I was born from a poor family and to parents of meagre means, who owning a relatively small farm, the Round Estate, tended it with their own hands. Our farm, the Round Estate, was in a stretch of particularly fertile land near Lake Hornich, west of the Ragged Hills, surrounded by about a dozen other small farms. Our family had been harvesting wheat in the Round Estate since time immemorial, although it didn’t have that name then. Back before the times of my grandfather it was called the Round-Nose Farm after our surname, but grandpa changed its name. I don’t have a lot of memories of grandpa, he died when I was still quite young, but mom always told me that he was an ambitious man with great plans for our family, and my few memories of him do match with what she told me. The reason he broke with tradition and turned Round-Nose Farm into the Round Estate was to create a flair of prestige and quality. Our wheat was as good as any other, but grandpa was able to convince everyone that it was the tastiest in all of Tamriel, and that bread baked with Round Estate wheat could bring a high king to their knees. It worked, when I learned grandpa had died I was only seven years old, and yet it was the fourth year I had to help mom tend our market stall, which was always full of costumers and needing as many people running it as possible. Our stall was so popular some people even made the voyage to Riften from Shor’s Stone or Ivarstead just to buy flour made from Round Estate wheat. Some were willing to even buy the raw wheat itself.
A lot of money crossed the gates of the Round Estate, but we never managed to become rich, as most of our earnings were spent on maintaining our farm. People think that if you work yourself the land maintaining a small farm is relatively cheap. That is not true at all. First we had to pay personal and property taxes to the jarl, and a special tax paid by all farm owners in the area so that guard patrols extended to our stretch of land. Then we had to pay for a license to hold a market stall, which had to be renewed every season. Taxes and licenses apart we didn’t have our own mill to turn the wheat into flour so we paid a nearby farm for milling services. And, of course, we were a family after all and we had to take care of our livelihood: food, clothes, farm and house repair, horse and wagon maintenance, and anything a farming family may need.
One of our biggest expenses came in the form of wages for the seasonal workers. Even if a full family can take care of a farm the size of the Round Estate during the greater part of the year, most of the heavy work is concentrated in the harvest season, which for wheat tends to fall in Last Seed. Harvesting, threshing, bundling, storing, bringing the wheat to the mill, carrying the flour to the market and manning the stall is too much work for a single family. Sure, one could harvest slowly with only their family and finish the whole process by Hearthfire or Frostfall. Given that it’s common wisdom to ration the selling of the harvest so you can sell it the whole year round it doesn’t seem a bad idea to do a slow harvest. But anyone who has ever worked in a farm knows this is a folly. All it takes are a couple rainy days, some very early snows or an intense gust of the northern wind to ruin every crop not stored into a granary, leaving a farm without income for the coming year and bringing forth its subsequent ruin. Everybody knows almost instinctively that a good harvest is a swift harvest, and for that you need more hands on the field. The smallest farms could get that extra help by summoning whatever extended family members they could, but any decently sized farm like the Round Estate had to hire seasonal workers, or “ungilded” as we called them. The reason for that name was twofold. The first reason was that they weren’t organized by any common guild, and if you wanted to hire more than one gang of ungilded you had to negotiate with each gang separately. The other reason was that they were some of the poorest, most miserable and worst behaved groups of individuals in the face of Nirn, us bandits and thieves notwithstanding.
When harvest season came grandpa would hire one or two ungilded gangs of the many that had come to Riften’s market to be hired, and he would take them to the Round Estate, where they would work and stay until the end of the harvest. We housed them in the stables, which were made to house up to ten work animals despite never housing more than a horse, and were one of the few completely walled off stables in the region. Mom always told me that grandpa was really insistent on housing them in the stables and that at night he almost didn’t sleep, always keeping an eye on the stables from the bedroom window. His guard over the ungilded was especially intense when their gang leader was one of them, chosen among themselves; some worked as employees for a contracting gang leader with the latter being liable for any offense the gang could incur in, which must have put some ease in grandpa’s mind when he hired them. His distrust was a tad excessive but some would say it was justified. The ranks of the ungilded were formed from individuals of all origins, sexes, ages and races, but they all had in common the fact that they were dirt-poor. You could find among them ruined peasants, run-aways, beggars, crippled grunts and deserters fresh from the legion, lowlifes and other outcasts, all living one of the roughest lives I’ve ever known. While working as an ungilded hunger was common, exhaustion proved unavoidable, uncertainty over what to do between harvesting seasons was permanent. In sum they only had misery in their horizon, and misery is the foil of the righteous.
There was a link between banditry and ungilded gangs. Some bandits temporarily travelled far from their hunting grounds to get some extra income as ungilded, and some ungilded were recruited into bandit gangs with the promise of a warm bed, camaraderie, and a slice of the spoils. Everyone that profited from farming, from the large landowner to the small farmer, were afraid of the ungilded as in their minds few were the differences between ungilded and bandits. The largest landowners not only hired armies of ungilded but also mercenaries to control them. Horror stories about armed ungilded revolting against their employers spread around like gossip. Most were set on Harvest’s End, which city people celebrate on the 27th of Last Seed, but the farming folk celebrate whenever the harvest is done. In the countryside Harvest’s End is celebrated by those who have endured the harvest, and they do so by heavy drinking, shouting and getting into fistfights. The stories followed a similar patron: during the harvest something happens and the inebriated ungilded take revenge on Harvest’s End when the salary is paid and the harvest is done. You could tell who ruled the land and who worked it by asking them whether they were looking forward to Harvest’s End.
I still remember some of the horror stories about the ungilded that ran amok among the farms around us. In one of them an accident kills one of the ungilded, and on Harvest’s End they demand an extra for having lost a gang mate. The landowner says that, since he has lost the labour he was going to get from the victim, instead of giving them a plus he should cut their wages. Drunk with rage the ungilded burned his granary with him inside. Another story featured a young heir being seduced by a young ungilded woman. She would tempt him by praising the freedom of the ungilded to roam around and do as they please when no one is looking, and pitying that he was condemned to serve his father even after his death. I heard two endings to this one. In one the heir abandons his family and joins the ungilded when they leave, preferring hard labour to his responsibilities. In another he secretly marries the ungilded woman and together they plan the murder of his father. When the deed is done on Harvest’s End the new owner kicks out his family and installs the ungilded in his farm, leading to months of drunken revelry. When both the coffers and the cellar are finally empty he asks his friends to farm together but his wife murders him, robs the few things left in the house and leaves with her ungilded accomplices. The only one of those stories I liked as a child was the one about the young ungilded who protected his dog from being eaten by his fellows after a bad harvest ended up with a missed salary. He did so by striking a deal, if the dog lived to see the next season he would bring prosperity to them. The next season they got hired by a rich landowner, and the dog was able to dig his way to the man’s hidden cache of wealth, much to everyone’s delight. I always liked the dog’s story, much to the displeasure of my grandpa and uncle.
Like all children I knew, I was horrified when the ungilded came. But that changed one season when, while playing outside, a tired old ungilded sat down near me to refresh himself a little. He pulled a wineskin from his sack and started drinking. I remember he had a lot of wrinkles, stains, scars and sweat on his dark arm, torso and shaved head. I was terrified, my eyes locked on him, keeping watch for any possible attack. I wanted to flee but my muscles were locked up and I felt unable to move. He noticed me and turned his head towards me, which prompted my eyes to look straight to the floor. He laughed and told me something to the effect of “don’t be scared, kid” while offering me some ale from his wineskin. It tasted terrible and he laughed, “The wineskin is new, but the ale is old” he said. He gave me his name and I gave him mine. He told me he came from the west, from Morrowind, and that once he was like me, a young child living on a farm, but one of the big ones. He inherited his family farm but quickly delegated its management, for he was proud and ambitious and had greater plans in mind. Little old me thought I was talking to a crazy man when he told me he spent most of his life inside a mushroom. “No way, somehow you’ve must have had too much sun in your head to say these things” I said, “in a way, yes” he responded with a certain melancholy. He explained to me that for years he served a wise master who repeatedly told him to be cautious, that those who curse once also do so twice, but he didn’t listen. He was more preoccupied with learning spells, buying land and finding new ways to make his slaves work more. He described himself as a “bad disciple, terrible landowner and cruel slaver”. I didn’t know then what a slave was; I had only heard the word once while a preacher shouted a sermon about ancient Alessia in the midst of Riften’s busy market. “Then, it all swiftly ended in only three red seeds” he said looking at his fellows with a dead gaze. I still wonder which year he was talking about. It couldn’t be the Red Year, couldn’t it? It was ages ago, he couldn’t possibly be alive back then, could he? Anyway, having lost everything he had he crossed the border to Skyrim and ended up working for an ungilded gang lead by an argonian. At first he found his new life brutal and unbearable, but he eased to it after a long time. He told me than although he was poorer and hungrier than ever, he felt nobler than ever before. And then he sang me a song that went something like this:
Sun and shadow and twilight and dusk
Azura may give you what she thinks you’ve asked
Sun and shadow and twilight and dusk
If you sow meek winds then a tempest shall rise
Sun and shadow and twilight and dusk
Azura won’t give you anything that lasts
Sun and shadow and twilight and dusk
The fountain of glory is also of demise
Sun and shadow and twilight and dusk
Azura leaves captains for those on the masts
Sun and shadow and twilight and dusk
Always remember when donning your mask
Azura may give you what she thinks you’ve asked
Supper that day was as any other. Grandpa, grandma, mom, mother, uncle, brother and sister partook in a simple meal of porridge stew and bread. As usual, grandpa and grandma argued vividly about lands, outputs and possible inheritances while the rest of us ate silently, eyes fixed on our meals. Until grandpa’s death I knew no meal that wasn’t grave and heavy to bear. After supper we all went to sleep. Our farm-cottage was pretty big and roomy: uncle slept in his own bedroom, mom and mother in another bedroom, my siblings and me in a third bedroom, and grandpa and grandma had their own separate bedrooms. But that night I couldn’t sleep. I had feared the ungilded all my short life, but meeting that old Dunmer had started to sow seeds of curiosity in my soul. Outside, amid a pitch black night, the only thing that could be seen from the window of the old chapel turned children’s bedroom was the flickering light coming out of the stables. The nightly sounds of crickets and wild animals on the prowl was drowned by a faint sound of singing and laughter. Harvest’s End was drawing closer and the works in this later period proved to be less intensive, which tended to lift the spirits of the ungilded. As I was both curious and restless I decided, both bravely and foolishly, to join the ungilded in their celebrations. I got out of bed, grabbed my summer coat, put on my boots and tiptoed my way to the bedroom’s door. I thought I was being as sneaky as a hiding dragon (forgive me for using such an antiquated idiom), but my older brother wasn’t quite asleep yet and noticed me. “Where are you going, get back to bed”, he said. I answered him that if he told anyone I was leaving I would tell everyone what he was hiding under his bed. That was enough for him to shut up and let me leave. The next challenge was getting to the stables without being seen through the window by an ever watchful grandpa. Luckily, for the last few weeks grandpa had been suffering of a weak stomach, and while he was distracted alleviating himself I made a run for the stables and entered them without being noticed.
When I entered the stables, which were dimly lit and mildly heated only by lanterns, I saw about two dozen people sitting on the floor. There was a certain contrast between their bodies and faces, while their skins were coated in sweat, scars and bruises, their faces had radiant smiles on them. It was really obvious they were anticipating the coming of Harvest’s End. Their laughter and lively banter stopped suddenly when they noticed me entering the stable. The old Dunmer I met earlier rose up supporting himself with a long stick and welcomed me to the stables. “Don’t fret, muthseras, he’s now a friend of mine”. I sat with them and they gave me a bit of their ale and their burnt bread. The ungilded and I spent some time telling jokes, singing songs and talking about the weather and the state of the land. I remember one of them casually commenting that the Hard Gravens must have been pleased because they haven’t had a red sky in all of the season. I asked her what she meant by that. “The Hard Gravens are terrible half chicken-half woman creatures who, when offended, pee a magical potion into a hole in the ground. Then they stir the pee with their own long fingers, and that creates vapours that rise and form harsh winds and heavy tempests. These creatures offend the gaze of Shor, and when one of them does their unholy ritual he tints the skies red with his own blood to alert us. Remember young one, the red skies announce calamities to come”. That explanation was, of course, followed by a heated debate on whether it was Shor, Y’ffre or Tava who brought the red skies. Another creature they spoke me of were the Spring Ones. These
spirits were formed from the souls of fallen animals and were in charge of bringing spring after the winter. But if someone angered them they would withhold the coming of spring and attack unaware travellers going through the forests. Some of the ungilded claimed planting flowers and trees appeased them while others said that nothing can be done about their wrath. I like to think I have never been, not even as a child, a superstitious person. There is nothing beyond magic, Daedra and gods. The gods are subtle about their actions and magic cannot conjure storms or bring a spring. Back then I had a friend living near us whose older brother was always closed in his room preparing for entering the college in Winterhold. On the few occasions he got out of his room he showed us his spells, such as casting light, casting flames in his fingertips and healing small bruises, so I already knew back at that age that magic was those kinds of simple effects and nothing as big as what the Hard Gravens or the Spring Ones could allegedly do. It’s kind of a miracle I don’t believe in all this stuff knowing how superstitious bandits are.
Someone in the stable proposed teaching me their songs, and everyone was enthusiastic to do so. These people knew a lot of songs by heart and all of them were rude or crass or upsetting in some way or another. The first one they sung was one about days like that day, where Harvest’s End could be seen in the horizon:
Harvest’s End is coming, Harvest’s End is here.
Bring your deepest bowl and your best beer.
Harvest’s End approaches, Harvest’s End is soon.
Our dearest lord better give us a boon.
We have worked all day,
No laments to be heard.
(Female) We’ve reaped your gourds, / (Male) we’ve seeded your soil,
(Female) If you don’t pay / (Male) we’ll make you boil.
There’s no septims in Aetherius
Nor there’s money, you goose.
For that we have a better use.
Hear our words and don’t be rude:
What you can take that’s good
Is our gratitude
Harvest’s End is coming, Harvest’s End is here
Bring your deepest bowl and your best beer
Harvest’s End approaches, Harvest’s End is soon
Our dearest lord better give us a boon
Another song they sang was about the impossible love story between an ungilded woman and a noble heir:
(Female) I pity, I pity, you I pity my love
(Female) My home‘s open fields and yours are just four walls
(Male)I pity, I pity, you I pity my love
(Male)That being my lady they call me your lord.
(Female) I curse, I curse, I curse your foul blood
(Female)That binds my love to the plane of his lord
(Male) I curse, I curse, I curse your fowl blood
(Male) That being so pure it owns no noble walls
(Female)Let’s flee, let’s flee, let’s flee my love
(Female)To a place where live no lords and no walls
(Male) Let’s stay, let’s stay, let’s stay my love
(Male) You’ll be the fair lady of this lord and walls
O Mara, O Mara, O Joiner of Blood
Whisk us away from these walls and these lords
O Nocturnal, Nocturnal, Hider of Blood
Cover the gaze of these walls and these lords
The last two songs they sung bothered me a little, because they were about bandits. The first one was somewhat scary and frightening as it was about a cruel bandit who enjoyed his craft:
Many years ago in these lands
Lived Sharp-Rock, the bandit
With princely license in his hands
He stole because he could do it
Always tainted in blood he was
Making offerings to his dark master
And in every mountain and every pass
His victims’ words could be heard along his laughter
“Spare me, I beg! Remember Stendarr’s love
Take all I have but let me be
Do not bring me to this cove
Spare me, I beg! Your axe do not fling”
And he knifed them like in rut
But luck abandoned him soon after
He was caught and to be head-cut
When he threw his last blabber
“Don’t spare me, I beg! Forget Stendarr’s love
Take me but let what I have be
Leave it in my enshrined cove
Don’t spare me, I beg! Now your axe do fling”
He died with a grunt
And his trinkets were all burnt
But it was the second one that upset me the most as, contrary to what I thought was possible, the bandit was shown as a good guy. They told me it was one of the many songs dedicated to Banrabardan, a hero-bandit who stole from the rich, freed those in chains and took care of the common people. This particular song went something like this:
In every forest and waterfall
Trouble is soon to again ride
Which shall be seen from Senchal
To wherever the deep do hide
Again he shall take his sabre
Again his spells be cast
Again his dagger be savoured
His hideouts will be full at last
Come back, come back, Banrabardan
That our pride they will defile
To their lands they will chain us
Our fur they will sell far
The last verse of the Banrabardan song was sung again and again, each time with more intensity and louder. It resembled more a battle cry than the verse of a song. Years later I asked my gang-mates if they had ever heard of a Sharp-Rock or a Banrabardan. The response was always the same, “Who?” I didn’t know it then but certainly I do know now that that particular gang had never seen a bandit in their lives. Murdering because we want to, being acclaimed by the people and all the other things these songs sung about, they seem alien to me. Bandit life is much more different than how it is depicted in songs.
After that particular night some days passed and Harvest’s End finally came. Grandpa instructed all of us to stay inside the cottage and far from the windows. Against my will I did obey, but I could hear everything that was happening outside. Coins rung as they were counted. Voices rose in indignation when not enough coins had rung. A heated discussion. A call to the guards. The sound of armed men as they rose from their hiding places. Menaces. The clinging of armour as it moved to perform an arrest. And finally, a curse: “By Magnus and by the Moons, by Zenithar and Malacath, may Banrabardan curse you, your house, and your family”. Like I said, I am not superstitious; mankind and merkind do not have the divine power of cursing someone, and Banrabardan was a character out of songs and fantastic tales. But, given all that happened for the next twenty years, maybe I ought to have watched the sky that day, and notice it was red as blood.
“Skyrim: Nordic WAAAGH” | Illustration by Michluha, DeviantArt