Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-2165692-20140116131911/@comment-5583506-20140202195144

The way to Whiterun had always been a pain. It was blistered with sudden snow storms and the areas teemed with bandits. They were no match for "the Bastard" however. Arngrim cut his way through the bandits in front of him and watched as the red blood spilled and decorated the pure white snow in colourful patterns. He did so without any sign of emotion, without remorse, anger, hate or pleasure. As the rest of the flew off in all directions he just put one boot in front of the other and continued down on his path.

Find the witch, he thought. Find her and rip her rotten heart from her chest...

Within the next three days he finally reached the gates of Whiterun. It had been a long time since he had been here and he was dying for a drink.