User blog:The Retroriffic Man/"Sagan af Tórvald" (Torvald's Tale) - Part One

This is the tale of a young Nord man named Torvald. Torvald lived in a village called Rorikstead, a small patch of farmersland on the open fields of Whiterun Hold. Torvald wanted to be great and revered. Just like his great grandfather ‘Angjar The Tall’. A local hero, who was said to be as tall as a whole house! And who was able to lift two oxen stacked on top of one another in the air. Whether that was all actually true is a mystery, but it didn’t really matter. ‘The only thing that mattered was that his name is remembered’. Or so Torvald thought.

Torvald himself wasn’t nearly as tall as his great grandfather. No, he was rather painfully average for a Nord. And noticeably skinny for one too. His hair was dirty blonde and trimmed short. Some whiskers and peach fuzz had gathered sporadically over his face, nothing special really. His eyes were blue and his nose small and snubbed. A faint smear of reddish rash crossed over his nose bridge which then bled out over his round cheeks.: “The mark of a farm worker”. Even though Torvald didn’t actually do much working on the farm itself… Sure he helped here and there, but strength and endurance weren’t the best of his qualities, even though he wished they were. It had led to a difficult youth where he was pushed around by the other children of the village. Sure he wasn’t bullied anymore. After all, they had all grown up since then. But the sense of disrespect was surely palpable whenever he talked with his contemporaries. Sure, they’d smile and have a laugh but whenever it came to serious matters, Torvald was never involved.

The most clear cut example of this was when Rorikstead was plagued by a pack of wolves, which came to town every night hunting and gorging on domestic pigs and poultry. The village had decided on a night hunt, to eradicate the pests and they did so… In the early morning the men, both young and old marched into town with a long pole to which seven wolves were pinned on by the tail, every man… except Torvald. He hadn’t even been told… it felt so humiliating for the young Nord when he had to join the women and children in watching the heroes return. A childhood friend of him: Arne, even got his leg bitten by a wolf and was carried in on a makeshift stretcher, leg torn to pieces but still with a smile on his face… He later came to be known as ‘Arne Wolf-Leg’. A name given to him during that evening’s celebrations.

Torvald told himself that he would never be so humiliated ever again and started to pull his weight around the field. But with no build up, it was backbreaking work and at the end of the day when he was tired and sweaty and would go to bed, the rest of the workers would tell tales, listen to music and drink ale at the Inn. Torvald’s self-declared need to prove himself burned deeper than ever before, and he would succeed. He would!

It was the 9th day of the harvest season. The wheat was ready to be sold to the Jarl in Whiterun, Jarl Frinjolf the Bold. A powerful ruler who was respected among his men and citizens. Currently, more popular than ever because he had recently fended off an assault of raiders from the east. It is told that he’s even a descendant of Olaf One-Eye, another great man from legend. Such is the nature of those, deemed powerful enough to rule over others. The rest would have to do with smaller victories or acts of valour, or just glean wheat… Speaking of which; Torvald had promised to help with the harvest today.

It was early morn’, the sky was painted pink and the wind was chilly. A little nip in the air, but not something Nords weren’t accustomed to. Torvald lay in his bed, somehow not suffocating as he lay there, face first in his straw-filled pillow. A thin arm escaped from under the wolf-hide bedsheets, landing on the cold wooden floor. The Nord was still tired from yesterday. He had been on a wild goose chase. Quite literally; He was going to help with the goose gavaging but, eager as he was, didn’t lock the pen, so about six of them could escape. He spend the whole day chasing the damn buggers around the village and up into the surrounding hills. When he had collected them all back again, twilight had set in and the day was practically over. Defeated by the day’s labour he then plunged face first into his pillow. And slept like a log,  until now. Torvald’s body woke up in small bits. First his arms, then his legs, then his fingers, feet the whole shebang followed. The nord moaned in his ‘farmer’s cushion’, not in the mood for what the day might bring. At that point, the rising sun managed to creep its way into Torvald’s corner in the small farmer’s house, painting light from the window over the body of the Nord. Torvald gently lifted his head to the direction of the sunlight. His still tiny eyes squirmed when they came into contact with the sunlight. He looked away, and blinked with his eyes, to make them adapt to the light. After which he yawned loudly, and stretched his body.

The Nord got out of bed, landing his feet in the leather shoes. Getting dressed wasn’t really necessary since he still wore his tunic and breeches from yesterday. After that the Nord stretched once more and left his corner to get breakfast, the day had begun proper.