Frostfall

Hjaal River

Early Morning.

The crisp air felt like needles on her scales, a sensation of tiny burning pinpricks. A wet spray of droplets glittered in the morning sun as she rose out of the small creek next to her campsite. Overhead, damp pine trees caught wisps of the morning fog, the night’s dew twinkling in the pale sunlight.

The cold bites deep, fills with fire. One last time, the Argonian dipped below the waves, the current pulling on her feathered crest, daring her to slip, to slide loose and be swept away by the current. Her claws dug deep into the rooty bed of the river. She breathed deep, exhaling the water through her gills. Winter descended from the mountains with every passing day.

Refreshed, she scrambled onto the rocks of the riverbed, settling on a spot where the sun would help dry off her scales. The satchel next to her still contained a few strips of dried meat; she unwound the clasp with fingers numb from the cold. Within, she found a few pieces of jerky. The lizard settled in, crossing her legs. As she gnawed away at the jerky strips, her gaze wandered down the stream to where the creek opened up to the valley below, the roar of a distant waterfall audible even up here. The valley floor was still shrouded in darkness, but against the glimmering mountain peaks ahead, she could barely make out the silhouette of a terraced settlement, sprawled out on a hill rising above the grassy plains. Whiterun. If the weather held up, she would reach it within a week, right on time for the harvest festival. She’d heard many tales of how the mystical tree in the town centre would be covered in flowers and colorful ribbons, stories of wine and ale flowing freely in every inn.

This time, she would be there to experience it herself. Her delivery should grant a hefty sum, maybe even get her through the winter. If nothing else came up.

Veera reached for her waterskin and washed her breakfast down. Time to go. Her scales were mostly dry, and it was still a long way to Rorikstead, half a day’s walk ahead.

She reached for her breeches. The deer skin stuck to her scales as she slipped into them, absorbing the last few drops of water. Her vest still hung where she left it, on a branch next to the campsite. She walked over and picked it off. The wool had mostly dried overnight, no longer the soggy mess it had been when she’d made camp the night before.

Sure, the rain had been quite a relief after days of walking in dim forest twilight, but she wasn’t intent on having clammy wool stuck to her scales for longer than necessary. For the moment, she placed her vest back on the tree. It was the long fabric of spun silk she reached for instead, draped loosely around the branch.

Her time with the monks of the Wayward Temple had made her adapt their unique sense of fashion – and instead of wearing tunic or cuirass like her brethren would prefer, she began the tedious work of fastening the long, silken Ko’Tah around her ample chest. She held onto one end of the fabric with her teeth and reached around her back with the other one in an attempt to make the first bind. There had to be a clasp around here somewhere ...

She felt her back pop as her fingers managed to get a hold of it and as she fiddled the other end of silk band through the clasp, the thought of just opting for a tunic instead of this tedious mess each morning crossed her mind. But this was the last remnant of her childhood with the monks of Wayward Temple, and she wouldn’t want to trade that for a bit of comfort.

There, done. The fabric crisscrossed across her chest in a tidy manner, the linen tone contrasting the bright gold-yellow of her scales, snug against her curves. She pulled over the vest and fastened it with the leather laces on front, then turned back to the camp.

The bedroll was mostly dry; she rolled it up into a tight bundle and fastened it to her backpack. Over there, her travel cloak. The thick hide would still be soggy, but the barren plains up ahead should provide sunlight enough to dry it out along the way. Scooping it up, her lips curdled into a half-lopped smile as she swung the cloak over her shoulders. Oh, the sweet smell of rancid wool. Lone companion on a lonesome trip.

Sure, company made for safe travel and cozy firesides, but folk around these parts were suspicious, especially of foreigners like her – and Argonians were even greater reason to be wary, it seemed like. Well, no worries to her – her axe and bow had protected her well so far, and an ill-intending grin with razor-sharp teeth had helped discourage those looking for trouble. All in all, she was doing just fine. At least as long as Rangvar held his promise.

One last look around the campsite, then she set off. Down the hill, into the valley. Towards the rising sun.

They’d agreed on a fortnight.

A package from Bruma to Whiterun, delivered on time. No questions. Just a small leather-wrapped package, received as always, to be delivered as always.

Two, maybe three more nights she’d have to spend on the plain, eking closer to the cragged embankments of Whiterun towering above the rolling hills. Winter was closing in, and wherever the sun hadn’t yet reached into shady nooks and behind cragged rocks, a thin coating of icy crystals glistened in the morning light. A raven croaked, and Veera could hear deers traipsing through the underbrush, startled by the noise.

Were she not on a delivery, she’d spare the time for a hunt — game was still plenty, and this far from any village, the chance to stumble upon a Jarl’s woodsman was low. Depending on what kind of package she’d pick up in Whiterun, she might have the chance for that on her return trip through the hills.

The wind picked up. Swarms of crows perched among the crooked pines, squabbling among themselves and mourning the end of autumn. Firuna pulled her woolen overcoat close.

Up ahead, the road met another, the remains of a roadside inn next to the crossroad. Several months of rain had eroded the soot and smoke from the stone walls, charred timbers the only evidence of the violent fire that had raged here. She often took rest among the ruins when passing through here — local folk avoided the the grief-stricken stones, so she’d been undisturbed up until now.

It thus was a bit of a surprise to find a catfolk sitting atop the fallen timbers, his woolen cloak beside him, thoughtfully gnawing on a piece of cured meat.

He looked towards her and raised a hand, his tail playfully flicking about.

“I welcome you, scaled traveller! Take rest with me, I mean no harm! I have some mead to share, and tough meat, as well, if you’re inclined!”

Veera approached him, covertly eying the surroundings.

He bared his neck and showed his empty hands, then smiled at her with a fanged grin. “Nothing to worry from this one, no! I travel alone, and my weapon will not be raised against a companion! Come, share a meal with this one!”

Sly catfolk. They we astute observers. She visibly relaxed her stance and presented her empty hands, as well.

“I thank you for your honesty, Khajiit, and accept your hospitality. I have some dried meat to share, as well, but can only match your mead with water.” She approached the Khajiit and set her pack down across from him. Settling on a burnt log, she unwrapped the few morsels of food she still had. He took a small piece of dried meat, as was customary, and graciously bowed his head as thanks. “A kind offering, lizard friend. Let me share my food, as well — I have plenty to spare, and no wish to use up your rations.” He held out a bundle of his own, freely offering her the dried contents. Veera took some, and bit into the tough ration.

“This one is called Varr, and Varr is pleased to meet you!” He bit down on a string of meat, chewing thoughtfully while looking her over. “No, no, don’t say anything. Eat! Let Varr have a look at you, make some guesses about you!

Gulping down her bite, Veera raised a brow: “Is my name to be guessed, as well? Or just trade and destination of my travels?” The Khajiit chuckled. “Ah, my wit has met it’s match, it seems. Introduce yourself, and I will guess your reason for travelling. No harm in a friendly game, no?”

Veera settled herself more comfortably, stretching her limbs and gave the cat a sly smile. “Veera, I’m usually called. The rest I leave to you!”

Varr sat up a bit straighter, reached for some more food and then studied her intently, lingering on her pack, her woolen coat and criss-crossed Ko’Tah and her axe.

“Hrmh. She cares well for her tools, sharpens the axe and mends the bow. Much use they have seen, and your mark—” He indicated a faint scar adorning her brow, “it tells of trouble past.” A cautious look, a sly smile. “Not intruding, am I?”

Veera smiled faintly, showing teeth. “Much less than the savage that crossed a blade with me.”

He chuckled. “Varr pities those up against you — blade, claw and teeth surely make for a deadly combination in battle, to which this one can attest, as well. But there still is the question of your … profession, so to say. Varr sees a small knapsack, a bedroll, well-used and well-cared for. Many nights outside of cozy inns and warm beds, no? A huntress, maybe?” A toothy grin, another bite of meat. “Without much success, however! So maybe a vagrant, an opportunist? But the sash, the binds, they tell a different tale. Varr knows nothing of their origin, but he can appreciate craftsmanship and fit when he sees it!” Veera merely acknowledged his searching gaze, but gave nothing away. He truly was an astute observer. Interested in many things, observant of many details. Was he casing her, looking for easy pickings?

Varr, the friendly Khajiit. As he studied her further, making remarks on her clothing and trying to guess her profession, she focused on him, as well. Keen eyes, quick wit, nimble hands. He wore a distressed leather jerkin, linen trousers, no shoes. His fur was a mix of ochre and brown, black spots sprinkled in-between. She could see that he’d been out in the wilds, as well — specks of dirt and forest clung to his clothes and feet, and his fur had that distinct look of past river baths, disheveled tufts of hair sticking out in a multitude of directions. Skyrim was no paradise for their kind, so a certain attunement to wanderlust had to be a given to make a living around these parts — but whether he had good intentions for travel companions encountered along the road, she could not tell. Murky waters along the shore, a dangerous time to wade in.

“Watchful eyes, she has, as well, hrrm?”, he chuckled. Veera met his gaze, taking up his friendly tone and smiling back: “Why have only one of us play this game? Watchful eyes keep trouble afar, as Khajiiti tell it.”

“That we do, so we tell. Rueful, it is. No longer are the woods serene and gentle, yes — prey more often than hunter, I am these days. Wildebeasts, savages and bloodthirsty men, they stalk hills and groves and plains for blood!” Varr’s whiskers tingled as he spoke, his eyes flicking from her towards the horizon. “Varr feels it everytime he smells the air. Steel and blood, death and ruin. And yet–” His hand rose up, snapped shut, reopened around a small butterfly caught within. Veera watched the critter settle on Varr’s open palm, seemingly unbothered by its sudden trapping. Lazily, it’s wings flapped in the sunlight.

“Beauty can be found all over, whenever we care to look for it.” He extended his index finger, let the monarch butterfly rise back into the air, both of them looking after it.

“Every desert blooms in rain”, Veera agreed, lost in thoughts.

Varr eyed her mischievously, a smile crossing his face. “… and winter always turns to spring.”

Startled, she looked at him. There was a spark in his eye, a smile on his face: “The Waywards have their way with words, no? And with hospitality. A caring hand, a soothing voice, a welcome respite from the cold?”

Veera hummed favorably, remembering the secluded monastery. The winter nights, the thaw of spring, the freshly-healed scar on her hip – a thin remembrance of the gruesome strike that had led her to the monk’s gates.

“I’ve stayed with them, some time ago”, she said softly, acknowledging his curiosity, unwilling to divulge further details about herself.

“As has Varr, many moons ago. Fond memories I have of them, but no inclination to seek them out again, if I can help it.” A rueful smile, a nervous whirl of his tail. When he’d caught and released the butterfly, Veera’d seen his palm — a dark, gnarly scar adorned it, mirrored on the backside. His other hand had been pierced, too. Had he been destined to die on a cross somewhere?

She looked up, met his gaze. “You know their rules of kinship?” He nodded, thankful for her reticence. “Then let’s share this meal, keep peace, and walk the roads together until dusk. Let us mirror their kindness, here in this land of bitter cold.” She fell silent, somewhat taken aback by her own advance. What had happened to surviving and thriving by herself?

Varr scratched his head, and considered her for a long moment. Then, he smiled. “Two odd ones last longer together, yes?” His ears perked up, and with a yawn, he stretched out along the log, basking in the sun spots that danced along the ruined walls.

“That they do.”

She looked into the distance, settled deeper into her spot, and felt a knot of suspense loosen in her belly. Sandpipers and swallows were flying high above, their trills and chirps getting carried along the wind. A peaceful day, the clouds driven away by wind and good spirits.

The two enjoyed the rest of their meal in relative silence. When they set off again, with both of them travelling towards Whiterun, it felt natural to keep company. Varr was quick of wit and easy to talk to, and she felt her tongue loosen as if they had known each other for longer than a mere half-day — he told her a rough recollection of his past, his days spent scavenging the wilds working for Kvatch’s mage’s guild and apothecaries, acquiring naturalia and ingredients for their various concoctions. Veera kept her own admittances vague at first, but it felt easy to talk and she longed the company. Intermittently, she would tell him of her courier days in Blackmarsh, later the oddjobs around Bruma. Then, the dark years. Both of them had seen trouble, had fought to the death. Varr boasted of his virtue with bow and dagger, a glint in his eye as she playfully challenged him to an archery contest once they’d reach Whiterun.

“Varr’s arrows will pierce the heavens across Dragonsreach, just you see!” He laughed at her dry smile. “Or would you match my skill, surpass it, even? Is that string of yours enchanted, blessed by spirits of the sap trees?”

“It will take a mighty wager to find that out”, she remarked, “but only after your release from the dungeons for besieging the jarl!”

Varr’s laughter launched a murder of crows from the pines, circling and cawing angrily at the disturbance.

The Whiterun Plains

Late Afternoon.

Warm rays of gold stretched across the meadows, illuminating the hill tops. Varr and Veera were steadily heading east, following the meandering paths and roads steadily growing larger and worn with use as they approached the central plains surrounding Whiterun. By now, they saw other travellers, as well — they avoided lone figures (whose possibly hidden companions might ambush from the roadside), as well as large groups (soldiers, marauders or just unlucky refugees, all of whom likely lacking kindness for two foreign beastkin) — but they also chanced upon a caravan of Khajiiti traders, who were amicable to share some knowledge of the road ahead.

Someone else’s caravan had been ambushed and pillaged up ahead, a few miles ahead. Four men slain and torched, supplies of grain and harvest goods hauled into the woods, from what traces they could gather. Veera affixed her bow to her pack, easily reachable, and Varr became much less talkative after they headed off again, each party wishing the other safe travels. They had planned to reach Rorikstead by nightfall, but that suddenly seemed much less desirable than before.

“Two beastkin are no match for raiders. Should we leave the road and travel wild?”, Veera asked as soon as they were out of earshot. Varr considered her, and looked ahead. They were coming up to the crossroads leading west, into the Reach — all cragged hills and vicious tribals. Heading east, they would have another day of walking in the shadow of mountainside and forest, and then finally reach the open plains of the White run hold, were watchtowers were mostly manned and traders could pass mostly safe.

He hrmm-ed. “The road allows speed, but will likely be watched. The wilds are tangled, and obscure us, as well as foes that know this land much better than we do.”

“Marandrujo did not mention Forsworn. If they hunt around here, they might already stalk us from the cliffs, and so we would be endangered either way. If the caravan was beset by vagrants or bandits, they might retreat into the southern hills, where Falkreath’s borders lie. In that case, deeper into the plains, we might stay out of their sight.”

“A good thought.” Veera nodded, uneasily watching the hills up ahead. Cragged rocks and rugged trees covered them, the wind playing in the grass and suggesting hidden foes everywhere she looked. “Let us leave the road. We are fewer in numbers and less armed. I will rather fight a wolf in the grasslands than be pinned by a dozen unseen archers.”

“The bed of fate is seldom snug”, he wryly said, and shouldered his backpack tightly. Time to cross the hills.

They left the road quickly, following dried-out streams and rocky flats further eastward. They stumbled upon rocky spires eroded by wind and weather, with the massive headstone of the largest Obelisk half-buried in the mud.

“Big bird”, Varr commented, kicking up some pebbles. The granite beak was worn smooth by erosion, but one could well image it placed up on its perch, watching the land with grim intent.

“Wonder what it watched.” Veera rested her pack on the statue’s back, stretched her limbs.

Varr walked around, looking at the other spires. Some still stood at least two or three kin-length high, but most were toppled or simply collapsed into weathered piles of granite, overgrown by lichen and waist-high weeds and grasses.

“Maybe a town, long ago. Or a place for sacrifices!” He chuckled, kicking one the fallen rocks. “Cultists always plan for eternity, but never for wind and weather …”

Veera smiled faintly, more focused on massaging her sore shoulder. “Partaking in blood sacrifice does tend to cloud reason, I’d wager.”

“Does funny things to the mind, does it not?” He regarded her, the smile on his face a bit more lop-sided. “Blood on your blade, ragged breath …”

She knew the feeling. “Aware. Alive.”

“The hard part comes afterwards. Resting your head, dreaming of it. No instinct to focus the mind.” His gaze lost hers, looking to the clouds, searching for purchase.

Veera felt old scars itch, her hip wound clawing beneath the skin. “Teeth to bite and claws to tear, and a spirit made to remember it all.”

“The price we pay for living. Others die at our hand, exchange their life for ours. We take their story with us, short it might have been.”

Veera nodded, fixated on the eagle. Uncaring eyes, staring into nothingness. “It keeps me humble. Every day might be the last.”

Varr stretched his arms, yawned. “And staves off big ideas like hauling stones up a hill to spill some blood on them to impress some uncaring god.”

She smiled at that. “That, too.”

As the wind picked up, they left the hill. It would’ve made for a decent resting spot for the night, but their talk of cultists and blood rites made it seem unwise to invoke some occult god’s wrath, so they ventured on.

Varr seemed to be the better tracker between them, his acute sense of smell and honed instincts making for a much easier journey than the last time she’d had to cross the deep wilds. They followed another riverbed, dried out into a thin band of brackish water. From their brief rest on the hilltop, Veera’d guess that they’d still had two or three days of walking until they reached the outskirts of Whiterun.

They were deep into the plains, and the sun had disappeared behind the western mountains. Varr had become somewhat restless, his ears moving here and there, his tail twitching intently. Veera shared his unease. They were within a shallow valley, cragged embankment of rocks and trees looming up ahead. The river had carved a ravine into the dirt that could almost swallow them whole in parts. It obscured them from potential watchers, but the embankments and rocky overhangs that bordered the river bed also made navigation and keeping track of their surroundings difficult. Crows were in the air, hoarsely voicing their displeasure with the coming winter.

“Think it’s time to make camp?”, Veera asked, moving up to match Varr’s restless speed.

He grunted, but made no attempt to slow down. “Not yet, no. This valley’s unsafe. Too many watchers.”

“The crows, you mean?”

An irritated flick of his ears. “No. Not the birds. Blood on the wind. We have to go on.”

Veera opened her jaws, tasted the air, breathed deeply. Juniper bushes, mud, the faint smell of fish (mud crabs). A hundred different weeds. No coppery smell of death, no decay or destruction. And yet, Varr pushed on, one hand set on the hilt of his dagger, knuckles clenched in apprehension.

He’d led them true so far, so she kept her doubts to herself. But as they hurried on, she considered him intently. From the landmarks she’d seen in the distance, they were making good time — he led them more or less directly eastwards, moving ahead of the twists and turns of the cobblestone road that connected Rorikstead and its outliers to the central plains of Whiterun. He’d sensed a small pack of wolves upwind and guided them around, carefully avoiding attracting the pack’s attention. They were both aware of the giants that roamed the plains and where it was most likely to encounter them, but Varr had pointed out specific spots in the distance, giant camps that he’d encountered in the summer. His knowledge of the plains most likely surpassed hers, and she had to trust his instincts. So far, he had not given her reason for doubt, but, to be fair: She did only meet him this morning. Him reciting the Wayward Greeting had eased her tensions — the monks were good judges of character — but fully trusting the judgement of an acquaintance met just half a day ago felt foolish.

Caw, caw, caw. More crows. They circled above, swooping wide and bickering with each other, but kept their distance. They’d be all over a corpse, swooping down, pecking into skin and flesh, then up again. But not here. They stayed high. So what brought them? Were they just watching? Waiting for something?

Veera kept a tight grip on her axe, ready to defend herself at a moment’s notice. The shadows of the ravine seemed to close in around them, the wind gusting through dried shrubs. The riverbed terminated further ahead, where there had once been a stream flowing down from the rocks and clay of the embankment. They’d have to climb. Varr stopped and turned, met her eyes.

“The birds are an omen. They sense something.”

Veera was inclined to agree, could feel Varr’s shared unease. “What to do? Climb up and face it?”

“No other option. We go back down, we stay exposed. We climb up, go ahead – either we find something, fight something. Or see a battlefield, a corpse. Certainty.” He licked his lips, nervously tasting the air. “Varr could move ahead, you behind. Or split up, try different spots to climb. Your thoughts?”

Veera considered him. Then the embankment ahead. Twice as high as herself. In some parts, the heavy clay almost formed overhangs, in others, dried silt and rocks of varying size had slid down, creating uneasy slopes up towards the crest.

“Let’s keep close. We climb the same spot, watch for another. If you want to, go ahead – I will guard your rear, ready my axe in case of trouble.”

Varr nodded in agreement.

They chose a spot where the embankment was less steep, marked by a fallen tree that had created a natural ramp up the slope. Varr led the way, his lithe body moving with a grace that belied the urgency of their ascent. Veera followed closely behind, her axe at the ready, her eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of danger.

They reached the crest of the embankment, crouching as they peered over the edge. Before them, the landscape opened up again. The sun cast long shadows across the plains, turning the grass into a sea of gold and amber. And where they expected a battlefield, or at least a corpse, there was just undisturbed underbrush, a thicket of rocks and mosses and the grasses of the plain, illuminated by the fleeting light of the evening.

For a moment, they paused, taking in the sight, allowing themselves a brief respite from the pressing sense of danger.

But the peace was short-lived. A rustling sound, a low growl. The crows above whipped themselves into a frenzy. Varr’s hand went to his dagger, his eyes narrowing. Veera gripped her axe, muscles coiled like a spring.

A misshapen creature emerged from the thicket. A lone wolf, its fur matted and eyes wild with hunger. It paused, sniffing the air, its gaze fixed on Veera and Varr. Another growl rumbled past its crooked teeth, the creature’s mad eyes flickering between them. A massive beast of malice and hunger.

For a moment, they stood frozen, a silent standoff between predator and prey. Veera felt her heartbeat slow, her senses sharpening into a miniscule point of tension.

Varr raised his arm in a fluid motion, the blink of an eye passing in a blur of motion and steel. Veera saw his dagger fly, the creature stumbling into a dodge, felt the guttural howl of the beast as blade penetrated skin, shattered bone, buried itself deep into the wolf’s neck.

“Strike, sister! Strike the beast!”

Varr, calling out to her, a second dagger in his hand already.

Her arm felt sluggish, her axe heavy as if passing through water. And yet she felt her muscles flex, her legs push against the crumbling dirt, closing the distance to the wounded beast. Madness reigned in its broken eyes, flickering and burning from the inside out. Her axe came down, sliced into fur and sinew. It gouged deep into the wolf’s neck, her arm buckling with the force of impact. Varr appeared beside her, his movements slowed by her senses as to seem almost calm, pushing the gleaming dagger up into the creature’s throat. He braced his left arm against the beasts head, balancing his weight to drive the blade deeper — and then, almost tenderly, the wolf twisted his head — skewering itself on the dagger’s blade — and closed its maw around Varr’s arm. Teeth pierced fur, Varr stumbled, and the beast went limp, jaws locked tightly around it’s Khajiiti prey. One last shudder, and it collapsed into him, its hateful gaze losing focus as the dagger pierced deep into its skull.

Varr grimaced in pain, forced into an uncomfortable crouch, his right arm pinned by the fallen beast.

“That — could’ve gone better”, he grunted, his breathing rapid and unsteady. Veera felt her own heartbeat in her chest, the rush of battle overpower her hearing. She shuddered, blinked, felt the tension turn into shivers. Her axe stuck deep inside the beast, blood pumping out of the gash with every fading ba-dum of the wolf’s heart. Yet still it held fast, clamping down on Varr’s left arm with mangled teeth. Varr collapsed onto the ground, his healthy right hand pulling the beast’s head unto his lap as to not dig deeper into his left arm. “Scale-friend, help me pull it off –”, he pleaded, “Varr lacks strength to do it alone…!”

The beast lay still, its eyes glazing over. The blood flowed in an ebbing stream, pooling on Varr’s fur and the muddy ground. Veera reached down. She took the creature’s maw into her hands, looked at Varr. “Should I force the jaw open? Can you get your arm out?”

With a grin more forced than usual, Varr nodded: “Your pry it open. I free my arm. A moment to brace?” She waited, watched as Varr breathed deep, clenching his teeth. He leaned forward, relaxed his trapped arm as much as possible. “Ready.”

Veera reached over the wolf corpse, took hold of the wolf’s jaw. Her other hand steadied its skull, and she pushed the lower jaw down, opening it to free Varr’s lower arm and hand. He hissed, the free hand clenching the beast’s fur with trembling knuckles. “No! Don’t hold!” he yelled as she hesitated. “Get it over with!”

The beast had dug deep into his forearm, the wound a bloody mess of fur and gore. Varr howled in pain, struggling to keep his composure. Slowly, carefully, Veera wrenched open the wolf jaw, laying bare the extent of Varr’s injury. A mangled bite wound across the lower arm – fresh blood oozed out of the cuts, and the entire arm continued at an unnatural angle; broken bones, most likely. Thankfully, the hand was spared – a small comfort in the face of such a massive injury.

One last pull, and the arm was free; pierced from below as well, it took another howl from Varr to wrench it free. He shivered, cradling it close to the chest, eyes closed in pain.

Veera grunted, wrenching the corpse away from Varr and letting the head drop into the dust. A look around. Any others? Varr coughed and panted, but kept mostly upright. She turned. Wilderness around, no further sign of predators. Wind howled and gusted around them, tearing at her clothes. She thought of the crows, looked up. Must’ve scattered. Nothing living around for miles, it seemed.

Deep breaths. Hold. Relax.

Curl your claws, feel the dirt beneath your feet. The wind on your scales.

You are alive. Aware. At ease – or trying to be, at least.

Veera closed her eyes. Opened them. And crouched down to help Varr.

The Whiterun Plains

Evening.

They had not made it far. She’d hastily bandaged Varr’s arm with a cut-off strap of her Ko’Tah, the white strap greedily soaking up with blood, but it prevented him from bleeding out before they found a safer place to rest – a good distance away from the corpse and the crows eager to feast on it.

Veera’d found a small brook for fresh water, and they’d sheltered next to an embankment carved into the landscape, shielded enough to light a small fire. It crackled merrily, and the cookpot steamed and sizzled as she boiled another piece of her chest bindings for a fresh bandage.

Varr rested behind her, his back leaning against the earthen embankment. As Veera waited for the bandages to cook clean, thoughts jumbled through her mind, tore loose and filled her head like leaves. The attack was fresh on her mind, the wolf’s maddening gaze burning into her as she hacked into him, the impact still lingering in her arm. She’d had to use her whole body-weight to free her axe, crusty with blood and gore. The crows had come back, settling down on the rocks just out of reach. Watching and waiting. Eying Varr. He’d slumped over, fading in and out, and they bickered, edged closer until Veera roared in desperation, struggling to heft him and his pack onto her shoulder. It had helped. Got Varr back, as well. They’d walked until exhaustion, stumbling along the stream until the ridges along the brook became high enough to hide them.

And here they were. Varr looked like death, having collapsed almost on the spot, and she’d carefully settled him against the embankment, somewhat protected from the wind by the earthen overhang and her woolen overcoat. Veera considered his resting form.

Not even a night had passed since their chanced meeting, and here she was, caring for his wounds and guarding his life. By definition, they were strangers, and yet – she’d thrown her lot in with him, wagered for him to be truthful and honest enough to venture off into the wilds under his guidance. He could’ve led her towards an ambush, a steep fall, or stuck a blade in her back, but she’d felt comfortable enough to take that chance. A smile crept upon her lips. Was this all it took? A friendly greeting from another outcast, some quick-witted banter, and all her precaution threwn to the wind?

She picked up a stick and fished out the bandages, placing them on a rock next to the fire to dry off. Or was it something else? Their shared history of staying at the monastery? The glint in his eye when he laughed, the swirl of his tail when he strode besides her? The mysteries in his past? She hadn’t been too forthcoming about her own story either, to be fair – but the things she had sensed, the clues she’d picked up upon their initial meeting and during their journey – none of it gave her pause, made her questions his truthfulness. For all intents and purposes, he wore his heart on his sleeve.

Something she had not experienced in years.

Varr stirred, interrupting her thoughts. Veera looked over, saw him watching her with bleary eyes. “Bandages are almost ready. I’ll clean the wound, put some salve on it, bandage it properly. That should hold you over until we reach Whiterun. There’s skilled healers in the temple there.”

Varr nodded, rested his head against the wall. “That would probably be best.” He looked off into the distance, grimacing. “Quite a day, huh?”

Veera clicked her teeth in agreement. “Quite a day. I did not remember the plains to be this bloodsoaked the last time I came through here.”

“You’re envied.” He coughed, restless. “Spent the summer out here. Blood is always on the wind. The war brings death and desperation. Cannot escape it even out here.” He winced, pulled his arm closer under the coat. Veera settled down beside him, the bandages and her wineskin besides her. She smiled, overplaying her worries: “Well, you’re not dead yet, and I intent to keep it this way. Be poetic after I’ve treated your arm, and I’ll join you in lamenting the state of the world, yes?”

Varr gave a weak chuckle, and relented to her.

Carefully, Veera pulled back his cloak. “Can you lift your arm?”

Varr grimaced but complied, gingerly lifting his arm with his right hand to give her better access. "As much as this one can," he managed, his voice strained with pain.

Veera examined the wound under the light of the flickering fire. The bite was deep, and although the initial bandage had stemmed the worst of the bleeding, it was clear that the injury was severe. As she washed away the clumped blood and dirt, she grimaced. She could see that one, if not both bones of his forearm had been broken – one of the broken edges jutted out, protruding through the skin.

“You’re going to need some wine”, she said softly, “I’ll have to set your forearm right.” Varr shuddered, regarding her with an increduluous look. “You can do that?” He chuckled, winced. “Truly, many enigmas within your scales. A healer, as well…”

Veera swished her tail in discomfort. “I cannot set it right as the healers do. But I know that the bones like to live within your skin, not outside, and it will keep you from passing out from pain once we move again!”

Varr groaned, but accepted the wineskine. “You give no rest, do you?” He drank deeply, then gave her a nod. “Do your worst.”

She poured some wine on her hands, washing them as well as she could, and closely inspected Varr’s wound. “I’ll clean it out with some wine, then realign the bone, as best I can. It will hurt, and it will not mend right without a healer. But it will stop the worst pain, and once we reach Whiterun, they’ll care for you better than I can.” He nodded, accepting his fate and her words. Veera felt much less so. She had seen a monk do this procedure, once, those few years back. The patient in the bed besides her had screamed in pain and then passed out, as the monk had pushed the protruding bone back into the leg, cleaned the wound, and applied a splint and wound dressing to fasten it in its aligned position.

Varr behaved in much the same way.

Pangs of guilt and worry shot through her as she cleaned and dressed his wounds. They looked raw and swollen, and fresh blood oozed out of the many cuts and gashes. He needed help, real help. The healers would know how to treat him right. Work their magic to mend bone and skin, prevent infection. Animal bites were always nasty, and this wolf … Dark thoughts swirled within her, growing thorns and gnawing at her belly.

Somewhere within her pack, she found a small pot of salve, a concoction of healing herbs she’d learned to make during her time with the monks. The salve was cool to the touch, and she hoped it would ease some of the pain, stave off the infection. Varr awoke as she applied it to his wounds, sharply breathing in in a wince of pain. “Almost done”, she whispered, “sorry for the pain.”

With gentle hands, she wrapped the freshly boiled bandages around his arm, tying them snug but not too tight around the splint. “There,” she said softly, “this should hold until we get you proper help.” Varr nodded, his eyes reflecting a mix of pain and gratitude. “Thank you, Veera. This one is in your debt.”

Veera shook her head, dismissing the notion. “We’re companions on the road. It’s what we do.” She offered him some water, which he drank gratefully. Then she busied herself cleaning up and settling into a comfortable spot against the embankment, close to Varr and keeping her axe and pack handy at her side.

The night had fully settled by now, the only light coming from their small campfire. The air was cold, and the sound of the distant wildlife mixed with the crackling of the firewood. They were alone, far from any semblance of civilization, and yet there was a comfort in their shared silence, a bond forged by the day’s trials.

Veera sighed softly, stretching and settling in to get more comfortable. She rummaged around her pack for some dried meat and looked over at Varr. He rested next to her, bundled tightly into her woolen coat. She offered him some meat strips, and they gnawed in silence, lost in thought.

She considered his bandaged arm. And gave voice to her worries. “Dark things stalk these hills. I’ve never seen a wolf that big, that … cruel.”

Varr swallowed, licked his fingers clean of salt. “A vicious beast, that one. Followed the war to many battlefields, feasted on the corpses.”

Veera watched the skies, adjusting her eyes to the darkness of the night, the fire fading into smoldering embers. “I worry about the bite”, she uttered softly. “Wolves don’t hunt alone, not without a pack. This one was different. Driven by something other than instincts.” It was difficult to discern Varr’s features in the darkness. He was silent, his silhouette unmoving.

They sat in silence. Veera felt foolish, having spoken aloud — was this really the time to stoke further worries? They’d be in Whiterun in two days. There’d be healers there, a temple. They knew how to right bones, heal infection and disease. Keep the wound from festering. Varr’d be in good hands.

Varr hrr-med, his words betraying a smile. “It will work out. Varr is sure of that.” He yawned, kneading his toes into the dirt, stretching his legs and pulling the coat securely around his shoulders. “All this coin in my purse is just waiting to become a generous donation to the healers for cleaning my whiskers and trimming my fur!”

He turned his eyes, a glint of ember refracting in them as he looked over at her: “But your worries are appreciated, my scale-friend.” He paused, searching for words. “Varr has … I have— Well, I … do. Appreciate this, I mean. Not many would care this deeply for a stranger on the road.”

Veera broke a smile, lopsided, but earnest. “As I said. Companions on the road. You seem well-intentioned, and I aim to match that spirit. Cherish the time that we share the road.”

※

She kept watch, deep into the night. Varr tossed and turned in restless sleep, unease creeping across his features. The wound had to hurt a lot by now. Veera kept the embers alight, stoking the fire just enough to give off warmth without betraying their camp to distant watchers. During the twilight hours before dawn, she mended her axe, resharpening the blade where it had bit into the wolve’s neck bones. Varr’s daggers, she cared for, as well. She’d just hastily stuffed them inside her pack before picking up the wounded Khajiit, and now used the time to clean them thoroughly. They were clearly two different weapons – a larger one, with a worn wooden grip and a blade three-quarters of a foot in length, sharpened on both sides. After washing off the dried blood and gore, the smaller blade of the two gleamed and shimmered in the moonlight – a fine piece of craftsmanship, she mused, tracing her finger across the etched hilt and floral ornaments that decorated the pommel. This was not a simple commoner’s tool – it looked and felt valuable, finely balanced and dangerous. The tip was dulled a bit – probably to be expected after piercing bone and brainstem – but otherwise, it looked sharp and deadly.

Veera refrained from sharpening them, for now – the wood-hilted dagger looked common enough to be sharpened with whetstone and leather, but she didn’t want to damage the intricate blade of the smaller one, and so left them both alone until Varr would awake again and could give his opinion.

This left her with time to watch the night sky inch towards grey, muting the stars that travelled across its face. Grey slowly blossomed into lilac and salmon and orange hues as the sun approached the horizon, eager to break through the foggy plains and rise again.

A herd of deer passed them, unseen in the morning fog, their yapping barks puncturing the silent plains. Here and there, a song bird called, unsure whether to fully break out into song or keep still and await the sunrise proper.

The argonian felt weary. Keeping watch had sucked the strength from her bones, and countless worries had kept her awake. Her current predicament – stranded with a wounded stranger in the wilderness – was enough to worry, but her pending delivery threw an even darker shade across her thoughts. She’d been forced to dally, take detours and the long way around. The leather-bound package that she’d been paid to deliver sat heavy in her pack, pressing her to hurry, to keep on schedule. Delayed delivery was bad news. Her contact in Bruma was amicable, but pressed the importance of timely delivery quite urgently, the promise of bitter consequences veiled by a bouquet of pleasantries. The money had been to good to reconsider. And if she left now, she’d certainly make it. Leave Varr behind, but secure herself a sheltered winter.

She studied his features, watched his breath form clouds in the frosty air. And yet — such sudden betrayal for a mere bag of septims?

As the sun crested the distant hills, she grimaced vacantly, the prospect of a sheltered winter wilting away with every passing hour.

The Whiterun Plains

Midday.

Varr was good at hiding his pain. He hobbled across rising plain and sandy creeks with mindless abandon, masking his pain behind a vague smile and empty pleasantries. Veera felt every stumble of his deep within her chest, her conscience flaring from within.

The day was bright and sunny, and they made good time (considering the circumstances). When she’d changed his dressing in the morning, the wound was bright and swollen, but without pus — she gave him a promise of treatment and concern for his health, and thusly reasoned a quickened approach to Whiterun, but every passed mile took strength out of him, and despite the sun beating down on them, he looked frayed at the edges. She’d taken point, scouting for dangers and less taxing approaches through the wilds — Varr followed willingly, shrugging off her offer of supporting his walk: “Two travellers limping along, that’s easy pickings. One cripple, one armed lizard makes less of a treat.” And so they’d marched on, fresh dew and crisp morning giving way to a radiant midday sun until it slowly edged towards the horizon again, the sky decrepit hues of rust and clay as it hid behind amassing clouds.

“Look, over there”, she called out, pointing towards a distant scattering of huts, dwarved by a walled stone keep guarding the road east. “That should be Greymoor village!”

She waited for him to catch up to her, offering her hand to help him crest the small embankment. Varr squinted, then pursed his lips. “Greymoor, yes. But village, no. No more.” He gnashed his teeth, adjusted the sling supporting his mangled arm. “Raiders came through some time ago, burnt the huts, the orchards. Even scaled the keep, Varr heard.” He motioned vaguely, shook his head. “Best to go around.”

Veera swallowed. Flicked her tongue. After a moment, she followed him, back down the hill and northwards into the plains. Another detour. Another delay. But as they ventured deeper into the grasslands again, the wind turned westwards towards them, smelling of soot and carrion.

Dark days ahead.

※

A small miss-step and a gnarly root, that was all it took.

Veera heard a rustle and a pained yelp, saw Varr stumble and fall from the corner of her eye. He’d caught his fall with his healthy arm, but his pack weighed heavy and had pushed him to the ground. He heaved and spat, baring his teeth as she crouched down to assist him. He allowed her to lift him up, then settled his back against the gnarly trunk of the oak tree that ensnared him. Varr looked up at her with a weary smile. “You do not have to wait for this sorry sod, you know?” Veera froze mid-turn and opened her mouth, but he held up a hand to shush her. “Varr sees your urge to hurry, even if you hide it well. You have helped me a great deal, scale-friend. From here, I will find my own way to Whiterun, especially if you travel ahead and let the healers know of my arrival.”

“No, I wasn’t– … I will keep you company, not leave you stranded here in the wilds!” She held out her arm, suppressing her inner turmoil of thoughts and desires. “Get up, I’ll help you. We will look for camp together. The sun is setting, and we’ll reach the outskirts tomorrow by noon. No need to stay behind.” Shame at her own unbidden thoughts flushed her scales, made her click her teeth. He’s right, and you know it. The flood runs fast, and you’re about to be swept up. A fortnight’s worth of time meant until today.‘Loredas of Harvest Dawn at the latest, if you so please; delays would be regrettable, don’t you agree, lizard lass?’

Varr’s face was a mask of friendly smile, but he accepted her hand, allowed her to pull him up. “Then Varr will not delay you further. Let us venture on, keep the pace until Whiterun.” He adjusted his bandage and made busy, but when he looked up again, his eyes were earnest: “You are a kind one, to weigh your own needs against those of a stranger known for such short time.”

Again, Veera clicked her teeth, embarrassed by his honesty. She helped him resettle his pack and then shouldered his bedroll unto her own pack, against his meagre protest.

“Let’s leave the poetics until we’re safe behind Whiterun’s walls, yes? I can help you get there, and need to go there myself.” She grabbed his arm to put around her neck, supporting him on their way down the hill. “Compassion separates kin from beast,” she said softly, her promised payment turning to ash before her mind’s eye.

Varr coughed, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “If only Skyrim’s native folk would hear that tune more often.”

※

They wandered deep into dusk, and settled on a hillside between gnarly firs and shrubbery that hid them from view. Whiterun was a collection of fireflies, pinpricks of light clustering a hilltop overlooking the plains. The gates would be closed already, sparing Veera an unsettling choice, but her mind still churned – you could’ve been inside already, had you just hurried and left him behind, he said so himself – leaving her insides twisted in doubt and worry. It felt foolish to keep up appearances in front of Varr, but she held onto her facade of determinate spirit, if only to assure herself, as well.

They didn’t dare light a fire this close to the city, and so ate their fast in darkness, listening to cicadas and critters in the underbrush. Varr absently chewed on a bit of salted meat, balling up his toes and relaxing them in an unsteady rhythm. His arm had to be hurting bad by now, but he’d refused her offer of applying fresh bandages. The city would have them both tomorrow, and it would be a waste of cloth tonight, especially without clean water nearby, as he put it.

“Looks almost peaceful from here, no? No people. No noise, no stench.” Listening to his words, Veera matched the Khajiit’s gaze towards the distant city, the glow of distant lanterns and windows telltale sign of the nightly bustle on the streets.

“Belies the chaos bustling within”, she agreed wistfully.

Varr sighed deeply, scratching mindlessly at his bandages, almost whispering when he replied: “Which is the case for many things, no?”

Veera looked over, found his gaze. A glint of city lights in his eyes, his face pulled into a lopsided smile. She shifted uncomfortably and kept silent. Would there be harm in telling him? It was her only package, however. Never to be discussed, revealed or mentioned to anyone except her employer and his contacts.

“There’s … something. Something I have to do, in Whiterun.” She flicked her tongue, unsure of her admission. “It … I’m sworn to secrecy, and it’s an urgent matter. If it’s alright with you, I would rather not say more.”

Varr nodded slowly, his tail curling around his seated form, a flicker of understanding crossing his features. “This one understands, Veera. Secrets are often a burden, yes? But they also keep us on paths to follow, even when they twist and turn through dark woods.”

That tightness in her chest, loosening with his words. She allowed herself a small smile. “If you put it like that …”

“No, I understand. Let us speak no more of it.” His tone was gentle, content with her answer. “Varr has secrets of his own to safeguard”, he added, “to keep safe for his own and others sake. Never easy. Most of the time, worth the price.” He chuckled, coughed, a raspy, hurt sound. “No, do not worry, scale-friend. Many things have tried to harm me, few have succeeded, and none were able to end Varr. This one is destined to die rich, successful, and in his own bed in a big mansion –” He raised his healthy arm in a grand gesture – “and present circumstances promise a long life, it seems!”

Veera grinned, her worries eased by his gallow’s humour. “Then I shall keep from wishing you wealth and good fortune, not to interfere with destiny!”, she retorted, earning a hearty chuckle from Varr: “Hah! Well, I’ll surely call on you once my paws are flat and my need for destitute eternity fully sated!”

They sat for a while, bickering among each other, and watched the moon rise through the pines above their heads. Varr fidgeted with his bandage again, becoming more restless with every passing hour. Veera felt concerned – if the wound was bothering him this much, it had to have become inflamed – he hadn’t shown as much discomfort the night before. “Does it hurt?”, she asked him. Varr stopped fidgeting for a moment and considered her. He nodded.

“You still don’t want me to take a look at it? I can at least clean it up a bit, get some–”

“Varr is grateful, but no need. You have done much already, and tomorrow will see me in good care! Not that yours was any bad–”, he said quickly, but Veera laughed and added: “But you’d prefer your bedside healers not make you pass out from pain?”

He grinned sheepishly: “At least not without a drop of mead first!”

The night deepened around them, the sounds of the plains a soft chorus beneath the starry sky. And for the first time in days, Veera felt truly at ease. Beside her, Varr’s steady presence was a comfort she hadn’t known she’d needed. Together, they would face tomorrow’s challenges, the final leg of their journey unfolding with the dawn.

When he began talking again, he startled her a bit – he’d seemed to have nodded off, but his words were soft and clear: “This one is glad to have walked this part with you. Whatever waits for you in Whiterun, know that you’ve made this path easier for me.”

“I … feel the same. It was luck to have stumbled upon you, and I am glad for it.” Veera flicked her tongue, smiled. “Not a good journey, but good companions.”

“Good companions”, Varr echoed. There was nothing else to say. Veera knew they’d disband in Whiterun, follow different paths, but right now, this was all she wanted. Still, she asked: “We will see this through together, yes? Until the gates of Whiterun, end of this road for both of us.”

Varr nodded. “It is. Sadly.” He seemed hesitant to speak further, and Veera was inclined to agree. The coming days held much uncertainty, and though she did not want to put it into words, she disliked the idea of being on her own again. Their tender friendship was something she cherished dearly already – and it felt scary to admit that.

“Tell you what”, she blurted instead, “we make it to Whiterun in one piece, I’ll buy a keg of Honningbrew. There’s spots on the city wall you can climb up, see the sunset from there.” Too much, too fast? She went on: “Have a drink together, no? Cherish life and its dangers?”

Varr must’ve smiled, for his voice sounded warm and amused: “Varr would much like that, scale-friend. But let’s see what the morrow brings, and take the day in fresh spirits!”

He nestled deeper into his coat and added: “Give this one rest and time to heal, and Varr will gladly scale crumbling walls again!”

Her scales ran with joy, and Veera felt giddy. She scooted around below her woolen coat until she was comfortable, then raised her head to look at the stars. Through the brambled trees, twin moons looked back. A good night. Bright plains, fewer chances of scoundrels creeping around the underbrush. She closed her eyes and exhaustion overtook her.

※

With sleep came dreams. Vague shadows around her, whispering, forming hands and claws and teeth. Veera floated through murky waters, talons dragged down by mud and flotsam that formed up around her legs, grew roots and multiplied into vines that climbed up her legs, her torso until they surrounded her entirely. She felt her scales flake off, saw flowers sprouting whereever they had fallen off, the soft skin below turning to bark, twisting and turning. Then autumn came, and she felt herself fall away, fade into leaves on the wind, thrown into storm and gale, reforming naked, freezing, entirely abandoned on an icy cliff above nocturnal waters. Tears filled her view, turnt to ice, her cry for help shattering into ice as soon as it left her mouth. Shadows formed around her, clawed at her, tried to drag her down towards the frozen abyss, but her scales were coated in ice, and as she roared, she felt them slip off and shrink away. Something roared back, something other than the icy gale that surrounded her; and then she saw the wolf again, bloodied by a thousand cuts, pierced by a thousand blades, it’s head a ruin of gore and mangled teeth. The earth shook as it growled, and the wolf limped closer, staggering here and there, her axe buried deep within its twisted neck, and its eyes – burning pits of malice and dread, closer now, closer and closer, dripping with hatred – it roared again, a deep rumble that resonated in her belly, her bones, her ears, and then the mountain gave way, throwing them both into the deepest abyss below. Darkness overcame her again, a feeling of weightlessness, and when she woke up, she was alone.

His resting place was empty, and Varr was gone.

The Gates of Whiterun

Mid-Morning.

“Not much lizards around this time of year. What makes you different, Argonian?”

Positively brimming with disinterested boredom, the guard slouched against his polearm, anchored deep within the muddy ground. His yellow-lined scale jerkin was rusty and badly-fit, and he stank of onions and ale. Veera loathed him deeply, but he was not impressed by her piercing stare. “Can’t let you in without good reason, y’know? So, out with it. What’s the hurry?”

The Argonian stepped closer with fierce intent, which dispelled his boredom. “H-Hey, lizard! Halt!”, he stuttered, stumbling back and wrenching his polearm from the earth.

Veera stopped, forcing her scowl to soften into a neutral grin. “Urgent matters, if you … excuse. I bring messages and … alchemical supplies, and was delayed in the wilds.” She took a small step back, gave the guard room to adjust his jerkin and regain balance with his polearm.

“There’s been raids between here and Rorikstead”, she continued, “caravans have been attacked by marauders. I’ve been forced to make detours, and have supplies to deliver.”

The guard eyed her warily. “Heard of the raids, ‘suppose. You with those caravans?” She shook her head. “No. Met folk that came through there. I’m … I am by myself. Kept to the wilds.”

He chuckled, spat. “Seems like it. Suits you beastkin, I guess.”

Her snarl expressed itself as slightly raised flews, her smile freezing up. Just need to get in. Keep calm, keep low. He’s not worth your time. They’re never worth your time.

The guard sized her up again, but apparently felt satisfied with his dig, and stepped back with an exaggerated gesture of his polearm. “Step in, then. Enjoy cobbled streets and keep out of trouble!”

Veera regarded him with a curt nod and tightlipped smile, shouldered her pack, and crossed below the palisade. Whiterun. A day too late, a companion too short.

The city was already up and bustling, the cobbled streets filled with folk of all ways of life. The smithys at the gate were hubs of activity. Apprentices ran around, unloaded an ox-cart full of coal and ore, while the smelters at the city wall were already fuming.

Veera had been here twice before, and she did not have to search long to spy her contact: A tall, sinewy Nord with pockmarked face and leathery hands, busy with overseeing two apprentices loading coal into ore smelters. As she approached, wary of the bustle around her, he looked up, his lips forming a taut smile. He wiped his hands on his smithing apron and came up to meet her.

“Aaah, Veera, was it not? Good to see you.” He clasped his hands, regarding her with taciturn interest. “It would’ve been even better to see you arrive on time.”

She smiled back, kept her teeth hidden. “Rangvar. I was delayed, and am deeply sorry. Raiders were stalking the roads, forcing me to make detours through the wilds. I hurried as fast as I could.” He kept silent, so she felt compelled to add: “It is safe and unharmed. I am here to fulfill my delivery.”

Rangvar nodded curtly, forming a thin smile. “Good that you do. Hand it over.”

He led her towards the coal storage, a bit out of sight. Veera unloaded her pack and dug around, pulling the package out of its depths. It felt heavy for the small size, an elongated square bundle the size of her palms put together. Tightly wrapped in brown leather, secured with cord and an unmarked wax seal. Unremarkable, really. Were it not for the grand sum of ten-hundred septims that were promised for its covert delivery.

Rangvar accepted it wordlessly, letting it disappear into the deep pockets of his apron. He turned back towards her.

“Thank you for your … persistence. Our friend’ll be glad to see you come through.” Veera felt her throat tighten as he continued: “Not happy about the delay, though. You promised punctuality. We expected you yesterday at the latest, and had to make some unsavory decisions.”

There it was. The knot in her stomach kept her from speaking, made her swallow and taste the air. “So”, she croaked, “there will be consequences.”

Thin smile from below ice-blue eyes. “Yes”, he agreed warmly. “There will be consequences. For others. And for you.”

He enjoyed this, she thought. Toying with me, relaying his master’s bidding.

“Your payment.” His hand held out a small leather pouch. Veera took it, and felt her stomach curl into a knot. It was much too light.

“Consider this a lesson in punctuality,” the Nord offered briskly. “You promised timely arrival, and did not deliver. This forfeits the agreed-upon sum.”

“But I cannot – I had every intention of–” He interrupted her: “And yet, did not. Deliver on time. We counted on you and were severely disappointed. This will be everything you get from us. Don’t expect more.” With that, Rangvar made to turn and leave. Veera stood frozen in place, thoughts racing. Was that it? One late delivery, and she was out? She knew things, knew Rangvar and Helvig and Fiodora. Their payments guaranteed her silence, but now – she imagined a knife at her throat, the final stroke to guard their secrets. No one knew her, no one protected her. And to have to flee into the wilds, leave alleys and people behind forever …

“What does it take to make this right?”

Rangvar slowed, held his step.

“Please”, she added. Softly.

The nord turned around again. Furrowed his brow, then studied her features again.

“There is something. Dangerous job.” His tone was calculated, but his mouth formed the hint of a smile. “Time-sensitive, as well.”

Veera nodded curtly. “I will not disappoint again.”

“We will see. Now, as you wish. There’s a package lost we need you to get, similar to yours. Likely taken by scoundrel, hiding out in the eastern foothills across the river. There’s caves and old mines cut into the cliffs there, so be on the lookout. Return with the package, and we’re square,” he concluded.

Veera nodded, resigned. The prospect of diving back into danger so soon was daunting. “I’ll do it,” she said firmly, setting her shoulders against the weight of her new burden.

Rangvar nodded curtly, then left without another word.

Slowly, Veera exhaled.

Dark days.

Whiterun

Midday.

All around her, the city buzzed. Ropes lined with colorful buntings connected gables and huts around the market, carts full of goods and produce blocked the streets. Preparations for Harvest Dawn where in full swing, but Veera had no mind for it.

With a leaden heart, she walked down into the plains quarter again, away from the temple. She’d headed there immediately after meeting with Rangvar, hoping against hope that Varr had sought healing there. But her inquiries were fruitless – no one had seen a wounded Khajiit, and no new patients had arrived since dawn.

He had disappeared without a trace. All he’d left behind was a small pendant, strung on a worn leather cord, a small, stylized path leading towards a suncrested horizon etched into the rosewood. A token of the Wayward monks, she’d recognized.

She settled on a terraced wall overlooking the marketplace, nibbling on a piece of cured meat. Her fist balled up around the pendant. She rolled it between her fingers, the simple design soothing against her nerves. Despite the bustling market below, she felt isolated, alone among the chatter and movement.

Varr’s absence gnawed at her. Not just because of the practical need for companionship, but because she’d felt a connection with him, a shared understanding of what it meant to be an outcast. To be truly seen, if only for a fleeting moment. What had made him leave? Why the total secrecy? She couldn’t help but feel betrayed, unable to grasp his reasoning or thoughts behind disappearing, especially with a festering wound on his arm!

And yet, he’d left without a word, leaving his pendant behind for her to find. As a weak apology? A token of gratitude? It felt unlikely that she’d see him again, and even if she did, the world had a way of tearing apart those who ventured together. A part of her wished he’d left more than just a pendant—an explanation, perhaps, or even a simple note. But maybe that was asking too much.

A trio of children ran past, their giggles ringing out as they played in the crowded square. Their carefree energy was a stark contrast to her own somber mood.

Veera sighed, her thoughts pulled back to the present. Today’s payment was insufficient, barely enough to cover basic supplies, let alone any future jobs that required resources or connections. She had hoped that this delivery would grant her a small measure of stability, a brief respite from the constant search for work. Now, the future felt as uncertain as ever.

The market thrummed with life. Traders haggled over prices, vendors called out to potential customers, and the scent of fresh-baked bread filled the air. But none of it felt inviting. Veera knew she had work to do, a job that would lead her into dangerous territory. There was no time for idle distractions or wishful thinking. She had to focus on what came next.

Standing up, she stretched her legs, feeling the weight of her pack settle against her shoulders. The eastern foothills beckoned, promising nothing but danger. But she had no choice—this was her path, and she would walk it alone. Again. As I always have.

As she wove through the crowds, her eyes scanning for any sign of trouble, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss. The city was bustling, yes, but there was an underlying sense of unrest, a tension that seemed to ripple through the market. Whispers passed between traders, and the guards were more alert than usual. The recent raids had put everyone on edge, and the rumours of marauders stalking the plains had spread like wildfire.

Veera knew she had to move quickly. The longer she dallied, the more likely the package would be fenced or worse, opened and lost. She needed to find it, secure it, and return to Rangvar. Only then would she be free to choose her next steps.

As she made her way towards the city gates, her thoughts drifted back to Varr. Would he be alright out there, alone in the wilds? Would he find his way to the city, did he even want to? He was hurt, badly, and she did not know of any healer or apothecarian around that could surpass the skills of Kynareth’s healers, but he hadn’t searched those out. Or not yet, at least.

Despite her anger, she couldn’t help but worry, even though she knew it was pointless. His path was his own, and he had chosen to walk it without her.

Veera took a deep breath, the cold air filling her lungs. She was ready for whatever lay ahead, even if it meant facing the unknown alone.

Whiterun Foothills

Late Afternoon.

A dozen arrows, a bow, her axe and hunting knife. Methodically, Veera looked all of it over, checked every weapon for wear or signs of damage. Sunlight speckled the pineforest, woodpeckers and crows wove through the trees, but she paid them no mind, focused wholly on her preparations. It calmed her nerves, gave time to look inwards and prepare for the nightly raid.

She’d asked a guard – one that looked much more capable than the one admitting her into the city – about the vagrants out east. It was supposedly a loose camp of refugees and vagrants squatting across the river, rowdy and unkempt but keeping to themselves, considering the circumstances. Veera’d feigned to look for a relative, at which the guard had become much less jovial: “Don’t dare show up here’n the city with them, should you find ‘em. We have no need of thieves in our midst!”, he spat at her, then grimly watched her stalk off. She was probably on the right track then.

And with nothing else to do, it was time to hunt. She shouldered bow and axe, slung the quiver on her back. She’d bundled the rest of her things up tightly, and stuffed them into a hollow tree nearby. She’d be back to retrieve them. Certainly.

Veera kept to the tree line, moving with a deliberate slowness that belied her urgency. Each step was measured, each breath controlled. The land towards Eastmarch was notoriously treacherous – riddled with caves and derelict ruins, perfect hiding spots for those who wished to remain unseen.

She’d scrossed several game trails already, following them to the edge of the forest. Ahead of her was the White River, foaming rapids rushing downhill towards the lower plains and, eventually, Eastmarch’s icy fields. She’d have to cross it to continue.

Finding a ford to pass proved to be time-consuming: Autumn storms had let the river swell up, and the ice-cold rapids were unforgiving even to her water-breathing kind, so she stayed well away from the deeper parts, venturing upstream until she found a fallen log pinned between several rocks that allowed her to cross mostly dry.

As the afternoon waned, shadows grew longer and her surroundings took on a hushed quality. The sounds of civilization were long gone, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the occasional call of a distant bird. Veera’s senses were attuned to every minor disturbance, her eyes scanning the underbrush and cragged hills for any sign of the vagrants she was told about. It was slow going – there was no forest canopy to shield her from view, and she was forced to stay low and close to the ground to avoid potential watchers. Her claws left deep groves in the sandy dirt as she climbed root and stone, crouched behind coarse pine bushes and dry shrubs. The air smelled of juniper and heather and – something else.

Veera stopped, flicked her tongue, breathed deeply. The smell of wood smoke was faint but unmistakable. Her destination was close.

She considered her options. All terrible. An unknown number of potential foes, no view of the camp to get a grip on layout and strategy.

She’d have to move carefully. Might be they’d put out sentries watching the road. Depending how serious they were about thieving.

Carefully, she retreated a safe distance. Might be smarter to approach from further up; climb higher into the mountains and get a view from uphill.

Slowly, methodically, she found her path through rough granite and deep brush. To her right, the Throat of the World towered, mountain of mountains, sloping ever upwards until it vanished behind a veil of clouds and ice. Her climb led her through steep outcroppings, rock slides and grassy patches that clung to the mountain’s side. It was laborious going. The sun stung in her eyes as it set across the valley in the west, the silhouette of Whiterun’s walls dissolving against the glowing haze.

And some five-hundred feet below her, now visible in the stark shadows cutting into the cliff sides, was a small clearing, underbrush trampled by regular traffic, wood and debris arranged into several makeshift lean-tos. She couldn’t see the cave entrance in the cliff face below her, but watched as a distant figure emerge from the rock face and roam around the makeshift camp, shortly after joined by another figure. Lying down on her belly, she inched close to the rock edge before her, keeping to the thorny bushes shading her from above. She would wait and watch, see how many there were. How they behaved, whether there were scouts sent to and from their camp.

There seemed to be no visible sentries besides the two figures, now apparently arguing about something, but she couldn’t make out their words. Their argument drew someone else out, and Veera felt her heart jump at the sight – a tail; Khajiit! Varr? – but no. He had gray fur, behaved skittish and took off downhill after exchanging a few wild gestures with the two men.

He’s gone. Made his choice, so make yours and move on. A deep sigh escaped her.

And besides the two men, no one else appeared. Nor did the khajiit return. The absence of certain things gnawed at her: There were no animals. No children. All she’d seen were the two men and the khajiit. There were three lean-tos, a rough collection of debris and junk she couldn’t discern from up here, a rack of sorts with makeshift spears or sticks leaning against it.

A group of men of fighting age was not the typical sorts of refugees she’d come to expect the last year. And it meant trouble. Especially when she saw the skulking figure of the khajiit scurry back up the hill, carrying an apparently recently-acquired backpack and a bright-green cloak. The guard had been right, it seemed.

She waited as the sky turned a deep indigo, the last rays of the sun vanishing behind the hills. As twilight embraced the valley, she made her descent, her movements as silent as the falling night.

Veera retrieved her bow, stringing it with practiced ease. She selected an arrow, testing its balance before fitting it to the string. Her heart beat a steady rhythm, her breathing even and controlled. She was ready.

Moving closer to the cave, she listened for voices, any indication of how many she might be facing. Muffled laughter and the clinking of bottles reached her ears. Veera crept closer, using the noise to mask her approach.

The clearing was empty safe for its haphazard structures, and she edged closer to the cave mouth gaping from the cliff, a faint glow visible from within.

She felt every pebble below her feet, heard the soft crunch of rock on rock. Senses sharpened to a point, ready to strike. Her bow held in an iron grip, arms ready to flex and draw and let death fly from its string.

Veera made her peace, bared her teeth and stepped inside.

A small opening, a curved tunnel deeper inside. The cave entrance was littered with junk and scraps, wood, an old net, rotten barrels. No movement. Just firelight from up ahead reflecting off the damp walls of the cave. Old waterway, maybe, worn into the rocks over eons past. A slight draft from ahead brought smells of smoke and meat, sweat and grime. Numerous voices laughed and barked.

“– and then I told him, ‘then dress up your mule, wart face, no one’s gonna buy the thing if it’s your ugly mug wearing it!”

Raucous laughter throughout the cave. Wart face seemed to be present, since someone grumbled and spat back an answer. Evoking even more laughter.

“Don’t fret it, warts, we’ll gladly keep you around to scare the lasses and instead have the cat wear the frills! That more to your liking?”, the first man appeased, laughing.

“Keep the frills away from this one, Nord! Ja’Tarr’s not interested in wooing merchants.” The khajiit. All three from outside accounted for. From the laughter, there’d have to be one or two more, she guessed.

“No, that’s what Hedgar’s for, eh, boy?” Someone chuckled, then called out, “get some more ale over here, goldilocks, we’re out!”

Four. Edging closer to the next cave opening, up a rocky dirt slope, Veera listened intently. A khajiit, wart face and the other Nord, and Hedgar. A keg was unplugged, and she heard cups getting filled from it. One. Two. Three. “You too, boy. Vilfred’s still out, so we won’t tell! Go on, gitsum!” Four and a fifth, maybe sleeping?

The khajiit’d be the most dangerous, then the two nords, and a younger boy. Too much for a fight, but enough for an act.

“To lone pups, and easy pickings!” A cheer, cups clattering together, and Veera pushed back from the wall, stepped out of cover and up into the cave where the five vagrants sat.

“No one moves, no one dies!”, she hissed, pulling back the notched arrow in a fluid movement, a vicious snarl on her face. Aghast, the nords froze mid-cheer as they swung their heads around in disbelief. A younger boy, barefaced and curly blonde, dropped his cup, ale splashing out into the dirt. Only the khajiit seemed unbothered, taking a sip and calmly setting his cup onto the improvised table in their midst, slitted eyes not leaving Veera’s for an instant.

“You have something of value to us”, she snarled, tracking them with her bow ready to pull back and shoot. “Small package, laid in brown leather. Heavy for its weight. That’s all I’m here for.” They kept silent, and Veera growled. No one stepped up to lead, so she picked someone. “You! Hedgar!” The boy shriveled under her fierce gaze, stepped back, but she had to keep up the pressure.

“Take their knives and weapons, throw them over there.” She gestured towards the right, a cluttered corner in-between them and her.

One of the nords cleared his throat, grinned warily. “Now, lizard, we’re honest folk here, just tryin’ to get away from the war, you see? We’re not takin’ anything not belonging to us, so–” Veera continued, watching as Hedgar collected knives and an axe from the men and hastily threw them away to the cave wall: “So you’re not sending the boy out to bait folk into caring and helping, leading them right into the ambush set by you fine folk?” The khajiit grinned slightly, and Veera felt her guess affirmed. The Nord mumbled something, but fell silent. Still, no one moved. Veera felt things slip away from her, and so she added: “I’m not the law, and don’t care for it. Hand out the package, and I’ll be gone.”

The other Nord – wart face, by the looks of it – glanced over to the first, a grim-faced giant with a broken nose. More clearly this time, the large Nord responded to her with a sly grin: “Well there’s ya problem, scales – we might lighten some traders pockets, take some coin off lecherous old men, but didn’t nab a courier nor his package. So it might be best you just be on your way, then. Let bygones be bygones, Talos be my witness!”

Veera’d expected something like this. Bow and arrow in one hand, she reached down to her belt, loosened the coinpurse received from Rangvar. Some pebbles added additional heft to its meagre contents, but they didn’t get to know that. Yet.

She let it fall in front of her, the clink of coin on coin drawing their attention as it landed in the dirt. “Maybe something so small just slipped your mind?”, she asked, lessening her scowl just enough to seem friendly.

“There’s a seal on it, a small wax stamp. Maybe something Vilfred could check for, back there?” She gestured towards the opening in the back of the cave. Maybe that’s where the unseen part of the group is sleeping. Or hiding.

Broken nose rubbed his chin.

“Well, lass, that’s gonna be a problem, see? Vilfred’s a heavy sleeper, usually, but trouble gets him right out and about. Might be best you lower your bow now, or he’ll have to use that crossbow of his.”

And behind her, someone cleared his throat. Veera’s turn to swing her head around. A nord, holding a heavy oaken crossbow up against his cheek, bolt primed and aimed at her. That would be Vilfred, it seemed.

“Drop the bow, lass. Before someone gets hurt.”

She had no choice. Quick reflexes were one thing, but a crossbow bolt was quicker. Slowly, Veera lowered her bow, crouched to place it on the floor in front of her. The coin pouch lay next to it. Oh, they’d be angry about the pebbles. She hooked her axe from her belt, let it drop to the floor, as well. The knife was still hidden inside her vest. Maybe that would be enough.

Slowly, she stood back up. Talk for your life.

“As I said, I’m just here for the package. Don’t mean harm otherwise.”

Wart face spat, and walked over to pick up his dagger. “Still pointed a bow at us and threatened us!” He pointed it at her. “Don’t appreciate threats, you know. Gonna cost you more than that” – he stabbed towards her feet, the coin purse – “to get off easy, scales.”

Behind her, Vilfred barked: “Move! Over there, to the wall! No funny business, or you’ll catch a bolt.”

Veera stepped over her things, towards the cave wall to her left. The robbers had all picked up their own weapons again, and now stood across from her on the other end of the cave, while Vilfred, crossbow raised, guarded the exit where she – and he – had come from.

He hadn’t been outside while she’d scouted, and from what she’d overheard, he was supposed to be sleeping, further back in the cave. Which meant that there might be another exit or hidden path outside. She couldn’t outrun a primed bolt, but if Vilfred lowered his guard just for a moment …

“I offer you the coin I have, as well as my weapons”, she spoke, taking the initiative. “Good axe, well-treated bow. I just need the package. It means a lot to my employer, and I’ll be treated harshly if I do not return it.”

Broken nose picked up her axe, whistled as he examined the blade. “Fine steel indeed, lass. Where’d you steal it?” He grinned. “Not the law, you said. Might even be a bounty on you, the way I see it! Look here –” He picked up the pouch, as well, weighed it in his hand. “Heavy with coin! Must be quite the trinket you’re looking for.”

She shook her head, feigned disinterest. “I’m just the courier. Don’t care about the contents, just timely delivery.”

The khajiit laughed with a raspy voice, regarding her with contempt. “Master’s pet. Dutiful till death.”

Veera couldn’t help but snarl, unbidden anger rising through her. “Honest work for honest pay! Not thieving and skulking for fancy cloaks!” Rangvar’s cold smile within her mind, a mask of pleasantry veiling contempt.

The vagrants were surprised by her fervor, weapons raised and faces grim. “Don’t push it, lizard!”, Vilfred grunted, nervously fiddling his crossbow. Broken nose regarded her with a weary look. “Hard to make an honest living as refugees”, he uttered, “with the war driving folk to death and ruin.”

Veera looked at the boy, fuzzy face and gold-blonde locks. He shied away from her gaze, hands shaking as they held the dagger. These were no bloodthirsty marauders. Folks down on their luck, more like, eeking along, just trying to survive any way possible. Like most others.

She considered this, then softly offered: “You take the coin, the weapons. I’ll return with more, for your troubles. Help you out for your troubles, one honest folk to another.” Veera waited with baited breath. Too much?

A moment passed. Wart face and Vinfred scowled, but looked over to the tall Nord with his broken nose.

He grunted. Sighed. Looked her over. Then turned around.

“Go get her package, Hedgar. The one from the courier, you know which.” The boy nodded, then snuck away back towards the deeper end of the cave, where another opening led further up. Veera held her breath as she looked after him.

“You know, you’re a curious one”, broken nose mused. “Really don’t know why someone’d go to so much effort just for a m– Oh, you lyin’ WHORE!”

The coin purse clattered against the wall behind Veera, some coins and many more pebbles spilling out across the floor as she ducked instinctively. Her deceit had been found out.

“I’ll skin you alive, damned liar!”, the Nord snarled, raising Veera’s axe raised to strike her down. The cave erupted in chaos as the others caught on, wart face pulling his knife, as well. Veera evaded Nose’s first strike, a haphazard downcut swung with blind fury. Vilfred stood behind the other Nord, unable to get a clear shot at her with the crossbow. This saved her life. She rammed her shoulder into the tall Nord in front of her, pushing him backwards into Vilfred and his line of fire. A loud twang, a snap, and the crossbow bolt burst partway through his chest. Broken nose coughed, spurted blood, rage draining from his face and turning to confusion as he stared down at his gored chest.

Wart face, from the left. He lunged forward, knife aimed her chest. Veera leaned back, tail holding her steady, then kicked him in the stomach with her clawed foot. He fell back, groaning. Broken nose stumbled forward, dropping Veera’s axe and crumpling down on top of it. Behind him, Vilfred stood frozen, the spent crossbow in his hand. Then, a flash of metal, and pain erupted in her shoulder. The khajiit had thrown a knife at her, struck her left shoulder and held another in his claws as he lunged at her. Veera felt her blood pulse, the wound in her shoulder radiating out into a blooming flower of glistening pain. All around her, things slowed. The khajiit, arms and claws outreached, coming at her with a powerful lunge, eyes wide, pupils narrow with the thrill of the hunt. Mundus weighed on her with the weight of the entire plane as she raised her right arm ever slowly, shifted her body in a sea of molasses from the left leg to the right, twisted her torso sideways so that her right arm could strike out with the knife that had been hidden in her vest. Then, the moment was over, the khajiit tumbled into her, both of them crying out in pain as her knife pierced his skin and he tumbled down atop her wounded shoulder, sending them backwards to the ground. She kicked at him with powerful legs, her clawed talons ripping wounds into his shins as he rolled over, away from her knife. The fall had loosened his own blade from her shoulder, and as she struggled to get up and back on her feet, fresh blood poured from the open wound. Veera roared, threw her head around and snapped at the khajiit, jaws snapping shut mere inches from his face. He swung his claws at her, dragging them across her throat, but could not penetrate the scaly hide. Veera pushed back, rose to her feet as she stumbled back to gain distance. She and the khajiit snarled at each other, but then wart face lunged over the wooden table to their side, raised his axe and wildly swung at her. Veera stepped back and back until her tail hit the cave wall behind her – nowhere to run. Wart face swung and twisted upwards, axe in hand to gut her from crotch to chest bone, and then, shadows melted away in a flash of searing light. Thunder filled the cave and he crumpled in a shock of blue light. Vilfred, behind him and still holding the spent crossbow, began to scream, ripped from his stupor by the electrical crackle of cauterized flesh. He spun around and was met with a terrible blast of lightning that scorched his hair and drowned his scream.

Veera did not wait to see who stepped out of the rear cave opening. To her left was the exit. She lunged towards it. The khajiit had the same idea, but he was slow, limped and crawled with his wounded leg, and Veera left him behind, stumbling down towards the light, just out, get out, and behind her thunder and light and then she was gone, fresh air nauseating her as she tumbled downhill, into the darkness of the night and away from the terror.

The White River Forest

Midnight.

Branches cut into her scales, pine needles tore at her clothes as she ran. Her left shoulder throbbed, pain biting with every stumble and jump across rocks and roots on the ground, but she had to keep running. It was magic that had killed the vagrants, and she had nothing but her knife to defend herself with. Her pack was hidden deep within the forest, but there was no chance she’d find it while running for her life, unable to stop and get proper bearings.

Cross the river, and hope it will be enough to throw her pursuers off her trail.

Up ahead, the waning moon shone bright, throwing shadows across the mountainside. The terrain was much more treacherous at night, and she had to take care to not stumble headfirst down the rocky slopes to her doom.

Cross the river, find the trails, find your things and run. Cross the river, find the trails, find your things and run. Cross the river …

There it was. White River. The spray of its rapids drifted upwards, catching the moonlight as ghostly haze.

Veera slowed, claws struggling to keep purchase on the rocky soil. Deep breaths. Keep your balance. The river roared as she stumbled towards, fueled by autumn rain and upstream glaciers.

A look around. The moonlit foothills lay gloomy and still, any noises swallowed up by the incessant roar of the floods. Behind her, no pursuers lept down the hills, no torches or spells lit up the night. The land lay still and unmoving.

Veera kept close to the river, kept to boulders and shrubbery that would hide her from view. Should’ve taken my cloak. Night’s too bright to stay hidden out here. Unbidden thoughts followed her through the underbrush, ran like needles across her skin. Her left arm clung to her chest, and she tried to keep it as still as possible, but every stone beneath her feet sent jolts of pain through her shoulder. It didn’t bleed much, but she knew her flight to be on borrowed time.

The ford she’d used to cross the river had been further upstream, ahead of the rapids that marked the river’s downhill path. Up ahead, a larger waterfall loomed. Beyond its crest would be slower water – there, she’d cross the river and abscond into the sheltered darkness of the forest.

Adrenaline pushed her forward. Veera felt her knees buckle as she climbed the rocks, her lungs burning with exertion. Just have to get ahead, out of the light. Into the forest. She reached out and gripped another ledge. Deep breath, pull up, claws into the rock and heave herself over the edge. With one healthy arm. Veera groaned, snarled in silence. A second, just a second to rest. She knelt, clenching her jaw and waited for the pain to lessen. Out of the light, into the forest.

A quick look back, downhill. Nothing. No movement. She didn’t dare hope. Time to get up, not push her luck.

She pushed herself up. There. Up ahead, she recognized the river bend. It was wider, shallower, easier to cross. And across, to her right, the pines stood stark and silent, obscuring the moonlight behind them. Safety.

Stumbling into a jog, Veera approached the furt. Reeds grew alongside, something chittered within as she passed. Somewhere else, an owl called. The argonian wandered further, looking for her own clawprints leading out from the riverbed. Ahead, the reeds thinned, rocky patches visible throughout the mud. There. Rocks broke through the water, offering footholds and support against the current.

She’d made it.

And froze as someone called out to her.

“Hold on just a minute, dear.”

The boulder to her left was no longer empty. A hooded figure rested on it, leaning back and looking at her. “Can’t have you scamper off without even saying hello, don’t you think?”

The mage.

“Don’t fret it, lass, you did well. All things considered.” She sounded kind, many decades apparent in her voice. Veera kept still. Appearances deceived. Doubly for mages.

“Sorry for the mess we’ve caused, but your little trick seemed to have ruffled some feathers, and I couldn’t let them cut your strings before I had a chance to meet you myself, you see?”

The figure settled comfortably, hands resting in her lap. Veera tried to discern features below the dark hood, but the moonlight gave nothing away, deep shadows obscuring any facial features. “Who’s we?”, she croaked instead, tasting the air. River and mud. Nothing else. So an illusionist, she’d guess, the way she’d appeared out of thin air.

“Oh, I brought some adjutants. Not really necessary so far, but you never know.” Veera turned around, saw two armored figures across the river. One even nodded at her. Gleaming swords catched the moonlight, crossbows resting in the nook of their arms. Professionals.

“And considering your kind’s … affinity … for water, I thought it prudent they’d be there, keep you from making unwise decisions, you see?”

Don’t let her see your pain. Your defeat. The mage had thought this through, and that made her afraid.

Still, a wry smile was all she got from Veera, whose thoughts ran a mile a minute. “Let’s talk, then.” She exhaled, forcing herself to relax her shoulders, casually hooking her right hand into her belt. Where she’d secured her knife.

“Long night.”

A small chuckle in return, the hood bobbing along. “I’ll grant you that.”

The mage scooted over, sat up more straight. “I won’t try to keep you long. We all got places to be, and I already got what I came for.” Things dropped into place. The package. It all came back to that.

“I know what it contains. What I don’t know, however–”, the mage continued, “is why.” Veera felt her stare bore into her, deep from within the shadowy hood.

“And that’s where you come into play.”

Which was what she feared.

Veera stayed silent. She did not know what it was, what kind of packages were sent around. She did not know why she delivered them. Only that they were worth good money, and that total secrecy was not optional. And that something had to give for her to get out of this alive.

“You listened in at the cave.” Probably. And the mage’s hood nodded slightly, proving her guess.

“I told the truth there. I’m just the messenger. Sent to deliver, to various contacts. Different destinations. Never told what, only when. I’d be in trouble if you told me what’s inside.”

Being just the messenger made her expendable, so she added: “I don’t know his name, but could pick him out in a crowd. My contact in Whiterun, the one that told me to go here today.” A futile effort? The mage cocked her head, kept silent. Leaned back again, as if in thought. The river gurgled and rushed downstream. The sentries behind her were inaudible, any noise they made swept up by the river.

“Well.” Clasped hands, a decision made. “I appreciate your honesty. You shared truth, and kept some to yourself. Good sign of character, dear. Loyalty.” The mage stood up. “Misplaced, however. I know of Rangvar.”

Shit.

“Now, dear, I’ll keep this amicable. You’re not who I’m after, and I know how things work. You blab, you catch a shiv in some back alley and bleed to death without being missed. And right now, you don’t have anyone at your back keeping that from happening.” Slowly, she strode over. She seemed smaller the closer she got, and as the wind flapped across her cloak, Veera saw hints of dark skin and a wrinkled mouth, formulating the snare to drag her in.

“We’re not planning to be sloppy, though. Rangvar’s a small part in the grand scheme of things. You won’t have to worry about him, or those above him. You’re not the first courier we’re approaching. And you won’t be the last.”

Now the mage stood directly in front of her and looked up. The moonlight reflected in dark eyes, a warm smile spread across thin lips. The redguard woman’s skin was dark, wrinkled and spotted by many years. In another time and place, she’d probably be a kind acquaintance, the village elder you turned to for guidance, the gentle grandmother.

Right now, right here, Veera knew her to be a death sentence.

“So, what’ll it be?”

Her knife was just within reach. It’d be so easy. A quick jerk, a quick push with the knife in hand – a bolt of lightning to the stomach and a pointless death out in the middle of nowhere. You’ve lost. Admit it.

Veera took a single, measured step backwards. She opened her mouth: “Your … offer … is tough to refuse.” She paused, looking for words and trying to evade those kind, dark eyes. “What would you expect of me, should I accept?”

“Well, first of all, to rest, my dear! That gash looks something fierce, and I cannot have you work for me while clinging on for dear life.”

Veera smiled weakly. “You know what I mean.”

“I do. Due time, my dear. You’ll get to know in due time. Nothing worse than what you’re doing now, you can rest assured.”

I stabbed someone, got someone shot, bit and slashed and lied and stole. How much worse could it get? Veera wanted nothing more than to be done with it all. She felt no loyalty to Rangvar or the others, yet feared their retribution. She’d been sent to Anvil, Bruma, Whiterun – there might be an informant in every major city, for what she knew. All of them out for her blood, should word get out that she spilled secrets.

“Tight net you’ve woven”, she sighed bitterly. There was no way out. If they went after Rangvar, she’d be known as turncoat. If they didn’t, and she returned without the package, she’d be a worthless liability to him.

“Not my first time.” The mage’s smile softened as she considered Veera. She offered her a hand. “Let’s not drag this out. You know my terms. I offer you to walk away today, and give you my word that I’ll keep your name from those looking for someone to blame. Give me yours that you will not warn them, and are willing to await my summons.”

It was a wonderful night. Dark and clear. Veera closed her eyes, breathed deeply, smelled the river, the mud, the dusty shrubs clinging to the rocks around her. Rolled her shoulders to release some tension. Then looked at the mage again. The small woman had taken a half-step back, seemed a bit more wary than before. Veera smiled. Small victories.

“I agree.”

The mage’s smile returned, eyes sparkling. “Then give me your hand on it.” She stepped forward again, and Veera, cautiously, extended her right hand, felt the mage take it into hers. A tingle ran up her arm, a prickling sensation that went as quick as it came. Magic? Something dawned deep within her, but it was too late for regrets.

“You won’t regret, this, dear.” Dark eyes, flashing from beneath the hood. “Now, with the formalities out the way, we’ll both get going our separate ways.” She stepped away, then nestled around in her coat for something. “Aah, here.” Her hand held something. A small, brown package, leatherbound. Only a few specks of blood on it.

“The thing you came for.”

Veera must’ve looked incredulous. The mage laughed, then motioned for her to come closer. “Don’t be shy! It’s yours, take it. It’s no use to me.” Carefully, Veera took it into her own hands. Heavier than the last one, but only slightly. She looked over. “Why?”

“As I said. I know what’s inside. I know who receives it. It’ll be more interesting to see where it turns up after you deliver it.” With that, the mage waved, signalling the two mercenaries and clasping her hands. “We’re off, then. Take care, I’ll get in touch.”

“How? I mean– where should I …?” The sudden departure made Veera’s scales crawl.

“You’re clad in gold, dear. Hard to miss. Just return to Whiterun, drop off the package and see where things take you. Take some rest!”

And with that, she walked away, uphill and into the night.

Veera stayed behind, weighing the package in her hand and feeling the pit in her stomach grow bottomless.