30th of First Seed, 4e 101
Äelberon gazed outside the carriage window and up at the clear night sky, the sounds of Gaspard’s snoring and the steady rhythm of the horses’ hooves providing a constant background noise. The Breton wanted to leave very early in the morning, while it was still dark, so they could make Border Watch by sunrise from where they had camped the night before. The horses could have used a longer night’s rest, but he understood the Steward’s urgency and the coachman was taking the team at an easy pace, allowing them to not become winded and for the travel-worn Breton to rest while they continued. The Altmer couldn’t sleep, so he passed the time the best way he could; plaiting his hair in a warrior’s style that would last through the rigors of the day, reading and rereading the reports from Leyawiin, saying his Tenets, reciting his Order’s rites for the day in his mind, thinking, star-gazing. Away from the large cities, nestled in a backdrop of jeweled stars against a night that was like black velvet to him, both moons were full and almost abnormally bright, casting the southern marshlands with enough light for both team and driver to see by, even through the trees. The Moons seemed different to him after the Void Nights, Jode a richer red, Jone a brilliant cream, both shining with almost a defiant brightness.
The Breton made a strange noise, causing Äelberon to look over his shoulder and witness Gaspard's attempt to shift position, which made his loud snoring briefly stop, only to resume with a couple of shuddering gasps. Trouble breathing again. The old Mer sighed and turned completely from the window, leaning closer to the Breton. A soft golden light emanated from his hand and he carefully reached for the Steward’s throat. The spell flickered briefly when Gaspard suddenly snorted, scratching his chest, but he settled back into his fitful slumber, his mouth going slack. The tips of Äelberon’s long fingers found the Breton’s sweaty skin, barely touching, and he set to work. There was not much he could really do. It was Persyval’s girth that was causing his airway to be blocked, the extra fat around his throat basically strangling him as he slept, but he could shrink any swelling around the tonsils, clear his airways, and that is what he did. The Breton’s breathing eased, his sleep finally becoming deeper, and Äelberon sank back to his side of the carriage, his eyes returning to the window. He rolled his eyes and smirk found his features while he gazed into the pre-dawn swamps of southern Cyrodiil, at least someone is sleeping.
Gaspard’s snoring aside, Äelberon always struggled to sleep in carriages. Something about the confinement that he never really liked. Llandril always loved it, loved being inside among his soft pillows and silken sheets while Mia often had her nose in a book, studying her spells until she fell asleep with one on her chest, but Äelberon craved the fresh air. You can always read outside and then you get to see the world too.
When the Breton heard, however, that Äelberon lacked the funds for a horse and was planning on journeying to Leyawiin on foot, Persyval offered his coach since he was returning to Leyawiin anyway. He would have preferred to walk, use his legs, but Bumph insisted upon the carriage, wanting him to arrive at Leyawiin as soon as possible. So Äelberon arranged to provide guard service for Gaspard in exchange for transportation, because he could not take something for nothing. It was not Auri-El’s way as outlined in his Tenets. Though the Breton was unaware that Äelberon was also serving as his physician of sorts in this month-long journey. The nightly healings, giving the Breton subtle hints on a healthier diet, forcing him to get up and stretch his legs whenever the horses were being rested. An angaid of prevention was worth a thousand angaids of cure and Persyval Gaspard was bloody close to needing those thousand angaids of cure. Too much desk work, too much eating. He hoped that some of his counsel would perhaps stick, as their month together revealed Gaspard to be a good-natured man who was dedicated to his work, but people are often set in their ways.
The velvet, for instance. When they arrived in Bravil, he had told Gaspard to consider lighter fabrics as they ventured farther south, but no, the Breton insisted on wearing his blue velvet and now he was paying for it. The tight fit and heavy fabric did not make his breathing any easier and the sweat was contained, his skin not allowed to breathe or dry. Gaspard’s odor was now, after thirty days of travel, quite pungent, and only a little offset by the heavy cologne he wore. Set in his ways.
On the other hand, at Bravil, Äelberon immediately traded Bruma’s heavy leather and wool for the breathable cotton of his nightshirt, cutting the fabric off below the hips one warm morning and wearing it to breakfast as his shirt, much to the Breton’s surprise.
“What are you going to sleep in?” The Breton asked.
“I still have my underbreeches.” He answered and nightshirt became shirt. Worn with trousers, leather boots and a light scaled sleeveless surcoat that he traded for his heavier padded wool surcoat at the Bravil marketplace, while Gaspard admired paintings, though Äelberon admitted, his eye was drawn to them too. Simple leather vambraces protected his hands - save his fingers -, wrists and forearms, but even he could feel the leather threatening to chafe his skin in the rising humidity. He perceived the change in the air, the transition from temperate to tropical. Like winter suddenly became summer the farther south they journeyed. How long will it be before you are running around naked, old Mer, he thought to himself. But adaptability, change was necessary. What works in Bruma does not work for Leyawiin. And what had worked in Summerset...
Äelberon had left his silver Knight’s armor, the Armor of his Order, with Bumph, along with his bow and shield, daring not to risk both identification by wearing them in the open and their degradation. He could not jeopardize his mother’s finely etched designs, the beauty and love of her labor, falling to the harsh swamplands of Leyawiin. Besides, the armor was far too loose now, its fit designed for a body that was in prime condition, not for what he was now, or, he chortled, what he had become just before his exile. Perhaps one day, it will fit you properly again. He gave his belt an unconscious tug. You’ve run out of belt holes, old Mer, he chuckled to himself again, but the chuckle was laced with a measure of bitterness.
You are different.
He had been almost fat, out of shape in Summerset, before his exile… but Äelberon was lanky now. A physique he had not had since he was in his youth, before even the Tower. Still broad of shoulder, but now wiry of muscle. It made him look all the taller and long-limbed, further exaggerating his lines. It also brought a hardness to his features that shocked him once he looked into a mirror at Bumph’s quarters in the Fighter’s Guild, only a few days after he came down from the Jerrals. And he stared at that face for what seemed like forever, his fingers tracing the new shapes. Because it wasn’t his face, not the one he remembered from Summerset. It was like he had done a century of aging in only two short years. The face that had once been smooth and full, even bordering on robust, was now bearded, full of sharp angles and hollows, the eyes sunken with dark shadows, hooded by a perpetually lowered brow. Permanent creases in his forehead. The damage done from days without rest, from days of intense sorrow. Fat and comfortable had given way to thin and hungry. Everything to nothing. Gain to loss.
Most take their lives within the first year, you tried too, Äelberon reminded himself. And yet, here you are. Very much alive and glad to have this job. Glad...
Äelberon blinked hard and shook his head, making a soft restless growl before he quietly opened the door to the carriage and snuck out, leaving Gaspard to his slumber. He stuck close to the side of the moving carriage, using its many ornate carvings as anchors for his feet and hands and he edged his way towards the front. The morning was cool, humid, the scents of dampness and decaying vegetation heavy in the air, but was still much better than being inside. He could hear the chorus of frogs singing their ode to the night. It reminded him of those nights spent deep in the Tenmar and Valenwood. He put his hand on the edge of the carriage’s bench and hoisted himself up.
“Gods above, Äelberon! You near scared me to death!” Ignatius jumped in the driver’s seat. He was a dark little Imperial with sharp brown eyes and a mop of oily black hair, possessing the hallmark features of the Nibenese lower classes, and their dress. “With your size, you’d think you’d be loud, but fuck, quiet like a mouse.” He grumbled, adjusting his grip on the team’s reins. He then relaxed when Äelberon took a seat next to him. “I’m not even going to ask.” He chuckled.
“You should know by now. It can get really loud down there.” Äelberon quipped, putting away his prior dark mood for some good conversation.
“He better?”
“Aye, he will sleep soundly until we stop.”
“I think this will be his last long trip like this.” The Imperial observed. “He’s not doing so well.”
“Probably.” Äelberon agreed. “But, I give him credit, that he made the journey at all shows how much he cares for the people of Leyawiin. Hid it under ‘airs’ in the beginning.”
“He does that.” the coachman nodded. “They all do. It’s the court, brings out the ‘airs’ in everyone.”
He turned to Ignatius. “We have been on this routine for what…” He smiled, rubbing his beard. “Nigh 30 days?” He knew the exact number, down to the hours and the minutes, but it was far better to not be that way in front of people. He shifted his position, resting his long legs on the footrest of the carriage. They bent comically while Ignatius’s legs were almost straight.
“Have we even slept?” The coachman asked.
“Probably not.” Äelberon chuckled, his eyes on road.
“I think you know everything about me by now. And I’ve learned, I think, the entire history of Nirn in thirty days.” The coachman smirked.
“I hope I am not too boring.” Äelberon offered, giving Ignatius an apologetic look. “I have been told I talk too much. About things people do not want to know.”
“Well, let me put it this way. If I had gotten my history from you, sir, instead of my teacher in Leyawiin, I would’ve had far better marks in it at school. You spin a yarn well, sir, and you’re not at all what I expected from an Old Mary. You speak true.” The Imperial acknowledged, his face growing thoughtful. “We’ll reach Border Watch today and, of course, Leyawiin in three more days. You’ll have, of course, your business to sort out with Gaspard and the Duke then, but…” The Imperial switched the reins to his other hand and offered his right hand to Äelberon. “Been good knowing you, Äelberon.”
They clasped hands. “Likewise, Ignatius, though as you said, we are not quite done with each other yet.” Äelberon nodded. They then both faced the road for a spell while Ignatius continued driving the team of horses.
The coachman broke their silence with a sigh, cracking his neck. “It’ll be good to get back to my family. Wonder what my little ruffians have been up to.” The man had four children, two sons and two daughters. A young family and he hid well from the Imperial that the stories of his children’s shenanigans would make him feel a touch of envy, reminding him keenly of his Llandril and Mia.
“Well, if they’ve sense, they would be sleeping.” He offered instead. The truth.
“True.” Ignatius nodded. “You hungry, sir?” The Imperial gestured with his head to a burlap sack between them and next to Äelberon’s crossbow. “Got some apples left.”
“Thank you.” Äelberon took an apple from the sack and had a bite. He watched the road, eating with his left hand while his right found the hilt of his weapon. He saw some movement ahead and partially drew the blade, only to relax when he saw that it was a small group of marsh deer crossing the road. They were not running from something, just crossing. He sheathed the weapon and continued his breakfast, mentally yelling at himself for taking out the bloody sword rather than reach for the crossbow. What were you going to do? Leap down and wave your sword in the air screaming like a Bruma Nord? You are on a damn wagon, bow first, blade later, Dumbarse.
“Sir, you really make that weapon?” Ignatius suddenly asked, urging the team onwards with a flick of the reins.
“You have asked me this already, but yes.” He answered, placing the half-eaten apple next to his seat. Would save it for the horse--he saw another apple core. Ignatius was thinking the same thing. Good, both horses would have a well-earned treat.
“We are truly running out of stories then.” The coachman laughed, while Äelberon reached for his crossbow, slinging its leather strap over his shoulder. Gear yourself up properly, old Mer. He shook his head, still annoyed at himself for making such a stupid mistake.
It was a new weapon for him, of Cyrodiilic origin, purchased just before he left Bruma with the last of his coin, along with a ton of oil, it seemed to him, to prevent the bloody thing’s numerous springs and small parts from corroding. High maintenance, slower on the reload, and more noisy, but he already liked it far more than the simple bow he had fashioned while in the mountains, even constructing new bolts for it, their tips sporting the same alloy as his sword. It was the preferred ranged weapons of the Vigilants of Stendarr, capable of superior penetrating power, though the loudness of the weapon really nagged at him.
“But it’s a bloody fine sword, dammit.” Ignatius continued, bringing Äelberon back to the conversation. “Never seen one with a shine in the blade quite like that and it don’t have all the etching I usually see around these parts. I like it. Not frilly, like what some court dandy would carry, but a warrior’s weapon.”
He felt his face instinctually redden and he muttered a quiet “Thank you.”
The sword that was the subject of Igantius’ enthusiasm was what his people, forever obsessed with classifying everything under Magnus, would call a bastard or a hand and a half, though he, due to his large frame, would often wield it as a one-handed blade. Now, however, because he was physically weaker, it was better to have the flexibility it offered.
Using his mother’s old metallurgy techniques, and the money Bumph gave him for the Uderfrykte Matron, he forged a blade that was a complex alloy of steel and silver, but unlike his mother’s work, it bore no engravings within the blade’s face. Nothing, empty, save cold sharpness. The hilt, a dark reinforced wood with no designs or carvings. The pommel, pear-shaped and designed to perfectly rest against his palm, giving him superior balance and leverage if he wanted to use both hands. The crossguards, pure functionality over decoration.
What his new sword lacked in decoraation and finery, it made up for in its brutally efficient craftsmanship, which gave the blade a different sort of stark beauty that was atypical of Altmeri or even Cyrodiilic design. An almost austere quality. He had carried weapons through the jungles of the Tenmar and through Valenwood, knew what humidity and water could do to metal, bowstring, leather, and wood. His mother had scolded him for nearly destroying his old blade when he returned from his first trip to Elsweyr, the rust and tarnish on the weapon from the journey had been so noticeable. “Such poor treatment for the sword that slew Bet”, she chided from her forge as she examined the weapon, “the son of a smith should know better…” And then she fixed it, like she used to fix all things.
He blinked hard away the sudden sting of tears, hearing her voice in his head far too clearly. Don’t think about her voice, he willed his mind and the wave of grief soon passed. The Imperial noticed nothing, thank Auri-El.
“Don’t be so bashful. It’s really well-made.”
“Too simple some would say, but if you like it that much and I receive good coin for this job, I can make you one.” He managed, though he could still hear how thick his voice was.
Ignatius’s face lit up in the moonlight, perceiving nothing. “Really?”
Äelberon gave the Imperial a pat on the shoulder and smiled a smile that he knew did not really reach his eyes. He wanted it to, because Ignatius was a good man, but the grief hit him harder than expected, leaving him suddenly drained. The man knows nothing of your pain, old Mer, and he has driven this carriage for thirty days with no complaint, he deserves such a gift. “Sure. Would be my pleasure, Ignatius.” The Imperial smiled and they drove on through the darkness.
“Ignatius, hold the carriage.” Äelberon warned in a low whisper, putting a hand on the Imperial’s hand that held the reins. He was more ready this time around, his crossbow securely on his lap. Ignatius brought the team of horse to a full stop, focused on calming the horses before he brought his head up to look at the village. Äelberon saw the Imperial’s face go pale and his jaw drop.
“What the blazes happened here?” Ignatius asked.
They arrived at Border Watch and the moonlight revealed a ravaged village. Homes almost… torn into. Äelberon turned to Ignatius. “I do not know.” He frowned. “What I am wondering more is when?
“Perhaps after Water’s Edge, sir? While the Steward and I traveled to Bruma?”
“This does not look recent to me, Ignatius. I do not see--” He wasn’t seeing bodies, wasn’t smelling blood, just the smells of the swamp, decay, the wood of the village, and something else that had caught his nose, but he couldn’t quite place it. “Hold fast, I need to see.”
“Are you mad, sir?” The Imperial whispered and Äelberon could almost smell his fear.
“Perhaps a little, Ignatius.” He answered. The truth.
“What about Ser Gaspard? We should definitely leave and inform the Leyawiin guards.”
Gaspard. “Xarxes’ Arse.” Äelberon cursed under his breath. Man had a good point. “Wait here, be ready to move quickly if I give a signal.” He ordered in a calm voice. “Or, if I start running like a fool towards the carriage.” He added with a smirk. No need to scare the man, he was scared enough already. Äelberon stepped carefully down from the carriage and walked to the carriage door to speak to Gaspard. You are a little scared too, he thought, feeling his heart quicken, pound in a way he had not felt it pound in a long while. Not since the Jerrals. Not since...
Vingalmo. He shook his head, couldn’t be. No. He blinked and opened the door to the carriage carefully. The Breton was still asleep, so he put his hand on Gaspard’s shoulder to shake him awake. “Gaspard.” He said as quietly as he dared, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck shoot straight up. It’s not him... it’s not.
The Breton woke with a snorted start, his eyes fluttered open and he rubbed his face, groaning. “Border Watch? Already?” He murmured, his voice still heavy with sleep. “Oh good. A hot meal, maybe a bath. is it morning yet?”
“Not yet, Ser.” Äelberon replied.
Gaspard shook his head, scrunched his eyes tightly closed and opened them again to wake up. He then faced Äelberon and furrowed his brow. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Captain.”
“Something has happened, Gaspard.”
The Breton sat up and rolled his neck. “But we’ve arrived at Border Watch, yes?”
“Yes Ser, but I need you to stay in the carriage.” Äelberon insisted.
Gaspard waved his hand in dismissal. “Oh, that won’t be necessary. I know the--”
Äelberon grabbed the Breton’s shoulder and pushed Gaspard’s back into the seat of the carriage. “You need to stay in the carriage, Gaspard.”
“How dare you touch--”
“Gaspard!” It was a yelled whisper that immediately silenced the Breton. Äelberon took a moment to calm his own anxiety and then locked eyes with the Breton. “Stay in the carriage.” He commanded through gritted teeth. It’s not him, stop your fear. Gaspard relaxed and Äelberon eased his grip in the Breton’s shoulder. “If it is not safe, I will give Ignatius the signal to drive and you will continue to Leyawiin and send word to Master Bumph. Understand?” He raised his eyebrows to drive home his point. Gaspard nodded and Äelberon gave that fat shoulder an apologetic pat and a squeeze. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
“Understood, Captain. Just be careful.”
Äelberon left the Breton safe in the carriage, and walked back to Ignatius, who already had the quiver of bolts ready to hand to him. He leaned the crossbow against the carriage, clumsily slinging the quiver’s strap over his shoulder - there has to be a better way to store bolts, a bandolier maybe, because this is just bloody inefficient - and picked up his weapon again, feeling the sweat break out on his forehead. He gave the Imperial a slow nod and Ignatius faced forward, giving Äelberon a brave face, but the Altmer saw the white knuckles as the man grasped the reins, saw how restless the horses were. The crossbow was already loaded, but he took another bolt and held it between his teeth. Just in case. Don’t choke on it, or stab yourself with it, you dumbarse. A drop of sweat found his eye, so he rested the weapon on his right hand while he used his forearm to wipe the sweat from his brow.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
It’s not Vingalmo, it’s not.
But there is something here, you can feel it, Äelberon swallowed, hating that he couldn’t lick his lips because of the blasted bolt. His mouth was bone dry and the sweat that was wiped from his brow now began creeping up in other parts of his body. His eyes scanned the village in the moonlight, searching for any signs, and then when he understood that he’d only know more if he moved forward, he took a step. One foot in front of the other, old Mer, you can do this. Slow, silent steps. You used to fight hordes of daedra, you slew Bet. Being Apraxic takes none of these gifts away.
They had taken the fork in the road from the North, where just to the west, they all saw the remnants of an Oblivion gate, so Äelberon knew he was making a Northeasterly approach towards the village. Two house were directly in front of him, partially obscured by trees. There were no lights, but he could see that both dwellings had sustained considerable damage, some of the walls torn, some burnt. More than likely, from any lanterns that had been knocked down during the attack.
Aye, he was certain the village had been attacked, but by what, he wasn’t sure. The creature that Vingalmo had morphed into was certainly capable of that sort of destruct--He felt something solid underneath his foot and shifted his position on the soft, damp, humus-heavy ground to prevent himself from stepping on it, lest it break. Äelberon looked down. It was a bone, softened by the moisture and picked clean. He bent at the knee and after a quick look around, risked picking it up. He needed to know where it came from.
It was a femur and not from an animal. It had been broken and then gnawed upon by several sets of teeth. Some of the scrapes were produced by teeth much larger than what he felt comfortable acknowledging, while others were made by much smaller creatures, scavengers. He narrowed his eyes, studying the bone more carefully, feeling the influx of random memories from his time studying anatomy with the High Priest of Dusk and then later at the Tower. A Khajiit femur, a Cathay-raht. Fully-grown. An uneasy gust of air escaped his bolt-filled mouth as he pondered what could bloody kill an adult Cathay-raht, a jaguar man of Elsweyr. Äelberon set the bone down back into its swampy grave, rose as slowly as his old joints would allow, and continued deeper into the village, stepping gingerly over many busted crates and split support beams.
The silence was what bothered Äelberon. No birds, no insects, no frogs, nothing. He knew jungles. It did not matter, day or night, there was always some noise. And yet his heart would not cease its pounding. Something was here.
His breath caught and he could feel his teeth make small dents in the bolt’s shaft when he finally cleared the rubble of the first two houses and entered what he could only describe as the remnants of a village square or main avenue with steps. The smell was… intense. The decay from earlier, only much, much more. He blinked the water from his eyes and pressed onward, feeling his breathing grow heavier to account for the stench.
Border Watch was now a graveyard. And finally, the first signs of life besides himself made their presence known. The undertakers of Tamriel, multitudes of flies, their droning dirge finding his ears as they performed the service Nature intended for them, cleaning. For the most part, the carcases were already skeletal, or very nearly so, for no scavenger or opportunistic predator would refuse such a ready-made feast. High humidity and heat would finish the work. Tufts of fur clinging to some of the skeletons let him know that this was once a Khajiit village, a prosperous one even; lined with market stalls and several sheep pens. All destroyed, their contents scattered everywhere.
The carnage at the central avenue was dominated by the carcass of a massive senche-raht. Probably serving as their means of transporting goods and supplies to Water’s Edge and Leyawiin. His protests to focus were ignored as his mind flashed with unstoppable images of S’Kuz from Elsweyr. How the stables at Dune burned, the smoke filling his lungs. Then feeling S’Kuz’s large paws push him out of the inferno just in time, saving him from burning to death. Did you do this too, Äelberon silently asked the corpse as he approached, brushing the flies away. Did you try to save the others?
Most of the muscle tissue in its body was long gone, save along the striped maned neck, sunken face, and other areas where there meat was not so readily accessible, though even that meat was now barely registering as meat, so manipulated by the elements it was. What killed you?
He squatted on his haunches near the head, not seeing any perceivable injuries from the top. He’d have to turn its neck. Äelberon positioned the tip of his crossbow against the senche-raht’s chin to perform the task. Just tilt its head a little. He moved his weapon, lifting it.
And promptly fell back on his arse in surprise, losing his balance, the bolt falling from his mouth to the ground. He felt his stomach turn and then the apple from earlier threatened to come right back up. His eyes watered further and he just sat there, catching his breath, staring at the senche-raht. Underneath its head was a massive bite, its throat totally ripped out of its thick neck. To the base of the spine! The now-exposed flesh was crawling with maggots.
Repulsion then became relief and he, for a moment, felt a wave of weakness wash over his body at the realization. This wasn’t Vingalmo. Äelberon remembered the winged bat-like form of the vampire, the mouth was nowhere near this size. Vingalmo is not here, he’s not here, he thought, rubbing his forehead to ease the building pressure. He shook his head, quelling any residual fear, to focus on the task at hand. Investigate, that is why you are here, you are her Inspector Vale.
Aye, there was decay, he noticed when he lifted the neck to have another look, but not so much that he couldn’t guess the size of the bite. Another senche-raht? Gaspard mentioned disturbances in Border Watch due to the skooma trade, and that the Duke was not holding that in high priority, but no skooma dealer would proceed to massacre and consume an entire village. Maybe murder, but not like this. This was not about skooma and no items seemed to be taken from the village. The stall’s wares were all scattered, broken, but not stolen.
Or was it? Could a senche-raht, frenzied from skooma, do this damage? Possible, but why? He studied the bite mark again, and then the jaw of the senche-raht in front of him, trying no to look into the rotting eyes that were probably a stunning shade of amber when shining with life. There were similarities, but they were not the same. The teeth marks looked like they were made by longer teeth, the bite power of the creature that killed the senche-raht considerably stronger.
A wamasu, he wondered. It would account for some of the scorching he saw in the buildings he had just passed. Wamasu had lightning attacks and lightning could certainly scorch wood. Were wamasu found this far west? No, he shook his head, and this wasn’t a recent attack. In fact, the advanced decay on the corpses suggested that the attack on Border Watch was around the same time as Water’s Edge or perhaps even before. He tried to go through all the animal species in his head that he knew of, that he remembered from the Tower, but none seemed to match the brutality on display, save two.
A daedroth could verily do this kind of damage, he thought as he slowly rose, cursing at himself for being stupid enough to drop the bolt. He picked it up and decided to definitely not put it back in his mouth, while he resumed his speculation. A daedroth then? But the bite mark he was seeing on the senche-raht wasn’t long enough for a Daedroth’s jawline and he definitely knew that creature extremely well, though it would explain his heart pounding. The dark forces of the Daedra always had that effect on him. The other option was a werewolf, which explained his elevated heart rate too, but--Äelberon suddenly froze, his eyes whipping towards a sound, like something falling with a clanging thud, a piece glass maybe, coming from the cluster of buildings to his right. Up the steps of the central avenue that seemed to divide the village.
Perhaps a survivor? Or another animal?
Äelberon started his slow ascent up the steps towards the buildings, avoiding contact with anything that obstructed his path; bones, remnants of lanterns, broken glass, pieces of wood. He was straining to see in the moonlight. It was bright, but there were more trees where he was headed, their forms casting shadows that obscured the structure of the buildings.
He moved forward, pertan by pertan, his crossbow ready. Another sound, as if something rounded was rolling over uneven wood, and it came from the building farthest from him to his right. In the corner of that particular building, a busted sign dangling from a single unbroken, rusting chain suspended from the roof awning gave him a clue that this was some sort of establishment, an inn maybe. Border Watch Inn, where they were supposed to stay. He let out a silent gust of air. The Altmer blinked, continuing forward, up the steps of the inn, a building that when whole was a combination of white-washed panels of wood framed by timber and... He paused. Partially built into the landscape, like built right into the small hill to his right. He stepped onto the porch, trying very hard to avoid both the shattered glass from the two paned windows and making creaking noises while he moved.
He heard sort of ragged breathing and he stopped dead in his tracks, every muscle in his body tightening to hold his position, right outside the smashed wooden door, making sure that he was behind the most complete portion of it. Shit. It’s inside. He furrowed his brow, the breathing didn’t sound as if it was from as large a creature as he anticipated, based on the Senche-raht’s bite. It didn’t make sense. Äelberon used his body to slowly push open the door, letting the moonlight flood the interior of the inn.
Many rats, surprised by the influx of any type of light, scattered from another corpse with a flurry of high-pitched screeches and scuttling feet, seeking any dark corner or crevice for refuge; under overturned tables, chairs. One even went behind a counter where it squeaked and then was silent. Their fleeing revealed a boar laying on the floor of the inn. And not a corpse, at least not yet. It was gutted, its intestines spilling from a nasty wound to its abdomen, still struggling to breathe, still fighting for life. Its hind leg gave a reflexive kick and he knew then the source of the initial sound when its hoof struck a wine bottle, causing it to roll on the damaged floor.
Äelberon surveyed the rest of the inn, noting the publican’s counter, overturned tables, chairs, ripped cloth, and a loose cluster of furniture that was lining the stairs leading upwards. There were survivors, at least, in the beginning. They had tried to make a barricade. A barricade against what?
Upstairs or downstairs first, he asked himself, rubbing his chest to try to curtail the incessant pounding of his heart. It was here, whatever it was. The boar released a feeble squeal as the Altmer walked towards the stairwell and he thought about ending its suffering, to silence it so he could better hear. Upstairs, he decided. It squealed again and he made the decision, his finger moving to the trigger of his weapon. Only to stop when he noticed a trail of blood leading to the counter as he passed. Fresh blood, just past the short, swinging door. He turned and made his way cautiously towards the counter. A rat had passed there, he remembered, the one going behind the counter. It should be hearing him move by now, he was getting close enough that it could sense him if it was still there. Äelberon deliberately placed both hands at the counter’s edge, deciding that it was best to take advantage of his height and peer over the other side. He leaned forward to look.
A face with bright yellow eyes and sharp teeth lunged at him, a blur of motion, and he whipped his head and shoulders back, narrowly avoiding the snap of its jaws. Not thinking, he stepped backwards and slipped on the boar's blood, falling onto the dying animal with a grunt. His crossbow hit the floor, releasing the bolt into a table to his left. The boar screamed in agony when Äelberon fell on it, lashing with its tusks and kicking with every last angaid of strength it had left. He heard something climb onto the counter, heard how the scrape of sharp claws shredded the wood. It lowered itself down, almost falling onto the floor itself and Äelberon’s heart was now pounding as hard as it could.
A werewolf!
Hircine’s mark was unmistakable and he started to back away, crawling, retreating over the boar, so slow, so clumsy. It moved towards him and he narrowed his eyes. It was only using its front legs, like it was dragging itself across the floor towards him. It balanced on one hand and swiped at him with the other clawed hand, only for the blow to be deflected by his leg kicking to the side while he struggled to get up. Then it moved, far faster than he expected on those two arms. He cried out in terror, instinct drawing his sword while he continued to stumble backwards. So fast! It was on top of him already and he wasn’t ready to die. Not yet.
Help me, Äelberon prayed, stabbing upwards with all his strength, just before it lowered its jaws to bite down. Claws were on his shoulders, but there was no longer the strength in them to break the skin while the metal worked its holy magic. Blood splattered from the creature’s pierced throat and he turned his head away quickly to avoid it, but he could still feel the warm, sticky wetness of it fall all over his face. He heard his own cries of revulsion and then the beast slumped upon him.
The only sound in the inn for several moments was his own heavy breathing and the pounding of his heart in his ears. But it was no longer pounding from the presence of the demon, only from his residual fright. With eyes still closed and with a sound growl escaping his lips, he gave his weapon another firm thrust, twisting the blade into the creature, but nothing, save more blood. It was dead.
Open your eyes, Äelberon of Dusk.
His eyes opened to a creature of tawny fur, its yellow eyes dim. A strange combination of both feline and lupine features were frozen in death’s hard snarl. He grunted in disgust, more directed at himself rather than the creature, while he pushed it off of him and to the side. He was lying with his back on the wooden floor, his legs resting on the boar’s body. You never even managed to get up properly, you old fool and yet, Auri-El continues to save your bumbling arse.
He rubbed his forehead, feeling the pain of a headache develop, and propped himself up on one elbow. Get you legs off the bloody boar, you nitwit, he yelled at himself, moving his legs from the beast’s side and planting the soles of his booted feet firmly upon the floor. He raised himself up a little more, to get a better look at what he had just killed.
It was not the creature that killed the Senche-raht. There was no way, its jaws were far too small. No, this was a… he hesitated and sighed, knowing now what he had done, feeling the tinge of guilt mix with the knowledge that yet another soul was lost to the Hunting Grounds. It was just a khajiit who had been infected. Probably the one who had attempted to barricade the upstairs of the inn. Perhaps a Suthay, because while the shoulders and arms were broad and muscled like a werewolf’s, it was much smaller than a typical lycanthrope, shorter than him. He furrowed his brow as he studied the creature in what was now the beginning of dawn’s light, shorter even than Gaspard. His eyes moved down the length of the creature and he saw the reason why it was so small.
No legs beneath the knees, they ended in jagged healed stumps, sparsely covered with fur. Äelberon pushed himself up to a seated position, cross-legged. Whatever had infected it, bit off its legs, and probably broke its back low enough to paralyze it from the waist down. The disease ensured its survival, prevented it from bleeding to death. That is why it moved the way it did, practically dragging itself. It lived like that for months, feral. Must have just managed to kill the boar when the animal stumbled into the inn, he speculated. It was a boar, it was probably looking for any scraps it could find. He suppressed a shudder. “How you must have suffered, I’m so sorry.” He said, leaning over to close its eyes.
He then sat with the dead creature for a few moments more after closing its eyes, feeling very tired, heavy. He didn't know why he sat with it… Yes you know why, Äelberon answered in his mind, feeling his nostrils flare and his eyes sting with that old familiar sadness. You sat with him a little after you killed him too. And you sat with her. Just like this. “I’m so sorry.” He repeated a final time before finally rising to his feet, wiping the tears from his eyes.
Time to move on, he nodded, beginning to pick up all the bolts that fell from his quiver when he tripped.
When he finished that task and reslung the crossbow’s strap over his shoulder, Äelberon pulled the sword from the lycanthrope’s throat. There was one more thing he needed to do in accordance with the ancient traditions of his Order.
He placed both hands on the hilt of the weapon and raised his sword to strike. “Walk always in the light of Mercy and Compassion, so that all may bear witness to His true goodness.” He prayed before swinging the sword.
The sharp blade immediately severed the lycanthrope’s head from its body. More blood splattered, but he was now numb to it, focused on the task at hand. ‘Mercy and Compassion.” He repeated. He was supposed to have said ‘Daedra and their minions, in general, are abominations and therefore enemies of Auri-El. To let one live is to invoke the Wrath of Auri-El.’ But instead, he quoted the greater Tenet. His favorite of all of them. He remembered doing that for them too.
It was now done and he cleaned the blood from the sword, sheathing it until it was needed once again. He reached for a cloth, ripping it from where it was wedged between two smashed chairs and a table - perhaps a curtain or a bedsheet from a time not long ago when Border Watch was still normal - and began wrapping the lycanthrope’s head in the fabric, to show to Gaspard and later, the Duke of Nibenay.
A quick search upstairs yielded only the Khajiit’s final struggles, his final moments of terror. His name was Sallit, he had a family whom he had valiantly tried to protect, but the creature had barged through the barricade of furniture like it was nothing. Their torn corpses littered the upstairs of the inn. And Äelberon knew the search would yield only that. There would be no more creature today.
A werebeast, not a werewolf, and yet, not a werelion either. Something in between, something different. Something new. Something he had never seen before. From Elsweyr? He didn’t know. There is a bloody lot you don’t know right now, Old Mer, and that scares you.
At least he knew that it was a creature of Hircine he was facing, the silver said so and silver never lies. Neither did his heart, which was calm now, beating slowly, feeling nothing, no Daedric presence. It was gone.
His gut had been correct on one matter, however, that his suspicions that the werebeast’s rampage had originated from Elsweyr were probably correct. The attack at Border Watch was not more recent, it was older. How much older, he was unsure, because not enough bloody evidence remained to really know for sure.
“Just skooma, my old white arse! Gods dammit, Gaspard!” He growled, frustrated. They did not even check on Border Watch, only the vineyards of Water’s Edge, the report filed two days after the attack. Border Watch was only half a day’s ride away. What more value did stupid grapes have over Sallit’s suffering? They could have reached him before he turned! If they had checked on the village right after the attack on Water’s Edge. “You can catch it in time! It is like vampirism!” He shouted his frustration into the early dawn, cursing, releasing his anger. “Dammit!”
The rest of Border Watch got far better than Sallit, they mercifully died, he thought, hoisting the lycanthrope’s - Sallit’s - wrapped head over his shoulder to carry it out. He then froze at the door, his eyes widening at the realization.
There had been a survivor at Water’s Edge.
Chapter 1 * Path of the Aprax * Chapter 3
Comments
I was guessing werewolf from the start. Orange eyes, climbing trees (a werewolf could probably do it), and the utter destruction ... more
I was guessing werewolf from the start. Orange eyes, climbing trees (a werewolf could probably do it), and the utter destruction is not out of the ... more