I was hungry.
We were two days away from Sentinel, sailing along the western coast of High Rock between the cities of Daggerfall and its smaller counterpart Camlorn. I had started to notice the dull, throbbing pain in my gut that morning. It was bloodlust—an overwhelming hunger that, if not satisfied, would place me in an almost bestial, murderous state. Now, at midday, it was getting worse. My hunger was growing much faster than usual—probably because I lost so much blood from my injury.
I was still sitting near the barrels and crates I had claimed two days prior, across from a young, terribly annoying, Nord boy who insisted on speaking to me, no matter how many ways I tried to be rid of him. I was starting to wonder how he would taste, but I couldn’t feed on any of these men. The boat was too small—noise carried way to easily—for me to make any attempts to sate my lust for blood. I simply had to endure.
“Hey,” the young one said, waving a piece of bread before my angry, red eyes. “Here, take this bread. You haven’t eaten anything in two days. Aren’t you hungry?”
“You have no idea.” I said, almost growling.
“Well, here. Take this bread.”
I took it, and forced it down. It was disgusting—dry. I had eaten mortal food before, out of necessity. It could still provide some nutrients for my kind—but it was akin to a mortal eating a spoonful of ash. Each bite drove a spike in my pride—and only made me want blood even more. Perhaps I could get away with one bite of this boy…
“There.” He said, smiling. “That’s better, isn’t it?” He laughed. It reminded me of my younger brother, when he had laughed when he tried to ride our family’s milking cow, all those years ago. The cow was furious, nearly breaking both of my brother’s arms when he was flung from the beast’s great back—but instead of being worried or hurt, he had laughed.
I quickly pushed the memory back—there was no use for memories of those dead for nearly a thousand years. And that foolish, laughing boy—he was no longer my family. I had been reborn. My family is—was—the Khulari. And I had lost that family—I had lost everything at the hands of the Vigilants.
Anger swelled within me. My blood boiled. I stood up, towering over the young Nord. He was confused at the look on my face—pure fury. His confusion turned to fear as I took a step towards him. I tried to contain my hunger, my anger. But I was not able.
I was hungry. I was furious. I lost control.
The boy was killed instantly; I nearly took off his head with my initial lunging bite. He wasn’t even able to scream—I tore out his vocal chords with my fangs. The glorious taste of blood—it was just as sweet as the first time I had fed. The pain in my stomach dulled as it filled with the wonderful red tonic. I felt alive again for the first time since the attack. It was wonderful, invigorating. I ate my fill, draining the poor boy of pints upon pints of blood. I couldn’t remember another time I had fed so much. Perhaps I had lost more blood that I initially thought, but no matter—I definitely had plenty now.
I released the boy when I had finished. The body thudded against the deck. No one had seen what happened, but they would not fail to notice that a crewman was missing, even if I disposed of the body. I don’t remember taking long to decide. The rest of the crew had to die.
The first two didn’t know what hit them. I came from behind, as they were distracted by their duties. My kind, the Khulari, have the distinct ability to paralyze mortals. Some of the most ancient of my family could stun their prey with mere eye contact—but I was not that powerful. Not yet. I still required direct contact. Each of my hands grasped the bare neck of one of the crewmen, and they fell forward, unable to move—but totally aware of the pain from the knife I drove through each of their backs. It was a cruelly ironic place to stab them, I admit—and I almost felt sympathetic, but not quite. Those kinds of emotions—that way of thinking—were for the weak. And I was strong.
It was a simple matter eliminating the rest of the crew. It was high noon—I was at my weakest—but these were no Vigilants. Simple crewman and deckhands were no match for me. The weakest died to the blade. The ones who managed to draw weapons—those deserving of an honorable death, for being competent—got the fangs. As a Khulari, I relished every kill. I felt honorable once again—no longer shamed or at the mercy of mortals. No longer did I behave like them—sleeping in their beds and eating their food. I was myself once again. I was Khulari.
It couldn’t have taken more than minutes—but finally the last crewman fell. I hadn’t noticed the captain among the victims. A coward, no doubt, hiding in his cabin as his men screamed in terror and met their demise. He was willing to scream orders at them, to punish them when they disobeyed, but not to come to their aid when they needed it. He was not honorable. He was a disgrace.
I smashed the door to his cabin open and found him cowering in the corner. I must have looked like a demon to him, covered in blood, fangs dripping. He pushed his back against the wall in a vain attempt to get as far away from me as possible. I slowly stepped toward him.
“What are you?!” He screamed, voice cracking with fear. “Stay away! Get away!” Frantically he swung his arms before him, like a child swatting at a nightmare. I suppose for him, this was a nightmare. But he would never wake up. I didn’t reply to him—such a shameful man deserved no words of mine. He began to cry as I came within reach, and his arms lowered.
“Just leave me alone.” His voice was weak, scared, barely more than a whisper. Fear had taken even his ability to resist. He dropped to his knees and wept as I loomed over him.
It took every fiber of my being not to kill that pathetic creature in that moment—but I needed him alive.
I cupped his chin in my hand like a father would a child and looked him straight in the eye. Becoming a thrall, I have been told, is a wonderful experience. The victim falls in love with the master. They feel comfortable basking in the grace of the one commanding them. A shame, really—this man deserved to die a thousand painful deaths for dishonoring his crew.
“You will guide this ship to the nearest port. To Camlorn.” My voice must have sounded like a sweet melody to his pathetic ears.
“Yes, master.”
The Maiden came slowly into dock with only a small bump of the pier. Only a few scattered beings were around, and no one took an interest. It would be hours before the dock officials took notice of the condition of the ship—in fact, they probably wouldn’t notice until the bodies started to attract vultures. After disposing of my thrall—rather violently—I swiftly made my way away from the port and into the busier parts of the city.
Camlorn was busy, but nowhere near as crowded as Sentinel. There were plenty of merchants, sailors, and the like, to be sure, but I had a much easier time getting around. The slate gray stone buildings had a strange appeal about them—strangely inviting, almost protective, like the walls of a fortress. Another thing different about Camlorn was the smell—no rotting mead, stinking fish, or sweat. The whole place smelled of lavender. The purple flowers poked up all around the buildings and between the bricks of the road. The numerous banners, flags and decorations were the same shade of purple, and everywhere butterflies danced in the wind. Everyone I saw was proudly wearing a smile. It was a very appealing and beautiful place. It had lived up to its title, “The Jewel of the West.”
The merchants sold much of the same goods as those in Sentinel. Once again, I found myself purchasing a change of clothes. The vendor, a Dunmer this time, was annoyingly inquisitive about the blood spatter on my person—but accepted my story that I was a hunter and had just recently dressed and cleaned a stag—wild deer were abundant in the temperate forests of High Rock’s coastal regions. I bought another tunic—gray, again of Dunmer make—with a pair of black trousers. With the gold I had taken from the Maiden’s Captain, I was even able to afford a new pair of strong, black boots, a hooded, gray woolen cloak with a slight blue tint to it, and a sturdy leather bag to carry supplies. The Dunmer was very pleased with my business and wished me luck on my travels as I left.
There weren’t any alleyways to duck into—Camlorn’s merchant district was one very, very long street with no branching paths—so I made my way to the inn. The Breton woman who ran the place was very pleasant, allowing me to use a room to change my outfit for no charge. She even offered to wash my old clothes for a mere two Septims, which I accepted with a smile. I loathed interacting with mortals—with their smiling and their mindless small-talk—but it had to be done. I wished to avoid bloodshed—at least for the time being. Blending in was in my best interest.
I sat down at a table to wait, avoiding eye contact with the other patrons. Mostly, they left me alone—more concerned with the drink than anything else—but there was one man, a Nord, who kept staring, watching me like a wolf watches a deer before pouncing. The scent of the smoke from the roaring fire in the center of the large, rectangular room masked it at first—but then I could smell it—wet, reeking dog, only worse; a werewolf.
We were at an impasse, neither able to reveal the other without revealing himself. His eyes met mine, for a moment, and he slowly moved his head to one side—beckoning me to come and sit next to him at his table across the room. I had a strange feeling about him; he didn’t seem to mean me any harm. He even cracked a smile—which was interesting, to say the least. Our kinds usually didn’t interact on friendly terms. I was curious, and so I stood up and walked over. None of the other patrons acted as if anything was out of the ordinary.
I sat down across from him as he downed the last bit of ale in his mug. When he was finished, he set the mug down to his right and rested his great arms on the wooden table—it creaked with the weight. When he spoke, it was barely a whisper, only audible to those of us with heightened hearing.
“Never thought I’d find myself in this sort of situation, did you?” He was surprisingly relaxed, given the circumstances. I wondered about him—what were his intentions? He wasn’t acting as I expected—not gruff, not grumpy, and certainly not violent—and I had dealt with more than a few werewolves in my time. He was different.
He chuckled, and extended a hand for me to shake. I accepted—if only to keep up my guide as a mortal. His grip was firm and trusting, as if I was some long lost friend of his.
“The name’s Bjorlam. You’re just the type of person I’m looking for.”
“Talan.” I said. “What is it you need?”
His next question brought a cruel grin to my lips.
“How are you at killing Vigilants?”
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