The Bound - A Tale Of Tamriel

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i. Jarl Borgun

Flames flicked and danced in the large fire-pit in the centre of the longhouse, projecting ever changing shadows on the surrounding walls. The Jarl, sat upon his great chair on a raised dais at the far end of the hall, simply watched them. He sat back in his seat, one hand smoothing his beard, absent minded. His daughter, Ysrey, playing with one of the shaggy hunt hounds to the side. Happy in her own little world far removed, in mind if not in body, from the complications of the life of a Jarl's daughter.

Borgun tried to smile, but it felt heavy and faint at the same time. His daughter was the only thing that had any chance of bringing a smile to his face in these dark days, but the Jarl's mind was filled with other matters. Other concerns.

"I have the report, my lord." The Jarl had not even noticed the entrance of his steward, William of Anvil, so deep in thought had he been.

Many had looked askance when the Jarl had taken an Imperial for his steward. What was wrong with a good Nord, they had asked. What hold did this diaspora of Cyrodiil have upon a man of stout Nord stock? But William had proven to be a fine choice for steward. Often, especially of late, keeping the hold ticking over, even when the Jarl's mind was on other things. The man knew his job, did it well and never, ever overstepped his boundaries. Even if he did bend those boundaries every now and then (and only ever for the good of the Jarl and the Rift).

"Very well, William." The Jarl didn't have to sigh, but the implication was there. This had been the third brawl this week. The populace were impatient for hostilities to restart in the war.

"Seventeen were detained, two of whom are in the care of the healers, the rest are in the cells." William shuffled through the papers in his hands, "Angjolf, Breyda the Red, Hielda ..."

"Hielda?" The Jarl interrupted, "She didn't kill anyone this time?"

"No, my lord. Although she did break Ysdra's nose. Again." William sniffed and continued under his breath, "Why they don't just get married, I don't know."

"Small mercies, I suppose. Go on." Borgun sat back again.

"Arnjold the innkeep says if this happens again, he'll double the prices in the inn." William glanced up from his papers to watch the Jarl's reaction to that statement.

"Double? Shor's Bones! Does the man want to start a riot?" The Jarl tugged at his beard in irritation then slammed the arm of his seat with his fist. "He can raise them five percent and no more. And if he demands more, tell him he can demand it to my face at the end of my sword!"

"I'm sure he'll find my lord's decision quite generous." William stifled a smile knowing full well that Arnjold's demand was a gambit to be able to make a small raise in prices anyway. After all, even though the inn's patrons that had been involved in the fighting had helped with repairs (after previous brawls), he had still been incurring rising costs. This raise was only fair.

"Anything else?" The Jarl was still bristling after hearing of Arnjold's 'demands', "Or can I finally rest for the night?"

"There were some outsiders involved in the brawl, my lord," Again, William flitted through his notes, "A Bosmer mage, a Redguard, a Dunmer, possibly a thief, and a Khajiit that swears she's from Ingrstad.

"Impossible!" The Jarl growled, his mood darkening. The fate of the village of Ingrstad weighed heavy upon all the peoples of Skyrim. "There was only one survivor from Ingrstad and she ... she. It can't be!"

Many tales had sprung up about the fate of Ingrstad. Rumours had spread. Truth had become twisted and broken. Claims, by disreputable people, had been made. Few people, if any, knew the truth about what happened at Ingrstad. All that had been certain, until now, was that the village had been wiped from the face of Nirn and that the perpetrators, themselves, had been found massacred not far from where they had done the massacring of Ingrstad.