Story recap
Windhelm-born Jastinia didn’t expect gifts or presents on her 16th birthday, but her adopted Argonian family wasn’t going to allow such a special day pass by without celebration. Especially not for the Imperial orphan who hadn’t received anything since her father disappeared and mother died years ago. On that special 31st of Last Seed 201, the Argonians presented her a hand-bound journal so their Wargirl could share her story as it continued to unfold. They knew this birthday was important. Skyrim’s age of adulthood. Also, Windhelm’s age of enlistment. Armed with her hand-forged greatsword, armored in hand-hammered mail, Jastinia marched to the Palace of the Kings to fulfill her lifelong oath. An oath she made to other outsiders like her in the cruel Nordic capital. An oath she made to herself. She would join the Stormcloaks, rise in their ranks, and prove to Windhelm that this land was her home too.
Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak and his right-hand, Galmar Stone-Fist, were willing to give the Imperial a chance, but only if she passed one of the Stormcloak’s most dangerous trials: Jastinia would need to journey to the remote Serpentstone Isle and slay one of its legendary ice wraiths. Although Jastinia knew she would stand alone in this fight, she also knew her Windhelm mentors would stand with her to prepare. Scouts Many-Marshes introduced Jastinia to the frigid clutches of the White River to ready her for the swim to Serpentstone. Meanwhile, Torbjorn Shatter-Shield told Jastinia to return at the end of the week after he had time to create his own training plan. Despite her own doubts and insecurities, and with the support of her Argonian, Dunmer, and Khajit friends, Jastinia remains resolved to conquer Serpentstone and join the Stormcloaks ranks. But first, she needs to conquer her training.
Series background
Welcome to Jastinia of Windhelm’s legendary edition Ultimate Skyrim/Take Notes playthrough. My name is Anna and I'm blogging her playthrough on my WordPress page, Unearthed Arcanna, but posting all the content here too. Got questions about Jastinia? My modlist? Our roleplaying approach? Check out all the “playthrough links” below for more information about the series.
Playthrough links
- This week's blogpost with pretty pictures!
- Ultimate Skyrim, other mods, and MCM setup
- Character backstory
- Character creation and build
- Self-imposed roleplaying rules
- Jastinia of Windhelm journal index
Heartfire, 3rd, 4E 201
Docks. Windhelm.
Early afternoon.
-----
“Do you know how long your kind can survive in winter water?” I looked up at Scouts from the river and couldn’t find the breath to answer. Not much longer, I would’ve told him, but the White River punched all the air out of me whenever I tried opening my mouth.
“I can’t hear you, Wargirl.” I doubt it. My chattering teeth and sucking breaths were probably audible from Ulfric’s throne. Galmar! he’d boom. What in Oblivion is that noise! The Stone-Fist would shake his head. Drowning skeever, my lord, sorry to disturb. Or perhaps that fool girl we sent to die at Serpentstone. No difference.
So you want an answer, Scouts? Want to know how long my foolish, freezing kind can suffer your torture? How about five minutes tops for true sons and daughters of Skyrim, like the two warlords mocking me from their warm palace. For Imperial pretenders like me? Maybe 20 seconds. Except to Scouts all of that probably sounded more like “F-f-f-fve minss” if it sounded like words at all.
“Some succumb in 15. Others in 45.” That’s seconds, right? Because I couldn’t have been in here longer than 30 and I’m about as close to succumbed as I can get before I’m a floater in the tides. He saw my head dip under the waves as he sighed. “And still others earlier than that.”
He helped me out just before I started to drift, accept the White River’s welcoming embrace to end it all and fade away into cold oblivion. No Serpenstone, no ice wraith, no Stormcloaks. No failures and disappointments for those who already know I can’t do this. Tempting, especially if it means not suffering the river again tomorrow. But for now, I’m just happy we’re done for the day. Not that I can actually leave. My feet and toes have all the dexterity of ice blocks. Color too.
“Ask yourself which one you wish to be.” Um, how about the one who doesn’t have to submerge herself in this water ever again? I know Scouts is trying to prepare me for Serpentstone, but can’t I just bring a raft instead?
I held off on the suggestion so I didn’t end up backtalking myself into another training exercise. But I still had questions and couldn’t contain them anymore than I could stop my teeth from clicking. People can survive in water as cold as this for how long? “Colder,” he clarified. Liar. Colder than this for 15 minutes? He nodded. “And we’re talking fleshy people like me, right? Not Argonians?”
He snickered. “Yes, fleshy people like you. Many far longer. Just ask Captain Lonely-Gale.” The farmer? Viola’s stalking victim? I knew he’d been a sailor in some distant past but assumed his stories were as boring as his crop-work. Still, I suppose it can’t hurt to ask. Maybe I can rescue him after Viola’s got him cornered. I’m sure that would get me in his good graces. Besides, I need to visit Candlehearth anyway. Torbjorn still owes me the master plan to torment his poor, frozen apprentice, and if there’s anywhere I’ll find him it’s with a flagon in hand by the inn’s hearth. Too bad anything he devises will never top this Argonian water torture.
Look, Scouts, I know we’re just on day three but it’s not like we’re practicing sidesteps, lunges, or weaves. This isn’t about muscle memory or strength training. This is how I’m built. A landstrider, just like you and the rest of the Assemblage have reminded me every day since I first escaped down here after bullies rubbed slush in my hair. A fleshy, freezing, fragile landstrider. My kind belongs on their feet. Not flailing and sputtering in polar waters.
“Remember,” he tapped my forehead. “This is what we are training.” He pinched my bicep, firmer than it was before Torbjorn and Scouts got their hands on me but still soft. Small. “This too.” A claw on my chest. “But not this.”
We both smiled. Thanks. I’ll remember that. But just because you and Ma’dran see something in me I don’t, doesn’t mean I might not trade it for arms like Galmar’s. Or some scales and gills like Scouts’s.
Heartfire, 3rd, 4E 201
House Shatter-Shield. Windhelm.
Late evening.
-----
I can’t believe I forgot about Tales and Tallows! I would have missed it entirely but I couldn’t find Scouts and had to run up to the market to sell my firewood. I arrived right when they were setting tables and lighting lanterns. Polishing glasses, pouring wine, and most importantly, carting out Candlehearth’s fresh apple pies. Mmm. Pie. I would’ve swiped three of them before the competition got there but Oengul called me over as I was creeping near his forge to plan my Great Pie Caper.
“Hermir tells me you might be wearing our armor soon.” He was shaping Stormcloak gauntlets even as he said it, steel-plated with claws like Windhelm’s patron bear. If Hermir and Oengul knew about my trip to the Palace then Galmar’s betting pool is even deeper than I thought.
“Maybe,” I told him. “Got anything to kill an ice wraith?”
He shook his head. “You’re wearing everything you need already.” I wish I shared his optimism. I’d forged the hauberk, bracers, and boots right here with Oengul’s guidance but haven’t tested them against anything sharper than skeever teeth. I don’t want to insult the greatsword I hammered at the very anvil Onegul was working, but chopping up sack dummies isn’t exactly the stuff of Stormcloak legend. At least the 16 year-old playing dressup will look good when the ice wraith eats her.
Oengul got me out of my head with his missive. “New project and I’m low on iron” (see, Ma’dran! I’m not totally making up my insider tips!). “Fill the order and I’ll pay the usual plus a bonus.” An honest wage to get out of the city and roam over to my secret iron veins? Done. I’ll see if Scouts will give me the day off tomorrow. Or if he’ll make me leave my boots behind first before venturing into the wilds.
By the time I was done with Oengul and said hi to Hermir, who promised she’d spend extra time on my future Stormcloak cuirass, half the pies were already gone. Is that the bonus payment on the iron? More pies? I settled for one carved with a tallow-lantern’s jagged smile. While Luaffyn played her flute and Torbjorn drummed, I listened alone. Just a girl and her pastry while the rest of the city reveled. Torbjorn wouldn’t even talk to me when I asked about his surprise: “Train tomorrow. Tonight? Dance!” I didn’t, but I watched from atop a cart. Looked out as Windhelm sang and moved. The crowd cheering Torbjorn’s daughters, spinning and twirling in time with their father’s rhythm. They had ribbons in their braided, blond hair, orange streamers like the fires burning in every carved gourds surrounding the city. Even stuffy Niranye couldn’t get away in time when Revyn whisked her onto the dancefloor. What a sight. Not just Nordic beauties like Friga and Nilsine but Revyn and Niranye too. Aval and Luaffyn. One night to prove Dunmer and Nords and Imperials could all celebrate together without insults, threats, and hate. A night to toast with a sip of alto noir and a second helping of Eastmarch’s best pie.
But as the last glint of sun faded beyond the wall, the party ended. Guards ushered the Dark Elves back to their district, Nords stumbled away to Candlehearth for a refill, leaving just me. Alone on the cart with crumbs on my lap. I know tradition demands we shelter inside before the ghoulies come calling could they have at least left one final pie? I might’ve wandered off to the Cornerclub on another night but Torbjorn still owed me his plans and it wouldn’t hurt to get some cold weather survival inspiration from Lonely-Gale’s. Candlehearth it was. Maybe that’s where they moved the baked goods too.
By the time I arrived, Torbjorn wasn’t at the Hall and Lonely-Gale wasn’t in a mood for stories. “No, I don’t think so,” he said even after I warmed him up with some Prophet’s Dice. On second thought, maybe I should’ve lost more money to get him talking. Taking 50 Septims from him probably didn’t put him in a storytelling mood.
I might’ve stayed to enjoy Luaffyn’s lute but then Rolff and Nils barged in. Not even nightfall and already reeking of mead, Rolff stood on a chair before ranting about the “black-skinned bitch” who almost spilled wine on him at the dance. Nils snorted, dripping his flagon on any patron within arm’s reach. Both of them are lucky. Rolff because I can’t afford to piss off his brother right now. Nils because he’s not worth it now and never will be. Clobbering these two assholes in a bar fight would definitely make up for the lack of pie, but it isn’t exactly a winning Stormcloak application. Then again, I wouldn’t be surprised if big brother Galmar wanted to pummel his skeevy little sibling more than I did.
I visited Clan Shatter-Shield instead. Torbjorn’s snores echoed all the way down to the kitchen. A little too much drumming for one night. Far too much wine and pie.
I planned to leave but Tova was awake and offered me a seat by their fire. Her daughters were out. Surprising enough that she even allowed me inside the house with her husband in a pastry coma. To put it mildly, we weren’t exactly close. I blame Friga and Nilsine. We weren’t friends growing up and none of us ever grew out of it. Me because it’s hard to forget all the teasing, taunting, and hair-tugging. Them because they’re stuck-up princesses who think they’re better than anyone whose eyes weren’t as blue as theirs. “Just look at her hair!” Friga would say as she yanked it. “Our maid’s mop is cleaner than this.” I made the mistake of punching her once, in the stomach because that’s about how high I could reach on the Nordic queen. Pretty sure my lip would still be bleeding if Shahvee hadn’t lathered it up with that bitter balm. As for Nilsine, what she lacked in her sister’s fire she made up with her mother’s chill. I’d be shocked if she even remembered my name. If she’d even turn her eyes down at me should I dare speak to her.
I knew all of that before I sat down with their mother. So after Tova and I exchanged some pleasantries, small talk about Tallows and Tales, the beautiful flowers I saw on her downstairs table, I don’t know where else I thought the conversation was going to wander. I let her lure me in with a compliment about my hair, a comment about Torbjorn spending so much time with me. But I was stupid. I should’ve sensed where her words were whispering.
“I’ve been meaning to thank you, you know.” She smiled at me. Thin, forced, and shadowed in the flickering embers.
I smiled back. “I’m the one who should be thanking your husband.” One of many on my list. Torbjorn would never admit it but I know Ulfric and Galmar would’ve barred me from even entering the Palace if they didn’t know he was training me. They would never waste time for some rat Imperial with Stormcloak delusions. But they might humor their city’s best swordmaster enough to send his student to die on Serpentstone instead.
“Nonsense. My husband always wanted our girls to play with swords but they were never interested.” Of course not. They were too busy pouring slush on my head instead.
“Oh? They were always so… active.” Hunting Dark Elf children through the Gray Quarter. Laughing while a younger Rolff held them upside down over the sewers as spiders chittered below.
“Very. If they wanted to they could have. But they were always too proper to waste time with it.” Right. Not like the improper orphan-girl, sweaty and silly and stupid enough to walk right into Tova’s trap. “I’m happy he has you.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” I had to stay diplomatic. So Torbjorn didn’t get an earful tomorrow about the ungrateful, insolent child he was teaching. So his wife didn’t kick me out. “He’s a good teacher.”
“The best. He can turn anyone into a warrior. Regardless of ability or background. Upbringing.”
“He can.” My face was red, my eyes getting redder.
“So thank you, really. Thank you for letting him help you.”
We sat like that long enough for me to know she’d said what she needed to say. An eternity longer than any plunge in the White River. As I got up to leave before her daughters came home and the night got even worse, she called out to me. One last thought. “Just remember who his real daughters are, little girl.” One last stab.
“He’s just my teacher, ma’am.”
“Good. As long as you know that.” If I didn’t before I do now. “Have a good night, Jastinia.”
Sitting on the Shatter-Shield front stairs, my fingers are cold from the icy air, my cheeks frosted from wiped tears. Who would’ve thought the sharpest edge in Windhelm wasn’t Galmar’s axe or Ulfric’s sword but Tova’s tongue. Ten minutes at her hearth had been colder than ten days in the White River. But I won’t stop just because Clan Shatter-Shield’s matron thinks I’m the same sewer-scum as my mother. Neither Tova, her wicked daughters, nor the guards or citizens or soldiers who believe I belong in the gutters with the rest of Windhelm’s trash will stop me. I’ll finish this journal entry right here on her doorstep, march back to Sailor’s Rest, and cry it all out. Then I’ll be ready for tomorrow. Ready to keep training and keep fighting, steadfast in Windhelm’s storm to show I can take it. That I’m not the weakling they think I am. Scouts was right. It’s all in my head. Cold water, sore arms, Tova’s razor words: none of it’s real and none of it’s going to stop me. I have people counting on me, promises I’ve made, and I won’t let them down. Not the Argonians, not the Dunmer, not the Khajit, and not Torbjorn whether or not his wife would drop me in with those sewer spiders too. I promise I won’t fail you.
But right now, just let me go home and cry.
Heartfire, 4th, 4E 201
Docks. Windhelm.
Late morning.
-----
Nothing like a brisk morning dive to freeze away any lingering tears. I’m not sure if it was the first exercise when Scouts made me stay afloat while holding firewood over my head or the fourth where he made me bring him a rock from the riverbed. “Which rock?” I asked as my teeth tried to bite through my tongue. “I’ll know when you find it.” But somewhere between the slipping consciousness and the frostbitten fingers I did forget about Tova. Mostly.
Scouts let me go earlier than usual to gather Oengul’s ore. “Some time away from these walls will do you good, Wargirl.” I don’t think he just meant time away from freezing my fingernails off either, even if there was no way he could’ve known what happened the other night. Maybe he didn’t need specifics. Baggy eyes from a restless, tearful sleep were clues enough.
He’s right. A little time outside of Windhelm will be good for me. I’d been drilling hard even leading up to my birthday. After has been relentless, whether Scouts’s daily attempts to murder me, bag work with the dummy, or my Shatter-Shield ordeal. Time alone with Skyrim will help. Time alone with myself.
Shallows stopped me as I climbed the dock wall to Windhelm’s northern rocks. “Running to the wilds or running from the city?”
I laughed. “Yes.”
“I envy you, landstrider.” He lashed the crates to his back as he started another cargo run. “Happy hunting. Remember: slow feet…”
“…soft feet,” I finished as he padded off. Even with 200 pounds of boxed, pickled fish on his back, the slush barely spread under his slow, soft feet. His shakes were better today than usual. I know I’d spent more time with Scouts and Torbjorn recently, but I hope Shallows knows how much I value his lessons. I hope he knows I don’t judge him for his addiction.
I sat for some buttered ash yam before leaving, a light brunch wrapped in wax paper while I finished this entry. Some extra energy before setting out into true coldness. It’s different out there. Not the crushing frost of Windhelm’s drafty streets, winds howling over old roofs and older stone. Nor the White River’s frigid teeth clamping on your skin. It’s more elemental. The primal, untamed cold of a frozen cradle older than civilization itself. Snow twinkling on my nose and eyelashes, beckoning with every swirling breeze to Come, Jastinia, Come north and be free.
I’ll mine Oengul’s ore at one of my hidden veins on Windhelm’s ancient northern walls. See if I can hunt up a trophy for Shallows too. Lose myself with pickaxe and bow, campfire and bedroll, wander away from oppressive stonework and Nordic spite towards freedom. Tranquil, snowy freedom at the foothills of Tamriel’s first peaks. Clear my head, clear my heart, come back tomorrow. I’ll show them. I’ll show them neither water nor words nor wraiths will stop me.
Heartfire, 5th, 4E 201
Northern outskirts. Windhelm.
Early morning.
-----
I forgot how much I love camping. No creaking floorboards or grinding machines to keep me awake. No snoring orcs in the alcove next door, no clumsy Falyn breaking dishes as Tabiah threatens to throw him in the broiler. Just me and Skyrim. Snowflakes kissing my cheeks, accumulated overnight to tuck me tight into my bedroll. Comforting and cradling with no sound for miles other than the crackle of dying embers while wind whistles over the northern ridge.
Peaceful. Calm. Alone. At least, alone except for that damn rabbit watching me from just a few meters away. Little jerk. I tried to sneak out of the bedroll and get my bow, but by the time I nocked an arrow the rascal padded off, just out of range. Nice try, fluff-feet. I’m not falling for that again. I’ve already lost five arrows in snowdrifts to you and I got a feeling you’re not fetching them back. Didn’t you hear Windhelm’s got an iron shortage? Here’s a thought: why don’t you come just a little closer instead? I got a nice arrow-shaped carrot right here.
Clever bun-bun is onto me. Staring with those beady eyes, hearing my heart beat with his floppy ears. I’ve got you figured out, Jastinia of Windhelm. Yeah. That makes one of us. Want to share any of those insights? He scampers off to go mock some other lost traveler. Guess not. Also, guess Shallows is going to have to do without a rabbit’s foot this time.
Even after yesterday’s labor, I still have another five hours of chiseling to gather all of Oengul’s ore. Good thing I came prepared with waterskins! One of them half-full before I even left the docks. The other fully empty since yesterday. Okay, so maybe water will stop me after all. But don’t worry because I have plenty of wood to at least keep my fire going. At least, I did before I ditched the bundle a mile back when scrambling over rocks because it was “too heavy” and the “skies look clear enough.” Cue stormclouds forming above. Really great planning, Jastinia. Real Stormcloak material you are. At least you can cut it with a pickaxe; maybe Kynesgrove is hiring some small-shouldered miners instead?
Assuming I don’t freeze to death, I’ll finish this deposit, climb out of the gulch, and then set a new campsite closer to the river. I still want to get Shallows something, whether a rabbit or a trophy easier for a novice archer to hit. Even if hunting is sparse, I still don’t think I’m ready to go back. Better the stab of errant snowmelt dripping down my back than the colder stabs waiting behind Windhelm’s walls.
Heartfire, 5th, 4E 201
Marketplace. Windhelm.
Mid evening.
-----
“Stay out of trouble, Imperial.” Thanks, Hod. Such a warm welcome to Windhelm’s favorite daughter. He really knows how to make a girl feel at home after a long trip in the wilds. Remind me again why I didn’t spend another night camping?
Oh right. That whole freezing-cold business. Plus a near-miss by the river. I’d just hunted the snow fox for Shallows (first arrow!) and was carrying it back to camp when I saw the dead horker. Bellyflopped along the shore like me faceplanting into bed after a long day at the docks. A butchered calf would feed dozens of Gray Quarter families for weeks plus make its hunter hundreds in meat and fat. I always feel bad going for the living ones (they’ll take a quiver of arrows and keep coming, but cutting them up with a sword is a blubbery, barbaric mess). But a scavenged one after someone else did the dirty work? Better me than the mudcrabs.
Good thing I was cold and needed to warm up at my camp before checking on the carcass. If I hadn’t spent that extra hour circling back to the fire before returning, I would have approached the horker from the west. Not the south. I wouldn’t have spotted that man’s body resting meters from the horker. His singed corpse, still smoking in the morning light. I wouldn’t have seen the creature floating above. Even from a distance, I knew it was dangerous. Crackling black and purple, humming and flickering as energy swirled around its legless form. Disembodied arms flexed in the breeze as it stretched, warming up to obliterate the next fool who stumbled into its range. As a rabbit hopped too close, lightning arced out with a thunderclap leaving a singed stain on the snow. The thunderous boom must’ve echoed all the way to Helgen.
Yep. Really glad I snuck in this way. A western approach would have put me right next to that entity, right in my final resting spot with the horker, explorer, and rabbit: four scorchmarked corpses on the shore.
Even forgoing the horker it was a profitable trip. 250 Septims in total from Oengul’s ore delivery, fox spoils, and a little spare wood. That uncut gem I chipped out of the vein didn’t hurt either, nor the spoils I found in a cliffside cache: a purse of coin and jewels, a book underneath. I’d never heard of The Wolf Queen before but I recognized the volume’s protagonist. Potema, former queen of Skyrim. An Imperial queen at that. Wherever her story takes her, it can’t be a bad one if it saw a girl like me ascend to Skyrim’s high throne. I even bought Volume 2 from Revyn when I stopped by to sell my proceeds. I would’ve made even more if I’d held onto the snow fox pelt instead of giving it to Shallows, but it was the least I owned him. He inspected the fur in the firelight, rubbing his hands along the bristles. “Just one arrow. Well done.” What can I say? If your feet are slow and soft enough, even a bad archer can get close enough to loose a single good shot.
Oengul split his payments between gold and some throwaway weapon. Where does he get all these pieces anyway? More importantly, can’t I just have the gold? He said it’s good for me to study other crafting styles. Okay but what am I supposed to do with this weighted, gilded maul? Smack Torbjorn in his ruddy face if he has me doing anything involving more cold-weather training? Not like I’d be happier if he’d given me a greatsword instead. I couldn’t use it either. Like Oengul always reminds me, “A true smith never takes what they can make instead.” Fair, but would a “true smith” have pounded the lumpy excuse for a sword on my back? Oengul’s scowl was all the answer I needed. Guess the Imperial City wasn’t built in a day either.
Speaking of answers, I still need to find Torbjorn. It’s the end of the week and I’m sure he’s concocted his master training plan by now. But I didn’t see him in the market, streets, or at Candlehearth and I’m not going to his house to find him. Not now, not again. Even if I had found him on errands, I wouldn’t approach unless he was alone. No Friga or Nirsine, certainly no Tova. Despite my refreshing journey to the wilds, I haven’t forgotten her words. Nor the message underneath those words.
I’ll try to track down Torbjorn tomorrow after another torture session with Scouts. I should’ve got him a present too. Think he’d go easy on me if I bought back one of those snow fox teeth I already sold to Revyn? Actually, knowing Sadri’s Used Wares, he’d sell me a skeever tooth instead. Besides, I already know what Scouts would do if I gave him a gift; drop it in the river and make his favorite student retrieve it.
Heartfire, 6th, 4E 201
New Gnisis Cornerclub. Windhelm.
Late afternoon.
-----
I thought of going to Candlehearth tonight instead to get Lonely-Gale’s story, but Rolff beat me to it. Standing in front of the Hall, tankard in hand, ale spilling down his chin and chest. Already drunk, already spitting bile about Dark Elves and Argonians and all the mudlickers he wanted to teach a Nordic lesson. One of these days, Rolff. One of these days. Your family name and big brother won’t save you forever.
As I left for the Gray Quarter, Windhelm’s finest was still waiting by the Dunmer market-stands. I knew what Hod was going to say even before he knew, seconds before the words entered his gourd-brain and spewed out his mouth: “Stay out of trouble, Imperial.” Stay out of my sight and city, Imperial girl. Imperial slime. Cowardly, weak, worthless Imperial rat. Cold and contemptuous for the weakling intruding on his streets. But you know what? Keep talking, Hod. It will make Serpentstone all the sweeter. When I march back and claim my Stormcloaks blues, when you salute me after I’m the one demoting you to barracks bucket duty. Yes, Ma’am, Jastinia, Ma’am. Rolff and Nils can join you right there in the latrines. Hod and Ulfric, Galmar and Rolff, Tova and all the rest of them: hope you’re ready to see the kind of trouble outsider Imperials like me can really make.
Despite lacking the Hall’s namesake hearth, the Cornerclub always felt warmer. It’s sure not the carpentry; everything in the Gray Quarter always feels like it’s one strong Eastmarch breeze away from a total collapse into the sewer system. New Gnisis isn’t an exception. I hear every creak above me, see every shadow cast on the counter from an upstairs patronstepping over rotting floorboards. The whole place feels like a violent sneeze might bring all three stories down along with every adjacent slum quarter. And yet, I feel safer here than in most of Windhelm. Never a second glance from Ambarys or his customers. Sometimes even a nod, wordless and knowing, a Dark Elf acknowledgement for helping a friend or a cousin of a friend. You’ve done well by our kind, they say in their silence. Stay if you wish.
I will. Not just because of Ambarys’s cooking either. I swear, if we could just get bigots like Rolff and Tova to try his ash yam and horker stew, the Gray Quarter would be the Snow Quarter again in no time. It’d take one bite for Ulfric to grant him a Thaneship. But I also know not even New Gnis’s hot, smoky special can really melt Windhelm’s chill.
Speaking of chill, let’s talk morning swim sessions. I suspected it would be bad when I got there and didn’t see the baggy tunic waiting. Unlike a certain Imperial who manages to lose a greatsword sheath in a room about as big as a closet, Scouts never loses anything on the entire docks. Unless it’s one of Torbjorn’s shipments. The missing tunic had to be intentional. Great. What new awful outfit will I be wearing today? A potato sack? A suit of iron?
“Whatever you have under your armor.” Good one, Scouts, because I have a second suit of… Wait, what? You can’t be serious.
“Quite serious. Undress and wrap yourself in this,” he handed me Windhelm’s itchiest blanket “I will avert my eyes.”
Things got worse after that. Worse than stripping to my bra behind a stack of crates on the docks. Worse than hoping no one saw me even if I knew the Argonians wouldn’t have looked twice if I danced naked across the docks. Worse than shuffling to the edge of the pier wrapped in the coarse cloth, shivering in my underwear as wind rushed through the blanket.
But not worse than him asking that question again: “Do you trust me?” Shit. Not worse than him giving me a pushing start as I made my leap. Nor the moment suspended above the water, Holy shit, Jastinia, what are you thinking. And definitely not worse than the landing. If my initial plunge into the White River felt like dying, today’s jump was the moment of death itself.
Airless shock, panic and paralysis. Limbs that wouldn’t listen to what I told them to do, water cold enough to extinguish the sun. Vision swimming, white to gray, blackening, like my frantic arms. I was paddling and grasping at hands that wouldn’t reach for me, ropes that weren’t thrown. Muscles constricted, lungs tightened. My heartrate thumping faster than Oengul’s hammer before it slowed, stuttered, faded. The White River biting first at my skin and then my blood, my core, sapping every flicker of fire that kept me moving until I was ice. Help me, I mouthed through the water rushing in my throat, help me help me help me, gasped and sputtered as my sight grew dimmer and I-
“Good. Five minutes.” Scouts’s voice was the last thing I heard. Five minutes. But as he beckoned me back to the docks, the River beckoned me to darkness.
I awoke huddled in a ball of blankets by the fire. Shivering just inches from open flames and crackling coals. To Scouts’s credit, he knew not to say anything. Not if he didn’t want to end up in the brazier in front of me or skewered on my sword. All he did was drape his bearskins on my trembling shoulders and walk away. Keep walking or I’ll introduce you to the same creeping, clawing darkness I’d just escaped. I don’t know how long it took to warm up. Long enough for the shadows to grow, a ship to leave port, and Scouts to take a lunch. Long enough for me to give his words the thought they deserved.
“Five minutes.” That’s what he said. At the time I feared he was commanding me to stay in for another five minutes. But now, curled up by the fire, I realized it could only mean one thing. Five minutes was not how long he wanted me to stay. That was how long I survived. Five minutes in Tamriel’s coldest water wearing nothing but two strips of cloth. Water that almost killed me after 30 seconds just days ago. Water I conquered today for not one, not two, but five godsdamn minutes. Say what you will about Scouts Many-Assholes because, as always, his training works. Every tooth-chattering minute of it.
The next jump was easier. And the one after that. I got up to seven minutes at one point when he chucked my greatsword in and said I’d better find it before the current carried it away. He’s the worst. And also the best. At one point, I stopped feeling my skin and just became one with the water. Even below the surface, the current rippled and pulsed with every stroke as river-weed parted around me. Swimming among the silver-skinned salmon. Among the frozen blood of Skyrim herself. Nothing I’d ever get used to, no sensation I’d ever enjoy, but maybe, just maybe, something I could survive.
But I’m still never forgiving him. “Do you trust me?” Sure, jerk. About as far as I can push you.
After I was bluer than Ulfric’s banner, I dressed and returned to town. Oengul needs to give me some tips about sewing a warmer cloak. Ma’jhad’s gift was thoughtful but if Scouts has me doing any more training like this, I’m going to need something closer to his bearskin. I saw Torbjorn instead, alone in the market browsing Aval’s cuts. Neither Nilsine or Friga by his side. Not even Tova. A rare sighting for a family man who always went to market with his clan. For a father of his two real daughters.
I didn’t approach him at first. In fact, I wasn’t going to until he called me over. Damnit, greatsword. It’s hard to stay low near Oengul’s forge with that hilt sticking off my back.
“Tova said you stopped by the other night. Had a good talk. Said she really got to know you.” Hah. She would say that, wouldn’t she? Knowing her husband would relay that message to me word for word, her ice eyes cutting across distance as if she was right there behind his shoulder. Knowing I knew exactly what those words meant.
“Yeah. Really good.”
“I always knew you two would get along.” Torbjorn Shatter-Shield: Master of Weapons, Novice of Women. I imagine he also believed his two daughters had lots of private tutors growing up.
I changed the subject before he invited me over for a family dinner, but once I asked about Mixwater he cut me off. “Don’t worry about that for now.” For now, huh? That’s never good. When exactly can I worry? “First, I have a task for you. You must forge an axe.” No, not just a handaxe or hatchet. One to “make Ysgramor proud.” Two-handed and iron. A battleaxe.
And here I thought we’d already decided greatswords were my weapon of choice, not those clumsy Nordic cleavers. But Torbjorn insisted, something about training across weapons, about true Stormcloaks mastering any instrument at hand. Whatever. I see that glint in his eye. He’s got something up his furry sleeves. “And no cheating!” He eyed Oengul from across the marketplace. “I know War-Anvil’s rules as well as you do.” Right. Blah blah don’t buy what you can make blah blah. Well, if Torbjorn and Oengul are holding me prisoner at this forge for a few day hammering out an axe I don’t even want, are you two at least willing to swap to the docks for some swim lessons?
I’ll research schematics in the Manual tomorrow, but the more I think about Torbjorn’s assignment, the more I think it’s a good break. It will be healthy to get some time at the forge. Hot coals radiating from the stone, warming my cheeks and melting any stray snow in my hair. It’s been a long time since I wielded a hammer instead of a sword, heard the clang of iron-on-anvil instead of sword-on-mudcrab. A longer time since I’ve been warm. Now I’ll be tending Windhelm’s warmest hearth to burn away the White River’s clutches. Hod’s cold taunts. Tova’s ice. I’ll heat and forge and hone your axe, Torbjorn, but then you better tell me what scheme you have twinkling in those blue eyes of yours. Or I’ll push you right off the docks along with Scouts. You two can sort out your differences while I’m the one wrapped in bearskin on the pier counting down minutes.
Commentary
I wrote a longer commentary section in the blogpost itself. To check it out, visit and scroll down: https://unearthedarcanna.wordpress.com/2021/03/13/jastinia-2-acclimation-09-03-09-06-201/. Here were my main thoughts after finishing:
- Write about moments, not days.
- Play with timelines.
- Let Skyrim help you write.
- Blending real-world research.
- Create quest prerequisites.
- Don’t let “perfect” be the enemy of “good enough.”
Thanks for reading and join us and I next time as Jastinia forges her battleaxe, learns Torbjorn’s plan to prepare his pupil, and really starts to worry about Mixwater Mill.
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