The Unlikely Companions

[Rolf Stout-Heart]

Rolf Stout-Heart awoke with sluggish reluctance. To begin with, the most he could muster of himself was a feeble roll onto his back, and then a moment later, with a great surge of effort, he gave a long luxurious stretch. His yawn blossomed into a groan of pleasure as his muscles bled tension like so many uncoiling vipers. His echoing voice died beneath a renewed howl of wind that tickled the soles of his feet and made him at once aware of something rather strange: beneath him, where there ought to have been a soft bed of straw, he felt nothing but stone as cold and as hard as iron, and there was something else, too - something sticky, and wet. Rolf allowed one eye to creep open and found himself staring into a pair of large round glassy eyes.

"Shor's bones!" he said with a start, and clambered frantically to his feet.

It was a deer carcass, mauled, disembowelled, and fresh, judging by the wetness underfoot and the sickly sweet smell of entrails. Entrails of which Rolf had seemingly made a bed, that now became dislodged and, with wet slaps, reformed in pools of viscera about his feet. The stench seemed to thicken, congealing in the back of his throat. He staggered away from the grisly scene on uncertain legs and found himself standing naked and alone in the mouth of a cave overlooking an expansive valley.

How did this happen?

His mind raced as he attempted to retrace his steps, ignoring the fact that between his arrival in Whiterun and becoming bedfellows with an eviscerated deer there was an enormous vacuum of memory. The last thing he remembered... he'd been drinking with Aela and Skjor, having just returned from Windhelm. Skjor had been particularly pleased to see him and was keen to keep his flagon full while they regaled him of their most recent adventures - something about a giant and Pelagia Farm. Afterwards, he was led somewhere else; it was dark, Aela was gone, and there was just him and Skjor... but they weren't alone. It was very dark. He was offered a goblet of what looked like wine, and he drank, and...

From behind a distant mountain, slivers of golden sunlight pierced the grey dawn. Rolf winced and held a hand to shield his eyes. His head ached in contemplation of both the vast unfurling landscape before him and the hazy quagmire of his thoughts. When only one solution presented itself, he took one last disgusted glance at the cave interior, then departed down the lonely dirt path into the valley.

Remarkably, he discovered that, though he appeared to be suffering from the worst hangover of his life, his senses remained sharp. Sharper than they had ever been, in fact, and as looming evergreens rose up on either side of him, he drank in their rich alpine aroma. And that wasn't all: he could smell the grass and the crisp blankets of snow that draped the hillside like pearly white silk; there was the velvety warmth of the Blue Mountain Flower and Dragon's Tongue spice; he could smell Snowberries, fox fur, and burnt wood and... water. There was fresh water nearby, so close he could almost taste it, and he knew, as if he'd seen it on a map, that if he followed the path he'd find a river.

His pace quickened, and soon, he came upon a road of weathered cobblestone. There was a hiss of distant flowing water. Hobbling barefoot over the uneven stones, Rolf chased the road down the hillside, and glimpsed through the plummeting tree canopies flecks of brilliant blue and shimmering white. Up ahead, a junction in the road was marked by a cluttered signpost which read: Helgen, Riverwood, Falkreath. Finally, he knew where he was. The leap of joy, however, took a sudden plunge, clattering like iron ingots in the pit of his stomach, for he had just heard footsteps.

[Akasha]

Just hours removed from a near-disastrous adventure (http://sw-fans.net/forum/showthread.php?55596-The-Shrieking-Winds) in Shriekwind Bastion, the discovery of a new purpose, and a bitter argument with the only person she knew in all of Skyrim who wasn't an ale-swilling, bodice-grabbing dwarf of a Nord (who nevertheless had a lovely singing voice), Akasha ja Khanai was exhausted, sore, exceptionally thirsty, and uncharacteristically sullen. The young Khajiit had followed the cobblestone road to the East from the northern edifice of the Nordic barrow, plodding numbly onward like one of the lurching Draugr she'd left behind. A brief word with a fisherman who was pulling in his nets from a long, narrow lake confirmed that she was on the road to Riverwood, a small town where she hoped to buy a hot meal and a few hours' sleep in a decent bed. At least she'd collected more than enough gold for that among the ancient dead.

Silver dawn slowly broke into golden morning as she labored up a steep hill, leaving the lake behind her. As she stepped into a crossroads, the sun uncovered itself from the low-hanging clouds and bathed her in warming light, but what should have been a comfort stung her eyes and made her hiss in displeasure. She shielded her face with a gauntlet-clad paw and turned to consider the signpost standing by the fork in the road. Helgen. Falkreath. Riverwood.

She took a bracing breath and nodded to herself: she was still on the path, and all was still well. She made to turn down the other side of the hill, where the path spilled down toward a distant glinting river. And then the sharp, sour stench of blood reached her nostrils.

Akasha caught her step and laid a paw on the hilt of her ebony sword. Her ears twisted from side to side for any sign of a stalking wolf, a bandit, or, gods forbid, another bear.

"This one knows you are there," she growled in a hoarse voice. "And she is not in the mood for games."

[Rolf Stout-Heart]

The familiar clink of metal that punctuated her words drew to mind the sight of Athis poised, overly cautious, with his hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword. It gave Rolf pause for a moment, as he hunched behind a bramble thicket, watching the stranger's shadow, rippled on the cobblestones. The gruff note in her voice gave him no illusions, and he dwelled not on the implications of keeping her waiting, and instead spoke clearly over the thicket.

"Stay your hand, Sister Khajiit. I mean you no harm."

At once, he became aware of the absurdity of his words, as he considered himself, as naked as the day he was born and without so much as a twig with which to defend himself. He rose and, for a fleeting instant, thought on preserving his modesty for the sake of the stranger's eyes. But the idea was promptly discarded, for he was a Son of Skyrim, not some blushing Breton, and would not be seen concealing himself like a lepper before a pelt with legs. So, he stepped out and presented himself where the roads met. His gaze was drawn immediately to the exquisite weapon at her side and then he considered the Khajiit in full.

"If you are a bandit, you must be disappointed."

[Akasha]

"Rahjin's claws!"

Even though she was much better armed and armored than the Nord who stood before her, Akasha found herself stumbling backward at the sight of him. Naked, and covered in blood - Akasha's first thought was that he was another kind of Draugr, with his wounds still fresh and some of his wits about him, or, worse, another one of the fell company who had chased her and her sister out of Shriekwind Bastion. But she could see no sign of injury on him, and he looked hale and healthy and fully alive as far as she was able to judge. In all likelihood, he'd had a worse night than she had.

She felt foolish, like a skittish, clumsy kitten jumping at shadows, but she kept her paw on her sword as she replied, "This one is no bandit. What in Oblivion's name happened to you?"

[Rolf Stout-Heart]

"Alas, there is no honest answer I have to offer. But, were I to divine the signs, I would place the blame at the feet of bandits, or mischievous friends," he said, and with a flicker of a smile he stepped closer, "If you look carefully, I suspect you will see the ale still afloat behind my eyes."

The charcoal-furred Khajiit tensed almost imperceptibly at his approach. She was a curious one, armed, and armoured, and alone, as she was, and yet, it was she who stiffened like a cornered skeever. Perhaps she had not spent enough time amongst the ice and the stone and steel. Still, he could not begrudge her apprehension: the roads of Skyrim were fraught with peril to the unwary traveller, especially one so young, and far from home. A thought occured to him that creased his face into a frown.

"Is this your first experience of a man's body? Fear not, Sister Khajiit, it is nothing deadly."

[Akasha]

Akasha straightened up to her full, though not entirely impressive, height, gave the Nord what she imagined to be an imperious look. "This one has seen men naked," she said. "But not coming out of a bush and covered in..." She sniffed the air again to test the evidence of her eyes. "...animal guts?"

Her thoughts went back to the Fighter's Guild in Elinhir, where spiced wine flowed freely in the gathering hall, and competitors were known to make sport of those who indulged too deeply. More than one boastful would-be champion had woken up in a camel stall just as naked as this Nord and covered in worse than blood. So. This man had drunk more than his fill and been left in the woods by his huntsman friends. He did not appear to be in distress, but he was likely still drunk, and possibly a bit mad.

Akasha relaxed, but she did not move her paw from her sword hilt. "And this one is not your sister," she said. "But if you do not trouble her, then she will not trouble you. Do you... need help?"

[Rolf Stout-Heart]

"I need clothes. Something for the lower half, if I hope to pass through Riverwood in peace. I don't think old Hilde's heart could take it."

Content that the Khajiit was not about to strike him down, Rolf allowed his gaze to follow his wandering thoughts, down the path and along the foaming river to Gerdur's mill. The people of Riverwood were welcoming and kind, but he had little interest in testing the limits of their friendliness by warming his bare arse in the Sleeping Giant Inn. If the Khajiit had anything to afford him some modicum of dencency, he'd gladly accept. His eyes, as brown and rich as freshly-tilled earth, narrowed as he considered the sum of her meager possessions - she was dressed for travel, and for battle, and survival, and nothing more. When he spoke again, there was a note of desperation in his voice.

"Trousers, undergarments... a fox pelt would do!"

[Akasha]

Akasha narrowed her own eyes, strongly considering just leaving the crazy Nord to the consequences of his own poor life decisions, when a notion occurred to her. "And once you are through Riverwood," she said, "where will you be heading then?"

[Rolf Stout-Heart]

Unable to help himself, Rolf gave the woman a look of disbelief. The Khajiit were a nosy sort. Tempted, though he was, to inform her that his destination was none of her business, he resisted, reminding himself that she was his only shot at a half-dignified return to-

"Whiterun," he said, "To my home in Whiterun."

[Akasha]

Whiterun. Well, that settled it. This wasn't just some happenstance encounter with a drunk, naked madman in the wilderness. It was an appointment of destiny... with a drunk, naked madman in the wilderness. If it were up to Akasha, she'd have chosen a more auspicious start to her quest for fame and glory, but she was too exhausted to quibble with the divines over minutiae right now.

"Stay there," she said. "Do not follow."

She turned off the path and scampered down the hillside until she was reasonably obscured by the trees and shrubbery, and, once she was satisfied there were no predators or brigands crouched and ready to pounce nearby, she unfastened her steel cuirass. She and Ashira had sold the pelt of the bear they'd killed outside Falkreath, but not before cutting off one side and fashioning it into an undercloth for her armor. It draped over her shoulders with a hole for her head, and it hung to her navel in the front and the nape of her tail in the back - likely long enough to wrap around the Nord's middle. Though the thought was not altogether appealing.

Akasha pulled the pelt over her head and then fastened her armor again over the simple shift she wore underneath. Then she walked back up to the path with the garment folded over one arm.

"This one will be wanting it back," she minded him. "Properly washed. But you may wear it, if you can accompany this one to Whiterun."

[Rolf Stout-Heart]

Rolf watched, with folded arms and some amusement, as the catwoman retreated to the privacy of the local underbrush. He waited as instructed, surveying the panorama with interest; the powdered mountains crowned with clouds and trees that pierced the sky like emerald daggers, and nested amongst them, Bleak Falls Barrow, whose ruins littered the horizon like the black bones of some great and ancient beast. A shiver ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. The reappearance of the Khajiit chased away the shadow of faraway fears, and he greeted her with a smile, and accepted the armful of fur with an impressed nod.

"Bear pelt. I see the warrior women of Elsweyr do nothing by half."

She was difficult to read, as were all Khajiit, with their furry muzzled faces and fanged unsmiling mouths. On the surface, it appeared his flattery was falling on deaf ears, but Rolf was unconcerned. His attention was fixed instead upon the perfect pool of tranquil blue that stretched out in front of them with every approaching step. They walked together down the winding road, the dull thud of leather boots alongside the soft padding of bare feet, while Rolf made no effort to equip the thick pelt in his arms. It was too fine a thing to soil with crusty entrails.

"When we arrive in Whiterun, I will see to it that your generosity is rewarded," he stopped himself from calling her 'sister,' and added, "And since we are to be travelling companions, it is only fitting and right that we remain strangers no more. I am Rolf Stout-Heart, son of Geirlund of Windhelm."

[Akasha]

Akasha was grateful that he treated the pelt with respect. It was, in a way, a gift from her sister, and now that they had parted ways she intended to keep it close.

"This one is Akasha ja Khanai of Hammerfell," she replied. "She has never seen Elsweyr, actually. She came into Skyrim with her sister looking for fortune and glory, but we..."

She hesitated, looking for an appropriately delicate way to describe it to a man she just met. "...parted ways outside Shriekwind Bastion."

[Rolf Stout-Heart]

The tragic revelation took Rolf by surprise and he considered his words for a moment, then addressed his new companion in the grave undertone native to his kin, "Well, I am sure your sister has now secured for herself the glory she sought, Akasha ja Khanai of Hammerfell."

He resisted the urge to plant a comforting hand upon her shoulder, sensing the gesture would somehow be considered inappropriate. They soldiered on, down into the valley, where the silences were punctuated by solitary birdsong and the occassional gust of wind, which rolled through the tree tops like a gently lapping tide. The cobblestone road wove dramatically down the hillside, plunging swiftly towards the river, which seemed to be hushing everything else around it. Enthused by the sound, and smell of the airborne foam, Rolf's steps quickened. Below, where the road doubled back upon itself, there stood a stone dais, buried beneath a tangle of tree roots. But from the web of wooden limbs rose three stones, each as tall as a man, each furnished with intricate carvings and ornate iron trimmings. He slowed to a stop before them.

"The Guardian Stones," he said, with undisguised reverence, "There are thirteen such Standing Stones, scattered across all of Skyrim, each associated with one of the thirteen constellations. Before you stands the Mage Stone, the Warrior Stone, and the Thief Stone. If you a serious in your quest for fortune and glory, you will want the blessing of one of these stones. Choose one and it will aid you in your endevours."

[Akasha]

Akasha frowned. She was reasonably certain Ashira hadn't secured anything yet, other than perhaps a low-burning sense of superiority that came from saying This one told you so about a hundred times. But then, that was uncharitable to think. After all, Ashira had told her, and she'd been right. That was why Akasha was on this journey now, even if Ashira couldn't see it.

The appearance of the Guardian stones rescued her from these unpleasant thoughts. Mirroring the Nord's reverence, she stepped carefully onto the dais, considering each stone in turn.

"What do they do?" she asked.

[Rolf Stout-Heart]

"In battle, the blessing of the Warrior Stone will see you to victory. The Mage Stone rewards those in search of magical knowledge and, if you are the underhanded sort, it is the blessing of the Thief Stone you seek, and all of your nefarious deeds will bear fruit."

Word for word, it was almost the exact same speech he had received years ago, when a wandering huntsman divulged to him the power of the Standing Stones. Such words, pregnant with subdued awe, had been uttered in this place for generations - Nords had a love affair with tradition. Rolf watched Akasha and wondered if one such as her, an outsider, could appreciate the significance of it all. He held his tongue thereafter and waited. Although tradition dictated that he could in no way influence her decision, judging from his limited experience with Akasha, Rolf had an idea of the blessing she would seek.

[Akasha]

It was strange, to be sure, but Akasha was in a strange land full of wonders and perils far removed from her provincial life in Hammerfell. Rolf spoke with such candor and conviction that it would be foolish to dismiss him, a Nord in his own land. It occurred to her to ask if he had chosen one himself, but now was not the time. Now was the time for her to choose - but that decision had been made years ago, when she had begged her uncle S'Thay to teach her the ways of the sword.

Akasha stepped toward the stone emblazoned with the image of a bearded warrior with shield and axe, and raised her right paw and pressed the pad flat against the etched surface of the rock. For a moment nothing happened, and she opened her mouth to ask what she was doing wrong. But then she felt the fur rise in a line from her arm up her shoulder and down the length of her spine, and the etching of the warrior began to glow with a pale blue light.

"Azurah's mane," she whispered. "Is this--"

Before she could finish, the light sharpened and coalesced into twenty or so shining stars - the warrior constellation itself - and a glowing orb grew in the round hollow at the top of the stone, then shot upward like a flaming arrow into the boundless blue sky.

Akasha, her paw still pressed against the cool stone, stared up after the receding light, breathless and speechless.

[Rolf Stout-Heart]

When she finally planted a paw upon the Warrior Stone, Rolf felt a flicker of resentment rise up in his chest, unbidden and unwelcome. It was a hot and cutting feeling. And while Akasha, in all her youth and ambition, took her first steps towards a warrior's calling, he stewed in his thoughts like a child in a tantrum. In his heart, he knew that something so small and petty was unworthy of a man, and the childish heat was extinguished in a rightful downpour of shame. He would atone for his moment of weakness, and celebrate her decision properly.

His eyes, prized from the skyward light, drank in the sight of the Khajiit as if for the first time. Admittedly, he thought, she wore her armour well.

"Akasha ja Khanai, warrior-maiden of Hammerfell!" he boomed, smiling broadly now, "May your blade be sharp and your shield-arm strong! And by steel and by blood, shall you carve for yourself a path, through the very mountains of Skyrim, to fortune and to glory!"

[Akasha]

Akasha stepped back from the stone, her mouth agape and her eyes still trained on an infinitely distant point in the morning sky. Part of her thought, What did this one just do? Another part thought, What happens if this one tries it again?

For once she overcame her curiosity. Such arcane powers were not to be trifled with. And then, to her surprise, her newest acquaintance joined the ancient stone in proclaiming her to the sky.

"Thank you, Rolf Stout-Heart," Akasha said, her tail lashing at her ankles like a bashful kitten. "You do this one great honor. And likewise, may you..."

It felt right to return the blessing. But Akasha knew nothing about this man, and Rolf's silver tongue, much like Wulthgar's before him, had her defeated.

"Find... all the clothing you desire."

[Rolf Stout-Heart]

Rolf beamed at the reciprocation, "My lifelong quest!"

Suddenly, he deposited the folded bear pelt atop a boulder beside the road, and left the well-worn path altogether. He navigated, with all the bare-footed haste he could muster, an unwieldly descent towards the lake, with flakes of jagged shale clattering about his feet.

"And now... to annoint with water! Not strictly traditional, but I think exceptions can be made... when you have bits of dead deer... stuck to your ass! For Ysgramor!"

His battle cry was punctuated by a great splash, and the tranquil blue waters errupted in a column of white foam as he vanished from sight. The water was so cold it stabbed at him like ice shards, robbing the air from his lungs so dramatically that, when he resurfaced it was with a gasp of surprise. The cold did not chill his demeanour, however, and he called out to his new companion on the lakeside.

"Come, join me! The water is... refreshing!"

[Ursula Beirne]

"I'll bet it is!"

A red head with wild hair sputtered there by the lake side where she'd obviously been sitting. Rolf's splash had been great indeed, for she'd been hit by great deal of it, though thankfully she wasn't soaking. By her side were a pair of gauntlets and boots of obvious elven make, though instead of the customary golden colour they were a sliverish hue (http://www.nexusmods.com/skyrim/mods/2052/?). Beside those rested a longsword in its sheath, and arrayed around her were various objects, though the most noticeable was a sack which seemed quite full. She pulled her pale feet closer to herself, and watched the Khajiit and the Nord, an unlikely pair of companions to say the least, with bemusement and not a little wariness.

"An' a good bet it would be, wouldn' it? 'cause I've felt it firsthand I did."

A pale hand reached up and absently pushed a thick lock of hair from her face vainly, for it simply fell right back into place, though she didn't seem to mind. The wariness disappeared, and she leaned back on one hand, using the other to adjust an amulet, hanging down in full view over a set of well worn robes. Another moment of observation on both sides passed.

"You're not bandits are you?" she asked, though it was framed more as a question than as anything else.

[Akasha]

Confused and delighted by the Nord's strange behavior, Akasha scrambled down the slope after him as nimbly as her armor and unwieldy bearskin would allow, though she had no intention of joining him in what was undoubtedly toe-curlingly frigid lake water. But then she realized they weren't alone, and she skitter-stepped to put some distance between herself and the stranger sitting on the shore.

"Bandits?" she said, with an affronted snap of her tail - as if she hadn't thought the same of Rolf just minutes ago. "This one should think not. She is a warrior-maiden of Hammerfell, and that one is..." She glanced at the Nord standing chest-deep in the lake, and adequate descriptors failed her. "...taking a bath."

The Khajiit glanced over the girl, who seemed slight of frame and fair of skin - really, as if a moderately strong wind might blow her over. Akasha wondered if that sword resting beside her was for protection or merely for show.

"If there are bandits about, this one will keep watch for you."

[Ursula Beirne]

The freckled red head beamed, her smile just short of showing all her teeth.

"Well that's very kind of you!" she said, and she meant it. She patted the sack she had next to her. "But I'm not too worried about bandits or brigands right now. In fact, I'd be surprised if there were any nearby."

A couple of red bottles rolled down to her leg tellingly.

[Rolf Stout-Heart]

"Oh," Rolf uttered at the sight of the soggy stranger, "A thousand apologies, sister."

Though, outwardly, his apology was laden with sincerity, the little scamp on the inside giggled like a fiend. And, while the women talked, he submerged himself beneath the icy water - partly, to scrub the crusted blood from his hair, partly, to hide his smile. His braided hair came undone and clung stubbornly to the base of his neck as he went about working off the evidence of his sordid evening affairs. All the while, he listened to Akasha and the stranger, whose voice tinkled upon his ears like warm melodic rain. He was pleased to hear the Khajiit echo his words, describing herself as a 'warrior-maiden of Hammerfell,' and intrigued at the other's cavalier attitude towards the threat of bandits. He drifted closer.

"You are a confident one," he said, not failing to take note of her curious hoard, "How can you be so sure?"

Gods, the children they would have together: milk-skinned and with hair as aflame as the Deadlands!

[Ursula Beirne]

"Because," she said, still grinning cheerfully, "I killed them."

The man drifted closer, and the flame-haired woman began to pull on her boots. She wiggled her toes to make sure everything felt right on her right foot before picking up her left boot and glancing at the two.

"Well, they killed themselves, more like. They thought they'd found themselves a weak little mark, and probably have some fun with her, but didn't notice the runes 'neath their feet they didn't. Not until they were on fire, at least."

She opened the sack, and two steel daggers, two sheathed steel swords, and a pile of furs became visible, as well as a bulging little pouch that clinked as it was jostled.

"So here I come, fixing to wash up those foul garments, and I sit here just enjoyin' myself, you see," she blew out her breath, catching a stray lock of hair in the process. "So unless they were just pretending to be dead, and will at any moment beset me in their wee undergarments with naught but their hands, I can say with surety that they'll not be troubling anyone further."

Her smile quickly faded into a thoughtful expression, and she paused in putting on her gauntlets.

"Though in a week I'm guessing some other desperate intemperate souls will find themselves in the same places doing the same things as their unfortunate departed brethren."

She shook her head as if doing so would cast off her distraction like a fly. She stood and stretched, and tied the sack up.

"So, I'll be off to Riverwood then. I heard the shopkeeper there is the sort who'll give you better prices if he thinks you're like him."

[Akasha]

Akasha fanned back one ear as the Breton woman gathered her spoils. She made a mental note to check the ground nearby for any unexploded runes before they climbed back up to the path.

"Like him?" Akasha repeated. "Why? What is he like?"

[Ursula Beirne]

"Dunno," was the answer. "I'll see when I get there. Maybe I won't have to do a thing and we'll just have a special connection? If that's the case, I hope he's handsome. To be honest it would take an awful lot of personality to overcome a sorry physical state. At least I think so."

As she spoke, her expressions changed also, from cheerful to thoughtful, to wistful and then to light and conspiratorial, though she hadn't quieted her tone much at all.

[Rolf Stout-Heart]

The redhead was talking like some sort of dewy-eyed school girl, about special connections, and personality, and looks, and yet, she had Rolf's undivided attention. His head bobbed like an apple on the water as he studied the woman, loot and all, as if she were a puzzle to be decyphered. When she stopped speaking, it was as if a spell had been lifted, and he couldn't be entirely sure if that was due to the honeyed tone of her voice or not. His brain felt like a stew, thick and full of potatoes, but from the depths of his thoughts bubbled a single word:

"Runes?" he said, "As in... magical runes?"

[Ursula Beirne]

"Of course! Can't really light lads on fire with normal stone carved runes now can I?" she answered good naturedly. "Though aren't you gettin' the least bit cold in there?"

[Akasha]

Mages. Akasha didn't much care for them on the best of days, not since one day at the Elinhir Fighter's Guild when she'd squared off against a Dunmer who conjured weapons out of thin air and covered the floor in exploding lightning traps. She'd taken some perverse pleasure in watching his next opponent bludgeon him senseless on the sand.

"He does this all the time," the Khajiit said, unconcerned. "Riverwood, then? This one hopes the rest of your journey there is less eventful."

Akasha's paw had wandered to her swordbelt again, just in case this mage tried anything... unnatural.

[Rolf Stout-Heart]

Rolf was stunned by the stranger's words. It was the brazen way in which she spoke of magic that surprised him most: a confession without any guilt. He cast a quick glance at Akasha to see if she shared his bewilderment, but again, that feline expression was entirely illegible to him. Although her hand had wandered closer to her sword hilt, he noticed, and that told him enough. And then, at the redhead's second question, his thin-lipped concern became a smile again.

"I am a Nord! The cold is in my blood!" he said, and then, after a glance at his surroundings, he proceded to rise from the water, "But yes, admittedly, this is no steaming bath of lavender and mountain flowers, so let's be on our way."

He started back up the steep climb of shale towards the Guardian Stones, working the water vigorously from his long copper hair, and found Akasha's bear pelt still folded on the boulder where he left it. After a moment, wrestling with the fur, the pelt was wrapped neatly around his middle. Now at least partly dressed, he was made painfully aware of the absence of his sword - he felt unbalanced without its familiar weight at his side, and the comforting grip of its leathered hilt. It put him at something of a loss with what to do with his hands, so he folded his arms as he regarded the women, who had both joined him on the road.

"And now, two become three. I am Rolf Stout-Heart, son of Geirlund of Windhelm. And this is Akasha ja Khanai, warrior-maiden of Hammerfell. What do they call you, my flaming-haired sorceress?"

[Ursula Beirne]

The red headed girl's smile became a grin, and she stood straight, her hands resting on her hips.

“My name is Ursula Beirne!"

She stayed in that position for a moment, and when they simply looked at her blankly, her grin faded.

“Haven't heard of me, have you?" She sighed, picking up the sack she'd dropped when introducing herself. “I have more work to do then."

[Akasha]

So they were traveling together, then. Akasha supposed that was Rolf's business, since he was the one doing the guiding, but she was rather enjoying his attention, and there was a petulant part of her that didn't want the competition of another female. Particularly one who worked magic, which was basically cheating. But at least it was only to Riverwood, and then there would be the long road to Whiterun to talk about Guardian Stones and warrior tales--

Which reminded her of the whole purpose of her journey, and she suddenly couldn't resist the temptation to one-up the Breton. "This one will be sure to remember your name, Vanquisher of Bandits. In the meantime, you may soon hear this one's name listed among the Companions of Jorrvaskr. She intends to join once we have reached Whiterun."

[Ursula Beirne]

"This one will be sure to remember your name, Vanquisher of Bandits..."

"And Draugr! In fact, making the undead dead again is something of a specialty of mine."

"In the meantime, you may soon hear this one's name listed among the Companions of Jorrvaskr. She intends to join once we have reached Whiterun."

"The Companions!" Ursula said, her eyes alight. There was a definite tone of admiration in her voice. "Heroes and mighty warriors come together in fellowship and the search for glory! That's a noble path if there ever was one, and that's a fact. There's not a soul in High Rock that hasn't heard of the tales of the Sack of Saarthal, or tragic antagonistic heroism of the Snow Elves."

She leaned forward, as if sharing a secret with the two of them.

"Though some of the tales mayn't be so rosy in portraying some of the older Nord heroes in their High Rock versions. Our perception might be coloured by the mer blood running through our veins. And the taking of the western Reach from our more primitive cousins. And the pillaging the Nords have done on our western borders."

She ticked off the reasons on her fingers, though despite the historical grievances she was bringing up, she didn't seem very put out by them. They were history, after all, and she knew quite well the barbarism the Reachmen known as the Forsworn were capable of, beholden to the hagravens as they were.

"But in any event, this is quite fortuitous, for I'm headed there myself. If there's fame and glory to be bought and wrought in Skyrim, it's through the Companions, and I intend to amass quite a bit of both."

[Rolf Stout-Heart]

Akasha's offhand revelation drew from Rolf a look of almost wounded surprise; eyebrows peaked while the rest of his face appeared to sag under the weight of his conflicted thoughts. He wondered why she'd neglected to mention this sooner, as if, in the clear light of her words, their minutes-long relationship suddenly spanned the course of decades. His time to think and ponder upon his response was made mercifully extensive by Ursula and her indulgent speech. He didn't listen, for the most part, until she spoke of the Nords. Hearing his own people coloured as villains turned his mood instantly sour, he could feel himself tense all over, like a sabercat poised to strike. But the strike never came, because, in her last breath, Ursula had dispelled his anger, in expressing a similar wish to join the Companions.

"The warriors of Jorrvaskr value strength of arms and gallantry in battle above all things. I do not imagine there is a place for a mage amongst their ranks, Ursula Beirne. Perhaps the College of Winterhold, or if you find the learned men of the north too barbarous for your tastes, then maybe you should return to the Mages Guild of High Rock."

A glance at Akasha said it was time to go, and he turned, heading down the road that flanked the roaring river.

[Akasha]

Saarthal? Snow Elves? Akasha had never heard of such things - she'd only just learned of the Companions a few days ago. Her nerves made her tail snap behind her as she worried about betraying her ignorance as a rustic Hammerfell rube. All the more reason to learn everything she could before she was face-to-face with one of the Companions themselves. With a cautious glance to Ursula, she turned and padded quickly back to the road to catch up with Rolf.

"You know of Jorrvaskr?" she said. "That is... well, of course you do, you're from Whiterun. This one would like to learn more about the Companions. She hopes to be a worthy addition to their ranks. How does one join?"

[Ursula Beirne]

"Now hold on there!" Ursula called, trotting after the two. "What's sayin' a mage can't have strength of arms and gallantry or valiance or what have you in battle?"

She puffed a bit as she drew alongside them.

"And... that College is right out. You see, I was in the Mages' Guild in High Rock. And a large part of the reason I'm here now is that I had to explain more than a few times that I hadn't joined the Guild to be a bed warmer for a Guild teacher, or fellow student." Ursula looked to the side and grimaced slightly. "I explained most vociferously once with a high ranking guild member, and then left with more than a few articles that weren't mine at the time. The College is the first place they'd look for me; and it's not the place where I'd find my fame and glory."

[Rolf Stout-Heart]

"Kodlak Whitemane is the Harbinger of the Companions. Now there is a man forged of steel and stone, and it is him you will need to impress," he said, first to Akasha, and then with begrudging glance at Ursula, "Both of you."

The idea of the mage becoming a shield-sister made him anxious. There was a rabid curiosity in him that felt like his heart lodged in his throat. And when Ursula fell into step alongside them, it was everything in him to keep his gaze averted - to not show interest. He knew her arguments - he had heard them all before, and it wouldn't make a difference to the Companions even if she had power to rival the Archmage of Winterhold himself. Unless it did. He considered it for a moment: what if this Breton woman had such power that his shield-brothers and sisters could do naught but welcome her into the family? The heart in his throat throbbed.

"First," he continued, drily, "You will have your skills put to the test. Weapon of choice, of course. That is to say, well... not magic. I should warn you, the Companions are not easily impressed, but should you succeed in your test, then you will be assigned a shield-brother, or sister. In time, they will come to know you, and unless there is more to you than boastful words or an impressive sword, you will be found wanting, I assure you."

[Akasha]

Harbinger. Akasha didn't know that word, but she would soon, she wagered. Already she felt hungry to prove herself, to show the quality of her arm and of her heart, to be judged and found worthy. The only alternative was to roam the taverns of Skyrim as a common sell-sword, and where was the honor in that?

"This one will not be found wanting," Akasha said, three parts courage and one part fear. "She assures you."

The road and the river turned a bend together, exposing them to the full blast of the morning sun, which to Akasha seemed unnaturally harsh and hot. Wasn't Skyrim supposed to be a cold country? The Khajiit raised a paw to shade her eyes and saw a cluster of wooden houses with thatched roofs straddling the foaming river, and a large sawmill flanked by neat piles of limbed pine logs.

She was grateful when they passed back into the shade of the little woodcutting town of Riverwood, though they received more than their share of curious stares. Akasha wasn't sure which of them was the most unusual - the armored Khajiit, the Breton woman in mage robes, or the Nord wearing almost nothing at all.

[Ursula Beirne]

As they entered the village, Ursula didn't waste any time. As soon as she spotted the dangling sign denoting the Riverwood Trader, she made straight for it, and opened the door. Within was an Imperial man, leaning against the counter, idly looking through a ledger that he closed as soon as he looked up. By the ledger was a noticeable golden ornament in the shape of a claw of some kind.

"Take a look around," he said cheerfully. "I'm sure you'll find something you like."

"I am sure I will!" Ursula replied, dropping the sack onto the counter. The shopkeeper's brow rose as he looked down at the bulging sack and then back up at her. But she was already looking at the various items on display.

"This is a good selection," she said admiringly. "You have a good eye."

"Yes. Thank you," the man mumbled, watching while she pulled open the sack and pulled out several pieces of furred armor, a couple steel swords and daggers, and some books. A jingling purse was removed and placed in a pouch at her side. "You're looking to sell this, then? Why not go to the blacksmith. He could make better use of this than I could."

"Oh no!" Ursula said. "Truthfully, I saw him while I was entering the town. Large man. Intimidating, actually. No, I wanted to visit the Trader. Larger selection, potions and books, and all sorts of things! And yours is particularly nice. Is that... is that Night Falls on Sentinel? That's a rare book to be finding up here. Where'd you find it?"

"Caravan," answered the shopkeeper, smiling. "I found a number of good things. Why not take a look?"

"Of course!" Ursula responded. The man pulled out a small selection of potions and weapons, and even a set of leather gauntlets. "Well now, these are nice. You don't have an entire set though, do you?"

"No. Leather cuirasses are much harder to come by you see, at least in any condition worth selling."

"Well, you could probably pair them up with some of these furred garments. Get an entire set going, put it up on the wall, and there's a statement! 'We've got everything.'"

The shopkeeper grunted.

"Well, that does make some sense. Here. I'll pay you twenty septims for a set of that fur armor."

"Done!" Ursula said. "And I'd like to purchase some potions. Healing ones, if you have them."

The back and forth continued, with Ursula selling two more complete sets of furred armor, both swords and daggers, and all of the books, while picking up the requisite traveler's needs: potions, food, and two torches.

[Rolf Stout-Heart]

Out of coin, and bereft of anything of value - save for the bear hide that kept his manhood from freezing off - Rolf kept himself out of the way. He lingered near the door, arms folded, like a malnourished wildman on guard duty. Ursula browsed the shop with an abundance of enthusiasm which, on the surface, identified her as an easy mark for villainous tradesmen. But, when coupled with her wily tongue, the charm and wit became a formidable combination, and soon she was palming off her entire inverntory of looted stash with staggering efficiency. Rolf had to wonder if there was any sincerity in her flattery, not that his opinion mattered, of course, because the shop-keeper - some greasy Imperial - gobbled up her words like sweet rolls.

There was a sound of footsteps; not the weighty clunk of boots, or the pathetic shuffle of bare feet, but a soft and delicate padding upon the stairs. An attractive raven-haired woman descended into the shop, the fabric of her skirt made an airy swishing sound that seemed almost foreign to Rolf's ears. She gave a slight start at the sight of him, and promptly busied herself with Akasha's needs, who was inspecting the shelved goods with polite interest.

"Kind of you to join us this morning, sister of mine," croaked the merchant.

"You're fortunate I'm awake at all," she replied, her warm voice cracked with fatigue, "Barely a moment's rest I had all night. Damn wolves! Such a noise like I've never heard before - it turned my blood to ice!"

Rolf struggled not to roll his eyes. Typical milk-drinker talk, failing to grasp that the true riches of Skyrim lie, not in its coin, but in the beautiful untamed land itself, wild beasts and all. He moved to excuse himself from the poor company, when a sight caught his eye: a fur cuirass and matching boots, lying unclaimed on the merchant's table. It looked as if Ursula was about to make one last bid to rid herself of the remaining furs, when he intervened, planting a hand firmly upon the cuirass, as if to claim it for his own.

"You have gold aplenty. Do not let me pass through the gates of Whiterun looking like one of your Reachmen. I promise, you will not regret earning favour with a man like me."

[Akasha]

Akasha dismissed the shopkeeper's sister as quickly as courtesy allowed, and perhaps quicker, if the sideways look the Imperial woman gave her was anything to go by. If it wasn't one thing, it was another - she'd been burning under her fur in the light of the sun outside, but now that she was inside she felt chilled and damp, and her mouth was oddly parched, even after a few swallows from her waterskin. She had originally planned to sleep for a few hours in the inn at Riverwood to make up for a night of peril in Shriekwind Bastion, but now she felt stifled and anxious. She wanted nothing more than to retreat to somewhere warm, dry, and preferably dark, like the granary barn on her family homestead back in Hammerfell.

The Khajiit hugged herself tightly and tried to rub some warmth back into her bare, fur-covered arms. S'rendarr's mercy, was she falling ill? At a time like this? Of all the rotten, flea-bitten luck!

It was then that she realized she had been reading the labels on the same shelf of restorative potions for the past five minutes or so. She forced her eyes to focus on a red bottle with a pyramid-shaped base: Potion of Cure Disease, according to the copperplate label on the side. Akasha reached for it but only succeeded in knocking it over with a clatter.

Four pairs of eyes darted toward her, and her ears went flat. "Sorry."

"Are you all right?" asked the shopkeeper's sister. "You don't look so well."

Akasha straightened up and brought her paws down to her sides. "This one is perfectly fine," she said. "How much for that potion?"

"A hundred and thirty," the woman replied.

"Oh..." Akasha turned and, very carefully, set the bottle upright again.

[Ursula Beirne]

Ursula regarded the Nord in bemusement, idly wondering if he was grandstanding. But she shrugged, and gestured to them.

“Fine," she said, “though do refrain from changing here, eh?"

Though her words were good natured, the shopkeeper nodded and looked at Rolf in disdain.

“Yes. Please don't."

There was a clatter, and all of them turned to look at a sheepish Akasha. Ursula was a bit curious, but not enough to inquire further into the Khajiit woman's infirmity.

[Rolf Stout-Heart]

The toppled potion bottle caused Rolf to wonder. Cats were supposed to be nimble creatures - were the Divines so cruel that they would deny the Khajiit the gifts of their animal kin? What was the point in having a tail, fur, claws, and fangs, if you couldn't boast the same blessings as a domesticated kitten? He failed to surpress a smile at Akasha's expense, amused by the way she stiffened indignantly at the Imperial woman's question, and then felt a swell of sympathy as she deflated, upon discovering the potion's price, and returned it carefully to its rightful place. In that moment, he decided he liked the young warrior-maiden from Hammerfell. But the same could not be said of his other travelling companion.

Ursula, for all her posturing and talk, was still very much an unknown quantity to him. She openly confessed to having magic, that she had killed bandits, and that she wished to join the Companions - and, in that, she had been completely truthful with them. There was no reason to doubt her words, for the evidence had been exchanged right under his nose. Maybe it was the influence of his uncle, the embittered old horker, that was colouring his judgement so:

"Never trust a pretty girl, boy. Chances are you'll be thinking with what's between your legs instead of what's between your ears. It is a witchcraft, mark my words. Better with a paid wench than a costly beauty."

And what a beauty, he thought, studying the milky skin and eyes that flashed like sapphires in the firelight. But the softness in him hardened as he called to mind the casual way she'd spoken ill of his people, or the ease with which she toyed with the shopkeeper for personal gain. She was a dangerous one, Rolf decided, and, for the sake of some furs, he found himself in her debt. Strange, that an act of kindness should merit such distrust.

The cuirass and boots were gathered in his arms. He eyed the pile with detached curiosity. Then, when he was sure nobody was looking, he gave the furs a sniff. His nose wrinkled. He'd had worse. The shopkeeper afforded him another grimace, which he acknowledged with a slight bow and a tell-tale curl in his lips. He took his leave ahead of the women, and found a place behind the tavern to change into his new clothes. Once he was done, he perched himself upon the stone bridge beyond the inn and watched salmon flurry beneath the flowing river.

[Akasha]

As her companions filtered out of the little shop, Akasha lingered as long as she could in the meager shade of Riverwood's buildings, feigning interest in the forge works and the tavern and the picket wall where a couple bored guards patrolled, but there was no such cover on the bridge. She took a deep breath to steel herself and then stepped out into the wrathful sunlight, her ears peeled back, her pupils shrunken to blade-edge slits.

"This damned sun," she complained as she approached Rolf on the bridge. "It was never this bad in the Alik'r. Is this normal for Skyrim? It burns right through this one's fur."

[Ursula Beirne]

"Well, if I wasn't of the opinion you were ill before, that certainly would have changed my mind," Ursula said. "Unfortunately, I don't have any cure disease potions."

She regarded Rolf in some proper fur armor, looking thoughtful, and continued.

"Only thing for it is to go on to Whiterun. A blessing at a temple should clear it up, if the patron's feeling nicely, that is."

[Rolf Stout-Heart]

"The mage speaks true. The temple healers will see you right."

He approached Akasha for a better look. First, he looked for signs of a fever, for patches of matted fur, and then he noticed her eyes, like large emeralds with button holes. Finally, he saw it. And for the first time since their chance encounter, he was able to comprehend the contours of that exotic Khajiit face: Akasha was in discomfort. It went a way to explain her words, and her behaviour in the Riverwood Trader, but only so far. Once again, he looked to the sky and squinted at the sun, tiny between the mountains.

"The sun is but a warm breath upon the land, enough to make the mountains weep but no more. It is a terrible fever that is upon you to imagine heat beyond the scorching sands of Hammerfell. Come, we must make haste."

[Akasha]

Before they set off again, Akasha donned the bearskin undercloth once more, not because she felt she needed the warmth, but because it kept more of the sun off of her. Fever - that had to be it; she could think of nothing else that could explain this strange sensation of burning and freezing all at once, and yet when she touched the rough flesh of her nose it did not feel abnormally warm. She could remember being laid up in bed with the rattles when she was a cub - days of sweaty chills, muscle spasms, and bone-aching weariness as she drifted in and out of lucid consciousness. Alkosh forbid that she should become a burden now, when she was trying to prove her worth in a new land!

The Khajiit drove herself onward alongside her fellow travelers, grateful that they were once again passing through another shaded portion of the road on the other side of the roaring river. Everything around her seemed abnormally bright and sharp and loud, the edges of shadows where they lay across the path, the snapping of twigs and leaves as animals moved about in the forest, the smell of sweat on the humans' backs, and, along with it, a tang of deer's blood that remained on Rolf's neck even after his wash in the lake. It was all more than a bit disconcerting.

"This one does not know," she said, and then she realized with distaste that her voice betrayed how breathless she was, "how she could have fallen ill. Must have been some blight in Falkreath, accursed place. You do not know any healing spells, by any chance?"

[Ursula Beirne]

"I know how to heal myself," Ursula said apologetically. "But I always go travelling and fighting alone, so I've never needed to learn a spell to heal others."

She glanced over at Rolf, looking slightly worried.

"Do you know one?" she asked.

[Rolf Stout-Heart]

"I am a son of Skyrim, not some robe-wearing spell-flinger from Cyrodiil," he said, with a practiced shrug, "The only magic I know is at the bottom of an empty mead flagon."

Rolf did not meet the eyes of his companions. Instead, he watched the road disappear behind a broad shoulder of mountainside, as if he expected a mammoth to come rampaging around the bend at any moment. Up ahead, the river raged and rolled over rocks in a boiling white froth, before tumbling out of sight; his knees were cool and glistened from the wisps of water vapor that glided over the balding riverbanks. When they rounded the corner, Whiterun Hold stretched out before them in its endless splendour; an ocean of untamed tundra, of hard earth marbled grey and green, with fields of morning fog, threaded with silvery streams, and roads, yellowed like breadcrumbs, that dotted the trails between myriad farms and lonely forts, and smoking shacks and forgotten tombs, between the tiny brown hamlets, and Whiterun itself, the towering city of timber and stone that rose up out of the landscape like a mountain. It wasn't until Akasha wandered into him that Rolf became aware that he had stopped dead in his tracks.

"You said you came from Falkreath? A bleak and bloodless place, where the wine is only drunk in mourning and the songs are only sung by tombs. Behold the beating heart of Skyrim, Akasha of Hammerfell, where even the dead cannot resist the throb of life."

He placed a hand upon her shoulder, and wore a confident smile, "Here, you will be renewed, and we shall be feasting before nightfall!"

[Akasha]

Akasha mumbled an apology after bouncing off of Rolf's back, but she doubted he heard it. She certainly couldn't dispute his indictment of Falkreath, nor did she have any desire to try - the only good that had come out of that wretched town was Wulthgar setting her on her current path.

That was still good, she told herself. She refused to believe otherwise.

Though the morning fog quickly lifted, it gave way to large, mounting clouds that mercifully spared her from the brunt of the sun's wrath. Some congenial conversation passed between Ursula and Rolf, energetic on the first count and guarded on the second, but Akasha found herself hard-pressed to follow. If she felt herself, she would be right in the middle of them, plying them with questions, making boasts, sharing wild stories of Hammerfell and the Fighter's Guild of Elinhir. Instead all she could do was to keep pace, to wonder silently at the outposts and monuments that dotted the endless plains around them, and at the city that sat misty on the horizon like a banquet set on a distant table.

She was still thinking of a banquet when they stopped for lunch in the shade of a lonely oak tree by an overgrown length of stone fence. Akasha still had an apple and a block of cheese, the last of her provisions from Falkreath, but it tasted like ashes in her swollen mouth. What she wanted was the elk her sister had shot a week ago when they'd first arrived in Skyrim, fat and bloody, spitting juice over a fire, roasted or raw, dripping and savory--

"Hail, travelers!"

Her cloudy yellow eyes darted up from her meager meal to see three strangers standing before them on the path, a Redguard and two Nords, all of them in leather armor, each of them armed. It was the Redguard who had spoken, a towering man with a shaved head and the hilt of an enormous greatsword nodding over his left shoulder. The Nordic man on his right bore a hide buckler and a mace that glistened strangely in the afternoon light, and the Nordic woman carried a short sword and a dagger and a bow at her back.

"We are hunters tracking a dangerous beast through Whiterun Hold," the Redguard said. "A wolf of uncommon size and cunning. We believe it may have fled this way last night. Have you seen any sign of the creature? Howling in the night? Any suspicious kills?"

Unbidden, Akasha found her ears lying flat. These people were not armed as hunters, except perhaps the woman - they were armed for a fight. And the mace at the Nordman's hip shone far too brightly for this light, like a polished museum piece rather than a weapon of war. Steel, even well cared for, did not shine like that. But who would have need of a silver mace?

The hilt of the greatsword, and the hilts of the woman's sword and dagger, glistened the same way. Akasha shuffled uneasily where she sat, feeling trapped - and yet she didn't know why.

[Ursula Beirne]

"Well, look at all that silver!" Ursula said, resting her hand on the hilt of her longsword (http://static-3.nexusmods.com/15/mods/110/images/26261-1-1354368482.jpg), which was also made of silver, though it did not shine as their weapons did. Some of it was use, but mainly it was harder to oil and burnish silver when travelling and sleeping under the stars. "Is this an undead wolf by chance? A werewolf? Can vampires turn into wolves?"

[Akasha]

The Nord woman thumbed the hilt of her silver shortsword and said, "You know about werewolves, Breton?"

The Redguard silenced her with a raised hand, but his steely eyes locked themselves on Ursula's. "Werewolves are no laughing matter. They are a blight upon all Divines-fearing men and mer. Abominations born from foul Daedric magic. Ravenous demons in the guise of ordinary--"

His eyes fell on Akasha, who crouched at the back of the group as if trying to sink into the earth, and he drew his greatsword from his back.

"This one is Khajiit," Akasha rasped. "She doesn't look anything like a wolf."

"By Ysmir," the Nordman said. "Her eyes, and her teeth!"

"You two!" the woman snapped at Rolf and Ursula. "You can't have been blind to her affliction!"

"The signs can be difficult to read in the Beast Races," the Redguard said. "And she is still changing."

Akasha moved her paw to her ebony sword, and she hunched forward, ready to leap away should any of the strangers move toward her. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm sorry, friend," the Redguard said, "but there can be no doubt about it. You're in the early stages of Sanguinare Vampiris. You're becoming a vampire."

[Rolf Stout-Heart]

Unable to contain his surprise, Rolf looked away from the strangers and stared, wide-eyed at Akasha. In the cold light of the Redguard's words, he thought he saw a flicker, like the first stirring embers of some hellish thing, waking behind her eyes. They mentioned her teeth and, true enough, he'd never seen one of her kind with teeth such as hers, like the fangs of a sabercat cub. The woman's reprimand rang afresh in his ears. Even Ursula, with her keen wits, who had at once deduced the significance of the party's silver weapons and the meaning behind their veiled words, even she had failed to notice the signs. Rolf, on the other hand, was ignorant of all knowledge regarding his companion's condition, of all but one thing. In a stride, he placed himself between Akasha and the hunters.

"You say it is the early stages of her affliction. Then she will be resting in the Temple of Kynareth before nightfall. Pray, brother, sheath your weapon. There is no call for bloodshed here."

The Redguard made no move. By the shade of the lonely oak, he could've been sculpted from ebony, himself an unliving sentinel, where it not for the large almond eyes that looked through Rolf like he were a ghost. It seemed he was a stubborn one. Rolf changed tactic.

"If it is a wolf you seek then look to Riverwood. There was a woman who spoke of howling unlike any she had ever heard before. You will find her in the Riverwood Trader."

[Akasha]

"Like hell you're taking her to Whiterun!" the Nord woman snarled. "The guards will never let her past the gates!"

"Even if they did," the Redguard said in a more somber tone, "the poison could overtake her mind by then. She might overpower you, or escape into the city after dusk. It's too great a risk."

"This is madness!" Akasha erupted. "This one is no vampire, she is only sick! She... she wasn't even bitten!"

"But you did meet a vampire," the Redguard surmised. "All it takes is a scratch. I am truly sorry, Khajiit. But your soul can still be saved. Better to face your fate with your eyes open and your mind clear. In the name of the Silver Hand, I will make your passing quick and painless."

The Nord woman unshouldered her bow and began to slip an arrow from her quiver, while the Nord man loosened his silver mace from his belt, and all three strangers fanned out and advanced toward the terrified Khajiit.

[Ursula Beirne]

Ursula flicked her fingers on her left hand, causing flames to begin dancing across them; the elven gauntlets glittered dangerously in their light.

"You know, holding us up here will definitely make sure that she's not going to make it in time," the redhead said conversationally. "But I like her. She's got spunk, a fire to her. So..."

A flaming rune carved itself into the ground between the three unlikely companions and the silvered weapon carrying hunters, and a deep dark swirling light formed in her right hand. She glanced over at Rolf, and nodded down to her side, where her sword hung from her hip. Hopefully he'd take the hint and grab it when the fighting started.

"I have one question for you. How many runes do you think I can make before you can reach us?" She grinned fiercely. "Well? How many?"

[Akasha]

The Nord woman nocked her arrow and drew, aiming squarely at Ursula. "How many arrows do you think I can fill you with, witch?"

Just then a brown-and-ebony blur hurtled past the mage, shrieking, "Not enough!" Akasha, shield and sword in paw, barreled toward the archer, whose notched arrow buried itself in the wooden crest of the Khajiit's shield. In the very next moment, Akasha bowled into the woman, knocking her to the ground.

But the Khajiit scarcely had time to recover before the Redguard was upon her with his silver greatsword. The first blow staggered her even through her shield, and the next sent her backpedaling further away from her would-be protectors.

The Nordman, not one to be left out, raised his mace and buckler and, sidestepping the sparkling rune on the ground, charged headlong at Ursula and Rolf.

[Rolf Stout-Heart]

There was a ring of metal as Rolf drew Ursula's sword. It was lighter than he expected, but he steadied it with a second hand all the same. The charging Nord was upon him, with silver mace aloft and shimmering like a new moon above his head. Rolf whirled the longsword around in a dramatic arc, it glanced off the buckler, only scraping the iron rim. Behind his shield, the Nord was as solid as a great oak; he swatted at his opponent with a grunt, but Rolf was smaller and faster and was out of the way before the mace could hit home.

A second rune etched itself into the ground. The fighters danced around them as they watched silently from the grass, as red as hot coals, like the eyes of a patient and hungry dragon. The woman was cursing herself to her feat, fumbling for another arrow, while her Redguard companion occupied himself with Akasha, the air gasping around him with every swing of his obscene blade. In a moment of synchronised violence, Rolf mirrored the Redguard as he brought his own sword to bear upon his enemy with a heavy executioner's swing. Silver met wood with a dull thunk; pain blossomed in his wrists and travelled in tremors up his arms. Finally, the man staggered.

[Ursula Beirne]

With a flare of deep light, a portal opened, swirling and ethereal, in the middle of the fight, coalescing into a creature seemingly made of flame and metal. The flame atronach spun, seemingly reveling in its freedom.

"Y'know who to roast, demon!" Ursula called, quickly exerting her will over the summoned daedra before it could try to turn on her. The flame spirit turned and tossed a sphere of fire at the archer, while Ursula sprinted for Rolf; she dropped the rune at the Nord's feet as they tumbled clear, the rune exploding violently and engulfing him in a pillar of flame that expanded outward, licking at the Redguard's back and flanking the archer, who was sidestepping the near constant stream of firebolts the atronach was sending her way. She grinned fiercely as she pushed herself off of Rolf with a panted apology, and turned to face their attackers once more.

[Akasha]

Ursula had leavened the battlefield with a generous helping of chaos, effectively removing the two Nords from the fight altogether. That left the Redguard alone for Akasha to contend with, and she had faced his like often enough on the fighting sands of the arena in Hammerfell. But she didn't feel like herself, and the cold light in the bald hunter's eyes unnerved her - he was not angry, or afraid, or battle-drunk as she'd often seen her Redguard foes - instead he was calm, resolved, and he looked on her not with hatred or disgust, but with pity.

Which infuriated her.

The Khajiit warrioress darted in and out of reach of her enemy like a wolf worrying the ankles of a bear, all the while trying to stay just ahead or just behind the sweeping arcs of his greatsword. But he was canny, and though he seemed passive he was using a fraction of the energy she was exerting, and it was only a matter of time before she made a fateful misstep--

And then it happened. Her shield dipped too low, giving him a path to thrust toward her heart, and when she raised her ebony sword to turn his sword aside, he twisted his hilt, locked blades with her, and wrenched her weapon out of her grasp, sending it spiraling through the air until it bit into the trunk of the nearby oak tree and stuck there. Disarmed, Akasha stumbled back with her tail tucked and her ears pinned back in dismay.

"Don't be afraid," the Redguard rumbled. "I send you to Stendarr, that your soul may be cleansed."

He stepped forward and raised his great gleaming blade, but then a lance of fire from Ursula's atronach burst across his back and threw him off-balance. Seizing her chance, Akasha leapt for the man's throat. The Redguard shouted and threw her off, but not before her claws had torn a great, bloody gash down the side of his face and neck.

He staggered back and felt the wound, staring in horror at the fresh blood on his fingers. The two Nords pulled away from their own battles and gaped at their leader, aghast.

"You!" the man snarled at the Khajiit. "What have you done?"

"The hawk's feathers," the woman said. "We can brew up a potion in time if we hurry."

Akasha glared murderously at the woman. "You could have done that all along?"

"It doesn't always work," the Redguard said. "I could have saved you. Now both our fates are uncertain."

"Forgive this one if she does not weep for you," Akasha spat.

[Rolf Stout-Heart]

The trio retreated like scalded dogs; the massive Redguard probing his bloodied neck, the Nord man nursing an arm of cracked and glistening red flesh, and the woman, unharmed, glancing warily back at Ursula's flaming demon as they shrank into the distance. Rolf, on the other hand, could barely bring himself to look at the creature. His skin was hot and wet from exertion and the intense heat. Only now did he loosen his grip on Ursula's weapon, the blade dipped, tracing a line in the charred earth. When he returned the sword, he saw her face and recalled the sight of it wreathed in a corona of blazing fire - for a moment, it had been impossible to determine where the hair ended and the flames began - there had been a manic light in her eyes that had nothing to do with magic, and she had smiled at him. Smiled, and he was reminded of someone.

"Thank you," he said, when she took back her sword. He wasn't thanking her for the sword.

"Akasha, are you hurt?" First, he approached, intent on providing assistance, when he recalled what happened to the Redguard, and hesitated.

[Akasha]

Akasha watched as the three hunters retreated and warily padded to the oak tree, where she retrieved her sword from the trunk and inspected the blade for damage. As she rammed it home into her Alik'r scabbard, she noticed the Redguard's blood still glistening on her claws. She stared at them, suddenly transfixed with the urge to lick them clean, and that gnawing hunger she felt during lunch redoubled.

It was Rolf's voice that brought her back to Nirn, and she wiped her claws furiously on the sash she wore beneath her belt. "Yes, this one is fine," she said.

She looked up then and saw the hunted look that crossed the Nord's face. "Rolf," she said, insistent, "this one is fine. She thanks you both for helping to defend her. Let's get to Whiterun now. Please?"

[Ursula Beirne]

"Well," Ursula said, nodding to Rolf while she sheathed her sword and with a wave of her hand banished the atronach. Her pale face was flushed, and streaks of dirt were drawn across her forehead as she wiped the sweat off with one dirty hand. "We'd best get going then shouldn't we?"

If she was put off by the revelation that Akasha was a vampire, she didn't show it.

"Nasty creatures, vampires," she'd said on more than one occasion, always adding, "but it's not always their choice, is it? Can't blame someone for going mad from hunger when they didn't know they were sick with in the first place. Those draining spells make it very satisfying to put them down though, don't you think?"

"We should make it to Whiterun by nightfall, I think," Ursula said, shielding her eyes with one hand covering the sun while she looked at the sky. "If we don't have any more interruptions, that is."

[Akasha]

Their passage through Whiterun Hold was quiet, but for Akasha it was torture. Every time the sun crept out from behind the rolling clouds, it felt as if the full weight of Magrus's fury were falling upon her, and her steps were heavy and slow, and her fur seethed as though it were on fire. When it mercifully hid itself again and they could walk in the shade, the hunger returned, deep and watchful, clutching at her stomach and roiling in her mouth, which watered whenever her tongue brushed against the canines that bulged too large against her swollen gums. She knew what she hungered for, and it horrified her, but she felt she could master it, as she had often mastered her snarling stomach while she and Ashira hunted for the day's meat in the wilderness.

What she didn't know was how long she could control it, or, even more terrifying, whether she'd know when the moment had passed, or if she would simply fall on her companions like a wolf among sheep, and either be slain by them or escape into the wild to become a fell thing of the night.

Even worse, she wondered if Ashira had escaped her fate, or if her older sister was languishing alone somewhere on the road from Shriekwind Bastion, not even knowing the nightmare in store for her. Akasha squeezed the tears from her eyes and filled her head with the scriptures (http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Words_of_Clan_Mother_Ahnissi) her mother had read to her since she was a mewling kitten:

"Alkosh, we give you Time, for what is as fast or as slow as a cat? Khenarthi, to you we give the sky, for what can fly higher than the wind? Magrus, to you we give the sun, for what is brighter than the eye of a cat? Mara, you are love, for what is more loving than a mother? S'rendarr, we give you mercy, for how does a runt survive, except by mercy?"

She murmured the blessisngs of Ahnurr and Fadomai, the First Littermates, as the sky darkened and the shadows grew long, and she hardly noticed when the road twisted and began to climb past a wooden guardhouse and toward the front gates of Whiterun. She squinted feverishly into the flickering torchlight as a soldier bearing a shield with a crest in the shape of a horse's head stepped out to challenge them.

"Ho there, travelers. What business do you have in Whiterun?"

"Hold on there," his partner said. "The Khajiit is not allowed inside the city gates. She can stay with the caravan outside."