David

"I'm not sure I believe what just happened."

"You are not of Whiterun, let alone Skyrim." Skjor replied. "If anything, it should be easier for you to believe."

David shook his head.

"Preconceived notions can be a bitch after all."

They walked up the steps to Jorrvaskr in disbelief. For Skjor it was angry, but resigned. For David it was amusement, and if he was honest, just a little bit of jealousy.

"It makes what we just saw easier to accept. No question about that. The title of thane is seen as an honor for those who best follow the image of all a son of Skyrim would want to follow."

"I saw simple politics there. Who else in there could keep Whiterun neutral? He can't be the worst thane in Skyrim if he can do what he's meant to do."

It was Skjor's turn to shake his head in disgust.

"You're right. He's not the worst. He just became a thane in the wrong hold. Solitude, or Riften would be more fitting."

The merc opened the doors to the hall, and gestured for David to enter.

It was a cavernous room. Both simply and richly decorated, like many great places in the tradition of the Nords. Carved wood and simple tapestries paying homage no doubt to the warriors who brought prestige to this outfit. This was the oldest building in Whiterun, he had heard.

The room itself was a giant wraparound porch centered around a dining hall on a cobblestone floor.

At the tables he could see several companions sitting down in deep conversation. A few looked up, and David recognized one of them, a man with long flowing black hair, and a face hard but equally as long.

"Good to see you could make it." the man addressed David.

"He proved his worth as a companion, that is fair to say."

David didn't fail to notice the looks they gave him. Instantly every eye was on him, sizing him up. It was a look that David by instinct returned.

These men were warriors like you would find in any other tribe. Strong and proud, with a tendency to wear as much of their personal wealth as possible. Where actual soldiers thought in terms of wars, tours and campaigns, these sorts thought in terms of battles.

"Is Kodlak in?" he could hear Skjor ask.

"Down below," responded the familiar figure.

He followed Skjor around the hall and down a staircase. Down here was the living quarters, which looked a little more comfortable. For its obvious age, it had a very earthy feel to it, and strangely no visible signs of rot.

At the end of the main corridor, past an opened double doors, there sat two men in suits of heavy armor. The first, was dark haired with a rounded face and looked to be in his upper twenties. The second had a magnificent head of silver hair accented with a braid on the left side of his head, and looked to be at least mid thirties.

Without really much of a thought, David picked the second one out as Kodlak White-mane. Everything about him screamed elder in a way no member of the Brotherhood of Steel could.

"I still hear the call of the blood." He could hear the younger one say as the approached the room.

"We all do," replied the older man. "It is our burden to bear. But we can overcome it."

David stole a quick look at Sjkor. From a quick look, the man's poker face gave away nothing.

"You have my brother and I, But I don't know if the rest will go along quite so easily." The younger one gestured in their direction where he noticed them. For an instant his eyes widened in surprise at the sight of him.

"Leave that to me," White-Mane tapped the table between them as he shifted his attention.

"So, this was the man you took to Bleak Falls Barrow?" The elder asked his fellow companion.

"He was."

"hmmm," the elder hummed in thought. It was a sound like gravel, that almost made him think of Chief Hanlon.

"You seek to join the Companions young man?"

"Heard there were openings, from several different members," David gestured with his right to give emphasis.

Kodlak wasted no time in appraising a snap judgment. He might be getting up there, but his senses were still quicker than most men's would ever be.

"Here, let me have a look at you." He hummed in thought. "Yes, perhaps. A certain strength of spirit."

"Master, you're not truly considering accepting him," the younger warrior asked incredulously.

The elder shook his head slowly. "I am nobody's master, Vilkas. And last I checked, we had some empty beds in Jorrvaskr for those with a fire burning in their hearts."

"Apologies, but I've never even heard of this outsider." This time the younger man in the black hair spoke more tactfully.

David laughed at that, surprising all but Skjor.

"Some would say that no reputation is the best reputation."

"Then why join the companions?" the younger one asked.

"Because I'm good at solving problems." David replied without skipping a beat. That earned an appraising look from Kodlak.

"Fame matters not, what matters is your heart. What do you desire?"

"I want the freedom to live life on my own terms."

The old bear of a man said nothing for a moment, just smiled. He wasn't quite sure what possessed him to say the next words, but as soon as he did, life somehow suddenly made more sense.

"I would like to work for myself."

Kodlak nodded with a sense of understanding. "I had you figured for a soldier lad. Many of those who served the Empire came to us empty and betrayed. They found purpose here, and I believe you will too. How are you in battle, boy?"

"I can handle myself," David pointed his elbow towards Sjkor." He can vouch for me."

The old man looked at Skjor with amusement "Do you, shield brother?"

"I do." The merc nodded. "He's tough for someone new to Skyrim."

"Then it's settled." He turned to the younger man in armor. "Vilkas, find this man a bed."

Flokir

When Flokir was brought to Whiterun, he wasn't certain what to expect. By the customs of Skyrim, his crimes within the hold did not by law merit death, but legal traditions were only suggestions to jarls with full rights of justice. Also, Whiterun tended to have harsher views towards horse thieves. While Balgruuf was not a man to hand out death sentences like sweet rolls on King Olaf's Burning, there were members of the court who even now would call for the noose. Not openly of course.

The air in the hall was a curious thing. There were those like Proventus and the Grey-Manes who considered this feast a stain on their honor, dragonborn or not and made no effort to pretend otherwise. More curious still, was the reception he got from the more flexible members of Whiterun nobility. Olfrid Battle born, wasn't sure what to think of him yet. The slimy patriarch was too busy trying to understand the room. Others like Nazeem were already approaching him, as though they were friends.

The contempt many in Whiterun many held towards him was slowly starting to fade, and it was amusing to watch. The title of Dragonborn held significance after all, especially within Skyrim.

The jarl had thrown open the doors of Dragonsreach for the citizens of Whiterun to join in the festivities. Flokir understood the intent.

The revelation of dragons had brought the city to a panic which grew with every hour. A feast celebrating his appointment to Thane was Balgruuf's best chance to cool tensions within the city. All it cost was a couple more pigs, a trivial expense for what the jarl wanted out of this.

"Divines smile on you, then."

The man who approached him was difficult for him to recall until he saw the amulet.

"Greetings vigilant," Flokir gave a slight nod of acknowledgment.

"You fought well today, none can deny it, but it is difficult for me to not to question the will of the eight." He spoke the last word after an uncomfortable pause. "Better men fought and lived to tell of what happened at the watchtower. Yet you were the champion."

Flokir shrugged. "I was never a pious man. Maybe a priest can figure it out. Maybe they can tell me what a Dragonborn is supposed to be."

"The Dragonborn was supposed to be a true son of Skyrim," the brother gave the barest of scowls.

Flokir snatched a cup of ale from a passing serving girl, and took a sip while he thought over the meaning and decided he did not like it.

"Came from Riften hold," he answered tersely. "Still part of Skyrim last I heard."

The lines on his jaw tightened, and his mustache shrank inwards.

"Your place of birth does not make you a true son, boy. You are not true to the laws and customs of Skyrim. You are only true to your blood." He cut it off there, the meaning was plain enough.

"My blood is still Nordic," Flokir smirked and took a sip of his ale.

Not Nordic Enough, said the face across from him. Before he could say more though, another figure approached.

Flokir turned to face Heimskr who approached him, arms spread in a wide gesture. The priest of Talos was allowed into Dragonsreach on condition of good conduct, which meant that he be seen but not heard.

"So I have been told. The first one since Tiber Septim. And I'm only half Nord."

The priest frowned. "I made a prayer to Akatosh and to Talos when I learned it was you. "Why him, I had wanted to ask. But the word of the divines came on me when I entered this hall."

"And what was their word?" The Dragonborn asked the priest.

"This is what the divine Akatosh says. You are a judgment on Skyrim and those who rule it," Heimskr lowered his voice. "For though Talos would deliver us from our enemies, he would force us to learn humility for all we the children of the empire have forsaken."

Flokir laughed into his ale.

"A curious thought, Heimskr. I wonder how many would agree?

"I am not certain our order will agree," the vigilant spoke politely to the priest.

They made a stark contrast. The vigilant wore fine enchanted robes adorned with fine jewelry, and carried an elegant mace at his side that was silver studded (which Flokir knew was not all for show). The priest, on the other hand, wore a flowing roughspun robe. It was plain that they preached to different crowds.

"You mean the vigilants of Stendar won't rejoice at the sight of me?" The dragonborn prodded the man.

"It has been prophesied that this day would come. That it happened right after the return of dragons makes this matter clear. And yet you Flokir of Riften are not what the Keepers of the order expected."

"I know how betrayal from the divines feels, brother of Stendar," Heimskr spoke solemnly. "But it is we who betrayed all they stood for. The law was sacred."

"Is sacred," the vigilant growled back.

"We should put that on our money," another voice entered the conversation.

"Ah Vignar," Heimskr beamed.

The ancient form of Vignar Grey-Mane swayed closer into view with a cup of something in his hand.

"Good to see they let you in." The old man's features which may well have been carved from rotting maple twisted with an intoxicated merriment. "Perks of not being under the emperor's banner."

"It will be back in the fold soon enough Grey-Mane," retorted the vigilant.

"And don't you seem eager for that day." Vignar drawled his voice with a lazy contempt that he was known for. "The Empire is still good to you after all."

"The Empire is good for Skyrim, always has been no matter what that murderer Ulfric says."

"Murderer, you dare call him!?" Vignar's tone was belligerent. "After Markarth, after the Windhelm riots?"

A hand appeared over Vignar's shoulder. It was Lydia.

"Enough Vignar," there was steel in her tone.

"Forgive an old man if you would for the behavior of his passions."

"Apologize for them then," demanded the vigilant.

"Don't think I will. I speak my mind with no shame about it."

"Speak your mind elsewhere then, now is not the time."

Vignar grinned. "For you housecarl I'll take Hiemskr and find better company."

Without a word, he turned away and so did the priest of Talos.

"Lydia," Flokir purred. "You look radiant."

"Thank you," Lydia paused. "Thane"

"Not used to that word? Housecarl" Flokir couldn't resist the urge to bait her.

"No, and I'm surprised you'd say that without steel in hand."

"Does tin count?" he drained his cup then flicked it in her direction in a mock attack.

He heard a few laughs around him. Lydia glared in the offending direction and then back at him. She might have been his housecarl, but in truth he was still a little terrified of her.

"Lydia, I admit we got off to the wrong foot" Flokir conceded.

"Really," she furrowed her brow. "I thought it was your right foot I got."

Flokir grinned sheepishly. "That was before I became a thane. Didn't you say guards would look the other way now?"

She closed the space between them and put a finger on his chest. "Careful now. I put you in irons once and I can do it again dragonborn or not, if I think it necessary."

"Not very housecarl of you." Flokir spoke in mock outrage.

Lydia gave a noncommittal shrug "Every thane gets the housecarl they deserve. Now come, let's get our seats."

They found their seats under the watchful eye of Jarl Balgruuf, who was seated just below the dais. Lydia sat to his right side, and the Jarl to the left and over his shoulder.

Servers came out with the finest dishes that could be served on short notice.

First out was a bowl of apple cabbage stew with grilled leeks. He dug into the dish as quick as he could, and then the next one put before him.

He saw the jarl's face out of the corner of his eye and had to suppress a grin. Flokir was starving, and used to a life where certain meals were only found in dungeons. And considering how he felt now, surely Namira's own would have gagged to watch him eat.

Next came Potato bread served with a wedge of Eidar cheese. The food was delicious and went down quick, the mead and wines even quicker.

Flokir paid little head the other guests as his belly filled and the many voices in the hall steadily blurred into fewer by the time the main meal came.

The smell of pork chops, slathered in a sauce of honeyed garlic, was strong even though his senses were slipping away. Even Lydia who seemed so composed, so stiff and honorable, was wolfing down the meat.

"Not drinking Lydia?" he elbowed that stoic woman who was bound to protect him.

"Drinking at a feast would be unbecoming of a housecarl." She replied, not even troubling to look at him "You probably should stop."

"Is it unbecoming for a dragonborn to get drunk at his own feast?" The words came out a little slower than he meant for them to.

She looked at him to give a look of disapproval. "Only to excess, my thane."

"But I heard Tiber Septim could out drink any man alive. A bard told me so."

"Tiber Septim was Dragonborn much longer than you, boy." Jarl Balgruuf interjected for the first time. "Besides, bards lie for their mead. At least the songs will remember you as something better than you were should you live long enough."

David

"So you became a companion by impressing the companion that escorted you to a contract?"

The space elf named Athis asked him from across their table with a sense of disbelief.

Though the feast had been ongoing for about two hours, new arrivals were still coming into the great hall of Dragonsreach. Among them was Athis who was returning from the contract somewhere on the tundra and had ridden hard the last few hours with Ria, a fellow companion.

The Companions sat at a crowded table, but chairs and space were found. Athis squeezed his little frame between Farkus and Aela across the table from him, while Ria slipped her chair right next to him.

"Yeah, something like that." David reflected on the insanity of the last week and not for the first time. "Sounds crazy when you say it out loud, but I think that just makes it the rule of day, not the exception."

"You're telling us," another companion, a Nord named Njada piped up. "I'm still trying to understand why Skjor spoke for you in the first place."

Sjkor who was a few seats up in the table Balgruuf had reserved for the companions was pretending not to hear that bit, and promptly emptied a cup of mead down the hatch.

David shrugged "Stick around me long enough, you might."

Njada shook her head. "Not gonna happen," was her dismissive reply.

"Then you'll just have to understand on your lonesome," David replied dryly. He didn't feel the need to prove jack shit today.

"You do look a little young for a companion." Ria joined in the conversation with a curious and somewhat playful tone.

"What can I say?" He rested his elbows on the table and spread his hands while he faced her. "I age well. Not even the scars change that." By reflex David tapped the back of his head.

Ria reached out with a hand to feel that bullet scar he got in Goodsprings. David could feel part of himself stiffening from the touch. From there, she began tracing other scars in the area. In particular, her fingers seemed most interested in the surgical scars he had received at Big MT.

"How did you get these?" She asked, no doubt sensing a story.

It was not a story David planned to tell anyone present. He wanted to talk about his old lives as little as possible right now and he wasn't about to start with that time his brain got scooped out. "That Ria, is a long tale; a tale for another time."

"I'm sure its a good one." Her lips broke into a naughty little grin.

He heard Skjor clear his throat. "Easy Ria," he said with a mostly straight face. "You'll make the new blood nervous." The table howled with laughter.

When it died down Sjkor gave him another measuring look.

"You know, we've all been sharing stories about battles we fought and scars we took. Give us one of your own. A shorter one."

"Fair enough," he nodded, swung his head a little and laughed. "Do you want to know how I got these scars?"

"Which ones?" asked Ria.

"These," he tapped the bullet wounds near the top right side of his head. They were only a few months old and still had a distinct look. Furthermore, this was one wound that wasn't about to be hidden under the knife any time soon.

"I was doing a job as a courier. Well, me and five others. Our client was fabulously rich and had us all carry different packages. I was selected at random to carry the one the actual package."

"Just one package?" drawled Farkas. "What about the others?"

"They were dummy packages, silly things intended to draw attention elsewhere. Thing is, it didn't really matter in the end. The client had a leak in his order that identified all six couriers."

"What were you carrying?" asked Aela.

David paused to contemplate his answer. "It was a key, a very interesting key to a very special lock. There were things behind that lock someone else wanted badly enough to track me down and ambush me."

"You got that in an ambush?" Skjor seemed slightly amused at the thought of David falling for an ambush.

He shook his head. "No, that was just blunt force. It healed fast enough. When I woke up though, I was surrounded by bandits and there was an open grave in front of me. Their leader apologized for executing me, and then I took the hit."

"How did you survive?" Ria looked at him with curiosity and concern.

"Turns out that my client had hired hands keeping an eye on me. One of them dug me out of the local graveyard and paid a healer to patch me up. A couple days later I rejoined the land of the living and started hunting down the bastard."

The looks on some of their faces were priceless. He'd gathered from Sjkor that couriers in Skyrim were tough like old world truckers were said to be, but not like the people who took caps from Mojave Express.

"That's pretty serious commitment for a mere courier," said Aela. Using Sjkor's name as a character reference might have given him some weight with the redhead, but there was still suspicion and rightly so. The story had organized crime written all over it after all.

"I took payment for a job, and that job was going to be done. I was also seeking death at that time." He then smirked. "And the payout for getting the package back was small fortune unto itself."

"And yet you came here to Whiterun in rags." Aela was still not having it.

He shrugged, "I didn't come to Skyrim for fortune and glory. My treasures are not stored in Skyrim. I only came here to chase a man and did with only what I could carry."

David paused for a moment to remember his reasons if they could be called as such.

"Sure I've followed my heart and conscience to Whiterun, but there's a man in Skyrim I seek to hunt." He could feel himself shift focus from Aela's gaze to somewhere beyond. Some distance away and yet without proper focus.

"I will find him, and we will have an ending to things."

Author's notes

Of all the faction questlines, it's my opinion that the Companions questline was the weakest. Much of this is due to the fact that the Silver Hand makes zero fucking sense. Nobody bothers to explain their motivations (I need something more than just hateful bigots) and why they believe they are right (could they actually *gasp* have a point about a few things). Also they look too poor to be running around with 5-20 pounds of silver weaponry.

I think it would make for a better story if I merged the Silver Hand with the Vigilants. The Vigilants of Stendar after all tend to attract zealots, write checks they can't cash, and can afford decent weapons meant for fighting notable elements of Daedric Influence. Furthermore, they also make for a greater scope antagonist.

A question has been posed by a shitposter as to why I gave the character an actual name. For those curious its because fuck any writer who is too lazy to actually name their character and takes the easy way out. That also includes having a personality and actually trying to justify their actions.

And no, not a self insert.