Definitely--and you do an excellent job... Looking forward to reading your next chapter

(Author's Note: Not much is happening in this chapter. But I wanted to slowly set my two main character's history and nature through nightmares and dreams. Next post will surely go into the plot that will set things into motion. Any errors, please feel free to PM them to me.Thanks for reading. )

Chapter Five: Nightmares & Dreams~


“Listen to your brother," Mama said. Alerianna stood there, mute and fuming.

"No,"

“Alerianna!” Mama said, raising her voice.

"But I am ready!” she replied.

"It's too dangerous," Alerianna's brother, Alusaron said jumping into the conversation.

"I can handle myself; even Papa says-" Alerianna mustered all the defiance she could.

"Papa isn't here, and until he is-" Alusaron said.

“I don't have to listen to you.” Alerianna cursed silently when she realized that her voice was too high, nearly a shriek. Then she turned and said, “Mama?”

Her mother smiled, and Alerianna knew she wasn't going to like what came next. “Alerianna, in a few years-”

“But I'm not a child.” Again, Alerianna couldn't control the pitch of her voice.

Mama smiled again and Alerianna wanted to scream. "But, darling, you are a child. You 're only twelve. Don't be in such a hurry."

"Alusaron is only fifteen," Alerianna replied.

"Three years older than you," Alusaron said pointedly.

"You only let him go because he's a boy," The young sister said.

Mama just sighed by way of an answer. After a moment Alusaron stepped forward and said gently, "Alerianna, dad has new plans. If we're lucky, this will all be over before you are old enough to go. You may never have to do what we are about to do." His soft voice, the condescending look of concern on his face. Out of nowhere, tears sprang from her eyes, which horrified her. Immediately she turned away and ran for her bedroom. It was too much. He didn't understand and neither did Mama. They wanted to protect her as if she were a helpless child, but she wasn't. She was strong, and good with a sword-almost as good as Alusaron. Most of all, she wanted to help, she wanted her parents to be proud of her, and she wanted her brother to see her for what she was: his equal. Papa came home less than an hour later, but Alerianna did not go down to see him. Instead she crept to the stairs and listened while Papa, Mama, and Alusaron talked in the armory. Alusaron and Mama were laughing as they told Papa about their earlier argument. Papa did not join in. He only said to Mama, "She is willful, darling. She gets that from her father." The clear pride in his voice gave Alerianna a rush of pleasure. She waited quietly for the men from the village to come and for the group to collect their weapons and leave. Afterward she raced to her room and waited for Mama, who came to bring her some tea.

"Are you all right, Alerianna?"

"Yes, I'm . . . sorry about before."

"It's all right. Please remember, we just want what's best for you, even Alusaron," she said.

"I know, Mama." Then, thankfully, her mother left. Alerianna waited until she heard Mama's own bedroom door close before she moved. She would have liked to wait until Mama was asleep, but she knew that her mother would not rest until Papa and Alusaron returned from the hunt. Alerianna put on her riding clothes, choosing all black because it would give her the best cover in the darkness. Looking out the window, she saw a full Masser hanging low in the sky. It was the first night of the harvest moon, the brightest one of the year. In other lands, she knew that the light of the harvest moon allowed farmers to work their fields late into the night. Here, that was obviously impossible, but someday it would happen again. Thanks to her family-and maybe to her-the harvest moon would once again be a symbol of life and not one of fear and death.

Alerianna crept down the stairs and slipped into the armory. The servants were all shut up in their rooms. As a rule, people moved as little as possible during full moons, which allowed Alerianna to move freely throughout the house. She did not take any armor, since she didn't want anything slowing her down. She would have to hurry to catch up with her father. She imagined the moment when she found him. He would be angry at first, but he would have to let her remain with him for the duration of the hunt. When he saw how she carried herself, he would have to admit that she was ready. When it was over, he would be proud of her. Alerianna took a sword, one of the larger sabers. It was a little heavy, but she would be damned if she let Alusaron see her carrying a child's short sword. Then she grabbed some throwing stars and the most important weapon of all: a silver dagger. She went to the window and opened it. Any of the doors to the outside were out of the question: There would be noise and a chance that someone would hear and try to stop her. She climbed onto the windowsill and swung her legs out, holding herself still for a moment. She felt a pang of guilt for deceiving her family and actively disobeying her parents' wishes, but her father had said it himself: She was willful. In a little while, her family was going to find out just what she could do. Holding on to the windowsill, Alerianna lowered herself as far as she could, then dropped. It wasn't far, but the landing rattled her. She was outside, on her own, during a full moon! It felt wonderful! The strength of her ancestors coursed through her veins as she prepared to join the family's great battle. She knew where her father was going to begin and headed out in that direction at a trot.

Alerianna had gone only a few steps when she heard a howl, the sound causing a chill to run down her spine. It was the unmistakable call of a werewolf, deeper and more resonant than an ordinary wolf. The urge to stop and hide swept over her, but she forced herself to keep going, though at a careful walk now. She strained to hear any sign of the hunting party or of its unearthly prey. There was nothing but the normal sounds of the night and the whistling of the wind, but they sounded like doom to her. She had the feeling that she was being watched from all sides. The only comfort she had was that if a werewolf had seen her, it wouldn't have waited to pounce. For half an hour, Alerianna trudged through the fields and scattered trees until she reached the woods. She was tempted to call out for her father, a move that would be not only foolish but suicidal. What if I can't find them? One of the first rules of the hunt was that no one ever went out alone. Werewolves or werebears were much more likely to pick off people on their own...as she was. A twig snapped somewhere to her left, and her head spun in that direction. There was a sound like footfalls. Her heart began to pound, and she told herself that it must be the rustling of the wind on the leaves. The wind...

She remembered that the wind was important. It carried scents, and the sense of smell was one of the werewolves' keenest. Alerianna had to stay upwind of the beast so it didn't catch her scent, but how could she do that if she didn't know where it was? As for herself, she could smell only the slightly damp fallen leaves. The forest was dead silent: there were no small animals scurrying about, not even the song of insects in the night. There could be only one reason for this: a dark force at work, a predator afoot that all the other creatures feared. Suddenly, Alerianna wanted her room and the comfort of her warm bed, and considered heading back home. If she was lucky, she could slip back into the house and no one would ever know she had been gone. But pride kept her from going back; instead she followed the path that ran at the foot of the mountains. Her father had shown it to her before in the safety of daylight. Fear kept Alerianna’s senses sharp as she remained on the lookout for any sign of danger. Then she definitely heard the sound of footfalls. That's him, that's Papa, she thought. The sounds of movement came closer. She approached a clearing in the trees and stopped, not wishing to step out into the open until she was sure it was her father's hunting party and not their quarry. Then silence, except for the breeze through the trees. Perhaps it had just been her imagination. Enough was enough: She would go back home. Next time, she would just convince Papa to let her come with him.

Alerianna turned to head for her house. . . and then for the first time in her life saw a werewolf in the flesh. The monster loomed above her, blocking her path. It was more than six feet tall, powerfully muscled, and standing on its hind legs like a man, its breath blowing white vapor in the cool moonlit night. The creature's face was more wolf than human, with large pointed ears and a pronounced snout with large canine teeth. The only quality that distinguished it from the face of an animal was the terrible intelligence in its eyes. Standing less than ten yards away, the creature was utterly still and silent, watching her. lerinna’s heart seemed to stop, then thunder in her chest. She felt a scream building in her throat but held it down. She had to remain calm: There was something she had to do....The sword.

Slowly she reached for it with her right hand. The werewolf watched her with interest but didn't move. Peeling the hilt of the weapon with her fingers, she knew she would have only one chance at this. If she didn't strike the werewolf hard and fast, she would never get close enough to use the dagger. Pulling up on the sword, Alerianna felt it catch in the scabbard. Panic began to well up inside her and she fought it. Then she realized that the tip of the scabbard had gotten stuck in the ground. She cursed her pride, which had not allowed her to bring a shorter sword that she could draw easily. Angling the weapon backward, she was able to slowly draw it. The quiet was broken by the werewolf's growl, and Alerianna simultaneously did two things: she shrieked and let go of the sword. When the creature took a step toward her, she instinctively ran for her life. Something hit her and she flew forward into the clearing. The werewolf had struck her from behind. She twisted around to see it looming over her from just a few feet away.

I'm finished. Fear mixed with humiliation filled her. Mama and Alusaron were right: She was just a silly girl who would die this night, and her parents would probably never even know what had happened to her. Her last act would be to bring shame to the Rithleen family. Will he kill me immediately? she wondered. Or will he play with me for a while before he eats me? The werewolf looked down at her, and she had seconds before it struck. Raising its head, it gave a howl so loud and deep that she could feel it resonating in her chest. Suddenly, Alerianna grabbed the silver dagger at her side and leaped to her feet. Before a plan had even formed in her mind, she was hurling herself at the beast, even as she felt something strike her hard on one side. She was air borne again and then she felt nothing... Seconds or minutes or hours later, Alerianna opened her eyes. As she tried to clear her head, she realized she was on her back. She had tripped on the slippery patch of ice. Fear overtook her every movement. She waited for the werewolf to pounce and saw a flash of movement, but it wasn't the creature. Something small flew across her field of vision and into the chest of the werewolf. Alerianna saw the family crest on the hilt of the weapon buried in the creature's briast. It was her brother's silver dagger!

"Alerianna, run!" Alusaron’s voice boomed. She could do nothing but watch the monster double over and whimper loudly. Attempting to remove the silver dagger painfully embedded in it’s flesh. The werewolf screamed in rage and whirled on Alusaron, whom she could now see standing at the edge of the clearing. Her brother had his sword out in front of him, an open challenge to the creature. He was alone.

"Run, Alerianna!” he shouted.

This was all wrong. Where was Papa? Where were the others? They must have split up to look for her. The werewolf attacked, swinging at Alusaron, who struck out with the sword, catching the monster on the arm and rolling under it. As it howled in pain, Alusaron jumped to his feet. The creature struck again and Alusaron parried with the sword, connecting with the beast's other arm. The werewolf bellowed again. This couldn't last long: Alusaron could injure the werewolf with his blade, but without silver he could not kill it. Her brother seemed to realize the same thing and yelled out again, "Alerianna, run, get out of here!"

No, she thought. If I go, Alusaron will be left alone, and then it will just be a matter of time. I may be a child, but I'm not completely helpless, and that's my brother out there. Alerianna was on her feet, reaching for the pocket that held her throwing stars. Alusaron was knocked on his back, sword out, the monster above him. There was no more time to think. She grabbed the stars with her left hand, and one by one she passed them to her right and let them fly. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six. The werewolf screamed in pain and turned to face her. Alusaron jumped up and thrust forward with his sword. The blade went into the creature's back and came out in front. It roared, clawing at the weapon, which had been wrenched out of Alusaron’s grasp.

The monster spun around in a circle, pulling at the sword from both front and back. It didn't budge. Alerianna felt a twinge of hope. Alusaron had hurt it-badly. But it was not enough. They couldn't kill it with a hundred steel swords. They needed silver . . . a silver dagger. Alerianna searched the clearing for the dagger where the werewolf had dropped it and after searching frantically, she came upon the silver blade. The werewolf began to close in on her brother. Could she hit it with the dagger from where she was? No, it was too far. To kill it instantly, she would have to aim directly for the heart; otherwise it would live long enough to kill or bite her brother . . . and the bite was worse than a death sentence.

"Alusaron!" Alerianna called out, and threw the knife to him. It sailed over toward her brother, who held out his hand. He will catch it... she thought. But Alusaron missed it. He jumped to catch it but Alerianna threw it too far. The werewolf lunged atop of Alusaron with all fur paws, tackling the young adolescent down. Alerianna squealed in horror as she witnessed the werewolf descend on her prey. She tried to close her eyes, but she was too shocked to make a movement.

“I said run! Get out Alerianna! Get out---” his final wails were replaced by frantic screaming and then…silence. By then Alerianna had sufficiently recovered from the state of shock she had been in and turned to run, only to see her Papa run past her with a sword in his hands. The werewolf too hungry and preoccupied with it’s prey, did not pay attention to Papa running at it. The long sword caught the werewolf in the center of its chest. It barely had time to clutch at the blade before it fell over in a dead heap. Alerianna watched in horrified stare as the beast died, falling right beside her brother.

Papa inspected Alusaron, Alerianna standing a few feet away, still trying to control herself. She couldn’t tell if he was dead, injured or alive and well. But she feared the worse. Papa stood up slowly, calling the aid of one of the villagers. Havelstein came to aid of her brother while her Papa came at Alerianna, shaking her by the shoulders.

“Are you well? Did it bite you?”

Alerianna took a quick inventory of herself: scraqes and bruises but no cuts, and more importantly, no bites. "No, I'm...okay."

Her Papa took that in and Alerianna waited for what would come next: the shouts, the recriminations. She deserved them all. But as she watched her father’s face, he did something that shocked her more than anything else had in her young life: Papa burst into tears. His face just collapsed as he hugged her tightly and fell to his knees, still clutching her to him.

"I thought we'd lost you " he said between sobs. Alerianna hugged her father back, her own tears mixing with his. In her mind, she begged his forgiveness and promised herself and the Nine that she would never let Alusaron or the rest of her family down again. Alusaron.... Alerianna thought as she woke up. He was alive! She had just seen him! No, it was a dream. Though she had visions of her brother every night since the last fateful event before what happened to Hirald, this was the one she had most often. That made sense. It was the first time she had failed her family and her brother. The second time was a day, when her lover paid with his life. Hot grief ran through her body. Like every morning for the month-the last cycle of the moon-she felt her lover die again.
****

Veronica didn’t know their destination. All she knew was that at the end of the trip she would have to begin anew. Hingarr already provided her with an axe, thick layers of fur clothing and a few extra pieces of gold. As well as two bottles of Cyrodilic Brandy. Veronica was prepared to start a new life. As before, the thought filled her with a mix of emotions. Fear and excitement dominated all the others. There was a slight jostling of the carriage as the horses began to speed away from the sleepy Bruma. A few seconds later Veronica felt an unfamiliar but unmistakable surge as they left town. A sudden sense of liberation filled her spirit. She was free. For the first time in her life, she was beyond the grasping reach of the Imperial Legion and its soldiers. She was free from Cyrodiil. Hingarr had said that fate were conspiring against her, but Veronica wasn’t so sure now. Things hadn’t worked out quite the way she had planned-she was a fugitive with the blood of thieves and an Imperial captain on her hands-but she had finally escaped Cyrodiil. Huddled in the inside of the carriage, Veronica tried to get comfortable. She’d been crammed into the small space between crates for nearly an hour. It was a tight fit for even for a Bosmer.

Twenty minutes earlier she had heard an Imperial Legion patrol come to inspect the carriage. They had made a cursory search; not finding the fugitive they were seeking, they had left. A few seconds later the trader, a middle-aged nord, had added more crates to occupy space, keeping Veronica hidden.

“Stay quiet until we leave,” he had warned. “They are still searching.”

Veronica hadn’t recognized him when he’d loaded the crates onto the carriage; he had looked like any other nord she’d ever seen. Just another independent man picking up a load of crates, hoping to sell it somewhere else hoping it would be enough profit to keep his life a normal one. If the Empire had offered a reward for Veronica’s capture, the nord trader probably would have sold her out. That meant the Imperial soldiers hadn’t put a price on her head yet. They were more worried about paying out a bounty than letting a fugitive escape Imperial justice. It wasn’t important that they found Veronica, as long as they could show everyone they had tried. Hingarr must have realized all this when he made the arrangements to smuggle Veronica out.

The high-pitched nay of the horses preparing caused Veronica to brace herself against the sides of the crates. A few seconds later the nay became a deafening whine, and the horses began galloping away. Veronica stared back through the crate’s gap, watching as Bruma slowly disappeared from sight. The Cyrodilic Brandy and the Jagga in her system began having it’s effects on her. Veronica yawned loudly and fell asleep, despite the uncomfortable position.

***

Her mind absorbed the scene before her, so quiet and calm and very normal. It was the life she had always wanted, a gathering of family and friends-she knew that they were just that, though the only one she recognized was her dear grandfather. This was the way it was supposed to be. The warmth and the love, the laughter and the quiet times. This was how she had always dreamed it would be, how she had always prayed it would be. The warm, inviting smiles. The pleasant conversation. The gentle pats on shoulders. But most of all there was the smile of her beloved grandfather, so happy now. He moved before her, his face beaming, his hand reaching out for her to gently stroke her face. His smile brightened, then widened some more.

For a moment, she thought the exaggeration a product of love beyond normal bounds, but the smile continued to grow, her grandfather's face stretching and contorting weirdly. He seemed to be moving in slow motion. Then, they all did, slowing as if their limbs had become heavy. No, not heavy, she realized, her warm feelings turning suddenly hot. It was as if these friends and her grandfather were becoming rigid and stiff, as if they were becoming something less than living and breathing humans. She stared back at that caricature of a smile, the twisted face, and recognized the pain behind it, a crystalline agony. She tried to call out to him, to ask him what he needed her to do, ask him how she could help. But her grandfather offered no response, no word of encouragement, nothing. In an instant, he began contorting and screaming and those around him turned to corpses.

Nothing moved, everything seemed frozen in place. She stood horrified at the bodies, who seemed to be ripped apart and half devoured. In the middle was someone she recognized, someone familiar; A young Imperial girl with golden hair and glowing yellow eyes, her naked body and hands full of blood and gore. The young girl smiled at Veronica with a savage predatory grin.

Veronica jumped to a sitting position in behind the carriage, her eyes popping open wide, sweat on her forehead and her breath coming in gasps. A dream. It was all a dream. She told herself that repeatedly as she tried to settle back down on the carriage. It was all a dream. Or was it?

"You had a nightmare?" Asked the Nordic trader as he whipped the horses over and over.

"Yea," Veronica replied, wiping the sweat off of her forehead as she crawled to the front of the carriage to sit beside him. She could of guessed she was a few miles away from Bruma. Glancing back, she noticed she was right. The city of Bruma and the White Gold Tower could be seen far off. They now riding on the side of the Jerall Mountains and getting closer to the border into Skyrim.

“What did you dream about?” asked the nord trader, keeping his blue eyes focused on the road ahead.

Veronica felt a small headache. She grabbed her head and shook it slightly. I wasn’t sure what I dreamed about, Veronica thought. Without much words, Veronica answered.

“I dreamed of the moon and of a woman, who is less than a woman."

The nord laughed loudly, almost in hiccups. "Never heard that before. Doesn't make alot of sense"

Veronica scoffed a bit, covering her body with the fur coat made of wolf fur. "No, it does not"

Chapter Six: ~Ambush~

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LFBxOprBK6k&playnext=1&list=PLDB0FB36F40990A8D

Although the first class carriage was newly refitted, it still creaked and rattled as it rolled across the ancient bridge over a deep gourge cut down in the wild white of Skyrim’s border. Veronica felt absent from reality at the moment. She sat cross-legged, her traveling cloak covering her body. Her unadorned axe beside her in the bench seat to discourage the rider from getting any near her. Even if Hingarr trusted the man to transport her safely, she was not so trusty. Veronica held tightly on her seat and for the last quarter hour with a small art frame in her hand. She studied it and then stared thoughtfully at the rolling hills. In the miniature painting, Veronica and her sister Selena stood beside their mother. It was deeply unnerving in a thousand different ways for her to realize that everyone in that painting was gone in one way or another. Her mother dead all those years ago and her sister passed a few years later. As for herself, she had felt absent from reality all her life, more like a ghost haunting the life of some stranger named Veronica Darksky. She raised the painting and traced the crenellated folds of her mother’s dress with one fingertip, then touching Selena’s imagine, placing one finger at her sister’s heart. Despite the smiles on the picture, the reality was a lie pierced like a thorn in her heart. In the painting they were all smiling, all happy like a normal family. Anyone that would gaze on the picture would see happiness and unity, they would see life and possibilities. All lies...all promises proved false by the unwavering cruelty of circumstance, Veronica barked in her mind.

“Your mother?”

Veronica looked up from the small locket to the old nord seated next to her. The only other traveler with her. He was wisent but looked healthy. He was dressed in Nordic fashions of the more original and severe cut, a moneyed look that Veronica recognized but did not share. Though Veronica was wealthy by traditional standards, her attire was more flamboyant. This man had the simple elegance of someone who possessed septims for so long that it had become common place to him.

“Yes,” Veronica said.

The nord nodded “My oldest memories were of my mother.” his accent a cultured provincial Nordic. He sat comfortably with his hands prompted on the reigns of the horses.

“We have something in common then.” Veronica said lowly.

The nord smiled “In my memories we are gathering graqes in a vineyard near Skingrad” The nord gentlemen smiled wistfully. “It was my garden of dreams,”

Veronica felt her defenses fall into place like battlements. She had too much in her mind to wander down memories’ pathways with an old nord fool. She fitted a polite smile to her face but offered no comment. The least she could do in terms of respect for someone who had bothered to risk Imperial law for someone he never knew. Veronica said nothing more to encourage any further conversation. The nord however, was warming to his recollection. “Fathers give us the strength to survive this harsh world, but mothers make it worth the effort.”

Veronica nodded “Please, that is aphorism” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“You do not plan to tell your mother you are leaving?”

It occurred to Veronica that truth was often rude but she could not change the script that the moment had written in her head. “My mother passed not long after this painting was made,”

“Ah,” said the old man. Unabashed by his own full par.

“My ancestral home is back in Cyrodiil. Though my ancestors hail from Illiac Bay” Veronica said, surprising herself by continuing to engage this old nord. “My family has long roots that date back into history.”

“Interesting,” mused the old man.

“I got bored of Cyrodiil. After traveling and staying in many towns, I decided to explore a new life in a new place.” Veronica sighed.

The nord smiled “Ah. A wandering spirit.” it was casually said but Veronica didn’t think it was as casual remark as it appeared.

“Well,” she said diffidently “Not exactly,”

“Ah, a fellow exile then, is it? I think there is more to your problems than just to Legion.”

For some obscure reason the comment amused Veronica and she smiled “Yes, I guess you could say that.”

The nord settled himself back on the seat as he continued to hit the horses with the reigns. He bore a large necklace that had a face of a wolf in the middle. Eye red and almost glowing. His hands moving up and down as he commanded the steeds to gallop faster. This caused the wolf ring to bounce around aimlessly in the sky as it was locked around his neck. For a millisecond, Veronica noticed the insignia closely. A feral wolf, fierce and snarling. A beautifully crafted jewel, but somehow repugnant. As the man stopped moving his hands, the wolf stared straight toward her. Veronica felt, as absurd as the thought was to a civilized mind, that the eyes of a real wolf glared out at her through the lifeless insignia. It required effort for Veronica to wrench her own eyes away from the necklace and she caught the old man in a split second of unguarded interest. The old eyes keen and sharp with an enigmatic smile curling in the corners of his mouth. Then the moment had passed and the nord was old and wisent and the jewel was nothing more than metal and steel.

“One must be vicious in Skyrim,” mused the man. “I survived through many hardships that seemed lifetimes ago. This necklace has been passed to me by warriors of old. Great hunters of time’s long past.” he bent forward and offered a warm and inclusive smile, removing the necklace from his neck and offering it to Veronica “You will do me the honor?”

Veronica watched as the man removed the peculiar jewelry and handed it to her. The wolf’s eyes seemed to glow red. Veronica gasped as a genial smile ran across the old nord’s face.

“I--can’t” stammered Veronica. And in truth, she was unnerved by the look that was in this elderlys’ eyes when he said he endured hardships ‘lifetimes’ ago as she was by the deadly potential of this unexpected gift. “We’ve only just met,” she looked at her own golden necklace. Stylish, but no match in either form nor purpose as the nord’s one. This necklace will do me just, Veronica thought.

“I--” Veronica started.

The old man interrupted with a chuckle and the constant shake of the head. “Nonsense. It would give me great pleasure to know that my necklace was in the keeping of a civilized young woman.”

Veronica opened her mouth to rephrase her refusal, but the man had beaten her to it. “It is one of the few privileges of the old…to pass on our burdens to the young” he held out his hand yet again. The necklace in his palm.

“Thank you,” Veronica said after a long pause. She accepted the necklace with a gracious nod.

“From one exile to another,” the old man said softly.

The wolf necklace was light but solid. It was made from silver and was very cold. The eyes of the wolf were made from rubies that somehow matched with the entire insignia. The entire necklace was black with the exception of the silver chain.

“You are too kind,” murmured Veronica.

“Not at all,”

Veronica removed her necklace from her neck and held it out, intensely aware of how shabby it looked in comparison. “I insist you take mine and trade then,”

The smile the old man gave her was mostly gracious. But sown through the writhe of wrinkles on his smiling face were traces of some other emotion. And as he accepted her gift, his finger brushed on one of Veronica’s fingers. It was a casual accident but Veronica nearly recoiled. The nord’s skin was as cold as a tomb and strangely rough. The old man’s eyes were hooded as he sat back and examined his new necklace, a smile of some rare kind trying to blossom on his lips. The horses neighing as they sped past the shriveled trees and twisted branches of the Skyrim border.

****

“How much farther to our destination?” Veronica asked the old impatiently as the caravan made its way through the wilderness along a bumpy dirt road. A worried frown marred her hostile features as she glanced upward at the night sky where a waxing Secuunda shone amid the starry vault. “Dawn will be upon us soon.”

“Not far,“ The nord assured her from beside her. Arriving at a crossroads, which was marked by a weathered roadside shrine, he pointed to the right. “That road leads to a fort which means that the town of Falcreath is straight ahead of us, only a short distance away. We should spy the tower that we can pass by anon.”

“Why must we get there first? There is no other way toward Falcreath?” inquired Veronica.

“There is,” the old man sighed “But I have to make delivery at the fort for the merchant camp. There they have food and a bed if you are willing to rest for the night.”

Let us hope so, Veronica thought, anxiously awaiting to get some food in her stomach and some sleep.

When not staring longingly at her new necklace, Veronica’s eyes searched the night-shrouded woods lining the road, on guard against any gold-crazed bandits who might want to waylay the carriage. Unlike the old man, she was not at all certain that the caravan was not in jeopardy. She could not help thinking that the traveling duo presented an all too tempting target to the likes of marauders and raiders. So far, though, she had yet to detect any lurking peril. The winter night was broken only by the steady clip-clop of the horses and the usual forest noises: the hoot of an owl, the rustling of branches in the wind, the distant howl of a very ordinary wolf.

“Ah, there it is!” The old man called out as the outline of a dark stone tower could be glimpsed through the overhanging tree branches ahead. The horses quickened the pace as they spied the keep: a single imposing tower surrounded by a high wooden palisade. Crimson pennants waved in the wind atop the tower. “As you see, I spoke truly.”

Not nearly so grand as the castles back in Cyrodiil, the keep was a welcome sight nonetheless. It served as a war base of operations during The War of Succession. It’s existence bore testament to the ancient and gruesome battle and the events proceeding it. Skyrim was known for their wars and conflicts that forever scarred the rugged landscape.

“At last,” Veronica declared. “And none too soon.”

The sky was already growing noticeably lighter in the east by the time the procession arrived at the gates of the palisade. Vertical timbers, sharply pointed at their tops, loomed before them. “Open up!” The old man bellowed at the heavy wooden doors. “We desire admittance.”

Veronica knew that a merchant campsite as this would undergo countless harassments from thieves and other malicious robbers. It was no wonder they had a fort reconstructed and under security. The oaken doors swung inward, allowing the carriage to pass through the gate into the bailey, a ring of cleared earth surrounding the tower. A fire pit burned inside the yard, filling the air with a smoky aroma. Primitive, compared with the castle back home, Veronica judged, assessing her accommodations, but serviceable enough. Within the impervious walls of the tower, she could rest securely until she was able. Or could she?

The bailey seemed strangely quiet and abandoned. No retainers hurried to greet the new arrivals. No encampment as she expected. Nothing. A sense of unease came over Veronica, and she sniffed the air warily. Beneath the pervasive smell of the smoke, she scented something else, something that sent an unaccountable chill down her spine. At first, she couldn’t place the troubling aroma, but then it hit her. Blood. What the--? she thought. Why would the bailey smell of blood, unless…?

"Watch out!” Veronica called out in alarm. Jumping up in defense, she drew her axe. “It’s an ambush!”

Her warning came seconds too late. The oaken doors slammed shut, trapping her and the old man inside the bailey. It was then that Veronica saw the sprawled corpses of men, women, and children hidden in the corner below the stairs. They were full of blood but easily passable as merchants and vendors.

“Well done, lads!” an unfamiliar voice called out from high above the bailey. Veronica looked up to see a mithril-armored figure standing on the roof of the tower. “We may earn a bit of extra drakes tonight…And a woman!” laughed the man who she recognized as a nord. Unlike the old man, he was younger and more muscular, he had brown hair and clear blue eyes, but there was nothing amiable about him.

It is just as I feared! Veronica thought. She wished that her suspicions had not proven quite so well founded. Apparently, the merchant camp was raided and now used as a lure for any traveling vendors such as the old man. More dark figures emerged from the roof-side, all equipped with dangerous weapons. The leader called out to Veronica and the old man, claiming they would be safe if they cooperated. Veronica thought of being submissive, but the fact that they did not spare the innocent merchants proved othey would harm her once they had the chance. As Veronica thought about surrendering, three bandits walked down the stairs to secure the carriage for the loot and goods they were ready to claim. They approached with caution, but nevertheless they still got closer and closer. Veronica's misleading appearance as a young woman often had it's uses against overconfident opponents.

Veronica nodded to the leader from down below and they approximated even closer to her. But Veronica was not ready to yield just yet. Her mind raced frantically, looking for a way to improve this situation to her benefit. Don’t panic, she ordered herself. I can still turn this around. None of them have bows, I can kill them. Still clenching her axe, Veronica hopped down from the carriage near one of the thieves. Veronica slashed violently with her axe, hewing a hand with a mighty swipe. There was a scream of pain and gouts of blood began pouring. Veronica turned to the second bandits, which did not bear any armor, making it easier for him to succumb to injury. Veronica shouted loudly, chopping him diagonally clean through from shoulder to hip. Drawing much blood from his body as well as making a large gash on his thick layers of clothing.

At this point, the old man tried to escape. His slow movements much quicker than Veronica had anticipated, but not fast enough. More bandits charged from the tower down below to where the young Imperial and the old nord were trapped. The horses were spooked and frightened that they snapped away from their binds and fled to a corner. The old nord couldn’t keep his footing and fell over from the carriage, tumbling over onto his back with a heavy thud. The bandits landed on the old man almost as soon as he hit the ground. A sharpened steel lance pinned the fallen merchant to the earth. A gleaming long-sword flashed in the moonlight. The old man’s severed head rolled across the yard. Warm blood gushed from the stump between his shoulders, while his clothe-clad arms and legs twitched spasmodically.

“No!” Veronica cried out. The hood of her fur cloak fell away from her face, exposing her horrified visage.

The brutal decapitation made Veronica stunned and breathless. They descended upon her with their weapons. Her face stung from numerous small cuts and abrasions as she blocked a few of them. She tasted blood on her lips and realized it was her own. The metallic tang made her mouth water. A stabbing pain in her right side caused her to hiss in agony. Blinking the grit from her eyes, she discovered a razor-sharp tip of iron embedded in her hip. Warm blood streamed from the wound, pooling on the ground beneath her. Damn it, she cursed inwardly at the sight of the injury. Veronica decided it was enough, she had to retreat. The leader announced for her to be killed, furthering the bandit’s attacks towards her. Veronica turned her back and ran away for her life. Suddenly, a sharp pain jabbed her in the side of the neck. She reached for her throat and yanked a dart from her jugular. A foul-smelling green fluid dripped from the hollow steel needle at the tip of the dart. It smelled vaguely like a liquid of some sort of exotic plant. I’ve been poisoned, she realized.

The poison took effect immediately. Her vision blurred, and her legs grew rubbery. She felt the deadly liquid spread through her body, everything spun and twirled wildly. Not planning to stay any longer, Veronica dashed for the exit only to remember the door was shut after she and the old man arrived. Between her and her escape was one more bandit and behind her was the leader now climbing down to witness her fate from up-close. She took the axe in her hands and ran toward the closed oak gates. The swinging axe cut a gruesome swath through the unarmored bandit, but Veronica was intent more on escape than on inflicting mayhem upon her foe. Reaching the sealed gates, she chopped at the hardened wood with her axe. Splinters of oak flew with every thunderous blow, until she had hacked out a crack large enough for her to squeeze her lithe frame through. The bandits watched intently as Veronica disappeared through the gap in the wooden door. Wondering how a young Imperial, poisoned and drugged, could manage to escape. Veronica ran as fast as her feet would allow her to. Without looking back, Veronica stumbled over and over, but kept running on strong with the last ounce of strength she could muster. She sagged against the bark of a tree, trying to stay on her feet, but it was too late. Darkness closed in on her like the void in the afterlife. She was unconscious before she hit the ground.

Very good but i hunger for more!! :flamethrower:

An excellent cliff-hanger! Like Lunarwolf says--"I hunger for more!" So much so that my mouth waters! :drool:

Thanks guys! I will keep writing everytime I have fresh ideas.

Chapter Seven: Interrogational Torture~

To Skyrim, war was no stranger. Throughout the long and bloody centuries, the northern province was the scene of battle and the object of conflict for a series of invaders - Cuhlecain's Cyrodiil, Hammerfell and High Rock during the Imperial Simulacrum- before finally claiming their land from all but the Empire. But all these conflicts, merely human, were passengers in comparison with eternal “war” being fought in the wilderness and snowy mountains. A “war” that perhaps, finally, was nearing its conclusion. One of the most feared Lycanthrope was slain by Pelagius and Qintilla. It's kin were slaughtered by hunters with a purifying flame of punishment and cleansing. And yet the ancient curse did not follow it to the grave. For nearly seven centuries, werewolf slayers, Witch-hunters and all manner of religious followers had relentlessly pursued the beastmen with some accomplishment. Werewolves, much like their blood-svcking counterparts, are abominations to nature. A perversion of man and animal mixed into one being of pure monstrosity. Werebears are no different, they are the bastardized corruption of what is pure and natural. Instead of transforming to wolf-like creatures, were bears were people turned into enormous bear-like monsters that roam the forests and cold mountains of Skyrim. Their particular strain has been encountered most in Skyrim, but their numbers are dwindling.

Alerianna stood beside a pine tree, watching the river flow below a hill she was standing over. The vast wilderness before her was perilous with all sorts of creatures. A certainty of danger filled her mind. Which was why it was best to hunt a quarry during the day, when they were least expectant. Behind Alerianna, was her village where she grew up. A small community once named after the Daedric Prince Hircine. Legend had it, during the final days of the second Era, the people of the town once followed Hircine, presenting him daily offerings in exchange for a blessed hunt to sustain the population with plentiful food. Now, everything has changed ever since the resurgence of Manbeasts. The town forsook their worship of a Daedric Prince in exchange for normal praise of their current gods. She wasn’t sure how Hircine felt about this, but he has done nothing yet, so she concluded he must have cared less about it. His fire was dying, more and more she heard less and less of Hircine.

She felt distraught each passing moment that she sat home and did nothing against those abominations. What would my father, my mother and my brother do? Alerianna pondered by herself. The tragic occurrences in the family did not benefit her at all. As the last of her family, she would live up to the honor she rightfully deserved. The lost glory of her family; Exterminating all Lycanthropes. So far, so good. Most had been wiped out from the Crusades along the Illiac Bay and High Rock; with blessing it had carried over to Skyrim and is proven to be a complete success. The common werebears were being hunted down and only few were reported being spotted. Even rarer, were the werewolves. Which was a bane to every province. One of which Alerianna swore to herself she would find and kill the Lycanthrope that murdered Hirald.

It made Alerianna’s job far more than a simple errand, now it was personal. For too long she had suffered losing those she loved by either a beast or unfortunate circumstance. Revenge and hatred burned in her heart like the waters of Oblivion. I will hunt down every wild beast I come across and each time I kill it I will do it for father, mother and everyone else who perished at the jaws of a Lycanthrope, Alerianna thought bitterly.

Suddenly, Alerianna felt a soft touch on her shoulder. She turned around and saw Havelstein looking at her with his intense blue eyes. She knew why he was there. She requested he meet her there for an important matter. There was a werebear known to the common folk who live near Whiterun. Eventually, the werebear’s identity had been discovered and he was detected as a known Lycanthrope. A nord woman named Birna which ironically translates as She-bear in Nordic tongue. For months now, Alerianna had given Birna a chance to cure her Lycanthropy. And yet, rumors persist that a were bear prowls the region every time Masser or Secunda is full. Alerianna was far too merciful in the past. But things were bound to change. No longer she was the meager little girl she once was.

“You called for me Alerianna?” Havelstein asked in concern. “You seem…different”. Alerianna knew he wasn’t talking about her new braided hairstyle.

Havelstein has been a great friend to Alerianna’s father. He is the current man in charge of the village, where Imperial presence is minimal. For years he had been close to Alerianna, he was like another father she never had. If anyone had words of wisdom, it was Havelstein.

“I want to know the whereabouts of Birna. I heard she was last seen near Whiterun. Is this true?”

“Yes,“ Havelstein nodded. Then he frowned. "But I still don’t understand the concern. She has three more weeks until we go after her.”

“The more time Birne has, the greater risk to the lives of innocents,” Alerianna insisted. “She is a threat and another beast that must be slain!”

Both hunters were silent for a moment, pondering the moment at hand. Finally Havelstein asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to give the woman one more chance?”

Alerianna shook her head. “No. We find her today. Gather the hunters. First we capture her alive. Torture her afterward. Then we grab whatever information we want”

A flicker of uncertainty passed across Havelstein’s hard features. “What sort of information, Alerianna?”

A coy smile rose in Alerianna’s features. “We pry the location of the werewolf that killed Hirald from her very lips.”

“By the Nine, torture? Killing Birne before time is something, but torturing her is going too far.” Havelstein said.

Alerianna’s dark eyes flashed angrily, and her hand dropped to the side in fists. She hated being questioned.

“Not only Lycanthropes are monsters, Veronica.” Havelstein warned her. “I’ve seen great people.--honorable people, fall short of glory because they allowed revenge to fill their hearts.”

Alerianna threw her hands up in frustration, then let them fall back angrily next to her hips “You feel appropriate to lecture me on this? After all of my family were killed while hunting, you come to me now to talk me out of doing what I am called to do?” she grumbled in disgust.

“Alerianna, I know what you have been through. It happened to me when I lost my youngest sister. Yet, I still understand what separates us from being good and evil. What makes us human and not cold demented individuals.”

“Then you understand that what I will do is for the greater good. Lycanthropes are no longer human, Havelstein. They are animals…creatures. If they don’t seek a cure, then I have the cure for their curse right here.” Alerianna said, removing her silver longsword from it’s sheathe and holding it in front of Havelstein.

She understood the callousness of it all must of struck Havelstein profoundly. Werewolves. Werebears. Man-beasts. These were living beings they were talking about. Living, breathing, and thinking. To exterminate them for a singular purpose, without giving them a fair time to cure themselves, even torturing them to find others, assaulted his sense of right and wrong, and the fact that Alerianna had thought about all of this was almost too much to digest.

Alerianna couldn’t help but offer the ragged hint of a smile despite the mixed feelings of Havelstein. There was nothing he could do about it. Most people here had bad feelings about werewolves and werebears, and if they had a chance to encounter one in human form, they were going to show just how hard those feelings were. The crusades were formed by those opposing Hircine and his dogs. As far as she knew, she had the upper hand. Most knew Birne as a cold woman with a dark reputation. Not only that, but her recent activities of theft and removal of the Canis Root from local households furthered everyone’s suspicious about her. Canis Root was cherished for warding off against werebears, which Birne happened to be involved in the rooting of these plants. And witnesses claim they saw Birne running off with a sack of Canis Root. Havelstein thought it might have been bitterness and false judgment from the neighboring people to have werewolf hunters kill her. Whether or not he was correct, Alerianna would take the advantage to get whatever she desired.


****

After two hours of hiking in the woods, Alerianna and the group of hunters arrived at the location. A lone cabin in the wilderness stood ahead. The group crouched down, Alerianna leading them in to the target. She planned to catch Birne instead of allowing her to escape. The cabin was more sophisticated than she imagined, the garden was neat, the plants neatly trimmed in a cold weather. Birne had a love for flora, which seemed to override her love for other individuals. If she had any self-love and care for others, she would of heeded Alerianna’s warnings.

It wasn’t long before Alerianna spotted Birne, whom had had feral eyes and a sullen expression. Her shabby brown fur coat looked cheaper and grungier than Alerianna’s own sleek brown attire. Typical lycanthropic scum, she thought, studying the nordic woman as she picked off plants from the sides of her wooden home. Her human appearance did not deceive her. She knew lycanthropes when she saw them. The mere sight of the creatures enraged her, and she had to fight the temptation to draw her sword and start filling the unsuspecting werebear with silver impalements. Even after many years, her hatred of the loathsome beasts burned as fiercely as ever. The sooner they were all exterminated, the better. But not just yet, she reminded herself. Today’s primary objective was interrogation: to find out where the last grey werewolf in the area was at. Once she and hunters discovered where the beast was hiding, they could lead a hunt for it and kill it but only if she could be patient. I have to let this this one live--for now--if I want to kill the one responsible.

An angry hiss escaped from Alerianna‘s lips. Even in human form, werebear’s blood filled Birne’s veins, causing Alerianna to twitch in hatred and repulsion. The way they have taken so far could not deceive her: she knew that the woman was not actually humans but a repulsive animal trying to pose as such. As the full moon was not many days from then, Birne was confined to her human form until thirteen days had passed by. Until then, Alerianna was more than sure she would be good as dead. Birne entered her home after a handful of plants, she probably was going to cook something to eat. This was the time to attack: A trio of hunters surrounded Birne’s home. Alerianna and Havelstein stormed the front of the cabin. The redguard kicked open the wooden door with mighty force, already unsheathing her silver longsword. Birne startled a bit, dropping her glass plate onto the floor of her home. She obviously was surprised by the sudden invasion.

Alerianna turned her full attention to Birne, who looked properly cowed. Her parboiled complexion paled to a slightly less vivid shade of scarlet. “What do you want?“ she asked tremulously. “I still have a few days!”

“We heard confirmation that the Witches of Glenmoril has a caravan not far from this very location. They are even offering to sell the cure. You had more than enough time to purchase it from them.”

“It’s too expensive!” Birne countered in fear.

“Expensive?” Aleriannna hissed “You are already befuddled by the Beast within you to even care anymore.”

“No, please! Give me a week. I can bargain with them.”

Alerianna was aware that the covert Coven of Witches of Glenmoril worshiped Hircine. That each cure required a sacrifice of flesh and innocence. It made Alerianna wonder why these witches in Skyrim now offer a cure without effort. It seems more and more that Hircine begins to loose followers, even his esteemed Witches of Glenmoril. At least these ones seemed to dishonor him. Since the burden of Lycanthropy was fading away in Skyrim, they would not stay for long.

Ignoring her plea, Alerianna began the interrogation “I want answers,” Alerianna told her. “About my lover’s death--the person responsible.”

Once she’d gotten over the shock of Hirald’s death, it hadn’t taken her long to put the pieces together. The werewolf survived the encounter against Hirald. It turned to it’s human form after crashing on the ice, it must have mustered the strength and fled from the Volkihar as Hirald lay there dead.

“I don’t know anything about that!” Birne protested. Her jowly face was slick with perspiration. “That had nothing to do with me.”

Alerianna wasn’t buying it. She grabbed Birne by the hair and dragged her outside to the side of her home. All the werewolf hunters standing around, making sure there was no feeble attempt to escape. Havelstein had a sorrowful look on his face, but did not say anything to challenge Alerianna’s actions that moment. After bringing Birne to the river. She grabbed onto Birne’s scalp and shoved her head beneath the cold, icy water. She counted slowly to ten, then waited for the first rush of bubbles to rise past her submerged face, before yanking her head out of the river. cold-tinted water streamed down her face and sluiced from her nose and mouth. She gasped raggedly for breath.

“Try again,” Alerianna suggested.

“I told you!” she sputtered. “I don’t know anything!”

“Wrong answer.”

She pushed her head back under the water. This is taking too long, she thought impatiently. Alerianna counted to twenty this time, then brought Birne up for air again. Was it just wishful thinking, or was she starting to look a bit blue beneath her flushed red skin?

“Had enough?” she asked harshly, treating her to another glimpse of her angry face. “Tell me about the werewolf near Windhelm! I know he is a man! I could tell that much from his footprints and the hair he left behind. Surely you must have an arrangement with this lupine? Two Lycanthropes of different strains in a single territory is rather problematic. You know who this werewolf is?”

Birne shook her head. Reluctant to speak. Alerianna growled impatiently and shoved her head again into the cold river, using both hands this time. Birne’s arms flailed back and forth in desperation.

“Alerianna…” Havelstein said softly. Attempting to quell Alerianna’s rage.

The angry redguard shot a look at the nord. “Shut up Havelstein! Think of all the innocent lives this beast claimed! It needs to be punished.”

After thirty seconds, Alerianna yanked Birne’s head from the river. The woman coughing loudly and shaking. Alerianna began threatening her with more harsh words.

“If you don’t tell the whereabouts of the werewolf, I will throw your dead body in the river” snarled Alerianna.

Tears flowed from Birne’s eyes, merging with the cold water running down her face. “He lives near Winterhold!” she sobbed pitifully. He was breathing so hard Alerianna feared she might have a heart attack. “He is a slave from Morrowind. He hides away in the mountains.”

“Hiding from who?”

Birne choked “His slave master. The Bounty Hunters and....you…”

“If he is so intent on escaping, why hide here in Skyrim when there are others places?”

Birne said nothing at all. Prompting Alerianna to remove her hunting dagger from her belt. In one swift movement, she brought the serrated edged under Birne’s chin. “Tell me now or the last breath you will ever make shall be the suffering wails from your bloody throat.”

“He searches for an amulet. A necklace.”

“What sort of necklace?” Alerianna inquired again.

“I don’t know much about it, but it serves as some sort of legendary mythical key."

“Is that it? He is here for a key?”

Birne was silenced for the moment, her betrayal from her own brethren came at a cost. She knew that the man was a fugitive from Morrowind and is being hunted by both werewolf slayers and slave owners. Yet his fanatical loyalty to Hircine bounds him to Skyrim. She looked at Alerianna and cried, shaking her head back and forth.

“You have more to say? Why else is he here?”

Lord Hircine, Daedric Prince of Manbeasts enjoyed the Hunt. The fleeing prey, the pursuit of the hunters. It amused him. And what pleased the Prince more than animals hunting each other were mortals being hunted by his Hounds, his children during the night. And his children being hunted and surviving during the day. The worthy hunter lived on while the failed hunter perishes at the hands of it’s pursuers. She knew the man they were looking for was a devout follower of the Prince of Lycanthropes. He had no complications about being revealed by Birne. If it meant a fair game of hunter and hunted, he was more than happy to involve himself only to please his Master. But that was not the true reason he was here in Skyrim.

“Why else is he here?” Alerianna asked again, intolerance tainting her voice.

“The Ritual. He awaits until the Prophecy comes into passing. Where the moon turns to blood. And the Hunt begins. He wishes to prepare himself for it.”

Alerianna let go of Birne’s scalp. Her frantic eyes widened.
What Prophecy?

~Chapter Eight: The awakening~

Veronica felt as if she was floating, weightless, surrounded by darkness and silence. It seemed she was adrift in the black void of death itself. Consciousness began to return back to Veronica. Her body, jerked from blissful unawareness, thrashed around in a soft linen covered bed. Her heart began to pound; she could hear the blood rushing through her veins. Her eyes popped open in time to see a man come over with a small bottle to drop a type of fluid into her open mouth. Within seconds her heart rate slowed and the involuntary thrashing of her bruised and broken limbs settled. But though her body was calmed by the drink, Veronica’s mind was now fully alert and aware. Memories of motion and pain flickered across her mind. The sights, sounds, and scents of combat. She remembered the approach of bloodstained feet: her blood. A man must have stepped in after she’d blacked out and collapsed somewhere hidden. This man must of found her before the bandits could.

At first she was surprised to see that she survived the ordeal. Then she realized that she was truly blessed to have survived this, she was gifted beyond measure. So she would survive… but this was just the beginning. She almost died in her first night in Skyrim. Who’s to say she would endure the coming months? As Veronica’s vision returned to their normal state, she was able to see the man clearly; He was an Imperial with light-brown skin. He had long shoulder-length black hair, which he wore behind him in a savage fashion, allowing it to fall onto his shoulders. His eyes were of as sullen category, they bespoke exhaustion and savagery. His bronze skin tone suggested constant exposure from the hot sun, meaning he is not from Skyrim nor Cyrodiil.

The room Veronica was in looked much like the ones in Bruma. Drafty and carelessly decorated, with ancient layers of dirt and filth encrusting the stonework. Much like Bruma, it was cold, dark, drafty, and dirty. With only a few number of furniture surroundings the room. A large wooden table on the right side of the chamber with many plates filled with food, along with cups of wine. Veronica was quick to judge that she was at an Inn somewhere in Skyrim. With a quick glance outside the window, her conclusion was final. Outside she could see many people walking about their daily business. Wood cutting, sweeping, some even playing music on their flutes. At least she was safe from bandits.

Noticing she was still awake, the man approached her with a solemn expression. “How do you feel?”

With much effort, Veronica was finally able to speak to the Imperial man. “Pissed off and ready to get back at those bastards!”

He chuckled “So eager to fight. But first, you must rest. I was lucky to find you before they did.”

“I need to go back.” Veronica argued.

The Imperial finally cracked a smile, although he was still a bit serious “There is no going back.--there is no going anywhere. It would be wise of you remained here for the day until the poison wears off completely.”

“Poison?” Veronica coughed.

The Imperial walked over to the side of the room and retrieved a very familiar looking dart with different coloring. He got closer to Veronica and leaned down beside the bed, he held it out in front of her so she could get a closer look.

“You were hit with a dart like this one,” he smiled “It was coated with scrib venom and other properties. At first, you feel weakened and fatigued. Minutes after, you start to lose consciousness. It was used to paralyze escaped slaves in Morrowind.”

Veronica was a bit hasty, she was well aware of what happened to her “Great. I love learning something knew.”

The Imperial knew her voice was filled with sarcasm. Yet he continued on his alchemical ramblings. He moved to the other side of the room while Veronica lay there, barely feeling her body as her senses slowly returned to her. The man must of known the effects of the poison, since he displayed no urgency in his pace.

“A mixture of Scamp skin and Corkbulb Root from the Ascadian Isles aided in your recovery. In a few minutes, you shall feel everything return to normal. The bottle on the table has been made specifically to heal your wounds. I think you may like the taste as well.”

Veronica wasn’t impressed. For all she knew, he probably was with the bandits as well. But if he was, why was she still alive? Thoughts and speculation crossed Veronica’s mind. She never really cared for anyone other than herself. But the sheer fact that he had helped her recover and brought her to the safety of town was unexpected.

“You’re a healer?” Veronica finally asked after a moment of thought.

The Imperial man smiled again at her, but said nothing of interest. He simply walked toward the exit and remained there. Before she could say a word, the Imperial man exited the room, leaving Veronica alone in the room, half paralyzed.

*****

Veronica felt her nerves return after some time, she could move her fingers and body. She sat up from the bed and scratched her eyes. She still felt the wounds in her body burn, cuts in her face and chest were still there. But with proper food and drink, they could heal in a few hours. As she reached the end of the room the scents of the midday meal on the table wafted out to her, driving all other thoughts from her mind. Mouth watering and stomach rumbling, she rushed over to the ever-nearing prospect of food.

The table was literately a banquet held out before her; A bowl holding four large Kwama eggs. A plate with two juicy pieces of hound meat. Many pieces of venison, boar meat & beef along with the Skyrim favorite, elk meat. Along with a few bottles of a thick red brothy liquid.

“This is good,” Veronica told herself as she sat down the seat.

Veronica sat down at the table. Eagerly rubbing her hands together before starting to dine. She first tore open cork on the first bottle and gulped down its contents. The warm drink went down quick. The salty rich, meaty liquid did wonders for her constitution; she could feel the shock and trauma of the sword wound ebbing away as the drink restored her. She drained the second bottle of liquid and reached for the food as possible. She grabbed the large piece of Elk meat with her hands and shoved it into her mouth. The meat has a taste somewhere between beef and venison, and had much more greater results than chicken or slaughterfish.

After a delicious lunch, Veronica collapsed into the bed, her belly full to bursting. She had gorged herself, tearing into the food with the manners of a starved animal in the wilderness. She had stuffed herself with everything in sight until her ravenous hunger was sated. It was only then that she remembered she hadn’t actually had any decent sleep in a long time. The faint shine of the sun beamed into the room, showing that it was around midday in the afternoon. Veronica closed the curtains to forbid any light from invading the room. She wasn’t in a hurry to continue her work, she was free to do whatever she wanted whenever. Hunger had given way to exhaustion, and she wandered from the table to the bed in a daze. Within seconds she had dropped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

******

Veronica awoke several hours later to a knocking at her door. Still groggy, she forced herself to her feet, walked across the room and opened the door. A nord bartender was standing in the hall. She peeked her head in the room and looked around curiously. Veronica was too busy trying to shake off the last vestiges of sleep to protest. She gazed at the woman with sleepy eyes, awaiting her to speak first. The bartender was not so different from Veronica, she had blond hair, smooth features similar to Veronica’s. Only difference was her stronger physique that towered the Imperial’s.

“Are you feeling well? You were asleep all day” the woman said "The gentleman that brought you here said for us to check up on you from time to time.”

Puzzled at the woman’s cordial tone, Veronica only nodded.

“He was kind enough to buy some imported food from Morrowind. He even prepared something of a vitamin drink for you to heal the wounds you endured.”

Veronica scratched the top of her head. “Did this ‘gentleman’ say anything else before he left?”

“No, he did not. He left enough gold to keep you here for a full week’s time.”

Veronica thought about the peculiarity of the situation. A random stranger had helped her in the wilderness, risking his own life to save hers. Beyond that, he prepared food and even paid for the expenses to keep her in a safe location for an entire week. Indeed, he was a likable fellow. But instead of wanting any favor in return, he simply vanished from the inn. Veronica probably guessed why he did it.

“What town is this?” Veronica asked, folding her arms across her chest.

“Riften.” the lady said.

“Are there any work available around?” Veronica asked.

The woman cocked her head a bit to the side and then made a long humming sound with her throat “hmm, depends on the work you are looking for.”

“People who need someone dealt with,” Veronica frowned “I’m looking for work for Bounty Hunters.”

The woman cracked a smile, as if she did not believe that Veronica was a Bounty Hunter. She could tell this nord woman doubted her skills, they all did until the prison cells and cemeteries were filled with low-lives and no good dead-beats.

“There is a tavern to the north of town. Much work to be found there with someone looking for a job like yours.”

Veronica maintained her stoic silence, causing an awkward moment that lasted for a minute. The nord woman paused, as if expecting some kind of reaction. Veronica stood still as the stone statues she had seen on the way to Skyrim a night earlier.

The nord woman cleared her throat, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “I would suggest choosing a side here in Riften. Free-lancers are not so welcome in these parts.”

Veronica nodded and simply close shut the door after the woman descended onto the steps and back to the first level of the tavern she was currently staying at. She reflected on what she was told; Freelancers are frowned upon in Riften. That wasn’t a good thing, as Veronica only worked for the highest bidder. She would have to see what she was dealing with before she accepted work. Veronica walked over to the drawers were she expected to find some clothes, but instead of finding armor she found commoner’s shirts and pants. She would have to purchase some new attire to begin fresh.

As Veronica prepared herself, she couldn’t help but notice something was missing. She had no jewelry on her body. It was then that she realized someone had stolen her wolf necklace. That wretched Imperial, Veronica thought bitterly. She knew that trusting an almost too friendly person was pure stupidity. Veronica cursed herself a fool and stomped out from the tavern and onto the streets of Riften. That jewel was of no grand importance, but it still was her property. She felt it in her gut that she would not see the last of him. But before she worried about her problems, she had to solve her current one: lack of equipment.

****

Veronica left the shop with her new gear. She felt like a child receiving a gift on their birthday. She was quite happy she was able to purchase the weapons she favored. The bow, which she had learned to use in her archery lessons ever since she was nine. And the axe, which she learned to use back at home as well when she was sixteen.

“Looking for anything . . . Special?” A hood-shrouded figure riding a horse, with a distinctive with a scaly face sidled up to Veronica as soon as she made her way between the first of the low, featureless buildings. It hopped off to speak to her with a raspy voice "There are people in this district who can accommodate all of your needs.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Veronica brushed past the reptilian creature. “Look, just go rot in a mountain, why don't you? I can watch out for myself.”

“My apologies.” The hem of the Argonian’s rough cloth robe swept across the alley snow as he made a small bow. “I mistakenly thought that you were a newcomer here.”

Veronica kept walking, quickening her strides. That had been an unfortunate encounter; she had been hoping to make it to the tavern without being noticed. The town abounded with snitches and informers, people who made a living selling out others either to the Empire's forces or to whichever criminals and assorted marginal dealers might have a financial interest in someone else's comings and goings. If someone stuck around long enough, they eventually heard something that could be turned to profit. The downside, as Veronica was well aware, was that it was hard to keep one's business a secret around here. A couple of whispers in the right ear holes, and any person wound up becoming someone else's merchandise. Right now she wasn't aware of anyone looking for her; she wasn't that important. But that would be subject to change. Soon, she would be known among everyone else. And she would be a target for rival Bounty Hunters and even assassins. Those and other disquieting speculations scurried around inside Veronica’s skull as she made her way through tavern’s less pleasant-and less frequented-byways. A pack of sleek, bug-eyed rats scurried at her approach, diving into their holes and lairs. The rats, at least, wouldn't report her presence in the town to anyone.

Veronica halted her steps, in order to peer around a corner. From this point, she had a clear view of the tavern’s central open space. She saw nothing more ominous than a couple of Imperial guards on low-level duty who were arguing with a beggar for harassing the wealthy. No one crossing or idling in the plaza regarded the confrontation with more than mild curiosity, except for a pair of empty-saddled horses tethered nearby; they whined and cried, drawing away from the noisy beggar with instinctive aversion. The Imperial Legion caused no concern for Veronica, either. She was more worried about those who might be on the other side of the law, the various scoundrels and low-lives who would be more likely to have heard the latest amateur and be looking to profit from it.

She walked over the snow, her boots making deep crunching noises as she traversed the town. Another sound was made after she stepped over a piece of paper. Veronica bent down to grab it, she began reading it as the snow poured down.

Gwenael Dalomax: Wanted for theft, pickpocketing, burglary, murder and [censored].

Description: Wears a dark-brown light armor. Male Breton, presumed in his mid twenties. Height between 5 and 6 feet. Hair color black and eye color brown.

Any information on this criminal is to be reported to the Imperial Legion.

Reward: Five hundred drakes

Even though she still was dizzy and nearly unconscious that night of the ambushshe was able to register each one of the bandit’s faces in her mind. And Dalomax was also present in the scene. He was the one who poisoned Veronica. And he was wanted for a lot of septims. How delightful. She drew her head back from the building's corner. There was a fine line between being too paranoid and being just paranoid enough. Too paranoid would slow her down, but not enough would get her killed. She already decided to err, if necessary, on the side of caution. Keeping close to the building's crumbling white walls, Veronica found the rear entrance to the tavern. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she slid into the familiar darkness and threaded her way among the establishment's patrons. A few eyes and other sensory organs turned in her direction, then swung back to discreetly murmured business conversations.

She rested both elbows on the bar. “I'm looking for Gwenael Dalomax. He been in lately?”

The bartender, used to many newcomers showing up, shook his head. “Last time I heard he was in an abandoned merchant fort a few miles away from here. Killed an old man and a young Imperial lass.”

“How do you know this?” Veronica asked casually. She gave no hint that she was the “lass” in that was apparently murdered.

The scars on the bartender's face shifted formation as one eye narrowed, peering at Veronica.

“Local friends of his don‘t keep their mouth shut.”

“I see,” Veronica said “He is alive then?”

“He owe you something?” Asked the bartender

Veronica stared continuously at the bartender. A fair fight and a rematch to the death, Veronica thought. “Him and his friends might owe me a little something.”

“Well, he owed me,” growled the bartender. "I don't like it when my customers get themselves killed and I'm the one that gets robbed.” He furiously swabbed out a glass with a stained towel.

“So what? Anyone want him dead personally?” Veronica said--rudely ignoring his rambling.

“A scaly argonian fellow called Skins-His-Boots and his friend, a wood elf called Galamor.”

“Maybe then can offer me a little something,” Veronica concluded. “Where can I find them?”

“Here in the tavern,”

“Thanks,” Veronica said indifferent as she tossed a single drake onto the table.

“People in these parts oughta think of somebody besides themselves these days.”

Listening to the bartender's complaints wasn't accomplishing anything. She worked her way into the shadow-filled center of the tavern’s space, gazing around as best she could without making direct eye contact with anyone. Some of the more hot-tempered nords were known to take violent offense over such indiscretions; even if she didn't wind up being the one laid out on the wooden floor, Veronica didn't want to draw that kind of attention to herself. Private jobs were the cream of the bounty hunter trade. There were times when clients, for reasons of their own, wanted some fugitive entity caught and delivered with a maximum of discretion. Posting a bounty province-wide effectively eliminated any chance of maintaining secrecy; for the client to get what they wanted, arrangements would have to be made with one particular bounty hunter. More often than not, that would be a skilled bounty hunter with reputation and efficiency.

Veronica decided to walk to the other room of the tavern, which held more numbers of people inside. It was increasingly noisier than the other room. She had been on Riften for a day and a half. She was determined not to still be here by the end of the third. In part, she wanted to be gone before any more bounty hunters showed up to investigate the crimes, or to try and claim the drakes the Imperial had come for in the first place. But beyond that, Veronica was just sick of being surrounded by drunkards. They were all beginning to look the same: big and brutish, their common thickness a result of decades spent at hard manual labor and brawls. Their skins were white and weathered, not to mention caked with the snow and grime that hung over everything. They all had the same hair-long and dirty-and they all wore the same trappings, drab and ratty. Even their features all looked the same: drunk and happy, otherwise under the influence of nightly drinking.

To say she didn't fit in was the epitome of understatement. Veronica was lithe and fit, with long, golden hair flowing down over her shoulders. Her skin was creamy white and unblemished by the elements; her beautiful features conveyed a mischievous charm and just a touch of arrogance. And, unlike the nords, she dressed with style. The clothing she bought from the Armor shop was more than fitting; She wore a tailor-fitted combat wolf armor cuirass, the material a shade somewhere between black and gray. The lightweight outfit gave her full mobility, yet was also durable enough to give some protection if, as so often happened around Veronica, events took a violent twist. Her boots, belt, greaves and gloves were made from the finest wolf. Thick lupine pauldrons rested on her shoulders. Typically she also carried a hunting dagger concealed on her boot and her side. A silver bow strapped on her back with a quiver full of deadly arrows. Her left side held a silver war axe she purchased with extra writings over the cheeks of the weapon. While Veronica planned to stay in Riften instead of leaving that day, she immediately began to regret her decision. It was clear that the crowd in this area of this particular establishment comprised the lowest dregs of Skyrim‘s nordic. Most of the people there were strong and twisted; the hard-timers, hunchbacked and half crippled. Their attire weren't just ugly, but dirty, and the nasty stench of sweat and unwashed bodies nearly made Veronica leave. Exactly the kind of people she would expect to locate in a Riften tavern.

The furniture was as poor and broken-down as the clientele: glasses stained by beer and full of cracks; dirty tabletops tottering on four bumpy legs; weakly stools that appeared as if they would crumble if given a single good kick. The wooden chandelier looked as if it was about to snap from the ceiling and crush whomever dined under it. If the nord’s doesn’t kill me, then the deadly furniture will, Veronica rolled her eyes as she walked over to the shady table in the corner. Two mysterious characters sat at the end of the room, a small fellow with a pony-tail and a large reptilian one sitting across. The argonian had many layers of brown clothing while the bosmer wore primitive woven attire from Valenwood. They must be Galamor and Skins-His-Boots. As the music played in the background, Veronica took the liberty to seat herself on the empty seat next to Galamor and Skins-His-Boots. The Argonian bared his teeth and stared angrily at Veronica, while the Bosmer switched glances between his companion and the Imperial intruder.

“What do you want?” Sneered the Argonian.

Veronica cracked her neck and set her hand on the table. “Word around the town is that you want a certain Breton dead.”

He sniffed the air “What of it?”

“How much are you offering for his death?” she asked.

“You planning on taking down Gwenael?” The Argonian tilted his head,

“I plan on taking anyone down," Veronica yawned " For the right price.”

The bosmer had his attention captured, as remained gazing up to Veronica. She did not return a glanc, but instead she awaited the answer coming from the Argonian. Galamor spoke instead.

“How much are we speaking?” asked the miniature elf.

“A thousand drakes,” Veronica said “More than the Empire’s offering. But I can do what the Empire cannot.”

The argonian managed to make a sound that sounded awfully like a cough, but she knew well enough that it was a laugh “Why would we trust you to get the job done, after so many have failed?”

Veronica leaned back and snickered “Because I am like no other.”

The Argonian cracked a smile, revealing his sharp rows of teeth. "Let's talk buisness."

WWOOO~~!!!!:D

Very good. We want more! :bowdown:

~Chapter Nine: ~Bounty Hunter work~

As the torch lights of the town dimmed, gradually replaced by the natural lights of the few twinkling stars that could get through the nearly continual glare, the great and towering building structure took on a vastly different appearance. Under the dark evening sky, the buildings seemed to become gigantic natural monoliths, and all the supersized structures that so dominated the city. Veronica discovered from the Argonian that an abandoned fort near Riften was the current headquarters for the gang of criminals hiding out from the law. Of course, the Argonian and his fellow Bosmer friend had better things to worry about than chasing their targets all over the mountains. Which is why Veronica was the perfect qualification for the job. She alone would face the dangers and return alive with her quarry. Gwenael it seemed, was more than just a lowly criminal. He hailed from the ashlands of Morrowind and was involved with the Camonna Tong criminal syndicate. He possessed information crucial to the Thieves Guild and her employer, Skins-His-Boots. Veronica prepared herself for her departure.

****

The trail was narrow and steep, but at least Veronica was back on solid footing. Or almost solid, she realized, as a shrill shriek split the air, startling her. Her foot slipped. She nearly tumbled but caught her balance, as a bunch of stones fell loose, bouncing down the side of the snowy mesa. The Bounty Hunter drew out her axe and kept it tight in hand. She moved along cautiously, down and around a bend in the icy path. She saw the large, cat-like creature coming for her, its huge fangs dripping lines of drool. It charged on all four, eyes staring eagerly. The creature was a large cat with two oversized maxillary canines coming down from the both sides of it’s jaws. Veronica realized it was a Sabre-toothed cat. A fearsome animal and predator of Skyrim. She recognized a stuffed version in her home back in Cyrodiil. Although the taxidermist made it larger. The one that attacked her was much smaller in size. A youngster perhaps. The silver axe gleamed in the night and Veronica dived down to the side, slashing back as she fell, opening the creature's side from foreleg to hind. The creature landed and tried to turn, but as it spasmed in pain, it overbalanced and fell off the trail, plummeting hundreds of feet and shrieking all the way.

Veronica had no time to watch the descent, though, for another of the beasts appeared, coming at her fast, its toothy maw open wide. The Bounty Hunter filled that maw with axe, slicing through teeth and gums, driving the edges right through the creature’s face. She pulled hard to the side, the sharp blade tearing right through the beast's skull, and turned to face yet another leaping beast. Falling back and down, she let the feline fly past, then she came up immediately and started to pursue. She tried to scare the Sabre-tooth off, and with one of its companions lying dead over the cliff, she fully expected it to flee. But not this fierce beast. It charged suddenly, jaws snapping. A sidestep, forward step, and overhand slash had the juvenile creature's head rolling free on the ground.

“I need a raise,“ Veronica remarked after a while, when she was confident that no more of the creatures were about. He put her weapon away and moved along, and soon after rounded the corner of the mesa. A great view spread out wide before her with few shapes in the far distance, indistinguishable in the darkness. Veronica took out her hand telescope and peered across the grand expansion. She saw a cluster of great towers-not natural stones like those she had seen dotting the landscape, but shaped structures. A roll of her finger increased the magnification, of both size and available light, and she scanned slowly to the side. The fort was old and ancient as predicted. Outside of the ruins was a camp of the bandits. She recognized one of them, the brown haired nord who she first encountered when she arrived in Skyrim. He was barking orders as he did before, telling them to set up another camp somewhere. She estimated their numbers as about seven on the outside guarding the ruin, inside could prove to be different. They must be here to loot the place, Veronica imagined, Not after I deal with them.

“I gotcha now," Veronica muttered and she looked to the eastern horizon, trying to gauge the amount of time she had before morning, wondering if she could make the run before the light found him. The odds were at her side. And so she shrugged and stepped ahead, closing her eyes and finding a good fall. Then she leapt out, carefully anticipating her footing. She hit a bluff many feet down, but sprang away and fell again, and again, half bouncing, half flying her way down to the snowy floor. The sun had already set beneath the eastern rim, though the land was beginning to darken around her, when she reached the grandest tower of the complex. The entryway was heavily guarded by bandits, but Veronica had no intention of going anywhere near that area. Using her own conditioning, the Bounty Hunter scaled the tower, until she came to a small window.

She slipped in silently and moved from shadow to shadow, then ducked behind a wind curtain as he heard the approach of a pair of Imperials. They wore a lot of clothing, and their skin was white, like the air about them, with bows and weapons. Leathery quiver showed behind their covered shoulders. Both were male. Veronica allowed them to pass by her, with her black wolf armor, she blended in very well. As they passed, she emerged from the shadows, raising her axe high above her head. With a quick downwards strike, she struck the first one in the back of the head. Before the other had a chance to react, Veronica pulled away her concealed dagger from her boot and impaled the second Imperial in the throat, silencing his screams to an agonizing complaint. Veronica entered the fort through the balconies’ window, as she entered, she made a left turn and climbed down the stairs. As she did, she heard sounds coming from below. They were close enough now that Veronica could actually make out what the bandits were saying to one another.

“You can't be serious!” a deep-voiced woman shouted. “We barely got here and we have to leave?”

“The Legion could be looking for us right now!“ another man protested. “We should go to Markarth, there we can lay low for awhile until the heat has worn off. Your big-mouthed friend was to blame for blabbing on about our conquests.”

"I agree," a man chimed in. "I know Gwenael is your friend, Manara. But he risks our own safety.”

Veronica could see light from the entrance to the room spilling around a bend in the tunnel just up ahead. She crept around the corner silently and crouched behind a rock that gave her a clear view of her quarry. From her vantage point she could clearly see the room. It was dotted with dozens of large furniture and junk surrounding the artificial campsite. She counted an even dozen bandits gathered in a loose semi-circle near the center of the chamber. Most of them were armed, just like the two Imperials she had dispatched at the fort’s entrance not ten minutes earlier. A few of the bandits were sitting on short, flatted furniture. Others paced nervously back and forth. One leaned against the wall. Two women and a man appeared to be engaged in a hostile argument. Four others were standing guard on the edges of the chamber, weapons drawn while they nervously scanned the room‘s entrance, as if trying to pierce the shadows in anticipation of an attack.

“Where is that blasted Gwenael anyway? Bring him here so we can teach his how to hold his tongue.”

“He’s in the room tied up at the moment until we figure out what we can do with him.” one of them said.

“Take him and let’s leave this place.” the woman said.

“I call the shots,” a bearded man was saying to one of the women. “And I say we remain here for the time being.”

Looking closer, Veronica noticed an amulet draqed around his neck, and she caught the glint of a ring on his finger--the only jewelry she had seen on any of the bandits since she'd set foot on this destitute Province. She quickly recognized the necklace as the one she traded with the old man back at the trip to Skyrim. This all made it easier, Gwenael was already tied up for his apparent lack of silence. All she was required to do was to kill everyone and get to him.

“You want to get us all killed.“ one of the men objected.

“If we move on, we could be intercepted by the Imperials! If we leave this place, we take an Legionnaire hostage and kill him if the Legion gets in our way” The bearded man snapped back.


He was standing less than ten meters from where Veronica was hiding, close enough that she could smell her own perfume in the necklace.

“What happened to you, Rogerick?” the woman asked. "You always used to be the one who said we could get what we want without bloodshed.”

“Things change! The world changes!“ The man named Rogerick pounded his chest for emphasis as he spoke, his fist striking the necklace. “It’s us or them! I don’t plan on living my life behind bars.” he insisted, turning to look at everyone scattered about the chamber. “We need to show them that we aren’t afraid of the law, we take what we want whenever we want it.”

The Bounty Hunter considered her options. Bargaining with the bandits was out of the question; The majority of them would never willingly give up one of their own. Given the tension in the room and the itchy violent fingers on the guarding bandits, it was pretty clear that any attempt to negotiate would probably end up in a bloody fight no matter what she did. She drew out her bow and took a deep breath, bracing for the confrontation. She needed the target practice anyway. Leaping from her hiding place, she charged into the cavern with fury. Her bow was aimed at the largest men first, she targeted their heads. Veronica pulled the string with all of strength and released the sharp projectile. The arrow flew straight to it’s marks head, piercing his nose. He died before he even knew what happened. The second one leaned over to see his dead friend, Veronica pulled again and fired at the second one two seconds after she killed the first. This time around, it breached the back of her target’s neck and killed him instantly. she remained hidden while the group registered what had happened. Hiding in the same location, she aimed at two more individuals and killed them off as well.

She dropped all four of the bow-carrying thieves before anyone had a chance to react. With years of honed skill, she easily picked them off with four clean shots as she sprinted toward the cover of a large pillar on the far side of the chamber. Veronica skidded in behind it just as the bandits began to return their own shots. They peppered her hiding place, sending up fine shards of dust as the bolts of crossbows spread small chips from the stone. Poking her head out, Veronica fired her arrows twice more, reducing the number of opponents to six before ducking back behind the safety of the pillar. The sound of enemy shouts of vigor and violence reverberated off the walls of the chamber. Veronica smiled, enjoying the glorious clamor of battle. Half done already. This might be easier than I thought.

Beside her, she sensed one bandit making a break for freedom back up the tunnel. Veronica could have taken her out with a single shot in the back, but she decided to let her go. She always preferred to leave a person behind to tell the tale of her victories, anyway. Veronica aimed at another bandit, who surprisingly, was a spellsword. He prepared to conjure up a fire spell from a scroll, but Veronica already had fired at him. Unfortunate for her, she missed the shot, only piercing his arm instead of his chest. This caused the spellsword to lift his arm upwards to the ceiling instead of his target. Fire exploded from his hand and shot toward the ceiling. A sharp crack suddenly echoed across the room. Glancing up, Veronica saw one of the large stones from the ceiling plunging down to crush her. She rolled out of the way at the last instant, the deadly rock body exploding into fragments as it hit the unyielding fort floor. She ducked her head as the shower of jagged stone shards washed over her, injuring the exposed skin of her neck with hundreds of superficial, stinging cuts.

Crossbow fire opened up again, but Veronica was already on her feet. Darting and weaving frantically, she managed to sidestep the shots as she made a mad dash for cover behind another of the prominent pillar formations. Momentarily safe, she took a second to catch her breath, glancing up to make sure another deadly ceiling stones wasn't poised above her. She had gotten sloppy, underestimating her enemies. They stopped firing and she realized they were running out of bolts as she did arrows. It was time to face them head on. Before she could act, however, another piece of the ceiling fell down below, crushing three unfortunate bandits while the others evaded for their safety. She used this to her advantage. She threw her axe forward at the enemy, awkwardly missing her target. The silver blunt weapon clattered away somewhere. She had to attack them with other means.

Veronica fell on her enemies like an enraged animal, moving so quickly she was nothing but a blur. She brought her boot down on the throat of her nearest opponent, crushing his windpipe. Then, she wrapped her forearm around the man’s neck from behind in a violent choke hold. Then she braced her other palm against his chin, and wrenched his head to another side, breaking his neck. The last three opponents were back on their feet, swords drawn. Veronica yanked a short blade from the belt of the man with the broken neck and plunged it into the belly of a woman before she could bring her crossbow to bear. She doubled over from the fatal blow, releasing her grip on her weapon.

She dropped to the floor and caught it before it hit the ground, ducking under the bolts fired from the remaining enemies as she rolled onto her back and fired a pair of perfectly placed shots. The men both toppled over backward, their faces stabbed by the impact of a crossbow bolt at point-blank range. Veronica glimpsed at the end of the chamber the remaining individual, the bearded fellow with a necklace. The bearded man left for the exit to call for the bandits guarding the outside. She already expected them to arrive since the other man she had let go already had notified them. Before he had a chance to escape, Veronica intercepted him at the entrance.

“You have something that belongs to me.” Veronica snarled.

Veronica grabbed him and reached out with both hands to his neck, her fingers forming into a claw. The bandit coughed loudly, his hands flying up to his throat as he gasped for breath. Veronica frowned, increasing the pressure on her helpless victim's windpipe. He collapsed to his knees, his face turning purple. Veronica stood above him, watching coldly as his life was slowly choked away. When the bandit’s struggles finally stopped, Veronica bent down and stripped him of the necklace. She gazed back at the other door in the chamber where it housed the captive, Gwenael. The same fellow who poisoned her with those darts. The Bounty Hunter charged and threw herself shoulder-first into the door at the top. It burst open from the impact, sending her tumbling into the room beyond. Inside was Gwenael in a more submissive position than she last remembered. She never imagined she would get back him so soon. He was dirty and tied up to a chair due to his loose tongue. He looked up at Veronica and shook his head. “No, I…your suppose to be dead!”

“Doesn’t look like it.” Veronica checked herself out, smiling.

“You--you killed everyone out there? How?” he stuttered.

“As easy as stomping on insects,” Veronica said simply “But you don’t have to worry. My client wants you alive.”

He sighed, trying to shake away from chair to no avail. Veronica approached him and watched him squirm even more. She bent down and began searching his body for any gold or weapons. He had none as he was already stripped from any harmful gear. But she wasn’t stupid, he had something hidden. As the stories of this man follows, he was a duplicitous and sniveling coward. She suspected he had something hiding away. Veronica continued searching his pockets and she found what she was looking for; two poison darts crafted from Morrowind. It would be unwise to use both of them in a single individual, so she kept one for herself.

“Strong stuff,” Veronica commented “Can knock you out in a few seconds.”

“I know what it does,” Gwenael sneered.

Veronica shot a dark look at him, golden eyes piercing through his fear “I do too. Was it not you who threw this at me two nights ago?”

He remained silenced, looking down on the ground shaking his head slightly. Veronica had to move quickly if she wanted to get out alive with Gwenael without facing any problems. He finally looked up at her and blinked a few times.

“I won’t burden you, Imperial. Free me and I will accompany you to wherever you need me go.”

“I had better plans.” Veronica scoffed as she raised the single poisoned dart. She shoved his neck to the side and plunged the dart into his skin. Panic was visible in the Breton’s bulbous eyes as the poison worked its way through his nervous system, in a few seconds his head dazed back and forth before finally collapsing down to his chest. Veronica cut loose the ropes and hurled the unconscious Gwenael over her back. Luckily, there was a place to hide in the tunnel at the door. Veronica retrieved her axe and made her way to the exit. She stopped however when she heard voices coming from the other end. She found a spot behind some stones and hid behind it with Gwenael. She only heard as the sound of rushing feet swept past her. Armor clamoring as they ran by. She counted five other bandits, including the nord leader. Same quantity of men she saw before she entered. It meant she would face no resistance once outside. As they entered the room beyond, Veronica hauled Gwenael over her back and left the fort toward the wildness outside. Her job was nearly complete.

I've not read your thread for a long time, and it decides to bite me in the butt >: |

Anyways, the language you use is colourful. I like it. I could not read all of it, but inly what I could.

A good story wil few mistakes.


You could change this sentence. You had mentioned it was a fur coat made of wolf fur. At first glance, nothing seems to be wrong with it, but there is no need to say "Fur coat made of wolf fur" Simply, "the coat made of wolf fur" would be correct.

(I read more than just that chapter, but nothing was found.)

I SHALL RETURN [tommorow if you're wondering] and continue to praise/criticise like no OTHER!

Like I said, the story is amazing, with little mistakes (thus far).

Schmuty, out. *salutes*

Your battle scenes are incredible! You describe them so eloquently, and I can see it all happening as I read, and I'm biting my fingers on the edge of my seat! You, sir, have a way with words. Excellent! :woot:

I have been following the story for quite some time! I've read many fan fictions, and I say this is an excellent story. I truly enjoy reading it and look forward to further installments. People often ask what makes a good yarn or what inspires a writer. The question says it all. Do you value a story more for its ability to entertain and amuse, or do you feel there should be some deeper philosophical meaning to it? Should you be more concerned about amusing your audience or educating?

Writing a story without a point is an exercise in pointlessness. A story doesn't need to have a point, but it doesn't need to have an end either. In fact, if it doesn't have a point it might be better to skip the ending as well. There are a few reasons why literary theorists look for deeper meaning in the writing of great artists -- the most basic is because you can usually find it. The reason these authors are great is because they are able to bend the web of cultural meaning, allusions and symbols that we navigate every day to their will and for a defined purpose. Meaning exists in the relationships between things for human beings, not in the things themselves. Writers connect the dots in new and earth-shattering ways. How do we know they intended to do this? Most of them are pretty up front about it in their books and letters.

The story you now write has many great action sequences you vividly describe. You have some talent, my friend. The character development, specifically Veronica is pretty good. Alerianna has some good scenes too, but they aren't as strong as the Imperial you present throughout the story. Be sure to include the antagonist and the protagonist, which as this point is hard for me to discover. I trust you will give us some insight concerning that matter. I read each chapters twice and I am somewhat understanding where the story is going. Don't be afraid to add more characters if needed. Overall, it's a very good read with a few bits of humor added in. I liked how the main character who left Cyrodiil to become a freelancer. The latest chapter you wrote has good descriptions filled with action, but do not be afraid to use flashbacks or scenes to justify the character's skill with the weapons used in combat sequences. I'm enjoying the tale and I'm still reading when I have the time, I hardly visit these forums. I'm pretty stoked to see some werewolves now, which honestly was shown in a single chapter. Don't keep us waiting

Thanks Schmuty, I will fix that problem soon. Good thing you have for spelling errors. I appreciate it.

Thank you. I took my awhile to write it up as I was originally going to make the fort a Dwemer ruin, but I decided against it. Thanks much!




Thanks again for the good compliment. I will make sure my second character has similar treatment. And do not worry, I will soon make sure that there is the antagonist and the protagonist in the tale. I also took the advice and will show more new characters. Yes, the werewolf will be there soon.

~Chapter Ten: ~Embrace Of Shadows~


The village was awake and bustling early, the shopkeepers and merchants shoveling and sweeping away drifts of dust, reassembling chairs and buckets, and righting carts and damaged fences. The men performed the heavy labor where women and children lacked sufficient muscle. Wagons were already hauling fresh supplies and merchandise from the larger cities and towns. The land lay drowsing in the cold gold of the afternoon sun, a picture of tranquil, bucolic beauty. A single prosperous village lay scattered along the mountainside surrounded by the pine forest, their green tinge growing increasingly as the days pass. Higher up against the face of the village were scattered flocks of sheep, goats, and cattle, fattening in the food stocks. Beyond them, snowcapped peaks floated in delicate ethereal beauty against the sky. Long ago, when the village was a large community, a family lived here. The eldest male in the family, together with the women, children, and even outsiders gathered at the altar to sacrifice to the Daedric Prince of the Hunt. And also to care for their own dead, most of whom were buried in the snow surrounding the pine forest.

They honored all of those things without which no one can live, things still present here: The hunt, life itself and even plants. The bread of consecration rises from the burgeoning wheat. The wine from the cold, bracing air of the mountains. Vines hold the soil to rock with roots like claws clinging to steep slopes where nothing else will grow. Red and white graqes ripen while the sun warms their hearts and cool breezes caress their skins. The fire flickering near the altar remembered the old love, and water in the basin commemorated the source of all life.

Aside from all the wonderful stories that came from the old village, new horrific tales arose years after. During the end of the second era, the town had abandoned their worship of Hircine due to missionaries of the Empire influencing the small village to forsake their worship of a Daedric entity and follow the Nine. Reluctant at first, the townspeople agreed after a numerous amount of persuasion from the traveling Imperials and thus summoned a deadly bane of fury and retribution. Eager to display the power of the hunt, the enraged Prince of Man-beasts had his foul beasts upon the forest near the village. In a matter of weeks, the elks, deer and creatures used for food was destroyed. Expressionless behind his fearsome countenance, Hircine was pleased for he had proven that the village was nothing more than a pathetic community without his blessing. For many generations, the town had suffered from starvation, relying on plants and roots for food, yet the flora was not enough to sate the hungry stomachs of hard working men. In complete disarray, many of the townspeople sought to return to their worship of Hircine while others believed he was one of the evil Daedra. The village people finally split into two groups, the ones who renounced their worship of Hircine lived on. The ones who returned to their worship of Hircine disappeared one night after they made camp in a forgotten peak where Hircine was defeated in a contest by Sheogorath. Those who followed Hircine’s ways were said to have died on those very peaks, their souls venturing to Hircine’s sphere.

The villagers lived on and were prosperous. It seemed the Hircine’s anger was soothed in the later years and to this day the village remains intact far from the great cities such as Falcrenth or Solitude. Everyone lives a peaceful life from the political squabbles that happen in the outside world. After the number of Lycanthropes increased after the Second Era, Skyrim was plagued by werewolves and werebears, until the crusades have dwindles their numbers to but a handful and ever since now one had any major problems.

Alerianna thought she could happily stay in the family bedroom for years. There were books she had not seen even in the Ysmir Collective well-stocked libraries. Folklore, history, spirituality, as well as science and mathematics, as well as small artifacts and trinkets that she could not even identify. Almost hating to spoil the order of the collection, she had done her best to arrange the materials she needed as carefully as she could around the large canopy bed that temporarily served as her desk. She was reading a Nordic text that she would have to worry about: an old rare book written by Witch of Glenmoril a whom she had never heard of, full of case studies of Lycanthropy and vampirism of the Supernatural. It was also one of the most remarkable books she had ever read. From reading it, she understood a lot about these preternatural predators. And to successfully detect a Lycanthrope in it’s human form, one had to have supernatural senses that extended beyond that of mere mortals. Alerianna was indeed ready to risk everything to continue her crusade against the lycanthropes.

Living, fighting and dying around humans means that eventually some humans are going to see werewolves in their nonhuman forms. There’s an old proverb that says, a wolf does not kill another wolf. In other words, like helps like: wealthy tend to help the wealthy, the poor tend to help the poor, guild member help each other and so on. This holds true in the tribal world of the Lycanthropes. While the tribes do not hold much sway in the day-to-day life of their members, just like many human groups or religions there are web of members who still favor fellow tribemates with life opportunities. Moreover, members of the same tribe often find themselves in the same line of work and, therefore, often communicate on that level -- exchanging leads, warning each other of trouble, even acting as mentors. Although the number of these creatures was greatly diminished, these stories were rumored to be mere legends. As Lycanthropes are seldom encountered in packs. Which makes them much harder to locate and exterminate. And tales of werewolves in Skyrim are growing less by the day that the new and ignorant even doubt werewolves exist.

Alerianna heard a shout for her coming down from the stairs, it was Havelstein summoning her for dinner. She sighed and prepared herself to go downstairs, she was feeling very ill. Her fatigue was drained as well as her strength. She wasn’t feeling like herself at all. And she knew she was sick, but she simply could not do anything about it for the moment. For the first time in months, the dining area was warm. Braziers glowed in each corner. A roaring fire burned on the hearth. Alerianna sank into a chair by the fire. Havelstein and his wife, Grencha sat together at the table, feasting. Alerianna’s nose wandered among perfumes, saffron, sugar, cloves, and pepper--spices that didn't find their way into the food ordinary people ate. Havelstein was disjointing a capon stuffed with a forcemeat of preserved figs, seasoned with butter, cinnamon, and the native pepper. His cheeks gleamed with grease. He popped some of the moist, delicious meat into his mouth, then stared at Alerianna. “Come dine with us. It’s been a long week.”

Out of the entire village, Havelstein was the greatest cook she had ever met. He made the most delicious dishes she ever placed her mouth upon. His wife was no different. Occasionally, when her family was still alive. Alerianna’s father helped him with the werewolf problem and Havelstein helped her family with a place to stay in Skyrim.

Grencha looked at Alerianna, noticing she barely touched her food. “Are you not hungry my dear?”

“I lost taste.” Alerianna said “I haven’t been hungry lately”

“You never lost taste for our cooking.” chuckled Grencha

“Now I do!“ Alerianna interrupted quickly, her voice hard. “My mother and father loved your food. I ate because I had to.”

There was an awkward silence as Grencha looked away, not knowing what else to say.

“Have you been well recently? You look a bit ill.“ Havelstein asked, trying to ease her discomfort.

Alerianna shook her head no. She glanced at Grencha, noting the sudden concern on the woman's lined face.

Alerianna’s face lifted to the older man's, and her voice was hesitant. “I...I was wondering something.”
Havelstein nodded for her to continue.

The redguard cleared her throat, screwing up her courage. “I think I need to leave.”

There was a long moment of silence as the nord and the redguard stared at each other. “After so many years, you plan to leave now?“ Havelstein asked finally.

Alerianna swallowed. “You understand. I lost everything. My parents, my lover and my honor. Three days ago I almost killed that werewolf. If I was strong enough, Hirald would still be alive.”

Havelstein continued to stare at her, then leaned back slowly in his chair and frowned. “Don’t say that. He saved your life. Don’t spit on his sacrifice.”

Alerianna shook her head quickly. “I’m not. I--I think I should leave for tonight.”

Havelstein’s frown faded and there was a hint of sadness in his dark eyes. “Where will you go?”

“Away,” she said “Far away.”

“But where to?“ Grencha asked this time.

“Why do you care?“ Alerianna demanded irritably. :You never cared for my family.”

Havelstein glanced at Grencha, who was clearly embarrassed. “Don’t be so hard on us, Alerianna. It wasn’t our fault. We did our best and we still are with you to the end.”

No your not, Alerianna thought bitterly.

“Be grateful,” Grencha said “We care for you.”

Alerianna jerked as if stung, her clear eyes filled with hate. “I’m done. Tell the other hunters I quit this job.”

“You don’t mean that. After so many years of trials and hardships, we finally get closer to destroying these werewolves”

Alerianna scowled “We? I remember your ancestors worshiped Hircine in exchange for a profitable hunt. Isn’t he the father of these Man-beasts? Isn’t his hounds responsible for the death of my loved ones?”

Havelstein said nothing. Grencha remained silent.

Alerianna continued, voice rising louder. “If it weren’t for my families’ involvement in the crusades, you would have been overwhelmed by these beasts. You would’ve been food!”

“Calm down,” Havelstein said.

“Why should I?” Alerianna protested “Did you lose all of your family, Havelstein? Did you watch them get murdered by an animal?”

“Aler---” Havelstein began.

“Go away, all of you,” Alerianna screeched.

“Alerianna” Grencha queried again. “What's wrong?” she sounded alarmed.

“Nothing,” Alerianna stammered. “I mean, nothing I can't handle.”

There was no response. Clearly Alerianna was distraught and angry about everything. Havelstein wasn’t so sure what to say. Alerianna was acting strange lately, more hostile and violent. She even appeared more pale than before. Her eyes were dark as if she lacked sleep and she was thinner as if she had starved herself. He knew well she was undergoing dramatic changes. He understood it was probably due from the stress she was having. Havelstein and Grencha excused themselves and left Alerianna’s house. They did not want to be a nuisance.

The day was waning away and Alerianna prepared herself to leave that night. She wanted to depart without saying goodbye to anyone. It would burden her heart. And to make matters worse, what she would become would be even more painful to bear. But she knew that the greater good demanded greater sacrifices. And she was more than willing to meet these conditions if it meant victory. It was a dark truth that no one but Alerianna knew. She never drank a potion to cure disease or use a spell to destroy it after she was scratched by the Volkihar. Truth be told, she allowed two days to pass well knowing what would happen to her. But the enormity of recent problems were too much to handle. A mere redguard cannot fathom to kill a Lycanthrope alone. She relied on her lover for help, even when she was a child someone had to help her face her problems. But not anymore, no one else could get hurt if she simply allowed vampirism to course through her veins for a month. She would be faster, stronger, and her senses would be doubled over. She would be able to know if one was a Lycanthrope or not. But she would have to disguise herself first. The Witches of Glenmoril sell potions to cure Lycanthrope and vampirism, and this small particular group have lived here for over a year. After the job is done, she would cure herself once and for all to avoid further complications. Alerianna sighed as she left the village, a single tear drop falling from her eyes. I have it all under my control, Alerianna thought. No one else will have to suffer for my mistakes.

I want more!!! damn you, you need to make all this into a book!!

Okay, now this i did not see coming! Excellent!

So this is a fanfic? Wow W & V...Awesome job! A great read so far...

As much as I hate not to put anything down (coz I sees nuthin D:), I must say that this is great. You are really moving it along well and have developed a hook.

:thumbsup: Oh, and I DEMAND THAT I BE AN EXSISTING CHARACTER IN THE GREAT AND GLORIOUS FICTION good luck!

Thanks people! I appreciate it. And Shmuty, very sorry I wrote it well :hubbahubba:

|:<

this is great!!

~Chapter Eleven: Between Life & Death~

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9yobDr1Zu1M

The power of vampirism had taken its toll on Alerianna’s appearance. Cold, whitened skin was stretched tightly over her emaciated frame, so that she resembled an icy feral creature more than a vampire. Her once-beautiful face had shriveled into a grimacing, skull-like visage. Her new red eyes were open wide. Ivory fangs were locked together in a frozen scowl. Her rib cage showed through the papery skin covering her chest. By all indications, the redguard’s withered form looked dead beyond all hope of resurrection. She was neither dead nor alive, bur between the middle. A mockery Arkay’s rhythm of life and death. Or at least it felt that way to her. Only the gods knew how much she was going to suffer, she doubted she would even have the strength to refuse the craving for human blood.

She awoke from old burial tomb beneath the frozen pond a few miles from the village. With her newfound powers, she made this place her safe haven. She had no intention of joining with those wild Volkihar, even if she was now the very same creature. This was means to an end and that end was to find the last Lycanthropes in Skyrrim. And with her new powers, that would come easily. When her fingers brushed against the icy surface of the pond, she felt as if a volcano had erupted from the pond--through her. A surge of power the likes of which Alerianna had never felt literally lifted her off her feet and hurled her through the ice and above it onto the slippery surface. Alerianna couldn’t immediately try to determine what had happened; she was too busy fighting down the thirst within her, which seemed determined to drive her into either a blood frenzy or a headlong instinctive fight. As Alerianna tried to brush away her animalistic urges, she noticed that she was standing above the ice that she originally jumped from. It was the same way as she saw it before; unbroken. Alerianna felt the power she now commanded; She could teleport past the ice without breaking it. She could fight three men at once and overpower them. She was faster, more agile more dangerous. And if the tall tales of drunks and the superstitious, she could freeze the blood in her victim’s veins, rendering them powerless to move. She smiled to herself, revealing her wicked new set of fangs. My only prey will be Lycanthropes, Alerianna thought. But first, I must sate my thirst with the blood of an animal. And if any mortal wanted to brand her a creature and fight, she would defend herself, as for her intent is noble. She understood a fight between a vampire and a human almost always goes one of two ways: either it ends instantly, or the human dies. A vampire is stronger, faster, and can heal more than any human. If a fight lingers, the human will always tire first. Once prepared for a fight, all a vampire needs to do is wait, providing minimal exertion to defend itself.

The night was far different than she remembered a day ago. New sounds and scents invaded her senses. She could see the insects crawling on the trees and even smell the different aromas from the trees surrounding the small hidden pond. Without looking back, Alerianna sprung into action with her vampiric prowess. She ran as fast as her feet could take her, she ran faster than she did before when she was human. She was pretty confident she could outrun a deer or an elk. Her eyesight beheld many different sights. She could smell where the prey was, she could easily locate the senses. And somehow instinctively she knew exactly what he quarry was. A buck. She could see him far off in the distance grazing on grass underneath the lights of the twin moons. Which burdened Alerianna to discover they were not full. She would have to wait two days before she could hunt for Lycanthropes.

Alerianna began her chase, feet rushing into a blur of speed and velocity as she accelerated toward her prey. The deer was alerted to her presence and jumped away in fear of one of it’s most dangerous predator. It leapt over logs and past trees trying to evade it’s bloodthirsty predator, but it was no use. It tried to no avail, she was already upon it. Alerianna intercepted it, tackling it down with a single strong move. Before it could kick or jump or even injure her with it‘s horns, the redguard opened her mouth and breathed onto the hide of the deer. It twitched and stopped moving after a single second. The blood in it’s body was completely frozen. It could not move, but it simply stood there immobilized. Alerianna stared down upon the weakened creature and began considering about what she was about to do. Better an animal than a living human being, she thought.

That decision made, Alerianna sank her fangs into the paralyzed deer, dispassionately draining it of blood, slowly, bit by measured bit. Not a drop of blood, not a single dribble of the animal’s life was spilled. The buck gave into the last of it’s death throes and finally perished. Long after she’d consumed enough to replenish her strength for many nights to come, Alerianna continued to drink, until she held nothing but lifeless animal in her arms and the burgeoning love of the slaughter in her heart. A mixture of emotions filled her heart; Sadness for the animal, anger for her curse, passion for the thrill and self-resentment for what she allowed herself to become.

Many hours later, the she felt a disturbing instinct warn her about the most potential danger to vampires; The sun. She was too occupied at first to notice the sun rising high in the sky, but she now saw it….she felt it. At the time, Alerianna couldn’t imagine what being simultaneously burned and consumed from within could possibly feel like. Now she knew. She also knew, however, that if she frenzied now, or succumbed to the fear, she might not have the presence of mind to locate proper shelter from the sun. She wanted to escape the pain, but not by immolating herself and becoming one with the snow. Had she not been so focused on overcoming her own pain, and her own inner turmoil, she might have seen the bane of all vampires give birth again. With the fatigue of dawn already creeping up on her, and the sun lurking so near the eastern horizon that the clouds were turning pink, Alerianna scrambled to gather her equipment and dove into the welcoming shadows of the abandoned pond. There, she jumped inside and retreated to the under lair just before slumber overtook her.

~Chapter Twelve: A New Mission~

No one asks if a bounty hunter will find someone, the only question is when. Tracking elusive targets across provinces requires expertise, especially when the targets can be, strong, skilled and often prepared for an inevitable confrontation. Adventures from all areas of life set out to become bounty hunters, but only the most durable survive in this competitive and deadly profession. Few individuals in this world have the stomach and guts to deliver on the sensitive and grim tasks in which bounty hunters advance.

In Veronica’s profession she must mix with a variety of people from unsavory to low life as well as wealthy individuals. Her determination, hunger for advancement and superior physical strength have enabled her to get the job done in the most dangerous of assignments. And she was confident in her abilities that she was the only one good enough for the job. It was in her blood, her great grandfather was a bounty hunter and his ancestors were involved in another manner of hunting as well. But surely there were other competitors to the business.

She arrived at the town by early morning with the unconscious Breton on her back, the mist of Skyrim causing the eerie fog to spread throughout the area. It was vacant and empty, except for the patrolling Imperial Legion guards who glanced curiously over at her. A few guards came to inquire about the entire scenario, but Veronica smiled and simply told the truth. A few minutes afterward, she entered the tavern in which she received the mission. The argonian was sitting in the same spot with his bosmer companion, along with another argonian who seemed more muscular and angrier than Skins-His-Boots.

“The prisoner is still sedated?” Skins-His-Boots asked.

“Yea, he’s out cold” Veronica replied. “He won’t awake until a few hours.”

They all glared at her as she approached the table, dropping the paralyzed Breton onto the ground. She arrogantly set her foot above his back and smiled, opening her hand wide. The small wood elf went to inspect the captive and saw that he indeed was still alive.

“My payment.” Veronica said eagerly.

The Argonian looked over at the small bosmer and nodded with his head. “Give her the drakes.”

The little bosmer reached for a sack full of gold from underneath the seat he was sitting on. He held the large bag in his small hands and handed it over to Veronica, who snatched it away rudely. The tiny bosmer frowned at Veronica with a dark gaze. She could only return a sarcastic smile.

“Tell me kid, what do you want to be when you grow up?“ she inquired, counting the gold pieces. “That’s if you ever…”

“I really hope that you enjoy the well-earned septims” Skins-His-Boots watched as Veronica tucked the gold away into one of her gear's carrying pouches.

“I do wonder,“ The Argonian extended its smiling face toward her. “Just what is it that you do with all the drakes you get paid with?“ Skins-His-Boots eyes peered more closely at her.

“I like to spend some of it,” she said with even voice.

"But what do you spend it on?"

One of Veronica’s rare flashes of anger rose inside her. “That is none of your business.”

The temptation to stalk out of this place, to get back into a dark room and sleep was almost overwhelming. “Let us talk about the business that you and I do have with each other. I assume you have someone else that needs done in?”

“Most certainly!” The argonian flexed his arms, causing the muscles to bulge out more like his eyes. “It's not a matter of tracking down someone and delivering them, all wrapped up in a nice little package. I have a different matter for you. One that I would pay some extra drakes for. A friend of mine needs someone taken care of.”

“Who is the client?”

“It is a different task, I would say. But possible to be done with someone of your caliber.” he ignored her question.

Veronica’s suspicions were always aroused when a job was described as being out of the ordinary. That usually meant that the danger to her would be greater, or that getting payment would be more difficult, or both. When she first started the work, Sashaasha was always coming up with numbers like that, where Veronica was expected to risk her life on some flaky errand.

“I asked you before,” she growled. “Who is the client?”

“There isn't one.” Skins-His-Boots seemed delighted to make that announcement. “Not in the usual sense. I am not acting on behalf of a third party. This job would be for me and a friend. It will cost me more drakes than I imagined. But I am willing to pay.”

The suspicions heightened. Argonians had always been the perfect intermediary, keeping their roles scrupulously separate from their clients' interests. That go-between function was valued so highly that even the most ruthless connivers such as Sashaasha had never tried to cheat the Bounty Hunter. It was hard to imagine who could have incurred Skins-His-Boots enmity, to the point of the employer requiring Veronica’s lethal skills. At the same time, though-Veronica Darksky’s calculations clicked over inside her skull-there was no doubt that Skins-His-Boots could pay for whatever he wanted. Veronica wasn't in the habit of questioning her various employers' desires-but just delivering them. Not every job required a living piece of merchandise; leaving a dead body on the blood-soaked soil of a remote land was also within her range of expertise.

“So just what is it that you want me to do for you?”

The argonian smiled, as well as his two friends. “There is a man at large here in Skyrim; a gladiator slave from Morrowind.”

“What’s his name?” Veronica asked impatiently.

“Kraven Desselius. An Imperial Champion of the arena in Vivec. Also a hero of the Kvatch arena in the Imperial Province. Kraven was a loyal servant until one fateful night where most of his master’s servants were found dead. Him and the other slaves escaped the next morning. I need him alive before he travels to yet another province.”

“Why is he not in Cyrodiil?” Veronica showed signs of interest for the first time.

“We do not know. But we are certain he had split with his slave brethren. We last heard rumors of him living in the mountains nearby a certain nord village.”

“Why is he so important to you?” Veronica tapped her finger onto the table.

“My friend would like him alive. He is too valuable of a warrior to be killed. We need him to return to my master. But beware; The Morag Tong wants him dead. If they kill him, you will lose your pay.”

“How does he look like?“ she asked.

Just then, the other argonian removed a crumbled piece of paper from his pocket, he unfolded it wide atop the table. Veronica’s eyes widened a bit as she saw the wanted poster of the man she was required to capture. The very same man who had brought her to the town after she lost consciousness. She recognized his wild eyes and long hair from the paper. She was a bit baffled by the entire thing. If she only accepted this task few day earlier, she would of at least tried to capture him while he was aiding her.

“Can it be done?” the little wood elf asked.

The reptile’s wide eyes were not the only ones watching her. The others were all watching-and waiting for her answer. She sighed loudly as she prepared herself to leave.

“You're right about one thing,” said Veronica. The eyes of Skins-His-Boots glittered even more brightly.

“What?” he hissed.

Her suspicions hadn't gone away; if anything, they were even sharper and harder. The simple jobs, she said to herself. Those are the ones you get killed on.

“This bounty of yours…”

“Hmm?“ The argonian leaned closer, displaying an abnormal amount of proximity. As if his life depended on the right answer.

Veronica Darksky gave a slow nod of her head. “It’s going to cost you.”