User:Vordur Steel-Hammer/Fiction/The Tale of Rorvik the Unlucky
Common Era, year 476
Kingdom of Western Skyrim
Rorvik was sitting on the cart that slowly rolled through the green landscape of western Hjaalmarch. The hulking Nord looked towards the afternoon sun and recalled events that brought him to this moment. He possessed both wits and a strong, muscular body, but even with these traits, all the undertakings he had made in his life failed sooner or later. Born to a middle-class family in Whiterun, he tried to be a trader until his shop burned down for unknown reasons. He moved to Dawnstar to try the life of a fisherman, but one day his boat was struck by lightning and sank, along with all the fish. Rorvik then moved to Haafingar, founded a lumber mill near Solitude, and tried his hand at lumber trading, which worked until a lumber caravan he sent from Solitude to the Orc stronghold of Fharun was buried under an avalanche when it was crossing the Druadach Mountains. This left Rorvik with most of his workers dead and the entire shipment lost.
After all these events, some people who knew him started to think he was cursed by this or that Daedric Prince, and nicknamed him “the Unlucky”; soon no one remembered anymore what his original second name had been. Rorvik's last venture was a mead brewery he opened in Solitude; initially it was very successful, so much that he got an opportunity to serve his product at a banquet hosted by one of the thanes of High King Svartr. He agreed to supply his mead, but the batch he had made for the occasion turned out to be a disaster, and the thane and his associates were ashamed before their guests, some of which were emissaries of Queen Freydis of Eastern Skyrim. In the light of the scandal, Rorvik was exiled from Solitude, and so he ended up sitting on the cart, not being even sure what his destination was, or what his next idea to make a living should be.
He noticed that the cart rode over a nameless tributary to the Karth River, which meant they were about to enter Whiterun Hold. Less than a hour later, the carrage arrived to Rorikstead, and the driver stated that he would not go any further on that day. Thus Rorvik went straight for the inn and booked a room, then ordered himself a drink and asked the barkeeper about opportunities for work in the area. The bartender told him that Falkreath, being at war with the Orcs under the banner of Yashnag gro-Yazgu for over thirty years, desperately needed supplies, such as ingredients for healing and magicka potions for the soldiers and healers of the Hold. While Rorvik was a rather pacifist type, he was strong and knew how to fight, and always carried his giant, heavy steel hammer, which he called Jornslaag, a name he had once found engraved on a wall on some dilapidated ruin. He had been told by a court mage that it could be Old Atmoran for “Iron Blow”, but he had no idea whether it was really true. Regardless, he thought he was in no position to be picky, so he decided to head to Falkreath Hold and hunt some spriggans, whose taproots were well-known for their magicka-restoring properties.
On the next day, Rorvik crossed the border between Whiterun and Falkreath. The weather was pretty, which was rather unusual for the region; Rorvik only felt mild wind coming from the direction of Lake Ilinalta. After continuing towards the south for some time, he turned west, entering Falkreath's famous Pine Forest. He went on and on through the ocean of conifer trees for several hours, but could not find any spriggan, nor anything else of note that he could pick up and bring to the city to trade. He eventually reached an elevated landmark called Knifepoint Ridge, from where he could see most of the forest from above. From the sharp ridge he was standing on, he noticed smoke and fire rising from several places in the forest, but before he could think about it, he was suddenly surrounded by seven Orc soldiers, armed to the teeth.
“We will bring Yashnag your head, Nord,” cried one of the Orcs.
The situation was dire, but Rorvik was no fool, and he got an idea. He engaged the Orcs in conversation, mostly consisting of exchanging threats, while slowly circling around them. In the end, the Orcs ended up standing on the ridge where he had stood before. At this moment Rorvik looked to the left and cried “Oh no!” with horror. The Orcs instinctively looked that way too, and Rorvik immediately threw his mighty steel hammer, Jornslaag, with all the strength he could gather. One of the distracted Orcs was hit and knocked back by the sheer mass of the weapon, and he tumbled onto he next one, and so on, like a row of towers falling upon one another. In a few seconds, six of the seven Orcs fell from the ridge, meeting their end with a metallic jingle mixed with the sound of breaking bones. Only one Orc remained, desperately holding onto the rock, but Rorvik kicked away his hands, sending him to the same fate that met his colleagues.
Just as the last Orc died, a Nord scouting party emerged from the forest below, shocked by what they had just seen.
“I can't believe it,” said one.
“Kinsman, I've never seen anything like it,” said another. “Come with us. We'll take you to the Jarl.”
And so Rorvik went with the scouts to Falkreath. They found the city celebrating: just a few hours before, Jarl Hakkvild slew Yashnag in one-to-one combat, and invoking an ancient Orsimeri rite of honor, he commanded his forces to retreat. Falkreath was free, and Rorvik was brought before the young Jarl, who now called himself Hakkvild Yashnag-Slayer. The Jarl was told about Rorvik's deed by the scouts, and he ordered Rorvik to kneel before him.
“What do they call you, my friend?”, asked the Jarl.
“Rorvik the Unlucky,” he answered.
“From this day on, you will be known as Rorvik Steel-Hammer.”
And Rorvik was granted land where he built his farmstead, and a few years later he married a local woman, Gerdur Pine-Frost. Rorvik's unlucky days were gone, and he and his family prospered. Today, his descendants still inhabit the same homestead, and the steel hammer Jornslaag is still hanging on the wall there, as a remembrance of Rorvik and his legacy.
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