OOC: Damn, this was a long post. It is the first chapter, or prologue, anyway. Next chapter's won't be as big, I know everyone has more things to do than read super-long posts. I got carried away. Also, this is a new take on my werewolf characters story. Both of them. It has a plot and will eventually branch out into different places and such. Feel free to comment and review, I am up for improvement. And thanks to all.

Main Characters:

http://i37.tinypic.com/ztj4ol.jpg http://oi53.tinypic.com/kbd7ye.jpg, http://oi52.tinypic.com/wksn4k.jpg

http://i55.tinypic.com/2djt3wm.jpg A Redguard werewolf slayer and follower of the Nine.

http://oi55.tinypic.com/2nkntzd.jpgImperial male, former slave.

Minor Characters:

http://oi55.tinypic.com/2zyijr8.jpg Nordic barbarian, leader of a small village.

Skins-His-Boots: Argonian male, working for a slave master from the House of Redoran.

Grencha: Nord female, wife of Havelstein.
~Prologue: Werewolf Hunters~

Skyrim, Mountains near Windhelm. 3E 427.
*******

The deep forest was already cool with the chill of fall, hinting at the bite of winter. In the misty gloom and fading moonlight, a redguard woman was bound to the sacrificial post, her hands tied over her head. She flexed against her bonds, but gave no struggle. An unusual silence had descended on the forest-even the early morning mountain winds could barely be heard rustling through the branches. If she felt a growing anxiety, she gave no apparent sign, scanning the trees around her, boldly prepared to meet her fate. It was almost time.

Her very appearance was more than appetizing for a Lycanthrope. She was twenty and looked very beautiful-and very dangerous. She had long, dark hair that fell in rings halfway down her back. Though she was wearing tight black riding clothes, she had the look of someone who had seen battle. Her eyes were striking, piercing, and framed by thin, rounded eyebrows. But her eyes were also wild and searched the frozen shrubs and bushes for the preternatural predator. Snap. A twig fell from above. The rustle of leaves. Remarkably small indications considering what they heralded. More noise. The creaking of a tree. The redguard’s head suddenly craned upward. A smile drew across her face; The werewolf was hunting her.

Even from thirty feet below, the creature appeared remarkably agile for something with its great mass and its height of more than seven feet. Using its very large and sharp claws, the werewolf clung nearly horizontally to the bark of the tree. It took a moment to study its prey, with terrible cunning in its eyes. The woman remained alert but steady and defiant, remarkably so for someone facing one of the most dangerous creatures on Tamriel.

"Come closer. Hircine demands a sacrifice," The woman challenged. The name of the creature's master spoken aloud seemed to spur it to action. Snarling viciously through its awful, oversize canines, it leaped down from its perch, eager to tear its helpless victim to shreds. It’s massive grey skin resembled that of the common wolf, but the size showed it was to be feared ten times than a regular animal.

Only a split second left and no margin for error. Alerianna of the proud Rithleen family quickly ripped loose of her bindings as the hunt came full circle. The blood and meat that had been set out as bait already worked the werewolf into a frenzy . . .though it had been momentarily lulled by the sacrificial post. Some of the more superstitious nords still used such posts to make offerings-human sacrifices to quell the monsters' hunger for blood. Now the tradition came in handy.

Turning, Alerianna reached up and vaulted to the top of the post the instant before the werewolf slammed into it. She lunged to grab the vine hanging above her, even as one of her men on the ground threw a lever. Instantly the vine pulled Alerianna up and away from the monster toward safety. This was perhaps the most critical part of the hunt: when Alerianna would be closest to the creature and in the most danger. There were merely a dozen feet between the two when the moving vine came to a halt.

Down below, hiding under the cover of the brush, Alerianna’s beloved lover, Hirald, felt the blood drain from his face as he caught his girlfriend’s eyes. Just as he had dreaded, something had gone horribly wrong during her family's most important work. Despite that Hinald always took the greatest risks and had never once faltered, there were always too many complications and too many opportunities for mistakes during the hunt.

Now Alerianna was inches away from certain death. The world seemed to shrink around Hirald. For a moment, there was only himself, his lover, and the creature. There were also sounds: rustling, a struggle of some kind. Then one of their men bellowed in panic, "Kill the Beast!" But all distractions were pushed out of his mind by a single overriding concern: His beloved was in trouble. With no conscious effort on his part, he reached for his sword and drew it. A villager’s hands were grabbing him. "No! We have silver arrows, we kill it from afar!”

He tore free and exclaimed, "We fight in close quarters!" Looking out into the clearing, he saw the beast snarling up at Alerianna. They had surprised it and that had made it a bit more cautious. But they had also angered it, and that made it even more dangerous. Hinald charged out of the bushes, holding his sword in front of him. The beast's eyes were instantly on him, and so were his lover's.

"Hirald! No!" Alerianna shouted. He ignored her-Hirald had seen too many people close to him die, and he wasn't about to let Alerianna become the next on that list. There were only the two of them left since his mother had died Their family were too close to each other, he knew her since childhood. His own death had seemed inevitable to him for years now. He would do whatever he could while he lived, but in the end, Alerianna would be the last of the family. He was covering the distance between them quickly and raised his blade higher. He was glad to see the doubt on the creature's face. It could not decide whether to turn to face him or to continue its attack on Alerianna. A moment later, it leaped off the post in his direction. Steeling himself, he lifted his weapon and prepared to strike. He might not be able to defeat the creature, but he would fight it to the end . . . and perhaps he could weaken it enough to give Alerianna an advantage.

Hirald heard the werewolf's roar as it sailed through the air. It landed hard on the ground just a few feet in front of him, cutting the small line . . .activating the trap. The exact location of which even Hirald had forgotten in the heat of the moment. A large bark of wood with steel spikes on the edge came loose and went flying straight at the gray-furred werewolf. Whooshing just inches part Hirald, the booby-trap struck the werewolf on the side.

Alerianna released her grip from the vine and climbed down the tree with a rush as the werewolf attempted to break free from the spiked trap. Their current poverty could not supply the silver spikes, which would be ideal to kill the creature instantly. Hirald found no relief. Two things had gone wrong on the hunt already; it was a miracle they had survived the first one, and it seemed impossible that the werewolf would grant them the chance to survive the second. Immediately, the creature started to thrash about, causing the spiked wood to crash back and forth. The steel was strong, but it would not hold for long. As if on cue, one of the sharp pikes inside the werewolf’s flesh released. Then another.

"My sword! My sword!" Hirald called out, the worry in his voice frightening Alerianna more than anything that had happened so far. She desperately began to search the brush around her. The four men around her fired their silver arrows into the werewolf. If they succeeded in hitting the creature, they would only enrage it. The Lycanthrope was strong enough to tear it’s own flesh, and providing it survived, it would just revert to it’s human form and be rejuvenated. Once the werewolf was free, the hunt would be over for all of them.

Alerianna concentrated on the task at hand. Finally she saw the sword lying on the far side of the clearing. Even as she moved, she heard the final snap, and the rope holding the log crashed down just a few feet in front of her. An instant later, the werewolf threw the trap away, and Aleranna saw the anger blazing in its horrible yellow eyes. Her reaction was automatic and came from a place deeper and older than even her family's traditions and training. She ran for her life. She did not have to look back to know that the werewolf was right on her heels. It would not rest until she was dead. Her only satisfaction came from knowing that she was giving Hirald precious seconds to recover.

Alerianna knew these woods well-she would run out of ground even before the creature reached her. Scrambling out of the forest, she entered a few yards of clearing. Her body was so aware of the danger behind her that she barely stopped herself before she went over the cliff-the edge of the Skyrim Plateau, twelve hundred feet up. Looking down, she could not even see the bottom through the mist. But was well aware that below was a deep frigid river. Spinning around, Alerianna decided to sprint back to the trees. Better to face her enemy than let herself be chased into the void. It seemed like a good idea . . . until she saw brush thrown into the air. The werewolf was very hungry. Alerianna froze. She had imagined her death a thousand times. Each time she had died bravely, fighting-not standing helpless while she waited for the end. Yet, Alerianna now found that she could not move. The werewolf emerged, plunging out of the bushes and straight at her. All she could do was face the end with dignity. Then the impossible happened. Something shoved roughly at her from one side. No, not something: someone. Hirald!

Alerianna flew out of harm's way and hit the ground. Spinning, she saw her lover standing steadfast. The werewolf landed on the ground, almost skidding off the edge of the Cliffside. It’s teeth sharp and bloody from his last prey, its claws scratching the stone on the ground. Hirald swung his weapon, shouting out his battle cry as he charged to face the creature. But it was too strong and too fast, causing Hirald to launch himself to safety toward the edge. By this time, the Lycanthrope targeted him instead of Alerianna. He could have just enough time to kill it before she was harmed.

He raised his sword and swung it forward, impaling the creature on the shoulder. The great beast howled in pain but managed to lunge forward, biting into Hirald’s head and throwing him backward into the abyss. Alerianna’s mind could not accept what she had just seen. It wasn't possible. Hirald was the strong one with the real courage. He was the one who was supposed to survive, the one who would help finish her family's work . . .Her father's . . . mother's . . .And she owed her lover her own life, twice now. He could not leave her, not with that debt unpaid. Alerianna stepped to the edge of the cliff, expecting Hirald to be hanging on to a bush or a root. He would pull himself up and smile at her-that self-satisfied grin that made her crazy. Alerianna looked over the side and saw only the rough edge of the cliff wall and the mist below it. She heard the grunts of a man and the snarl of the ravenous wolf come to a sudden crash that signified the inevitable collision with the frozen lake.

"No . . ." she whispered.

She heard noises coming from behind her, the villagers who helped in the hunt for the werewolf, now came for her aid. But frankly, it was far too late. Their worried looks only amplified when they noticed Alerianna crying….alone. They knew what happened. Alerianna stared at them and then turned to look over the cliff again. When the tears increased, she was powerless to fight them. She was….alone.

~Chapter One: Profitable Bounty~

~~~~~

Cyrodiil, Imperial Province, Bruma.
****

It was nightfall, and the nord population went into their homes or the tavern to get some rest and enjoy the late evening. The rather religious ones retreated into the chapel to pray to the gods as snow began to fall down over Bruma, the non-Nordic individuals were covered with fur coats and layers of clothing, while the Skyrim-native folks walked around as if the sun was still high in the sky. A grid of snowy streets, Bruma was a warren of pre-made houses and rickety wooden structures, many of them lacking the Imperial designs in their windows and doors. No one would expect this town housed a few prospering criminals.

“You make any foolish attempt to escape, I will rip open you’re throat” a violent threat came from the mouth of a young blond woman, no older than nineteen years of age. She held a sharp steel dagger under the chin of a fearful Breton. He trembled as she motioned for him to keep walking his steady pace toward the tavern. The continuous act drew a few looks here and there, but no complications arose, better it remain that way.

“So,” the captive Breton risked saying “You’re the Bounty Hunter they call Veronica?”

“Shut up,” was Veronica’s cold reply.

The Breton did not say any more. He was unwilling to get on the Imperial’s bad side. He was well aware of the fierce reputation she stacked up over the past year. Few knew she did a small number of freelance jobs for the Fighters Guild, but that was some time ago. In recent times, Veronica's reputation grew due her hunting skills. Many criminals were brought to justice by her hand and many were slain by it. The Empire was aware of her popularity, but the lowly citizens of Anvil, Kvatch, Bravil and Bruma liked her more. Whenever someone owed septims from either gambling at the arena or simply buying skooma and not paying, they called upon her to locate and retrieve, she was good at her job, no, she was the best.

As Veronica crossed the distance between the Chapel and the tavern’s welcoming door, she could already hear the sounds coming from inside: loud music, laughter, pvssyr, clinking glasses. It was almost eight clock now. The day had passed away for now, but the taverns was still packed with adventures and travelers looking to have a drink or something to eat before they went to sleep. Looking around to make sure there were no guards, Veronica entered the tavern safely while holding a blade to the Breton’s back.

Veronica didn’t recognize any faces: there were many new settlers coming in from Skyrim. The patrons were mostly humans, with a few Dunmers, Altmers, and Orcs filling out the crowd. Veronica was surprised to notice an Argonian, too. Apparently the people of this town were more tolerant of other races than the town of Leyawiin. There were no servers, waitresses, or dancers; the only employee in the tavern was a Nord fellow named Hingarr Four-toes. Anyone who wanted a drink had to come up to the large counter built into the back wall and order it. Veronica kept the blade’s tip at the skinny Breton’s back, the sharp tip causing him to make petty squeals whenever he began walking slower than she desired. Walking past the drunkards and tavern-goers, Veronica guided the distraught fellow down the stairs. Down the stairs was a few rooms in each side of the hall where she came across, dimly lit by candles resting on the wooden tables. The last room was her destination.

Inside the room were three orcs and a single Khajiit. They had hired Veronica to hunt down this breton swine who apparently owed them some skooma and a bit of moon sugar, as well as allegedly spitting in the boss's face. The poor addict had pissed off the wrong people many times over and Veronica was employed by the highest payment possible, in this case, the Khajiitti male named Sashasha. A crime boss of sorts, Sashasha was a fellow to be feared by the underworld crime syndicate in Cyrodiil. He mostly had allies in bravil, but his influence was spread throughout. And the Empire still bears no proof for any accusations about him, which made him a slippery cat. His associates ranging from petty theft to murder-and beyond. Criminal lords tended to attract these types, the way small fur-bearing animals attracted fleas. Though in a certain sense, it was a symbiotic rather than parasitic relationship.

"Knock on the door," Veronica demanded.

The breton did as he was told, he knocked faintly with fear shadowing his entire body. He began shaking and was a few minutes away from urinating in his undergarments. Veronica could only smile. "This is what it means when you knock on death's door" she teased just moments before the door opened wide. The greeter was a large monstrous Orc with a nose-ring in his nostrils and a golden ring in his left ear. He had a single black eyes and rotten teeth. He stood there, waiting for Veronica to speak a word of honor to his boss, but as always, she didn't say much.

"I got buisness with Sashasha. How about you fellas step aside," She said casually with a bit of menace.

The Orc moved away. Veronica forced the breton to enter the room, where she shut the door behind her with her foot. Finally releasing her threat from the breton, she already had delivered him to his superiors. All she had to do was receive her payment and depart. Sashasha rose up from his seat, causing his collection of tooth necklaces to rock back and forth. In normal standards, he was not intimidating, but his reputation and his enforcers were sure to make most people think twice before wronging him. In this breton's case, he didn't think a second. Whimpers colored the breton's voice as a large brutish Orc thug grabbed hold of him, bringing him two feet away from Sashasha. The crime lord clasped his hands together and chuckled sinisterly.

"So, you brought him to me alive like Sashasha asked," He didn't make it a question.

Veronica shrugged "Live ones are worth more than the dead ones." That was the general rule of law for bounty hunters.

"You did good," the Khajiit smiled, briefly staring at the knelt breton. "You make Sashassha happy. Good work on another job well done,"

"Time to pay up, cat." Veronica stressed "I don't work for free!" She snapped her finger in a hasty motion.

The orc thugs were surprised by the Imperial's lack of respect, the last person to say something rude or nearly as rude, had lost their tongue. They were ready to try and fight the Imperial at their bosses command, but Veronica knew that wouldn't be necessary. He needed her for his dirty work, his couldn't rely on his lazy enforcers to do the job as well as Veronica could. Which gave her the edge on all other employers. This gang tended to view their employees as possessions-one of the reasons that Veronica Darksky had always kept a free-lancer's independent relationship with her frequent client Sashasha.

"Ah, yes, yes" Sashasha smiled "One thousand drakes, eh?"

"Yea," Veronica folded her arms across her chest.

The feline motioned with his head toward the corner of the room where a small sack of gold lay inside a chest. One of the orcs reached for it, grabbing it with it's massive green hands. He walked over to Veronica, handing over the gold pieces. She received it with a cautious gesture, slowly feeling the sack of gold to discern the amount inside. And not so amazingly, it was heavier than last time. She received a bonus from her continuous good-work and efforts. As Veronica prepared to exit the smelly room, the Khajiit cleared his throat.

"Imperial will stay in Bruma for long, yes?"

"Don't know. If require my services, send you're lackeys to find me. They know the latest bounty in Cyrodiil, I'll be around claiming my gold."

"I need someone dead, a clean death--" The Khajiit began, but before he continued, Veronica halted his words.

"I'm no assassin" She suddenly hissed "Want someone dead without any evidence, hire the Dark Brotherhood or the Tong. I'll execute them or bring them alive, but you won't have me sneaking around like a craven rat in the night"

"Of course, then" He said with much emphasis.

Veronica was ready to leave. But before she made a step toward the door, he asked again.

"Ah, where did Imperial find breton?" he curiously inquired.

"Where smart dead-beats go before they die. I found him in the Chapel praying to the gods" Veronica's voice was tinted with disdain--she did not know much of the Nine, but she knew she wasn't in good terms with them. They never provided much blessing to her family and they sure as hell didn't improve the situation that occurred only half an year ago. All in all, the Nine were useless. In that thought, Veronica slammed the door shut as she left to spend her gold in food and drink.

As she distanced herself from the room, shouts of pain and suffering could be heard. They already began to torture the breton for his pathetic attempt for evasion and now, he was paying for it dearly. Better him, than me, Veronica thought. Just another day's work for Veronica. Tommorow was a new day, and an all new task awaited her.

i like it and if possible i want more !!

i'm not gonna review it because i don't know enough about grammer and vocabulary in english. but i do want you to continue!!

Oo, another fan fiction I see! You write achingly well. Only a few misteaks; capital letters for nouns and missing commas here and there. Notice that you've changed Hinald to Hirald in a paragraph and kept it that way.

"Hirald! No!" Alerianna shouted.

/\ From then on, his name changed.

EDIT: I see thet you are Curate now. You've earned your star, well done

Much thanks! I will post more! And don't worry, if you can understand the story, that's good enough for me


Yes, this and the Cyrodilic Vampires are the ongoing fanfics. The other werewolf story was scrapped because it had no true plot and I felt I needed to go a little back in my character's backstory. And oops about the changed name. I got confused with it at first, I will change it. Thanks!

Oh and I did not even see the star. Made me happy!

Love it and (hope one of them is a werewolf XD I want to see how you do the transformations )

Glad you like it. And don't worry. There is bound to be a werewolf or two in the story.

Too bad I already know who it is...Anywho, I won't tell. My lips are sealed by the Nines.

Yea, [censored] up! :goodjob:

EDIT: Shut is censored?

I think most people I Rped with knows who the werewolf is. Thanks for not spilling it.

or those who followed (follows) the rps you are in. :biggrin:
i don't mind it, i'm still looking forward to read more!

~Chapter Two: A Haunting Discovery~


Skyrim, Remote Lake
****

The hunt for the gray werewolf. A violent confrontation. Hirald’s inevitable conclusion, his frantic screams ringing in her ears….Alerianna shook her head to clear her mind of the painful memories. A look of grim resolution hardened on her face as she climbed down the mountain to the chasm below. Her long red and black armor covered with a cloak flapped in the breeze. Her dark brown hair blew across her face.

The vast frozen lake was all that was in view of Alerianna’s eyes. Around her were looming mountains that blocked the sun's rays from reaching the icy lake. It was even colder than here from the lack of sunlight. Behind Alerianna were a small escort of villagers who accompanied her to find Hirald’s body for a proper burial, despite any damage he sustained from the fall, it was the least she could do. Maybe she could even get a hold of the werewolf’s head and put it on display as a reminder of her brave and valiant Hirald was in his final moments, although the deep memories of him would never cease to exist in Alerianna’s mind. If it was anything to blame, it was the werewolf and it's accursed brethren.

Conflict threatens every aspect of a werewolf’s life, and very little of such violence is trivial in nature. Some werewolves may enjoy conflict; there is much to be said for the act of falling into a killing rage and ripping apart their enemies with their own claws. But any enjoyment Lycanthropes may feel is secondary to the overriding truth behind the conflict in their life. Easy or challenging, ferocious or calculated, bloody or clean -- the conflict is often necessary. The will of Hircine demands it a sacrifice, otherwise werewolves will eventually grow weak and die, so Alerianna had heard. There will always be those werewolves who revel in their killing power, just as there will be those who regret the murders they have committed over the course of their lives. While some do eventually commit suicide, most of them cannot bring themselves to do it, which is why Alerianna has a job to uphold, to eradicate all of these pests for the glory of the Nine Divines and her family tradition. It will be done after her emotional wounds have healed.

The endless lake made no threats to break or crack when the redguard and her fellow villagers walked over it. She assumed this was the strongest spot of it, where water had been completely transformed to ice. She searched and searched, but the small blizzard prevented her from discovering Hirald’s body any sooner. Alerianna paused at the middle of the lake. She signaled her companions to split up while she surveyed the scene.

“I fear the lake has already claimed him,” a manly voice whispered in her ear. Alerianna did not need to turn around to know that the voice belonged to Havelstein, the chief hunter of his village and a good friend of the Rithleen family. “I also heard tales that this lake is haunted.” he concluded.

Discovering the balding, one-eyed nord among the crusaders had been an unexpected boon. A veteran warrior, Havelstein was tall and stocky, he had fought valiantly in the Crusades before surviving the bite of a werewolf and curing it just hours before the curse took hold. By his own account, the crusader had then made his way back to Skyrim from the High Rock because he preferred the purification of his own lands. For herself, Alerianna was simply grateful to find a wild nord who had a solid grasp of hunting tactics and discipline. I wish I had more like him, Alerianna thought.

“This means a lot to me, Havelstein” Alerianna said with a low voice. She could not let her lover down, not leaving his body to be frozen and forgotten on the frigid wastes of this lake. “My entire family has been buried in our graveyard. It’s tradition. I will honor that”

“So be it,” Havelstein sighed, following his orders.

One of the villagers, a young man no older than twenty, was also aiding in the hunt. He was chosen to aid his father in the hunt against the Lycanthropes. Although his father died a few days ago, he was holding up more than Alerianna. Perhaps because of the animosity between the two had no apparent effect after the departure of his father parent. Unlike her, who loved her Hirald so much. It would take months, maybe even years to recover from this loss. She was a strong woman, of course she would recover.

Alerianna watched briefly as the young man struggled to keep his footing on the ice, he stomped on it to keep his stand, more than confident that it would not break. But instead of walking, he slipped on his back, the silver sword in his hand flying to his arm, slicing it open. Of course, the boy shrugged the pain off as if it was nothing. He managed to get up on his two feet, but his arm was bleeding profoundly that it ran down his arm and upon the ice. Few other villagers that were spread out saw him and trotted over to help him. All the young man did was laugh sarcastically, as if pain meant nothing to him. He reached for his silver sword, and then, he froze in motion. Alerianna watched closely and noticed his blood freezing over, the red liquid becoming hard and solid as it formed a deep line across his arm. And it appeared as if all th blood in his veins were frozen as well. It took Alerianna more than a few seconds to notice this was not the cold temperature, but something else entirely...something supernatural.

The young nord screamed in pain as he tried to move, but he was immobile. Many rushed over to him, in hope to reach the fellow in peril, but in a fast movement far quicker than the eyes could see, the adolescent boy was pulled down from under the ice. Alerianna managed a fearful gasp at what she just witnessed. Everyone else stopped moving simultaneously, trying to register what had just happened. They all stared at each other in fear and began murmuring. Then, another quick movement happened and another nord, this time a woman, found herself pulled under the lake, whatever force claiming another unsuspecting victim. And oddly enough, the ice did not break. It took a matter of second before everything exploded into chaos. One of the villagers shouted a word that made everyone pull out their weapons for battle:

"Volkihar!" cried a man.

Everyone prepared for a fight, but Alerianna knew well enough that they would not get an easy fight. She indeed had heard of the Volkihar, a cruel and paranoid clan of vampires who dwelt under remote lakes. Never emerging from their dark abodes unless hunting for men at night. And it was not night, it was day. The lack of sun gave them courage to attack the villagers. Pale pairs of hands emerged from the snow with dark magic, they grabbed hold of the fleeing men and women and began pulling them under to feed. Soon, the search party was going to transform into breakfast. Most of the nords fought back, brutally slicing the cold hands that reached for them. It wasn't long before Alerianna felt her own legs sink down, she realized one had caught her, long nails piercing her flesh. In the split second it took to spin her wrists and start the intricate, whirling pattern of her sword against the cold arms. All she heard was the bone-chilling scream of what could of been a female vampire. More villagers were being pulled under while other Volkihar vampires were being slain as the sword breached the ice, stabbing the dreaded Creatures Of The Night in the heart.

Havelstein was still alive, smashing the ice with his mighty war-hammer, slamming the vampire's hands. His mighty strength and endurance was shown as he fought against the vampires, never keeping his foot in the same place for over than two seconds, for he never knew when the vampires would attack. Alerianna decided to stick with him during the remainder of the battle, her survival chances would be increased. She had a better chance of living if she stuck beside him. But there was a greater chance of fighting another day than just standing by a nord warrior.

"There!" Alerienna pointed to where the sun's rays were hitting the ice "They can't bear to withstand the sunlight!"

The surviving villagers fled to where the sun held it's mark on the ice. No blood-svcker would gamble it's safety with the powerful solar body threatening to scorch any undead flesh. The villagers were as good as safe. It would be bright enough to burn a vampire but too weak to melt the ice. For a few extensive moments, the sun grew higher in the sky, it's rays spreading for a few more feet, almost covering the entire lake. The cold hands that began sizzling retreated back into the lake. Her and the villagers were as good as safe now.

Alerianna panted heavily, feeling the wound where the female Volkihar had pierced her. Her fatigue was low and she was beginning to feel the effects of vampirism, but her body would reject such things. She had an increased resistance to such diseased. Anyhow, she would still be cautious and drink a cure disease potion once she reached the village. Everyone recovered from the blow, they would later mourn the dead, but the task was still at hand. What of the bodies of both Hirald and the Lycanthrope? Alerianna wondered. They couldn't possibly be claimed by the Volkihar, could they? They kept searching where the sun touched, looking above them to where the battle began and where it ended.

"Over here!" Cried Havelstein.

Alerianna sprinted to where he was at, her feet taking her quickly to where Hirald was standing. He was broken and floating on the water. She could see the bite holes in his chest and face . . . the teeth marks made by a werewolf. Every trace of pain and suffering were gone. There was regret on his face, a sorrowful look full of pain and apology. You have nothing to be sorry for, she said silently. She watched him die, felt him die, now she touched his dead body. In a single instant, she also saw and felt his final peace, his ultimate freedom from the burden task and all the other chains of this world. But it was impossible. He couldn't leave her-he couldn't die!

"No. Hirald. Hirald!" she cried as she threw herself onto his body, cradling him gently and kissing him on the cheek. A silent certainty filled her. She would finish her family's fight. In that moment, she imagined that she felt some of her lover's strength and purpose fill her. It was a fancy, she knew, but something was changing inside her, hardening into stone. She would not fail. There was movement nearby that snapped her back to reality and she seem to recall her lover's killer, whos body was nowhere to be found. Her eyes studied the area and she saw paw prints on the snow, then human footprints following it, as if it was a transition from wolf to man. Alerianna rose to her feet in horror. It couldn't be! No one could of survived that fall. Havelstein noticed too, she heard him mumble the impossibility of it.

"Werewolves don't revert back to their human form upon death," Alerianna commented "It's still alive! It must of transformed back hours ago"

"How can this be?" Havelstein asked. His blue eyes full of confusion.

"Hirald was the first to fall. His weight broke the ice, the werewolf followed after, crashing upon the cold water instead."

Havelstein thought on the possibility and began imagining the outcome of it. He shook his head at what could easily be the most absurd thing he ever heard. But the evidence suggested otherwise. The Lycanthrope is still on the loose.

"What do we do?"

"We find the freak," she whispered as the hunt began again.

Alerianna clenched her fists tightly as the other surviving villagers surrounded her. Her dark eyes were fixed on the forest to where the foot tracks were leading. All sorrow and pain was replaced by a menacing determination to vanquish her enemy: The werewolf. Her lover's killer was still at large and she swore by the Nine she would kill it. Her hands clenched around her sword, she began marching to the forest.

~Chapter Three: Tavern Brawl~


Cyrodiil, Imperial Province, Bruma.
****

Veronica pushed her way through the crowd. Hingarr-Four Toes saw her coming and momentarily dipped out of sight behind the tavern‘s bar, reappearing with a mug of Cyrodilic Brandy just as Veronica reached the counter.

"Looks like you made a bit of septims tonight,“ Hingarr said as he set the drink down with a heavy thud. His low, raspy voice was difficult to hear above the noise of the crowd. His words always had a dark quality, as if he were speaking from the very back of his throat.

The Nord liked her, though Veronica wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because he’d watched Veronica grow in popularity, cleaning up the scum of Cyrodiil; maybe he just felt sorry she had ran away from her luxurious mansion to pursue a harder life. Whatever the reason, there was a standing agreement between the two: Veronica did not have to pay for a drink if it was poured without being asked for. She gratefully accepted the act of charity and downed it in one long draft, then slammed the empty mug back down onto the table.

"I captured another deadbeat…“ she replied, wiping her mouth. "It’s the last time I’m taking one of these jobs!”

Hingarr tilted his head to one side and fixed his enormous blue eyes on Veronica. The bitter expression on his face didn’t change, but as soon as he turned around to serve another individual, his body shook ever so slightly. Veronica knew him well enough to realize the Nord was laughing.

“Giving up?" Hingarr croaked, refilling the mug.

Veronica didn’t guzzle the second drink as she had the first one. Hingarr rarely gave her more than one on the tavern, ands he didn’t want to take advantage the bartender’s generosity.

“No,” Veronica said “I’m going to take my business elsewhere”

"There’s a whole world out there, kid," the Nord nodded. “Places a lot more attractive than Cyrodiil, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Tell me something I don’t know, Veronica thought. Out loud she said, "I don’t plan to spend my job just here. But when I do get off this pit, I plan on getting a lot of drakes! I’ll start in Skyrim, then Morrowind, then maybe Elseweyr”

The Nord managed make a friendly laugh happen. “By Kyne! You won’t last week in Skyrim,”

Veronica took that as an offense “You doubt my hunting abilities?”

“I doubt your survival skills,” His voice was a neutral tone. “There are many cutthroats in Skyrim, many dangerous men and women. Not to mention the wildlife”

“I can take care of myself,” Veronica frowned with sincere hostility. That was enough to kill any other attempts at conversation. Hingarr continued to serve as Veronica went on drinking.

After half an hour, Hingarr went back to speaking with Veronica, who was still in the same spot. Rarely did she ever change location in a tavern, she hated moving about, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t observant of her surroundings. She glimpsed a few men talking about her in the left corner, and a few glances from the other shady characters.

“Why begin with Skyrim?” he inquired.

Veronica’s response was simple: “Because it’s dangerous. There I can find out what I’m made of. If I survive, I will be skilled enough to go to Morrowind and the other Provinces. After I’m retired…I will own my own house on a beautiful remote coast somewhere. Maybe find a lover while I'm at it"

“A common enough fantasy,” Hingarr smiled, leaning over closer to Veronica, who didn’t move “Just be careful with you‘re choices,”

Veronica made a sound with her throat “What can you tell me of Skyrim, things I haven’t heard already.”

She was very curious about Skyrim and it’s current events, for that was the place where she was going to continue her journey. A test of mettle and power, that is where she would begin, and then later, make a name for herself in the world.

“Rumor has been spreading of a crusade against Lycanthropes. It began on Illiac Bay and High Rock and began making it’s way to Skyrim. Maybe your hunting skills can come in handy.”

“Hunting werewolves for a living? No thanks.”

“That would be a test of your abilities,” he concluded

Veronica brought the mug to her mouth, taking another sip. Then she shook her head. “I think not. How many self-proclaimed witch-hunters run about? Now think of how many Bounty Hunters are around Cyrodiil”

“Not that many Bounty Hunters,”

“Exactly. It gives me enough time to be the best of the best. And when some new guy comes around, he won’t even have time to be considered competition,”

"Fair enough," he nodded.

Being a Bounty Hunter means being an outlaw, a tracker-and sometimes a killer--for hire. She shouldn’t care who her targets are and who they’re running from, or why. She works for the highest bidder, which usually meant the wealthiest in the world. And she rarely ever saw any other Bounty Hunters, which made her unique in what she did, which is why she easily formed a reputation for herself in the past year. And pretty soon, she would be very popular and known indeed…hopefully.

Veronica turned her attention to the crowd. She saw a few shady characters in the corner, she automatically labeled them as criminals. She recognized their faces from the Wanted posters. A short haired woman with a dagger was playing a board game. A young Altmer was sitting at the table, talking loudly to everyone around him, though nobody seemed to be listening to him. Two other thieves-both human, one male, one female-also sat at the table. The woman was a sneaky sort, the bald fellow the man was barking orders with his hand motions and an orc who did not take his eyes off of her. Veronica assumed they were the leaders in charge of the heists that had been going on. How they crept into Bruma was beyond Veronica’s comprehension.

"I see you noticed our visitors," Hingarr muttered.

“I did, I saw them come in,” Veronica kept looking at the group.

“They were responsible for burglary and theft in the Imperial City. The Empire was offering a high bounty for each of them. Is that any reason why you came to work in Bruma?

Veronica shook her head. “No. Just a random coincidence, is all. What angle are they working this time? Lay low with drunks until they can go back to robbing jewelry stores?”

"Looks like it.” he said, his eyes went up to see a member of the group walking over the Veronica. His eyes widened and trouble was written all over it. Veronica heard him coming too.

“Here we go…” was a menacing mumble coming from Veronica’s lips.

All of the sudden, the orc came behind Veronica, resting his large hands on Veronica’s shoulder. He leaned down and whispered in her ear. “You a Bounty Hunter I hear,”

Veronica shrugged him off and continued drinking, she wasn’t looking for trouble, but if he persisted, she would have to do something. And nothing would stop her, not even the Imperial guards. They could not interfere with could easily be an act of self defense.

“You heard right,” She shrugged him off.

The Orc touched her again, smiling with a dark grin. He was obviously cautious about people working for the Empire, which wasn’t her case, not yet anyways. She presumed he was afraid she would come after him. A foolish act in his part, a real criminal would lay low instead of causing problems.

"I don’t want any trouble," Veronica said. "So back off my back and nobody gets hurt”

The Orc spat on the floor at Veronica’s feet. "You show me respect little missy!”

Veronica suddenly sat up from her seat to face him. They were standing close enough to each other that she could smell the sour ale on the orc’s breath. The fellow was drunk. Drunk enough to come looking for a conflict, but still sober enough to hold his own. His friends saw him causing trouble, so they went to hold him back.

“What’s the Empire offering ya to catch us?” He asked, the Altmer female placing a hand on his shoulder, trying to calm him down.

“They didn’t offer me anything yet” Veronica casually said.

“Yet? You think you can fight us, kid?”

"Grogran Gro-Malog. That's enough!" The young Altmer said.

"Better dp what she says," Veronica teased.

Grogran stomped off to the table and sat alone after his friends whispered something into his ears, perhaps to try and calm him down. Immediately after that, they returned to their little group corner and continued their regular activities without the orc. He sat there in a solitary mood, taking a sip of his drink. Veronica saw this as an opportunity to make him tick and took it.

"Tsk tsk. Good doggy," she said out loud, staring straight at him.

Grogan’s eyes bulged out wildly; a vein was pulsing on his forehead. He went ballistic. He jumped up, grabbed the underside of the table with both hands, and gave a mighty heave, causing it to flip over. The table fell over with a deafening crash. All the drinks on it spilled over; ale and beer washed across the floor, soaking everyone’s shoes.

"Oh my, you can flip a table. How strong you are," Veronica commented.

That alone was enough to have destroyed Grogan‘s will; to have crushed his overconfidence and robbed him of his victory as easily as he had robbed people. Veronica could feel his rage, and she responded equally. But Veronica didn’t put her emotions out on display for the entire tavern to see. The hate burning in her was her own private chamber, a dark force raging inside her so fierce she felt it could crack the world if he let it out.

The angry orc thrust an accusing finger at Veronica. "Your gonna get a beating of a lifetime! No one insults me and lives!"

Veronica didn’t say anything; she didn’t even stand up. But her muscles were braced in case the orc made a move.

The orc quickly rose to his feet. He stood up with a snarl, his hands balling into fists. He was bigger and heavier than Veronica. But she wasn’t going to back down from a fight. She raised from her seat and dropped into a crouch, feet wide and arms held out in front of her. Grogran charged forward, swinging his right fist in a vicious uppercut. Veronica reached out and caught the punch with the open palm of her left hand, absorbing the force of the blow. Her right hand snapped forward and grabbed the underside of Grogran’s right wrist; as she pulled the older person forward, Veronica ducked down and turned, driving her shoulder into the orc’s chest.

Using her opponent’s own momentum against him, Veronica straightened up and yanked hard on his wrist, flipping him up and over so that he crashed to the ground on his back. The fight should have ended right then; Veronica had a split second where she could have dropped her knee onto her opponent, kicking the breath from his lungs and pinning him to the ground while she pounded Grogran with her fists. But it didn’t happen as she wanted it to, the crowd has pushed her by accident and everyone was eyeing the two combatants, giving enough time for the orc to get back on his feet. Grogan charged forward again. This time his hands weren’t fists, but nails grasping at anything they could find, trying to nullify the younger woman and reach by getting in close. One hand grabbed her shirt, the other got hold of her pants as the orc pulled both of them to the ground.

They fought together, battling on the dirty, alcohol filled flooring. Grogran had his face buried against Veronica’s chest to protect it, keeping her from landing a solid hit or head-butt. He still had a grip on her belt, but now his other hand was free and punching blindly up to where he guessed Veronica’s face would be. She was forced to wrap her arms in and around Grogran’s own, interlocking them so neither person could throw a punch. The crowd neither called the guards or stopped the fight. They saw how capable Veronica was at fighting and became no little than spectators watching the fight unfold. Their preconceptions of the strongest person was now blurred as the Imperial proved herself as a brutal fighter. The fight had become a test of sheer strength and endurance, with the two combatants slowly wearing each other down. Veronica wasn’t so lucky, her face was open and vulnerable. Grogran struck a blow with his free hand, but he didn’t hit with a closed fist. Instead he drove his thumb hard into Veronica’s cheek, only a few centimeters from his real target. He struck again with the thumb, looking to gouge out one of his opponent’s eyes and leave her blind and crying in pain.

It took Veronica a second to realize what was transpiring; his tired mind had become as slow and clumsy as his body. She turned her face away just as the second blow landed, the thumb jamming painfully into the cartilage of her upper ear. Feral rage exploded inside Veronica: a burst of savage fury that burned away the exhaustion and fatigue. Suddenly her mind wasn’t so clear, but her body felt strong and rejuvenated. She knew what she was going to do next. Even more amazingly, she knew for sure what Grogran would do next as well. She could not explain how she knew this; sometimes she could just anticipate an enemies next strike. Instinct, some might have claimed. But Veronica felt it was something more. It was too illustrious, way too specific to be simple instinct. It was more like a premonition, a brief glimpse into upcoming moves. And whenever it happened, Veronica always knew what to do, as if something wild was guiding and directing her actions. She had this ever since she was a child, she remembered many occasions.

When the next blow came, Veronica was more than ready for it. She could picture it perfectly in her mind. She knew exactly when it was heading and exactly where it would strike. This time she turned her head in the opposite direction of the orc, exposing her face to the incoming attack and opening her mouth. She bit down hard, her timing perfect, and her teeth sank deep into the flesh of the orc’s probing thumb. Grogran screamed as Veronica clamped down her jaws, severing the precious tendons and striking the bone. She wondered if she could bite it clean off and then-as if that very imagination made it happen--she severed Grogran’s thumb. The orc released his grasp and rolled away, clasping his damaged hand with his other whole one. Crimson blood welled up through the fingers trying to stanch the flow from his stump. He shrieked and cried in pain. Standing up slowly, Veronica spat the thumb out onto the ground. The taste of blood was hot in her mouth. Her body felt strong and full of fatigue, as if some great power surged through her veins. Grogran rolled back and forth on the floor, his hand clutched close to his chest. He was moaning and sobbing, tears running down his face. Veronica shook her head in disgust; He had brought this on himself. It had started as a simple night. Then he had taken things to a superior level by trying to hurt her. She had learned long ago not to escalate a fight unless she was willing to pay the price of losing. Now Grogran had learned that lesson in a similar manner. Hingarr stepped over the bar and shouted over the mumbles and pvssyring of the spectators. His voice loud and clear for all to hear, he was undoubtedly angry.

“Out!“ he croaked as loud as his raspy voice could manage. “Everyone get out of my tavern!”

You can write up good fight scenes! And thankyou for making this fan-fic, I didn't want to go to the extent and read my mums collection of Jane Austen books.
I've found one or two things needed fixing, but I don't have the time now. Will edit later.

Thanks Schmuty Buncis. Took me awhile to conjure up a good fight scene. Needed to make it a bit savage too.

Haha, I forgot to mention, Alerianna is a nice character. Kudos to you for being able to whip up and write a female character without making her a man with briast.

EDIT: O, damn! I neglected the "one or two things that may need correcting". Ok, I'm freaking tired (damn timw zones...), so there is bound to be misteaks in my editing/ critisising, whatever you like to call it.

---------------------------------------------

Alerianna panted heavily, feeling the wound where the female Volkihar had pierced her. Her fatigue was low and she was beginning to feel the effects of vampirism, but her body would reject such things. She had an increased resistance to such diseased. Anyhow, she would still be cautious and drink a cure disease potion once she reached the village. Everyone recovered from the blow, they would later mourn the dead, but the task was still at hand. What of the bodies of both Hirald and the Lycanthrope? Alerianna wondered. They couldn't possibly be claimed by the Volkihar, could they? They kept searching where the sun touched, looking above them to where the battle began and where it ended. After awhile, they finally encountered Hirald's body.

"Over here!" Cried Havelstein.
--------------------------------------------

You could get rid of the sentence, then:

------------------------------------------------

Alerianna thought briefly on the lives lost moments ago, but her lover was found. Alerianna pushed the thought aside and ran to Hirald. He was broken and floating on the water. She could see the bite holes in his chest and face . . . the teeth marks made by a werewolf. Every trace of pain and suffering were gone. There was regret on his face, a sorrowful look full of pain and apology. You have nothing to be sorry for, she said silently. She watched him die, felt him die, now she touched his dead body. In a single instant, she also saw and felt his final peace, his ultimate freedom from the burden task and all the other chains of this world. But it was impossible. He couldn't leave her-he couldn't die! -------------------------------------------

Alright, you have to admit, that was a poor jod of me, don't do what I just did otherwise I'd laugh then sig it. Onwards, to why I think it should be changed. It would make more sense to the reader. You wrote how they encountered the remains of her lover, then made Havelstein cry out to everyone where to body was, when everybody already found the body. You could then change (if you want) the second paragraph, and add a sentence on Alerianna seeing the corspe, or you can leave it, whatever suits you best.

Ok, I'm done. I'm off, before I die. Happy fan-fictioning (or whatever other verb is used).

Edit: Having the text in white and in bold made it hard to read, yes? 3...2...1, goodbye.

She is, thanks. And why do I get the feeling you imply that Veronica's violent nature is the "Man with a briast"?

Want more!!!:) I also want to know where this savageness came from at the end
Time to read the vampire side now, thank you!:)

Thank you. Glad you enjoy it. The savageness is there for a reason.

I like it a lot! I noticed some errors with commas (some missing and some extra) and a few runny, long sentences that I'd chop up if I were you, including a few actual run-ons. I'd also think about how often you use the sentence build "Doing something or other, (s)he did this thing". It's not bad and you're not over-using it, but when there's a few of those in the same paragraph it makes for confusing sentence structures. Try to make the text a bit more varied in structure. Simple sentences are not always bad sentences.


In instances like this, the thought should be italicized. Set it apart from the rest of the text.

I really love this. :thumbsup:

Where do you get all the pics? Unless your name is Chris Ortega, and you're a brilliant artist and writer.

No. I'm just the writer. I usually ask artists to use their artwork for permission on character RP's. Like I have a few characters in a Wiki RP franchise. The artwork usually matches the exact description of my characters, so I go and ask them if it's okay. Sadly, I am not artist. :nono:

And I will make the proper edits and continuation when I can. Right now I'm busy with RL and other RPs.

EDIT: I like your sig. You're a pretty damn fun person to RP with.

~Chapter Four: A Word Of Caution And Murder~

The patrons began to back off, and the thieves stood up warily. The orc swayed, the cut on his forehead bleeding into his eye. They helped him up from his feeble position.

"You get out first," Hingarr said to the orc and his friends who supported him. He waved his hand menacingly around the room. "Clear a path. Let them leave.”

Everyone but the thieves remained frozen. This wasn’t the first time Hingarr had kicked everyone out of the tavern. Hingarr was neutral when it came to outlaws and law-breakers. But if anyone’s life was threatened in his tavern, then they had no place to stay. He was sure a brawl would get someone killed soon enough, he thought best not to risk it. Once the bandit gang vanished into the night, the rest of the crowd began to move slowly toward the door. Veronica fell into step with the patrons, but as she passed the hall, Hingarr pointed a finger at her.

"No. You stay right there."

Veronica didn’t move a millimeter until all the others were gone. She wasn’t frightened; she didn’t think Hingarr would report her. Still, she saw no advantage in giving him a reason to. Only after the last patron had left and closed the door did Hingarr adopt a more soothing facial expression. He clambered down awkwardly from the bar, then turned to Veronica.

“I figured it was more secure to keep you here for a bit," he explained. "They were pretty angry. They might be waiting for you outside.”

Veronica grinned. “I didn’t think you were mad at me,” he said.

Hingarr snorted. “Oh, I’m angry at you. That’s why you’re going to clean up this mess.”

Veronica sighed and shook her head in mock exasperation. “I wasn’t my fault. The orc wanted trouble!”

Hingarr wasn’t in any mood to hear it. "Just start sweeping the shattered glass," he muttered.

Veronica swept the floor, cleaned the tables and picked up the chairs. Her chore took about an hour to finish. He felt she was partial to blame for the entire event, regardless of her participation on starting it or not. Now that she was done, Hingarr motioned Veronica over to the bar, grabbed a couple of glasses, and took a bottle down from the shelf.

“Jagga,“ he said, pouring them each half a glass of a frothing white drink. "Direct from Valenwood. Delicious.”

Veronica took a sip and nearly choked as the fiery liquid burned its way down her throat, giving her a tickling sensation. “This is what the tree-huggers drink?”

Hingarr shrugged. "What do you expect? Cyrodilic Brandy?”

With her second sip, Veronica was more cautious. She let it roll across her tongue, savoring the rich flavor. “This is good. What’s the occasion?”

"You had quite a night. I thought you could drink some,”

Veronica drained her glass. Hingarr filled her up halfway, then corked the bottle and set it back on the shelf.

“I’m concerned, kid” the nord rasped. “Worried about what happened in the fight tonight”

“The orc will live,” Veronica mumbled.

The nord nodded. "Not worried about him. About you. You bit off his thumb.”

"I just wanted a drink and a time to myself," Veronica protested. "It’s not my fault he got his ass kicked,”

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. But I watched you tonight. There was something I never seen before in my life. How quick you reacted to his attack, your strength. You could of killed him…”

"Are you saying I lost my mind?” Veronica laughed. "Come on, Hingarr. It was just a little fight.”

"It was more than a fight, kid," Hingarr said. "You were angry. More angry than I’ve ever seen anyone. I could feel it from all the way across the tavern, I saw it. We all did. It freaked me out”

Veronica couldn’t believe her ears. "Listen to what you’re saying, Hingarr. It’s absurd.”

Hingarr reached up a long , thin hand and patted Veronica on the shoulder. “I know how crazy it sounds. But there was something different about you tonight. You gave in to your emotions, and it unleashed something . . . savage. Something dangerous."

Hingarr tossed his head back and drained the last of his Jagga, shuddering as it went down. "Just watch yourself, kid. Please. I don't like this"

“Thanks, I guess” Veronica winked. They shook hands, and Veronica left the tavern.
*****

The streets of Bruma were dark. It was four in the morning and most individuals were out sleeping. The ones who loved the nightlife retreated into their homes after the incident in the tavern. The streets had a few less guards now, there were no other souls from what Veronica could see. Everyone was sleeping. She was ready for bed as well, the Jerall View Inn was a perfect place to rest. Civilized, safe and cozy. She would sleep all day if she wanted to. The lack of lights in Bruma increased her need for rest. She could barely see anything. Yet somehow, despite the near-absolute darkness, she saw them coming. It was a split second before it happened, a sense that danger was coming ... and the direction it was coming from. Three silhouettes leapt at her, two coming head-on and another attacking from behind. She ducked forward just in time, feeling the wooden stick that would have knocked her out swiping through the air a hairbreadth above her. She popped back up as it passed and lashed out with a fist, driving into the featureless head of the nearest figure. She was rewarded with the sick crunch of cartilage and bone.

Veronica ducked again, this time to the side, and the wood that would have hit her square between the eyes thumped down hard across her left shoulder. She staggered on to the side, driven by the force of the blow. But in the darkness it took a moment for her opponents to locate her, and by then she had regained her balance. Through the gloom she could just make out the vague outlines of her attackers. The one she’d punched was slowly standing up; the other two stood wary and ready. She didn’t have to see their faces to know who they were: the handicapped orc and the two thieves who’d half carried the him from the tavern. Veronica could smell the reek of ale wafting up at her, confirming their identities. They must have waited outside the tavern and followed her until they thought they could get the jump on her.

They came at her again, rushing her all at once. They had the numbers and months of hand-to-hand combat training on their side; Veronica had strength, speed, and a good time of bare-knuckle brawling on hers. But in the darkness, none of that really mattered. Veronica met their charge head-on, and all four combatants tumbled to the ground. Punches and kicks landed without any thought given to strategy or target: the blind fighting the blind. Each blow she landed brought a satisfying grunt or groan from her opponents, but her enjoyment was limited by the pummeling her own body was enduring. It didn’t matter if her eyes were open or closed she couldn’t see a thing. She reacted on instinct; aches and pains were washed away in the darkness by the adrenaline pumping through her veins.

And then suddenly she saw something. Someone had unsheathed shortsword. It was still black as the night and yet Veronica could see the blade clearly, as if it glowed with an inner fire. It stabbed toward her and she grabbed the wrist of the wielder, twisting it back and driving it toward the dark mass from which it had appeared. There was a sharp yelp and then a choking gurgle, and suddenly the burning blade in her vision blurred out, the threat extinguished. The mass of bodies entwined with her quickly untangled, two of them scampering clear. The third was motionless. A second later she heard a guard run towards her with a torch flashing as he heard the noise. Veronica was momentarily blinded by its beam of light. Eyes squeezed shut, she heard a gasp.

“Grogran is dead” one of the thieves exclaimed. “You killed him!”

“What happened here!?“ The Imperial guard shouted.

Shading her eyes against the illumination, Veronica glanced down to see exactly what she’d expected to see: the thumb-less orc lying on his back, the short sword plunged deep into his chest. Veronica braced herself for another assault. Instead she heard the sounds of footsteps fleeing in the night, heading toward nowhere. She looked down at the body, planning to grab the glowing blade and use its light to guide her through the darkness. But the blade wasn’t glowing now. In fact, she realized, it had never really glowed at all. It couldn’t have: it wasn’t enchanted. The blade was simple metal.

There were more pressing concerns than how she had seen the sword glow in the darkness, however. The thieves fled and now Veronica was a prime suspect for the recent murder. The witnesses, thieves, no less, fled into the darkness while the guard began telling Veronica to surrender. Everything in her mind buzzed, she was confused, she didn’t know what to do. But an overriding thought came to her mind: Kill or be killed.

“Your under arrest!” The guard shouted again, charging at the bewildered Veronica.

Instinctively, Veronica reached for the sword embedded into the orc’s chest and pulled it out while the guard ran at her. An instant later his voice went silent as Veronica ran him through with a single violent impale, the sword entering his chest just below his heart and protruding out the back of his shoulder blade. She slid the blade back out. As the guard’s body fell face-forward into the dirt, she gasped at the enormity at what she had done. The torch that fell beside his face revealed his identity. He was the captain of the Imperial Legion in Bruma. And now he was dead, she had killed him. It would be the word of a Bounty Hunter-one with a history of brawls and violence in taverns, at that-against a law-abiding enforcer known as the captain of the Imperial guards in Bruma and an orc. No one would believe it had been an act of self-defense.

And had it been, really? She had seen the blade coming. Could she have disarmed her opponent without killing him? Could she just fled the guard without ever removing his life? Veronica shook her head. She didn’t have time for guilt or regrets. Not now. She had to find somewhere safe to hide out. She couldn’t go to the Jerall View Inn: that was the first place they’d look. They knew where she frequented there. She could go into the wilderness, she wasn’t prepared. There was only one option, one hope. Eventually they’d go looking for her there, too. But she had nowhere else to go.

****

Hingarr must have still been awake, because he answered the door only seconds after Veronica began pounding on it. The nord took one look at the blood on the young woman’s hands and shirt and grabbed her by the sleeve.

“Get in!” he barked, yanking Veronica through the door and slamming it shut behind her. “Are you hurt?”

Veronica shook her head. “No. The blood isn’t mine.”

Taking a step back, the nord inspected her all over. "There’s too much blood.”

When Veronica didn’t reply, Hingarr ventured a guess. “The orc and his friends?”

A nod this time. "I killed him and the Imperial captain by accident,“ Veronica said.

Hingarr’s eyes widened, he dropped his head and swore under his breath. “The captain? You killed him?” Are the guards after you?”

“Not yet.“ Then, as if trying to justify her actions, she added, “There were three of those thieves, I killed just one,”

Her old friend nodded sympathetically. "I’m sure he had it coming. But that doesn’t change the facts that the Imperial captain was killed! And you’re the one who’s going to take the blame.”

The tavern owner led Veronica over to the bar and brought down the bottle of Cyrodilic brandy. Without saying a word, he poured them each a drink. This time he didn’t stop at half glasses.

“I didn’t mean to,” Veronica said, desperate to break the uncomfortable silence. "I didn’t want to get you mixed up in all of this.”

“Don‘t worry about it," Hingarr reassured her with a comforting pat on her arm. "I’m just trying to figure a way to get you out of this mess. Let me think.”

They downed their glasses. It was all Veronica could do to keep from panicking; with each passing second she expected a dozen Imperials in armor to crash down the tavern’s door. After what seemed like hours, but was probably only a minute or two, Hingarr began to talk. He spoke softly, and Veronica wasn’t sure if the nord was addressing her or merely talking out loud to help himself think.

“You can’t stay here. The Empire will search all over for you. Unless.." He paused.

Veronica waited expectantly.

“Those things you said tonight,” Hingarr ventured, "about leaving Cyrodiil and going to Skyrim. Did you mean it? Did you really mean it?"

“I guess so.”

There was another long pause, as if the bartender was gathering himself. "How would you feel about leaving tonight?” he suddenly blurted out.

Veronica was caught completely off guard. “What?”

For over an year, Veronica ran away from home to pursue a life of freedom and thrill. Away from an abusive step-mother and a non-caring father and the chains of chores, the Imperial legion and everything they tried to enforce upon her. When she had thoughts of perhaps going back home, she was given no choice but to escape the very province she grew up in. As if fate decided it was time to leave and never look back. Veronica bit her lip in uncertainty, she began to think about the consequences if she remained behind and the new life she always wanted in the future….

"I know people who can smuggle you out of here tonight,"

Veronica did not take too long to answer. "I will leave for Skyrim tonight," she extended her hand to shake his.

"Thank you, Hingarr I won’t forget this." he reached out and grabbed her hand.

"I know you won’t, kid" Though the words were friendly, there was an tinge sorrow in the worried voice. Veronica released her grip, feeling awkward, scared, grateful, angry, and excited all at the same moment. She felt like she needed to say something else, so she added, "I can make it up to you somehow. The next time we-"

"No," Hingarr said, cutting her off. "There won’t be a next time. Not for the both of us."

The nord shook his head. "I don’t know what’s ahead of you, but I get the feeling it's going to be hard. Don’t count on others to help you. In the end you have to be alone. The survivors are those who know how to watch their own back." With that Hingarr turned away, his feet shuffling briskly across the tavern's dirty floor as he headed to the back exit. Veronica hesitated a moment, Hingarr's words embedding themselves into her mind, then she rushed off to follow.

I was hoping the gurad would say the classic gurad line.

You have a very good story here. The sentence structures could use a bit of work, as well as grammar, but you are very talented. Keep it up--the more you write, the better you will become. And you are good at developing the characters, describing them and the settings, and developing the plot, etc... I am enjoying reading it--please keep writing. :goodjob:

Thanks for the advice. I will try to read other fanfics and see how the sentance structure is used. I try to give each character feelings and such that gives them life, not cardboard characters, if you know what I mean.