Haserus had been in a bad mood for over two days now. He wasn't the biggest fan of Skyrim, nor did he like Nords. In fact, he hated Nords. Overweight, ignorant, thick alcoholics. That's what they were, and they hadn't been any different twenty years ago when he was but a small child. Coupled with the consistently cold weather, it wasn't a nice experience. Snow battered the ground in an unending hail of downfall which rendered seeing more than a couple feet in front of you practically impossible. Haserus squinted beneath his helmet, trudging forwards in hope of finding an inn where there would be warmth. He cared not for company, or for women, for he was a man of conflict.
There were two main reasons that had destined Haserus to journey to Skyrim, the land of the Nords. The first being that the Dragonborn had been residing here, a being of immense power, prophesied to bring about the defeat of Alduin. Haserus had very much wanted to duel this man, the ultimate test of skill which would allow his name to be universally known and feared for centuries to come. He had pictured mighty statues raised in his glorious honour back in Hammerfell, a testament to his skill and his father before him. A man who had been around in combat from the second he was born, Haserus had not lived a proper childhood. He had not experienced the sounds of his mother comforting him during a thunderstorm, rocking him to sleep on her lap. He had not seen his mother wave goodbye to him as he ran off to play within the fields with his friends. She died weeks after childbirth, a mystery that is still unknown to him. Instead, he had been in the full time care of his father, a gladiator by trade, and what a damn good gladiator his father was. Because of this, Haserus was bred hand in hand with combat.
The second reason was because of his lineage. Whilst his father was a Redguard, his mother was an Imperial. Having learnt that Skyrim had been plunged into a chaotic civil war, the Legion fighting the hordes of the Stormcloak rebellion, Haserus had seen another reason to become a famous figure within history. Having already been a very renowned mercenary for over ten years, the opportunity to expand this reputation yet further made him salivate. He hated Nords, and the opportunity to kill them in the name of the Empire, become rich whilst doing it and dueling the best the Nords could offer was too much to pass up on.
A wooden sign, eroding with age and bearing scars of many years by the road protruded from the ground. Haserus wiped off the snow, narrowing his eyes so he could read the ruined text. Ivarstead. He wasn't far. He smirked slightly, turning his back upon it and walking into the depths of the snowstorm. There was no point stopping within the village, if he were to be recognized he would be swamped with people, craving to hear the tales of Haserus the mighty. Alcohol spilling over his armour, the fat Nords signing songs that made his ears bleed.
He shivered at the thought. That was another reason to dislike them, the singing! His companions had once joked that he hated the singing because he lost a singing competition in his youth, something which had annoyed him and resulting in many a brawl. He had never, would never and will continue to never sing. Before he knew it, he was passing through the little village. The Guards were more busy trying to warm their hands than to notice he was passing through, which was all the better really. He hastily maneuvered the village, coming to stop only at the first step of the great mountain of which High Hrothgar proudly sat upon. He gazed upwards, struggling to see much through the volleys of snow that spattered down from the sky, and shrugged his shoulders. He was a Redguard, these steps were just another stretch of terrain he would have to overcome. Nothing to a race which excelled with unparalleled endurance.
The ascent had been largely uneventful. Haserus had walked and walked, ignoring anyone and anything that had been making the trip too. He didn't want to stop for idle chit-chat, or to be recognized by what he assumed would be drunken Nords who had probably left the tavern intoxicated relatively earlier. Determined, he scaled the steps with a burning desire to see this pitiful meeting through so he could continue onwards with his quest. He cared little for what the old Greybeards would have to say, or for what underachieving, famous wannabes would be gathering to march willingly towards their deaths. The old man Gracun, the only mage he had ever liked had told him to respect the Greybeards, but anything that didn't wield a sword was a coward and therefore his disdain for them would always block any form of respect. However, as Gracun was his fathers friend, he had bowed his head and agreed to attend this meeting, attempt to be respectful and become a member of this 'Dovafeyn'. As he thought about this, he realized there weren't many things he actually did like. Nords, mages, rangers, thieves, alchemists, undead, bandits and alcoholics. He liked none of them. He could respect a swordsman to the point he would offer them an honorable death in combat if earned, but he couldn't respect anything that wouldn't stare you cold in the eyes, sword in hand, nose to nose. A bandit could be the exception, but they were always undisciplined and fell in quick order to his sword, something a group had learnt but two days ago. Not even a story worth recalling.
Haserus paused. He had reached his destination. It wasn't snowing as harshly here as it was down the mountain somehow, and his eyes analyzed what was in front of him. It looked like a palace, a place of high standard. Directly in front of him there was a set of stone steps, then a brief, snow glazed surface at the top before two more sets of staircases veered to the left and right respectfully, coming to a halt at the building itself.
"Here goes," He murmured to himself, his hands as usual resting upon the hilts of his two swords. Rarely carrying his shield, it sat upon his back, offering protection to any random assaults from behind that you would likely receive in this war torn land. Scaling more steps, it wasn't long before Haserus had the palm of his hand resting upon the entrance to High Hrothgar. Staring ahead, he pushed the door open.
~Haserus pushed the doors open, and they slammed against the walls on the inside with a loud bang. Snow billowed in from behind him as the warrior stepped into the ancient building, his hands resting upon his hilts. Pausing, he studied the room before him. There were various different people, all in their separate groups or otherwise engaged in conversation. He noticed to the side of him several garments hung up, could people not handle a little snow? Less than impressed with what he saw, he stepped further inside. Atleast it was warm. Although he didn't like the cold, he wasn't too bothered about it, yet after trekking for two days non stop in this forsaken land a little warmth was welcome. The fires gleamed against his unique armour, the white carvings beautifully igniting with contrast. He didn't remove his helmet, as the snow began to drip off in minute pearls of water from his flush plume almost instantly.
Immediately, Haserus was greeted by name from a Greybeard. Inwardly smiling to himself that he was indeed known to these people, for whatever exploits they had heard of, he dipped his head in a respectful nod. As the doors were closed behind him, he calmly walked forwards, looking at each figure individually. He figured instantly that these were to be his new companions, though he didn't enjoy the thought of being forced to work cooperatively with people he didn't know, let alone didn't look like what he was expecting.
You see, Haserus had a much different vision in his mind. Heavily armoured veterans, heroes across the lands. People who were known throughout the map, who's names would be whispered amongst the lips of the population before they had even arrived. People who, like him, were rightly feared by their enemies and wanted by those who needed a good sword. Above all, he wanted to see people who would present a challenge to himself, so he could establish himself as the rightful leader of the Dovafeyn. Now however, he certainly didn't want to be a leader, let alone part of the group. Stuff hierarchy, he was going to just be apart of the group and establish his reputation on the field. He silently walked up to a wall, shadowed by a large statue of which he took little notice. Leaning within the darkness, he pricked his ears, soon the meeting would begin, he could try to seem interested and then he could leave.
All Haserus could think of now that he arrived was everything but this meeting. Perhaps he had over hyped the situation in his head, but it no longer mattered. The war between the Empire and the Stormcloaks was very real, he recounted the one battlefield he had passed only a couple hours after arriving in Skyrim. Bodies littered the floor, husbands, fathers and sons, all whom had once had a life that had been taken from them in a bloody war. Haserus couldn't help but wonder if there had been a hero, standing his ground on the bloodied turf. He could imagine a large Nord, heavy armour, the blood Stormcloak cloak draped over his shoulders. No helmet, but his face was indistinguishable within his thoughts anyway. A large two handed battle axe held aloft in one hand, a spear in the other. Men fell at his feet in droves, each unable to fell the mighty champion. Blood sprayed into the air as his axe decapitated one soldier, his spear plunging deep into the midriff of another. Oh, how he would like to face such a foe on the battlefield, to mercilessly, ruthlessly cut him down. To dance between his strikes mockingly, to deliver the fatal blow. HASERUS! HASERUS! The men would below, to the beat of an old, rusting war drum.
Smirking slightly, Haserus awaited the beginning of this meeting.