed her peppermint tea to ease her nausea, and prepared lavender baths to aid in sleep. But there was one thing Brynja could not do.
One night, as Brynja helped Iona into bed, she revealed unto her a secret she harbored, “I do not wish to have this child, Brynja. Please, is there anything you can do?” She begged from beneath the covers.
“What do you mean?” She froze in place at her words.
“I don’t love Rorik, and nor do I wish to have his child.” She said, her eyes watering in hopeless frustration.
“My lady, surely you will come to love him and your child together? I assure you-” She was interrupted by Iona’s hands wrapping around her wrist.
“Listen to me Brynja, that night, at the banquet. I did not wish to lie with Rorik,” She dropped her voice low, in case anyone else was listening, “I was told to visit him by my father’s friend. She promised me that he would help me find my lover, Alezzio, work as a guard. Yet… when I visited him in his chambers… he…” Iona’s words caught in her throat, causing much alarm from Brynja. Was she suggesting that Rorik had assaulted her?
“My lady,” Brynja didn’t know what else to say, but she had to ask, “were either of you inebriated?” Her hands clenched the woolen sheets of the bed.
“Rorik was, he could barely stand. He grabbed me hard… I didn’t know what else to do. I was so scared.” She covered her face in shame as she recalled her story of that fateful night.
“Iona… do you understand what you ask me?” She wasn’t about to risk a woman’s life, much less the new wife of her Thane, over confused emotions.
“I do. Please. I need you to help me. I’ve written Alezzio, and he will ready a horse for me as soon as I give him word. We’ll runaway to the Imperial City, and find work in the market district.” Her words she spoke, were in earnest and full of hope. She uttered a tale that Brynja envied, to have someone she loved wholly, without question, she made her decision. She would help her.
“If you wish to commit to this, I will give you three days.” Brynja said, pulling the covers up around Iona.
And in three days time, Iona came to her in the garden when Brynja was harvesting a batch of herbs for a stew to be made later on in the day. She could hear the soft, hesitant approach of leather slippers shuffling across grass.
“Brynja…” Iona’s voice carried through the air like a meadowlark singing early in the morning.
“Have you an answer?” Brynja asked, not bothering to stop in her harvest.
“Aye,” She could hear a slight pause in her speech, “It must be done.”
“Then it shall be.” Brynja set aside the herbs into the basket beside her. “We must do it tonight. Rorik has gone to Windhelm with Aelda, and he won’t return until the next sunrise. Hralgi will be gone for the night before dusk.”
“What must I do?” The fear was evident in her words, like a fawn speaking to a wolf.
“I have a bottle of nightshade extract, it is toxic in large quantities, but safe in small amounts.” She rose to her feet now, basket in her hands as she turned to face her.
“And… what will happen?” Iona’s hands wandered to her protruding stomach.
“There will be much pain. You will bleed from the womb for a month, and it may take two full moons until your moon cycle has returned. Are you certain this is the path you wish to take?” She had to ask one more time, more to soothe her own conscience than Iona’s concerns.
“Aye. Not a doubt in my mind.”
“Wait for me until nightfall, I will come to your chambers.” And for the rest of the evening, Iona and Brynja went about their ways as if nothing had transpired between them. For Brynja, her nerves were frayed as she thought about what she was to do this evening. She tried to remember what Cerys told her about nightshade.
‘1 drop of nightshade can be used for pain relief. 3 drops of nightshade will cause a woman to miscarry, so it is best avoided when pregnancy is known. 3 drops can also help with insomnia. 5 drops brings death.’ That was the exact dosage, right? Or was it 1 drop for pain relief, 3 drops for insomnia, 5 for miscarriage, and 7 for death? She was certain she had it right. She had to be.
Nightfall The door to Iona’s chambers opened immediately at Brynja’s knock. The glow of candlelight caressed her silhouette, casting her in a shroud of golden light. Her chest tightened at the sight of her. Gods be damned if anything wrong happened to Iona.
“Do you have it?” Iona pressed, following Brynja as she closed the door behind her.
“Aye.” Brynja settled into the chair that once was hers, and deposited a bottle of wine onto the bedside table. From her pocket, she procured a black glass bottle. Iona retrieved a goblet from the table, and proceeded to pour wine into the vessel.
When she had filled her cup, Brynja uncorked the bottle of poison. She held the bottle over the red liquid, and very carefully counted out the drops. 1… 2… 3… it was 5, wasn’t it? Yes. ...4 ...5
Satisfied that she had the correct amount, Brynja passed the goblet of wine over to Iona. A tension filled the room, both apprehensive of the results. Brynja, nervous that she had counted the right dosage, and Iona, nervous of what would come. And she threw caution to the wind, Iona raised the goblet to her lips, and drank heartily, leaving not a drop behind. The two women stared at each other, each wondering what would happen.
“How do you feel?”
“I feel… fine. How long until it takes effect?” Iona asked, sitting on the edge of her bed.
“Any moment-” before she could finish speaking, Iona began to cough. Her hand traveled to her throat, her eyes wide with fright. She clutched at her abdomen, and doubled over, still unable to catch her breath.
“Iona!” She cried, Brynja rushed to her side. She pushed Iona onto her back, supporting her head in her hands. “Gods no…” She whispered under her breath. Blood seeped out from between her legs, her coughing changed to gasps for air.
“Bryn...ja…” Iona managed to croak out, one hand reaching for her as the other held fast to her stomach, her body spasming from the poison.
“No. No! No. Iona. No, no, no. Please. Gods no. Don’t die on me.” Her throat tightened as tears rolled down her cheeks.
The sound of Iona gasping filled the room, Brynja could do nothing but comfort her in what she knew to be her final hours. The gasps subsided, and the spasms disappeared, leaving a still warm Iona in her arms. Blood soaked into the knees of her trousers, she didn’t care. When her body stilled, Brynja could do nothing but hold her.
She remained with Iona until the early morning hours, Brynja had to force herself to leave the room, lest she be judged for committing murder. She peeled off her bloodstained trousers, and cast them into the flames, erasing all evidence that she had anything to do with the act. Hralgi had not come in yet, as Rorik often let him spend time with his family in the morning before calling him in by noontime.
She felt empty, and numb. Her mind unable to manage any emotions at the time. With fresh clothes, she returned to the room, avoiding the pool of blood, and stepped over Iona’s body to claim the bottle of nightshade extract. Brynja decided to take the bottle of wine and goblet as well, in case anyone thought it out of place. She needed to make herself believe that Iona had just passed, and not earlier on in the night. Her mind was overwhelmed now with fear, she thought of fleeing altogether in case Rorik put the blame on her. But what good would that do?
Brynja ventured into the kitchen, trying to prepare a meal, yet her hands refused to quit trembling. She gave up, and sat at the table, her head cradled in the palms of her hands. She let out a strangled sob, one mixed with grief and anger, hit tears rushed down her cheeks. Why did she agree to a task that danced with death? She should have told Iona no! She should have told her to carry the child to term, and then runaway with Alezzio. She should have… Brynja’s stomach suddenly tightened, and her meal from the night before came up to greet the floor as she doubled over at the waist. She slid from the chair to the floor on her knees, where her stomach continued to heave in protest.
When she could no longer hold herself up, Brynja forced her limbs to move, to pick herself up off the floor. She had to clean the mess she made before Rorik and Aelda returned.
Two hours passed before she heard the creaking wheels of the carriage roll down the path to the house. She had cleaned her mess, and had gone into the garden to tend to the plants. Brynja tried to steel her mind against the discovery of Iona’s death. Her hands plucked ripened snow berries, her ears picking up on the faint sound of approaching footsteps throughout the house. She could hear Rorik calling for her.
“Brynja! Brynja!” He called. She rose to her feet, claiming the basket of snow berries, and headed inside to greet him.
Rorik’s eyes alighted when he saw her, “Ah, there you are! Look what I have for Iona.” He gestured to Aelda behind him, in her arms she carried a small wooden cradle. Brynja’s heart fell into her stomach at the sight of it.
“Where is Iona? Is she with you in the garden?” He asked.
“No, my thane,” Brynja cleared her throat to avoid any hint of emotion, “I believe she is still sleeping in her quarters. Shall I wake her?”
“Yes, yes. Aelda will you start on the noonday meal? Just leave the cradle here with me.” Rorik said, taking the cradle from her hands.
Her feet were heavy as she climbed the stairs, she stopped outside the door to Iona’s room, and knocked twice upon the door. There would be no answer, that she was sure. Yet, she knocked again, and then called out softly to her.
“Iona? Are you awake, lady?” She asked, her eyes burning with the threat of tears. When no answer came, Brynja pushed open the door. There she was, exactly where she had left her this morning, on the floor with her eyes gazing up at the ceiling. She fell into the doorframe, and called for Rorik.
“Rorik! Rorik!” She cried, tears rushing down her face as she had to face her choice of actions again. She flew from the room, her hands gripping the wooden bannister. Rorik entered the living quarters below her, and when he saw her face in anguish, he bolted up the stairs and shoved her aside.
A pained cry tore from his throat as he fell to Iona, his hands hovering over her dead body. Aelda, having heard the commotion, rushed from the kitchen, and up the stairs past Brynja. She could do nothing but lean against the wall, wiping away the tears that spilled with the sleeve of her tunic.
“Oh my dear… Rorik, I shall send for the priest.”
Weeks had passed since Iona’s burial. The priest of Arkay had suspected no foul play, and explained Iona’s cause of death as complications from a miscarriage. A natural and common occurrence. Rorik believed every word he said, he thought only of Iona. And for the next year to pass, Rorik grieved the loss of his wife and unborn child. For Brynja, the missions and quests assigned to Rorik by the Jarl dwindled to zero that year.
It wasn’t until her seventh year of service that Rorik had met a young Breton woman by the name of Ethelred. She was a beautiful woman with long locks of brown hair, and bright blue eyes that sparkled every time she smiled. They met during a festival in Windhelm, she had accompanied her brother on a trip from Solitude to the northern city. Brynja knew Rorik had some interest in her, as he spoke little of anything or anyone else. While Brynja was happy for Rorik, she regarded Ethelred as a woman with little patience and a snobbish attitude towards those of lower status. Including herself.
Rorik and Ethelred married during a warm spring day in Rain’s Hand, when the clouds had cleared long enough for some sun to shine through. It was during the wedding banquet that Ethelred made a particular remark about Aelda’s cooking, and Brynja’s height. To be fair, she had consumed an impressive amount of wine, but that did not excuse her behavior. Brynja, nevertheless, kept her mouth shut and paid attention to Rorik. She was, his Housecarl after all.
No more than three months after their marriage, Ethelred and Brynja engaged in a fearsome argument. One that had Aelda yelling for Rorik to separate the two women. When their tempers had cooled, Rorik had them both explain to him the nature of their fighting. He soon discovered that Ethelred, had called Brynja a “
fat, oafish troll of a woman” and further shamed her by saying, “
your mother was a skeever, and your father smelt of blisterwort” when she had broken a vintage bottle of wine, whatever that meant.
Rorik decided that if the two women couldn’t get along, he would have to send Brynja away. As he explained to her, Brynja’s youth was wasting away, and she had yet to settle down and make a family. He passed a letter of release into her hands, that way if anyone wished to hire her on, or questioned her departure, the letter would suffice.
Brynja became bitter, she hadn't wished to leave, but being released from her service, she felt as if her whole world had lost meaning. She lost her sense of purpose, and slowly turned to nurturing the sore wound by means of drinking.
She set out across Skyrim in search of odd jobs, for she had no desire to return home. She mined ore, and offered her healing services. And while she didn't become a sellsword, she did take payment for services such as escorting carriages to the next hold, or tracking down someone's stolen heirloom and the like.. Brynja grew restless of this life, and decided that for once she ought to travel and see the world. To see where her sword could be best used.
Personality:
When first meeting Brynja, most will find her cold and bitter. It's rare to see her smile, though she is far from the brooding type. One word about her height from some simpleton, and she's in a soured mood. In fact, the thing she finds most irritable, is any sort of jest towards her height, which she becomes sarcastic about. Painfully so, it's hard to tell if she's being serious or jesting. A word of advice to anyone, steer clear of talking about her height.
But moving past her height insecurities, and digging past the cold aloofness she displays, is a woman with a strong conviction of what is morally right. She might lie while jesting, or engage in sarcasm when she is annoyed, but she is honest as a brutal wind on a winter’s morning. Not only is she honest, but she does her best to act nobly. All she's ever wanted in life is to be recognized as a great warrior, something no one has ever said to her.
She is no lady, by any means, and one will not find her in a dress. Perhaps the bullying and taunting from her younger years turned her away from the ideals of being a proper lady, or it could well rather be the fact that she has settled with the notion that none find her attractive, and seek to only conquer the Giantess.
When she is given a task, she sets out to complete it, no matter the danger. When she pledged her service to Rorik Bone-Breaker, she carried his burdens with a devotion not seen in many Housecarl’s. She fears little, save for fire, and her fear of dying. She is a cautious woman, and not one about to rush into the heat of battle with balls blazing, as some would say. Brynja is tactical, and it is hard for her to make rash decisions without thinking them through.
There is a secret she keeps to herself, and that is the fact that she is an alcoholic. Though she does not drink amongst the public, if one were to check under any bed she'd slept in, they might find it littered with empty bottles.
Misc.:
- Brynja can come off as a bit of a grouch, one none too happy to talk to anyone.
- She also has taken up the practice of journaling, and has kept a journal since she was employed as Housecarl
- Due to her height, she cannot ride small horses, thankfully Skyrim’s horses are built for stockier people.
- Also due to her height, she has a problem with sore joints after long days of strenuous activity. The alcohol helps mask the pain.
- She has not returned home since leaving Rorik Bone-Breaker’s service.
Cyadical,
RolePlayerGuilt,
Damycles
