Ulrich "The Bear" Brownmane's Story

Report;



A drunken man would trudge up the steep climb to a keep, waving a letter to the guard he would be let in. The letter would be a mess, blotched and stained, but bear the seal of King Ragnar, himself. The man was obnoxious and unmannerly as it seemed the Nords were naturally. He represented only himself, and in his other hand would be a mead bottle, Honeybrew printed in large letters on the label. He was gruff with wild hair and yet a trimmed beard of dirty blonde would frame his face. He would appear to be middle aged, his clothing a mixture of deer furs and grimy blue clothe. He wouldn't even look for this, "Ulrich Brownmane," but proceed to setting the letter to a large feasting table set in the middle of the room. He would turn in a grumble of slurred words and minor curses and leave.

Available Gold; 4,000 Denars.

Income; 693(Denars Per Turn) at 45% TR, 45% TR on Commercial Income.

Building being built/time remaining; N/A

Standing Army; 15 "Companions," – 5 archers, 10 infantry. The infantry wear full steel plate mail and wield steel hand axes and small round steel shields. The archers wear chainmail and leather armor, longbows, and quivers. 30 warriors - infantry. They wear chainmail armor, iron helms, steel hand axes and iron and wooden shields.

Current Fiefs; Whiterun

Population Under Your Control; 192

Commoner Opinion; They actually despise you, while the warriors and Lords may find it okay to bed women and drink heavily, the people surely don't while it means their livelihood. Their problems start but don't stop there. A great deal of rumours circulate, and many were never contempt to the "ignorant," ruling of your father. They have yet to here of battles and thus are not drawn by your individual renown.

Nobility Opinion; A handful love your spirit and fought alongside your father, and respect you accordingly. While the rest are worried you won't be the help they need to gain the upper hand in the fight against the Vaegirs. Others know of the rumours among your commoners and laugh behind your back.

Events; None this turn.

Ulrich sat still while his trusted steward, Jorleif Herrick, read King Ragnar’s report. Ulrich’s son Erik, his housecarl Helvard Stormcloak, thane Bryling Siddgeir and ten of the Companions had stopped eating and drinking. All merriment died.

Every man in the room save Erik was a veteran of numerous battles. Each had stood shoulder to shoulder fighting against bandits, enemy Lords, wild animals, and the elements. These were grizzled, scarred men of honor.

When Jorleif read the portion about the common folk distrusting the Jarl’s deeds and questioning the wisdom of the Jarl’s father, Helvard, Urich’s personal bodyguard and life-long companion stood and with a roar threw his chair against the wall. The force smashed the chair into pieces. All eyes went from Helvard to Ulrich.

Ulrich stared wide eyed at Helvard, then slapped his knee and let out a deep resounding belly laugh. Instantly, the tension in the room eased. Helvard began laughing, then others.

Ulrich rose and ordered one of the servants to fetch Helvard a new chair. When one was brought, Ulrich slapped Helvard on the back and told him he would shove any more broken furniture up his arse. This brought more laughter. Eating and drinking resumed.

Quietly, Erik got up and went to his father. Kneeling so as not to draw too much attention, Erik leaned close to his father and whispered, “father, there is truth in these words. I urge you to seriously consider the happiness of your people. Perhaps we should cancel the upcoming wrestling tournament.”

Ulrich looked his son square in the face. The boy is too much like his mother, the Jarl thought. Bah, he is my son. He is my blood. And one of the sharpest minds in Whiterun.

“Son,” Ulrich calmly began, “a Jarl doesn’t make his people happy. A good Jarl leads by example.”

With that, Ulrich rose to his full height and grabbed Fang from nearby. Candlelight danced along the razor sharp head of the enormous axe. For the second time that evening, a hush fell over the dinner party.

“Men,” Ulrich began with steel in his voice, “the good people of Whiterun, my people, do not feel safe in their own homes. Tomorrow at dawn I will lead a patrol around the surrounding farms. Helvard will attend me, as always. Bryling, bring two of your best archers and three warriors. Jorleif, have twelve of the town guard meet us at the gate. Be sure that the rest of the guards are at their posts along the walls and at the gate. I also want a pair of guards patrolling the village each hour. Rotate the two men. Whiterun families must know that we care, and that we are using all our means to provide for their defense.”

Ulrich then turned his massive back on the table, ruffled his son’s hair, and headed to his room to sharpen Fang. He hoped he would not need the weapon on the morrow, but as his beloved father always said, “you reap what you sow.”

A collection of rogues, outlaws of the societal system. No particular leadership, they had been terrorizing the farthest reaches of the expansive farms of this village of Whiterun. The group of thirty nearly held several of the peasant families hostage. Under the intimidation and exploitation of these bandits there were six families in all that had slowly waned in their taxes, their farm output, while silently a trade route leading out of the town was raided at regular intervals. The whole of the caravans seeming to vanish, not be attacked. This elusive band invisible under the eyes of all that looked into the strange happenings, though it was in a way clear, there presence clear. They would skirt along a lightly snowed forest watching the twenty men patrolling the farms that had nearly become their livelihood. There were murmurs among the group about attacking, but they only outnumbered the group by ten, and thus it was a risk the more well respected among the group weren't willing to take. A small, wiry man would hold a finger to his lips and signal the group to quiet, and they would. He had dark eyes and a cold stare measuring the patrol of Nords.

Slowly an understanding would come over the group as they formed a collection of bows and arrows. They had come from Vaegirs, all of them, once Taiga Bandits they held pristine skill with bows. They now held a line between the trees, camouflaged and waiting, all of them trained on the group.

Ulrich and his men left Whiterun at dawn. Though the sun was rising in a cloudless sky, the weather was cold and crisp.

“Winter is coming,” Ulrich said to Helvard.

Helvard stood nearly as tall as Ulrich and was the same age. But, where Ulrich was a stout 300 pounds and mostly muscle, Helvard was slim and athletic. When they wrestled as children in Whiterun, Ulrich would always win if he could get any sort of grip on the thinner boy. Helvard used his speed and lightening sharp reflexes to dance around Ulrich and wear down the larger boy. If Ulrich tired, then Helvard usually won. The two boys routinely ended up in the finals of the local wrestling tournaments. Initial animosity turned to grudging respect and then admiration and friendship. When Ulrich became Jarl, there was no one he trusted more with his life. Helvard was the obvious choice for his housecarl, or personal bodyguard.

Helvard banged his steel short sword and steel round shield together. “Winter is good for fucking. Women get cold and want warmth.”

The rest of the men laughed. Ulrich looked them all over. The twelve members of the town guard wore chainmail armor, iron helms, steel hand axes and iron and wooden shields. They were not combat veterans, but they were Nords.

Ulrich felt pride swell in his chest as he thought they are still the finest infantry in all of Calradia.

The five members of the Companions that Bryling brought were a different story. Each of these men had grown up in Whiterun. Each had served in the town guard. At some point, whether it was through boldness in combat against bandits or helping enough townsfolk with problems involving wild animals, these men became known to Bryling for their valorous deeds. The leader of the Companions then personally recruited each man. They were given a serious of quests to complete, each escalating in difficulty. Few were chosen, even fewer succeeded in each of the challenges. Failure was not an option. Not for a Companion. Once the challenges had been met, however, his fellow Companions addressed him as “brother.” The two archers Bryling brought wore chainmail and leather armor, longbows, daggers, and quivers. They were, simply put, the best archers Whiterun had to offer. The three other Companions were infantry, and wore chainmail armor, iron helms, steel hand axes and iron and wooden shields.

Bryling was old yet stout, like a keg of fine Honeybrew Mead. He had a thick mane of grey hair, and a large, bushy grey beard. His eyes were still bright blue and sharp. His axe hand could still crush walnuts. He had led the Companions for twenty years, and was pushing fifty years of age when Ulrich became Jarl and named him the thane of Whiterun. This honor enabled Bryling to eat at the lord’s table whenever he so desired. It also made for a close working relationship between the Jarl and the Companions. Bryling was dressed the same as the other Companion infantrymen.

“Where to first?” Bryling called out.

“How ‘bout we patrol the Honeybrew Meadery?” one of the younger Companions answered.

“Yah,” another Companion took up the joke, “I hear they’re having problems with large tankards of mead that need draining!”

At that, the entire group broke out in laughter. Ulrich laughed loudest and playfully punched the young Companion in the gut.

“We will stop at the nearest farmhouse and hear the news,” Ulrich bellowed.

At the first farmhouse, the door and windows slammed shut as the men approached.

“Don’t they know their own Jarl?” Helvard yelled.

Ulrich held up a hand and stopped the group. He was a big man who loved to laugh, but he was no fool. He stared hard at the farmhouse, then looked over his men. The smallest man was a wiry archer.

“You, with the bow! Yes, you.” Ulrich yelled. “Go over to that house and ask the good people why they have need to slam their door in their Jarl’s face.”

After a short while, the archer returned. “My Jarl, the farmers say they didn’t know it was you. They apologize and beg forgiveness. They evaded all of my attempts to discover why they closed their door and windows upon seeing our men. I think they were frightened.”

“Brother,” Bryling spoke, “were you able to tell what frightened these people?”

The archer shook his head no.

“Let’s leave these people be for a short time,” Ulrich said. “We will move on to the next farmhouse, and return to check on them later.”

The next farmhouse yielded the same results. And so did the two houses after that.

Ulrich gathered his men in the middle of one of the major trade roads. “Men, there is trouble in our land. My people are scared. What say you?”

A temporary war council ensued. In typical Nord fashion, this involved a lot of yelling and some pushing and shoving.

As Ulrich and his men were discussing what to do next, a mule-drawn wagon approached. The men of Whiterun fell silent. An old man driving the wagon halted the mule. Without saying a word, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small pouch. There was a clinking sound as he moved the pouch. Ulrich stepped toward the old man.

“What is the meaning of this?” Ulrich forcefully stated.

The old man replied, “This is not my first trip to Whiterun. I know I must pay the toll to safely deliver my wares to the village.”

Ulrich was taken aback. “I’m the Jarl of Whiterun. There are no tolls on my roads. Who have you given this money to?”

“There has been a group of men a little larger than your own band. A man much smaller than yourself, good Jarl, is usually the one to take my coin. He has the coldest eyes I have ever seen. I confess, now that I think on it, that it did seem queer him having a Vaegir accent.”

“Vaegir!” Helvard growled, then spat.

“Aye,” the old man said, “I have lived a long life and traveled far and wide selling my trinkets. I would recognize a Vaegir accent right away! My wits have failed me, is all. I didn’t put two and two together. Why would a Vaegir be collecting tolls outside Whiterun?”

“Bandits,” Bryiling growled, then spat.

“Wasn’t there word of a particularly brazen bandit attack on Raven’s Post a short time ago?” Helvard asked.

“Old man, do you know which direction these Vaegir scum headed after they took your money?” Ulrich asked.

“They headed off toward the forest south of here,” the old man pointed.

Ulrich only had to look at his warriors to have them ready their weapons. Without a word, the men of Whiterun moved south. There was no laughter on this march. The sun shone bright in the sky, but the air remained cold.

The men from Whiterun did not get very far.

The old man in the wagon stood and yelled, “Hey! You won’t take them bandits so easily!”

Ulrich raised Fang and yelled back “then we’ll take ‘em hard!” At that, his fellow Nords went wild, roaring fiercely and banging their axes on their shields.

The old man was unconvinced. “You won’t get to use them axes with arrows lodged in your skulls!”

“Arrows?” Ulrich asked.

“He means archers,” Bryling answered before the old man had a chance. “Vaegir archers.”

“He means Vaegir archers shooting from tree cover,” one of the Companion archers chimed in.

“Shit!” Helvard growled.

“Shit.” Bryling agreed.

“These Vaegir scum will trouble my people no more.” Ulrich planted his feet and crossed his huge arms.

Bryling walked right up to him. He could not match Ulrich strength for strength. No man in Whiterun could. Bryling did have age and experience on his side, however. “Ulrich, listen, our men are brave. They will charge the forest if you give the order. They will die like men, but they will die.”

Ulrich flexed his arms and stared Bryling full in the face causing the tension in the air to immediately thicken. Helvard moved to intervene, but before he took a step Ulrich motioned for him to remain still.

“Bryling,” Ulrich began, “you have always given me wise counsel, but you are a fool if you think I would give that order. I want you to take one of your archers, the three Companion infantrymen, and five of the town guard. I will take the other archer, Helvard, and seven of the guard. We will split our force, enter the forest from the east and west, and flank these sons of whores. As soon as you hear Helvard’s warhorn, unleash hell.”

Bryling grinned fiercely and nodded in satisfaction. He took his men and moved off to the east. Ulrich and his men went west.

The sun was beginning to set as the men from Whiterun entered the forest. A thick canopy plunged the warriors into near total darkness. Torches were out of the question. The going was tough, but not impossible. These were Whiterun pines. This forest was not even half a day’s march from the village proper. Many of the Nord warriors had played hunter and bear in this forest growing up. They were still the hunters. And these were their woods.

Ulrich led his team forward. As they neared the position the old man had pointed to, Ulrich got down on all fours and crawled. His men followed his lead. The day’s chill had become a biter, hard cold. A light snow was beginning to crawl. For men not of Nord blood, this was an evening best spent indoors.

Ulrich paused and listened. He was still for so long that Helvard was about to say something.

Ulrich slowly turned and cupped his hands in Helvard’s ear, whispering, “listen. Do you hear that?”

Helvard listened intently, and heard nothing but a breeze rustling the pine trees overhead. Then, the noise reached him. It sounded like bones knocking together, beating out a quick staccato.

Helvard grinned. He whispered to Ulrich, “the Vaegir sentry is cold. His teeth betray him.”

“He will soon be colder.” Ulrich had to have faith in Bryling. The older veteran would know what to do.

Ulrich had each of his men ready their weapons. Then, Helvard raised his warhorn to his lips.

A deep, throaty bellow ripped the forest’s stillness. The bellow was followed by Ulrich’s enormous war cry.

Ulrich raced toward the chattering teeth. Fang, his huge war axe, actually led the assault.

The bandit archer was leaning against a tree, rubbing his hands. He reacted slowly to the sound of impending death, frozen by more than the weather.

Ulrich took his head in one giant swing of his axe. Fang severed bone and flesh like a hot knife going through butter.

A nearby bandit archer reacted quicker than his companion. He had been watching for the Nords, and was lining up a shot on Ulrich’s back. He never saw Helvard, or his axe. The housecarl had once sworn a blood oath to defend his Jarl with his life. He would not break that oath. Not this day. Helvard’s ax bit deeply into the archer’s elbow, nearly severing the arm. Blood spattered the nearby trees and reddened the snow on the ground. The man groaned and stared at his wound. His left arm dangled by a single sinew. Helvard buried his axe in the nearest tree trunk. He dropped his round shield, and grabbed the archer’s head with both hands. Helvard shoved the archer’s head with all his strength into the axe head. There was a sickening crunch, more red snow, and the archer’s eyes closed. Helvard retrieved his axe and shield, and moved on.

The bandits seemed to be in groups of two, scattered along the tree line, facing the clearing. They were not expecting an assault from the sides, from the forest.

Ulrich looked around and saw the Whiterun guard engaged with bandits in the forest. Sightlines were too broken for most archers to take up their bows. Daggers did not fare well against axes, especially Nord axes. Ulrich heard sounds of battle from the other end of the forest. This made the Jarl smile. Bryling did not disappoint. He would have to buy the man a keg of Honeybrew for this…

His reverie was cut short by a thrown dagger that missed his face by a hair and lodged into the pine tree near his head. Ulrich turned to find the man who was now short one dagger.

A much smaller, much thinner man stood off at a distance. Was this the bandit the old man spoke of? Ulrich laughed, strapped Fang to his back, and ran after the man.

Ulrich was not fast over long distances. But, he moved like an angry mother bear protecting her cub over short stretches. The smaller man severely misjudged Ulrich’s ability to close, and he almost paid for it with his life.

Ulrich charged the small bandit. He reached out to grab for him. Focused on the bandit, Ulrich missed the exposed tree root. He went down like a ton of rocks.

When he pulled himself to his feet, the smaller bandit was gone. And the battle was over. Fifteen bandits lay dead or dying. Five were being tied together. Three of the town guards were dead. Two were wounded.

“Ulrich!” Helvard yelled.

Ulrich ran to his friend to find both of the Companion archers kneeling on the ground, struggling to support Bryling’s head.

Bryling was dying. Ulrich had seen enough dying men and animals to know the smell of death.

The old Companion had a dagger stuck to the hilt in his abdomen. An arrow was stuck in his chest. Bryling was coughing up blood.

“Did…did we get the buggers?” Bryling coughed, and more blood came up.

Ulrich knelt beside his thane. “Some managed to escape, but they won’t be troubling Whiterun for a long time.”

“You…(cough)…should have seen (cough, cough) the first bastard I caught (cough, cough, cough). He was taking a shit!” Bryling laughed, and there was a lot more blood. Then, the coughing abruptly stopped.

“Bryling!” Ulrich yelled. “You do not have your Jarl’s permission to die!”

He was gone. Ulrich balled his fists. He could not let his men see how much Bryling meant to him. This only deepened his anger. If I ever get my hands on that little man…

“Men,” Ulrich shouted, “we will take our prisoners and our wounded back to Whiterun. We take our dead home to their families. We return on the morrow to bury what’s left after the wolves take their due.”

With that, the men of Whiterun returned home.