Kayla's smile looked strained as her lips thinned out as she pursed them.

Share the room? Great.

She'd had enough.

"Look, it's been a long trip. There's no way I'm sharing the room with some strange man."

Not sober, anyways.

"There's not another room somewhere in this inn that I can sleep?"

The last thing she needed was another man looking at her with disdain at her scars. Frankly, she was sick of it. Sick and tired of the whispers, the looks from giggling women. She'd overheard men making bets with each orher, daring the other to bed her for a hurtful amount of money. She'd gotten her scars saving people.

All she wanted was a bit of respect. But it was obvious she wouldn't receive any here.

Moslin bit back the urge to growl. He wasn't in the mood of being questioned about rooms when he made it perfectly clear there was one available. He decided, then, that he would have to elaborate more. "Are you soft in the head? No. There isn't any other room. The only room there is is my room and there ain't no where in oblivion that you're sleeping in there. Either accept the room I'm offering or go sleep outside."

With that he added a thick clear of his throat and a spiteful snort, muttering words to himself as he set about to wipe the bar with an old rag. "Picked the wrong night to just walk up in here'."

****

Drathen Decumus did not complain when he wasn't given a lantern to walk about the dark corridor into the extremely dark room. Shadows did not bother a man who by lifestyle only lived at night.

Looking around Drathen wondered if they purposely kept this place in such sordid conditions with broken glass and pieces of wood scattered all about the floor. Without the influx of visitors in this forsaken place, surely the old man could devote his time of the day to clean up. But it was obvious this might be on of those childish traps these peasants put out.

The old man below can go on expecting Drathen to poke his foot on some nail or trip over wood but he wouldn't be given the satisfaction of so much as a cry. Lantern or no Drathen could see this place as clear as day.

He closed the door behind him, and to his chagrin found that there was no lock to keep others out. How amusing, he reflected. They loathe the intrusion of outsiders and it seems they want to impose such case on strangers who set foot here.

But that wasn't just it, though it may play a part in it. There was a disturbance within him. He could feel something malevolent in the air. It was thick and palpable, especially to a man such as himself. There were dark forces working here and he was sure of it. The faint wiff of blood as he climbed the stairs minutes ago made him suspect that somewhere, somehow, these people might still cling to that old religion of theirs.

The atmosphere of this place was dark and forboding, eerie. He'd suspect to see a vengeful spirit or two that he'd personally slain all those years ago try to choke the life out of him. No words would be exchanged, however, for what really does the dead have to say to the dead?

Drathen caressed the hilt of his saber gently as he unclipped the sheathe from his belt and set it aside on the double bed. Those sheets weren't the cleanest, but they certainly weren't the dirtiest of them. Which made him wonder, why was the other room locked away? These things he would have to know. Not out of any sense of noble obligation, but because if his dealings go potentially well, the last thing he wants is his name and reputation tarnished of rumored involvement with possibly cultists.

Still, these things did not bother him. He knew he had already drawn enough attention to himself. His clothes and those various sets of mysterious rings that adorned his fingers might have already spread word of his presence in town. A town, he remembered, made up of a small group of people.

He pulled a chair and placed it near on the window. In complete darkness he sat there, occasionally looking at the very faint light coming from beneath the door and out of the cracked and stained glass that offered him a dreary view of the outside. His horse was still there, unharmed and untouched.

Good, he thought. He clasped his hands together and interlocked his fingers, vigilant eyes staring out into the distance but while his ears remained open. Below he could hear the conversation between the old man and what sounded like a nordic woman. Drathen devoted his interest in the exchange below. This Nord woman did not belong here in Hackdirt.

"I don't like outsiders too much but the wilderness is dangerous and I don't want the damn Legion snooping around if they find some elf's body in the forest with animal bites or bandit bruises."

A Mer? With the accent of a northern maiden? Drathen sat back a bit as he continued to eavesdrop on the conversation that slipped through the cracked floorboards.

"The only room we got. The other one is infested with rats and spiders. You'll have to share it with the gentleman that just came in a few minutes ago. It is the room on the right just up the stairs if you want to take it. Large enough to accomidate both of you without trouble."

Drathen frowned.

One side of Kayla's upper curled in a snarl as she slammed her open palms on the folthied bar the man nonchalantly wipes, startling him.

"Then YOU go inform your guest that the pitiful state of YOUR inn is causing him some major discomfort."

She muttered some obscene phrases in Nordic as she busied herself digging into her bag.

"Tell him I'll split the cost of the room. How much is it?"

"Thirty septims."

"THIRTY?!" An audible squeak was heard as she gripped the leather strap of her pack tightly.

I may commit my first murder tonight.

Moslin's lip thinned out. The only good outsider making such demands was a dead one. But seeing her this irritated brought a grin to his face that only served to make her angrier. "Thirty septims. Take it or stop wasting my time."

As soon as those words parted his lips he turned around to look at the flight of stairs and saw the man standing there. Vlanhonder, for the first time, felt startled. He didn't make any noise on his way down as if he was naturally light on his step.

He didn't look too happy but neither did he look angry. His expression was unreadable. He set his piercing eyes on him and then looked at the other outsider. He held his hands behind his back as if he were watching one of those dramatic theatrical plays people like him tend to do in the outside world.

"The only discomfort here," the nobleman said with grace. "Is the one we allow to affect us."

He walked over to to the counter, produced a sack of coin from the pocket of his pants and set them gently on the table. All thirty pieces. "I'll pay for the expenses. There is no need for any innefectual agitation." His last words were added with a bit of force, and Vlanhonder did not miss the fact that the other Imperial was looking at him when he said this.

His fancy vocabulary only meant that arguing with the proprietor would change nothing.

"You're sure about this?"

"Quite positive," Drathen said, and then turned to the Altmer woman. Rather than staring at her scars or looking at her in disgust he only maintained strong eye-contact with her. It struck him now that he was the domineering type of men. The many rings on his fingers only confused Vlanholder if he was married or not.

"Regretfully I must inform you that there is only one bed," Drathen said. "It is a double-bed. Fortunately, however, there is plenty of space to accomidate us both without any pressing issues. Forgive me if I may seem a bit too . . . bold to suggest something as this. But the wilderness is no place for a woman to be at this hour. Highwaymen have set up territory not too far from here. You'd fare better if you remain here, tonight."

He composed himself and stretched out a hand to Kayla. "Ah, excuse my manners. I did not properly introduce myself. My name is Drathen Decumus."

No place for a WOMAN?! Kayla gripped his hand, maintaining eye contact.

"Kayla. Just Kayla."

She thought about adding a name like Giant-Slayer or "the Skinner" but she wasn't in the mood to fight. Between her headache from earlier and the knowledge that she was leaving a handsome man back at the Goblet that was willing to bed her for free more than once, she wasn't very cheerful. Not to mention the stitching on her armor was atrocious.

She shook the man's hand slightly, her full lips still in an irritated purse. "I hope you don't snore."

That was all she really had to say. She didn't expect him to try anything, and he didn't ha e the feel of a thief. "I'm a very light sleeper." She added, in case he was.

At least he's somewhat attractive. Maybe if he smiled.

Drathen released his grip from her hand and forced a smile. "A pleasure to make you're aquaintance, Kayla. You'll be pleased to discover that I am silent as the grave. It is as if I am not there."

He said that to Kayla as much as he did to the tavern's owner. He didn't want to sour the mood between them though now he knew this man hated outsiders and whatever hopes of investing in both the establishment would be futile. Drathen did not concern himself too much. There was bound to be more favorable places to invest.

But as for right now . . . he had to wonder what to make of this woman. He could discern that she was a fighter, that much was given. Perhaps a spellcaster. He noticed everything about her, from her scars to her curves and even her eyes, for anything could yield information about her to him.

"You have a goodnight," Drathen told proprietor, who as expected did not even return a glance. The spooky grin on his face, though, spoke enough volumes.

Drathen turned his back on Kayla and began to walk. "Come, I shall lead you to our room. Do be careful, though. The lack of lighting in this place is sure to cause an unfortunate accident."

And with that he held out his palm, away from the eyes of the proprietor, and cast a spell. Fire materalized and remained in a stationary position in his hand. The area glowed of orange and yellow and with another hand, he opened the door that led into his room after he took the flight of stairs.

Leaving the door open behind him, he entered inside and lit an old candle he saw sitting in the corner of a cupboard with the fire and graciously handed it to Kayla. "Be careful not to let this slip from your grasp. The dust gathered in this place and the wood is sure to attract the flame."

With a grin, he added. "Wouldn't want to burn this place to the ground."

He turned around and closed the tattered curtains to cover the window. Then he sat on one end of the large bed and removed his gold-trimmed shoes and set them gently on the side. His sword still laying beside him.

Kayla's lips twitched in a smile as she sat on the edge of the bed. "It looks like someone beat you to it." She said in regards to the burning comment. "A while ago, actually." She slid her boots off and set them under the bed. She stood up and dug in her pack and loosed her ponytail.

"Please look away. I'd like to get out of this armor." He obliged, turning his head and body away slightly. She felt grateful as she slid her armor off and pulled on a pair of her sleeping bottoms.

We're these this tight before?! She remembered that she had been eating well at the Goblet the past few days, as opposed to on the road. She huffed.

He'll have to deal.

She pulled on her sleeping shirt, much more loose than her bottoms, thankfully. Her bottoms came only to her mid thigh, which caused her to turn red with irritation.

He will have to DEAL. We'll be under the covers, anyways. Not like he'll be looking.

"I'm done, you can turn around. Sorry for my immodesty." She sat uncomfortablely on the rickety chair near the door.

Though she gave him the clear to turn around, he didn't. He remained seated looking out the window, eyes searching throughout every corner and behind every wall. Not a soul on sight, just like when he came here. This place is a ghost town.

"This place was a haven for religious cultists. Legion came in and burned this place to the ground after hostilities ensued against their victims. Many of the accused townspeople who thrived under cult practices were executed."

Drathen said this as he tried to piece back the puzzling memories of that time. It wasn't too long ago, not by his standards. The sights were still fresh in his mind.

He turned around after he saw no particular danger out there. If anything decides to threaten my life, I'll have the life choked from him.

The nobleman became aware now that the house over our heads was quiet. Now and then feet moved below and the boards creaked and the light in the cracks of the boards surrendered a faint, uneven illumination. Though his face was a mask of delight, Drathen worked well to conceal his true emotions.

Drathen was pleased that there was someone in the room with him. A woman, no less. Before her arrival he imagined he would be doomed to stare at candles for hours as if they were people and standing by the window like a zombie in this unfavorable room until his clothes smelled like old wardrobe tunics.

Kayla wasn't unnatractive. True, he'd seen many fresh young women in his many lifetimes, each of them more beautiful than the last. But this Altmer, as spiteful as he felt about their kind, offered just the teasing visual of skin and flesh that made him wonder, Might I try to sample such exotic cuisine?

He took the time to highlight Kayla's attributes. There were scars on her face, this he saw earlier. He could not judge the size of her chest for the shirt she wore was loose, but everything below her waist seemed constricted by the tightened bottoms. Of course, he did this inconspicuously. Not many women appreciated being desired in such fashion.

But with those scars, he reflected for a moment, she'd be pleased someone would find her desirable. Here in Cyrodiil, however, she looked far better than those maidens who might as well be lads with long-hair and horrific complexions.

To strike conversation for the sake of it, and perhaps even because he might have some faint distant interest in what the woman was doing in a godsforsaken place like this, Drathen made himself comfortable in bed as he faced Kayla as she sat on the chair.

"If I may ask," he said. "What is it that lured you here to Hackdirt?"

Kayla crossed one leg over the other and cracked her knuckles nervously. The place made her skittish, and being in the room with a strange man didn't help her nerves. She bit her full bottom lip before answering his question.

"I'm helping a woman locate her two children. Melven and Maleva. Red hair, boy and girl. Young adults. But no one here is any help, and their mother said she sent them to Hackdirt." She ran her fingers through her shoulder length auburn hair to give her hands something to do. "But if they're not here, then that means they probably didn't make it. And I can't bear the look on a mother's face when you tell them their child is dead. Two is worse."

She'd done it before, too. She furrowed her brow slightly as she bit her bottom lip at the memory.

Drathen saw that Kayla was easily frightened by the place. She was on edge just by the sounds and creaking the entire establishment made, as if the house itself was groaning.

Kayla revealed that she was here in search of two missing youths. That their mother sent them to Hackdirt. He wondered for what reason, and then as he thought of a possible explanation it suddenly dawned on him.

He recalled a certain time in the history of Hackdirt that the locals went out to lure in outsiders in their town. Instead of kidnapping visitors to the town, they took a less risky route in bringing about newcomers who had no appointment or reason to be in Hackdirt.

Drathen could not tell if this was the case. He also knew some people were bold enough to go about and kidnap children. He knew, because he had done this before. The Bretons didn’t invent Children’s Day for no reason.

“Well,” said Drathen. “I hope they are safe and secure and that you may be fortunate to find them all in one piece.”

When the light of the candle began to flicker, Drathen raised a finger from that tip sparked an orange flame. With careful grace he moved the flame from his finger and toward the candle, lightning it once more.

“Quite noble of you to go your way into a peculiar town in search of a woman’s offspring without any knowledge of what you might be getting into,” he noted with unwavering eyes that were intently fixed on her. “To be quite blunt you strike me as a woman who is no stranger to violence.”

Kayla's lips twitched in what was almost a smile. "I wonder what tipped you off. The sword? The well used armor?" She looked at his clothes as discreetly as she could, hoping her raised brow wouldn't lead him to think she was looking him up and down like he was in display. Not that he wasn't attractive, but he WAS lying across the bed with his head propped on one arm.

He hasn't undressed. She realized. I don't think he intends to sleep.

He was still dressed in finery that made her most expensive piece of clothing look like rags. Which, most of them were. She wasn't poor, not at all, but she invested her coin in more practical items, like armor and food. She maintained Dawnbreaker's sharpness by bringing it to any skilled smith she could, passing it off as an ancient relic instead of a Daedric weapon. Most of the time it worked.

She looked back up at his face, crossing her arms. "What's a man dressed like you doing in the skeever-hole?"

It wasn’t her armor that hinted him of it. It wasn’t her sword either, he knew any idiot could hold a blade and call him or herself a sword master. There was one thing that revealed Kayla’s style of life and that wasn't anything she wore.

“Your eyes.” Drathen said to her. They had a certain history to them that if read properly, revealed more than it should. “A man can tell just by reading them.”

Kayla might bear the scars and the armor and the sword but it was the look that have her away. It was the same as him. No matter how he tried to change it, or act or smile his way through, he couldn’t change what his eyes told.

If he somehow looked at himself with the eyes of others, he would see his own clean-shaved, smooth skin on his handsome face. Though he had been in countless battles, he bore no physical scars. Though well past innumerable decades, he was as yet unwrinkled, with no lines to tell of the passage of time. Some could tell there was agelessness about him, a stillness; he was often told that, rage and joy had no difference when registered in his face. His eyes, though colored red and yellow, were cold as ice. Try as he might, his prince-like appearance was direct contrast in what the windows of his soul reflected. It could be said that this was one of his weaknesses.

He did not blink but rather maintained his eyes set on Kayla, choosing his words carefully. “A peaceful land, a quiet people. I have interests in investing on property around Skingrad and Chorrol.” He didn’t want to get into the specifics of why, and he honestly believed Kayla wouldn’t care. “I am beginning to rethink of my desires.”

This was, of course, said about both the purchase and Kayla, and he was sure Kayla only paid attention to the former. The way things struck him now, it didn’t appear that Hackdirt changed its ways at all, and that some wounds of the past still festered within the fiber of this settlement.

Things wouldn’t change unless this entire place is leveled and every bone is turned to dust . . .

"Your eyes..."

Kayla leaned back into her chair in surprise, as if those two words had knocked her backwards.

Out of everything, the armor, the sword, the hideous scars on my body, he chooses my eyes? What game is he playing?

She didn't sense any untruth in his words, though. There were things her eyes had seen that none should see. But she had, out of necessity and desire to protect, chosen to bear witness to gruesome scenes. Women and children ripped apart and strung up in caves, men skinned alive and left for dead, begging for death as they writhed in pain on the sharp ground of the earth, dirt and rocks digging into their open wounds.

She swallowed and maintained eye contact, matching his unblinking gaze with her own. Her chest contracted in what was almost a scoff, but a good natured sound came out. A half smiled played upon her lips.

"If you can find a peaceful land, send for me. Even a woman with the eyes of a fighter grows tired of constant battle."

But it never ends.

She set her jaw and kept her gaze up. Not once has a battle really ended for her. After one battle, another wages. And it was all a part of a war she couldn't see, couldn't fathom. Kayla wasn't a thinker. She wasn't a scholar. She was a fighter, that Drathen was correct about. She was a disgrace to her Elven brethren, and a boon upon her Nordic comrades.

She raised her slender, muscular arms above her head in a stretch and leaned back, breaking eye contact. She was getting tired. She realized too late her navel was showing, exposing long, pink scar that crossed it. The vampire that gave it to her intended to gut her, but a quick punch to the nose ended all chances of that.

She hadn't spent much time around nobles, and had no idea whether Drathen was as rude as the others she had encountered here in Cyrodiil. The nobles in Skyrim, at least most of them, respected scarring as a sign of usefulness, survival, strength. The nobles here seemed to regard her as lower than dirt, and that suited her just fine. She set her gaze on Drathen, then the empty area beside him.

I should try to sleep if I'm going to search the woods in the morning.

Khan stepped onto the wet grass, leading his dappled mare to the stable, hoping to catch a few seconds of relief from the downpour himself. He noticed a young Bosmer sitting in the straw at the end of the paddock, and threw him a few septims. "Take special care of the horse. It's my only way back home." Nodding, the Bosmer came forward and took the horses lead, bringing her into the paddock. That having been taken care of, Khan turned to look at the sign above the door. "Hmm. The Wobbly Goblet. Well, here goes nothing", he said as he opened the heavy wood door.
A strong warmth filled the room, probably due to the large fireplace in the room. Behind the bar stood an Orc woman, with a club on her belt the Khan guessed was NOT for anything nice. He also saw a Nord woman tending a stove, though what the good-smelling food was, Khan could not see. He removed his hood, letting it fall back over his cloak. He assumed the Orc was the owner, so he went over to her, followed by his hound, a husky named Bran. "Do you take dogs?", he asked her. After the Orc responded with a nod, he asked "How much for a room?" "Fifteen septims a night" was the response. When the appropriate amount of coin changed hands, the Orc said: "Very well, I'll have Lleris take your bags up. In the meantime, why don't you and your dog go grab a bite to eat? It'll only be a few minutes." "Alright then." "Sitting down on a barstool, Khan spoke to the Breton obsessively cleaning the counter. "I'll have an onion-leek pie, a mutton chop, a ham for my mate here, and...do you have Honningbrew? Oh, you do? Excellent. Two bottles of that, then." As he looked around the room, Khan felt his homesickness go away. This, he thought, would be a very good vacation.

*

Maxical:

With her back leaned against the wall and from this vantage point she could see the full dining area and most of the tavern.

The Khajiit caught her eye when he entered, not as a suspect in the poisonings; but because of the huge dog at his side. She'd always been afraid of dogs, worried they may suddenly take it upon themselves to consider her a meal.

The cat wasn't much older than she was herself, but held a bad scar across his nose that must mark some major battle he'd fought and survived. He didn't look like he was from around these parts; put her in mind of that big black Khajiit she'd seen outside the morning she arrived. Maybe they were related.

She went back to scanning the crowded tavern.



*

Bran, smelling an unknown scent, abandoned his ham and walked toward the Khajiit leaning against the wall. He barked once, twice. Khan, hearing the noise, got off his stool and walked over, grasping Bran's quilted arming wear.

"Terribly sorry", Khan said as he tried to calm Bran down, "He gets a little nervous around strangers, being a war dog and all. Can I buy you a drink in the way of an apology? I'm Khan. Tribune Khan. And you are?"

*

Maxical:

"Scared to death." She pounded her fist to her chest in greeting.

"Does he bite? I'd ask if he eats cats, but he seems to like you well enough. I'm Maxical."

She shook her head no on the drink. "Nothing for me, thank you." She raised her glass of fruit juice to show she had plenty.


*

Bograk

Bograk watched Auguste serve two bottles of Honnigbrew to the big Khajiit. His meals arrived hot from the kitchen a moment later.

Riad thumped his parchment with a finger, regaining her attention. “We’ll have more than enough to get us through the Harvest’s End festival without buying any more barrels from those monks,” he argued.

Bograk snorted. “Your bad blood with some priest isn’t going to cost me my reputation. I’ve already ordered the extra beer. Get over it. I’m more concerned that this rain is going to keep us from putting the tents up.”

“Our reputation,” Riad corrected her. “And what’s this about tents? If it keeps raining there won’t be as many folk here to collect their free drinks. Less of a loss for us.”

She shot him a glare. “You’re kind of missing the point of the festival, Riad.”

Lleris trotted back down the stairs and gave Bograk a cheery nod, indicating that the room was ready. Bograk glanced over when the husky barked, but the two Khajiiti seemed to be talking peacefully. She went back to arguing with her partner.

Khan smiled at Maxical's joke. "No, he doesn't bite. Not unless I tell him too. Well, I'd better eat, I've been riding on dried Snowberries for three days now, but it was nice meeting you, Maxical. Say, before I go, are you the only one staying here? It seems far too big for that."

*

Maxical:

"Riding on dried Snowberries? You should try a horse, it might be faster."

She grinned, then answered his question.

"No, I don't think so. There's three including me in the suite, and another in the room beside us on the north wing. I'm not sure about the other wings, but I think at least two of them have occupants. All these you see in here..." She indicated the tavern crowd.

"Most of these are just patrons of the bar from what Lleris said."

*

Khan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Maxical, I am glad to have met you. May Azura favor both of us. Now, I've got to get me and Bran here supped and bathed."

And with that, Khan walked away.

*

Maxical:

Maxical held up her hand stiffly and turned it from side to side in imitation of the late Uriel Septim's royal wave to the crowds. She hated to even think of him as belated. Beloved yes, but never belated. He'd live in her memory as long as she was on Nirn.

Watching that dog wolfing down the ham Khan gave him made her glad the dog hadn't decided to taste her bony legs. As little as she was, he'd have swallowowed her in no time.

She sighed, leaning her back against the wall again and scanning the crowds for anyone who looked like they may poison someone.

Khan sat in the wooden bathtub, reflecting on the day's events. "Well," he thought aloud, "at least there's a steady supply of company to be had, and the food is indeed excellent." Turning to Bran, he smiled. "Our bags should be down from Skyrim in a few days, and you know what that means. Yes indeed. Fishing and hunting out the eyeballs. It'll be fun. Alright," Khan said, stepping onto the slick wooden floor, "your turn, buddy."

Khan stepped out onto the grounds around the Goblet, Bran following closely behind. They were both thoroughly refreshed from their food and bath. It was late at night now, and no one else seemed to be around. They stopped at the pond.

Khan sat down on on of the rough benches beside the pond. He sighed. And he thought. Thought of his wife, back in Skyrim. Thought of the past, in the war. Thought of the tribe that he still owed his allegiance too, high in the Jeralls. Thought of his days in the guard. Thought of the future, and his unborn child. Thought of Alamere, his blood brother gone astray. Thought of Jalvus, his spirit brother gone to the house of his fathers.

And he thought of them both, and wept.

Lycus took pieces from the large loaf of bread that was in his hand, popping them into his mouth from time to time to sooth his growing hunger. He'd remain inside the inn, but outside he could be himself. Nature. The stars, the wind, the grass and the dirt. It was his home and he felt right there.

The visions were gone, the pain was gone, too. Abiene had done a splendid job. He mentally thanked her.

It was night over Cyrodiil and the crisp air felt wonderful against his skin. He only had a few nights to enjoy this, for the following dark hours would be only illuminated by an army of stars and a very full moon. He wouldn't remain near the Goblet when this happens. Though everyone is prey . . . he wouldn't bring these people closer to fate's door and push them over.

But as for right now, he'd have to find his woman's clothes. Put you to good use, she says.

Walking alongside where she last bathed, Lycus heard sobs in the air. He looked over one of the tall shrubs and saw a tall and well-built khajiit sitting on the bench, weeping. He'd wondered, only briefly, if he was related to that former slave girl only because of his fur.

Lycus wondered what could possibly make a man of this stature cry. It could be many things. The loss of a wife or family, even a friend. The loss of material possessions so great that could result in one taking his or her own life. Or even the pain of life upon his shoulder.

The man's hound took notice to his presence, surely sensing a familiar kin nearby. Lycus smiled, only faintly, at the sight of the dog. Accessing the oldest memories his mind still contained, he reflected on Tiber, the young wolf cub he found and raised when living as a farmer. Wolves and hounds always was a man's best friend, a hunter's greatest companion.

"Such a beautiful night to be weeping," Lycus said as he approached the man from the side, standing there. "Plenty of things to clear the mind from the burdens of the heart."

Khan looked at the man approaching him and smiled grimly. "Indeed. So what brings a man such as yourself to a moonlit pond in the prime of the night? Seems almost like one of those sappy poems the scholars write." Khan motioned toward the nearby bench. "Take a seat. I could use some company."

Lycus parted the bread in half with his large hands, and tossed a piece on the khajiit's lap. He took a seat beside him, and leaned back to look at the dark sky above him. "My mind is refreshed when I am outdoors."

He looked at the man, without smiling. He does look like he can use company . . . perhaps he sheds tear of solitude? Perhaps some tavern wench can warm his spear.

It was always the case with a former slave that fought alongside him. A large Suthay who's custom was to seek comfort in the loins of questionable women and to drown in a sea of wine.

Lycus didn't judge this man to be part of the Krin, but he had the look of a fighter about him. Lycus knew, for he led murderers and cutthroats and killers of all reputations. This man was certainly no stranger to combat, but his heart is currently melted.

"What brings a man to shed away tears? Loss of a woman? Loss of coin? Family?"

"Well, it is indeed a long story, such as the old crones spin around the fires in winter. You see, I grew up here in Cyrodiil." Khan took a bite of the bread and a drink from the flask at his hip.

"Bruma, it was, or at least in County Bruma. A tribe of trappers and furriers. That is where I got my love of the hunt." He looked the man up and down. "You have it too. I can see it in your face. The adrenaline is unlike anything else, no? Anyway, I had a brother, Alamere. He was our tribe's best. Nothing escaped the cruel twanging of his bowstring. Myself, I was always the sword type. Nobody messes with a tiger, especially if that tiger carries a big sharp lump of metal, eh?" He took another swig from the flask.

"I joined the guards in my sixteenth summer. I was paired with another young lad, as much a warrior as I. You learned in the saddle on that beat, and my, did we grow strong. The boy's name was Jalvus, Jalvus Svegarde, a strong young warrior of twenty. He could pull off all kinds of feats with that spear...said he got it from his days in Morrowind. Eventually, the Duke saw the talent in us, and sent us off to join the legion. This was ten years later. So we were on our way to City Isle when a horseman overtook us. Rebels, he said, funding a Skooma gang back in Bruma. It was only a couple of days before we kicked down that door to their lair."

"But the bastards were waiting for us. Ten crossbows, all pointed at the door, greeted us. I was wounded, got this scar, but Jalvus...." Khan paused. "Jalvus was killed. One of the rebels was packing ebony, one of Jalvus' old friends, wanted to get revenge on him for joining the Legion. The rebels took me as a slave and then, after a few weeks, I escaped. Took up drinking and mercenary work, both to help me forget. Then one day, I discovered something terrible. People were dying, all around Skyrim. The arrows, so perfectly fired, could only be Alamere's work. One of my brothers was dead, and the other was an assassin."

"So as soon as I finished mourning, I figured if I had two dead brothers, I could honor their memory by joining the Legion, and killing the man responsible for the death of Jalvus: Ulfric Stormcloak."

"That first battle, at Ustengrav, I was pumped full of adrenaline. When I saw those Stormcloaks, I went into what would be my first real taste of battle frenzy, the beast that lies within me. In addition to those soldiers, I killed five of our own. The Legate said not to worry, that those deaths would be counted as accidents, not fratricides, but I still couldn't shake the feeling that I was a murderer."

"Well, the war was won, and I married the girl of my dreams. Her name was Sonita, and we moved into a house in Whiterun. After a few months, she suggested I come here. You know, take a vacation, get the dog out of the house, see some old friends. But so far this has brought mixed feelings from my heart. So then, stranger," he said, offering him the flask, "what's your story?"

The khajiit’s tale was no different than his. Young hunter growing up to the call of life and getting involved in an all too familiar environment of death and betrayal and the loss of friends. The part of him being a slave for a few weeks was not missed to Lycus.

A few weeks, he murmured in his mind, try three and a half years.

Then, he continued his story and explained how it was personal. How he sought to avenge the death of his friend against a rebel leader.

“That first battle, at Ustengrav, I was pumped full of adrenaline. When I saw those Stormcloaks, I went into what would be my first real taste of battle frenzy, the beast that lies within me.”

Lycus had his share of beasts that dwelled inside. The Dread Wolf of fear and doubt, that ate away at the walls of his sanity, one that he believed he could conquer if he made the right choices. There was the other beast, the violent one that every man is born with and that stirs when you put a weapon in his hand. And lastly, there is another type of beast altogether. One that fills a man or a woman’s mind with thoughts of the hunt and of other animalistic urges, the beast that only a few come across and even fewer can truly make peace with.

“In addition to those soldiers, I killed five of our own. The Legate said not to worry, that those deaths would be counted as accidents, not fratricides, but I still couldn't shake the feeling that I was a murderer."

Lycus could relate. He remembered well the first pains of guilt when he killed his first man. An argonian named Polish-His-Spear and later being the killer of two of his friends. It was a feeling that wouldn’t leave if one allowed it to cloud his judgment.

In the end, his tale of suffering had founds it climax with an antidote to the wounds. A temporary and sometimes lasting treatment for a frozen heart. Love.

Lycus learned to love. In fact, he’d learned it the hard way when women he sought to be closer with died by his own hand. It was a lesson that taught him that fragile creatures would never thrive in a place where a beast prowled. It was then that he had met someone compatible, a killer with a tragic life like himself.

Lycus took the man’s flask, and downed a bit of the drink before setting it down on his own lap. “A man shouldn’t walk the path of life looking over his shoulder, for he might miss his next step and stumble.”

He took a swig of the drink and tossed it at the man’s lap before settling himself in the bench. “I was born here in Cyrodiil just near the Great Forest. Raised in a peasant family.”

He crossed his arms, accessing the deepest memories he had. “My father had been drowning himself in considerable death by getting involved with the wrong type of people. The stress got to him and broke our family apart.”

Lycus recalled the beatings he received from his drunken father, and the oppression his mother suffered too. The feeling of betrayal knowing that her husband spat upon her loyalty with brothel whores at the Waterfront and the knowledge that her life was in danger because of his poor choices.

“I loved my family. I loved my farm and I loved my animals. It wasn’t my desire to see them go. I deeply believed that I could save my family, for I was the other man of the house. It was my responsibility to at least make an effort.”

“I spent my younger years hunting and collecting plants. Figured I could make and save enough coin to help with our situation.”

He left the part where he made offerings to Hircine out. Daedric involvement was a dangerous thing, and someone in the tavern already knew too much.

“I believed that I could make more coin if I gambled. I was one of the best card players at the Waterfront, you see. I had won more gold than I had done farming,” he scoffed. “One night I won against a pack of imbibed and ignorant soldiers who ambushed me a few hours later. I was drugged, dragged into a slaver’s ship right there at the Waterfront and sold in Morrowind without so much as a word to my father or mother.”

“Years later I found myself back here in Cyrodiil faced with the choice of paying for my father’s mistakes. I still honored the vow I made: to rectify my father’s debt and improve our financial situation.”

He leaned back and looked at the stars once more. “Life is not easy. Pain is a god, you know. A taskmaster. To be alive is to be a slave to pain. To breathe is to be a victim of its cruel whip. It can also be a teacher, too, I believe. For no lesson can be learned if not purchased with pain. It can break you or it can make you unbreakable. It is also power, for too much agony makes you want to change what is happening . . . to ease the pain you must have the power to stop it and power comes from too much of that pain."

He was no historian but he knows that pain is the wheel and engine of civilizations.

“In the end, it all depends on who you are and how much you work under that pain. The past will anchor you if you allow it.” He looked at the man’s tear-wet eyes. “Take comfort in joyful memories and let the horrors and lessons of the past fuel you, not drag you to the depths of despair.”

And with that he ripped apart another loaf of bread and shoved it into his mouth and quite frankly, the bread did nothing to conquer his growing hunger.

Fresh tears flowed down Khan's face as he smiled in earnest. "Wise words, friend. Thank you for sharing them. You know, I feel much better now, hearing what you went through, compared to my tribulations." Khan stood up and put the flask back into his belt.

"Thank you again, kind sir."

Khan walked back to his room, Bran in tow. When he entered the room he looked around and frowned.

"Now where's my urn got to?"

Hjalbir Starsight

Facing down three scrawny bandits brandishing pig-iron sticks, and demanding all of his gold, reminded Hjalbir of a certain parable preached by one of his old acquaintances. He remembered that it was about dogs. The story begins in a wasteland, he remembered, after a disaster that swallowed civilizations and reduced the various races into savage scavengers. In that kind of world, might dictated what was right, and the mightiest ruled unperturbed over the meekest. There were no rules to follow, only survival. Living in that world, was a little pup. He had been born to a couple of alphas; the male was the strongest, and the female was the smartest. Alas, but he had been born cursed; unusually small and with weak claws and fangs. The alphas, smelling this, cast him out of the pack; he was too small to even be a decent meal and the lowest packmembers deemed even him beneath them. So he was left at the mercy of the harsh elements, a mewling pup chirping for its parents. His lungs were small, and his cries either went unheeded or ignored.

One day, a child chanced upon the pup and taking pity, he took the wretched creature in. The child was parentless like the pup, and he barely fed himself picking through the corpse of the world. But nonetheless, he took him in, and fed him what scraps he could gather. Years passed them by, and they grew together. The child remained himself; weak, naive and oppressed by those mightier than himself, never standing up for himself, letting himself be led around like a follower. The dog took up after him, and they lived like that for years.

One day, they encountered a band of raiders gushing over a large kill they had made. It was a baby mammoth, and larger than any horse. It would feed them for a time. The boy and the dog saw this, and as was their way, they slinkered over and begged for the leftovers.

Unfortunately, the raiders were also cannibals.

They professed as much to the boy and their designs on him, but the boy, being himself, stood paralyzed with fear and absolutely did nothing as they dismembered him and ate him then and there. The dog saw this, and rather than help his owner, he turned and ran as fast as he could. Fortunately, he was small enough to be overlooked. He wondered the wastes all by himself, afraid and bewildered, and he went hungry, for he depended upon the boy's grovelling for their food. He didn't know how to hunt. As he wandered and drifted, he chanced upon a large carcass of a sabercat. He went over to feed, but he was not alone. A large wolf, ten times the size of the dog, had killed the sabercat and was not about ton relinquish his catch.

With a growl, he pounced upon the dog, hoping to add his meat with today's feast. But the dog was hungry, terribly hungry that he was not his usual self, and he fought back at the wolf. Desperation gave him strength; when the fight was over, the small dog fed on the wolf and the sabercat.

A good story with a good lesson behind it.

While the bandits were desperate enough to rob a man bigger and more skilled than them with malleable iron sticks, Hjalbir was not about to let himself be robbed and beaten to death. When his final words of reasoning simply failed to get through, he simply killed all three of them with contemptuous ease.

He left their corpse on the road, and continued on the black road. He had been walking for hours, alone on the route when night befell him. He continued on for a little longer, hoping to find a decent place to rest, when he saw the inn. It was a large establishment in a forest clearing, probably about three or two stories high, and it had a stable and several outbuildings.

He still had money to spare for food and drink, and there was a threat of rain in the night sky, so he saw no reason to camp and went to the inn. When he entered, his senses were assaulted by various scents of meat, the bright lights, and the soft crackling of a fireplace. It was a large building alright, and he spied several people. Among those people was a Khajiit.... with fur whiter than his cloak! It was clear that she was an albino.

He went over to the counter and sat, finally relaxing his taxed body. The barman took one look at him and smiled nervously.

Hjalbir gave him a nod as he read the Bill of Fare. Weeks and weeks of travelling had dusted him up; he supposed he could treat himself to a little luxury as he rested here.

"I'll have three of the largest slabs of grilled ham you have, two legs of roasted mutton and some of that stuffed mushrooms too. For drinks, I'll have.."

He scanned the menu.

"A large glass of cold milk, sweetened with honey please. And how much for a room?"

"Fifteen septims a night."

Fair enough, Hjalbir thought. As he waited for his meal, he surveyed the hall around him. He was curious about the white khajiit, truth be told. He had never met any albinos in his travels and seeing one in the flesh was curious.

Khan saw the large, no, HUGE Nord walk into the inn and order what amounted to a small feast. What bothered him, though, was the insignia of the bear on the man's cloak. That was both the banner of Windhelm and the Stormcloaks, so it was a bit of a touchy subject. Nevertheless, Khan approached the man.

"Are you in service to the Jarl of Windhelm? I see your cloak bears his...and others...sigil. Ah, how rude of me, I am Khan; Tribune Khan, First Legion."

It seemed he had already attracted attention, as a muscled Khajiit approached him. There was a certain stiffness in the way he walked, and a glint on his feline eyes. He saw the mark of the Windhelm bear on him, and the Nord saw the Khajiit's gaze harden.

When he introduced himself as Khan, a tribune of the First Legion, his suspicions were corrected. It was only a matter of time, he supposed. But what surprised Hjalbir most was that Khan didn't attack him. Or even curse him in his face.

He repaid that courtesy in kind.

"Well met, Tribune Khan," the Nord rumbled in that soft voice of his. "I am Hjalbir Starsight, and yes, I once served Jarl Stormcloak. But what would a Tribune of the First Legion be doing here? Are you on leave?"

Entering the Goblet, away from the light of the sun, Draken began to feel a strange familiar feeling about being around this area. Hackdirt was something else. This area had brought old and distant memories. Just miles away, three and a half centuries ago, he had rebels who wanted control of the region from the local count impaled and set as an example along the roads.

So much had changed that the roads now had flowers in place of pikes. Smoke had been replaced by scented air of pollon and grass and a small campite nearby is now the grounds of which this tavern was constructed.

How things change.

He'd figured the exterior might do the place justice, but the interior was much more luxurious than he imagined. It had the feeling of a simple family home with the comfort of a castle. There was plenty of food and wine to be had, and the people working there seemed to enjoy doing their work, which meant they did their task to the letter to near or certain perfection.

The sleeve of his velvet shirt was torn, bearing burn marks, his face was filled with blood and dust and his entire clothes an unholy mess. This, he was certain, would attract the attention of some of the patrons. So he kept to himself for a moment and retreated into the shadows near the fireplace to take a seat, though he didn't get too close.

He saw the bartender, already occupied with a rather large brute of the north. Is that even a man?

The Breton caught glimpse of Draken the moment he walked in and whispered into the ear of a young woman.

"Stefania, go and make yourself useful, go over there and see what the man wants. I'm sure he needs something."

Draken remained seated, rubbing the length of his arms while feigning distraction until she walked up to him. He turned his head with his mortal mask in place. To her, he offered a faint shadow of a smile and was delighted and yet unsurprised that she returned an even greater one.

Ah, that is right, he realized almost immedietely. I am the man forever trapped in this youthful form. Young ones come to me like moths to the flame.

Among the disadvantages of being a creature of the night and the various natural(or perhaps supernatural) headaches that comes along with them, he had to admit that this was indeed one of his many blessings. He thanked his dark patrons that he'd been born an attractive individual otherwise he'd spend eternity casting seduction spells that would had never worked in the start of his unlife.

Young women were always lured to him. In parties, in inns and taverns, and everywhere he walked upon. Not all of them were desirable, and the ones that were beautiful and otherwise unengaged in special relations had a very special place in his underground cattle cell, forever trapped in a catatonic state.

Sleeping beauties . . .

Draken smiled back to her in that knowledge, and to what she might have perceived as attraction. This was terribly obvious by her charming pout she just gave him. She was so distracted with his eyes and face that she seemed to ignore the scorch marks on his arm altogether.

Absent-minded, this one.

"What would the good sir require?"

Blood. A dark room and perhaps you disrobed, sprawled upon a bed and under my teeth.

She handed him a menu, and he scanned the page. "Quite a selection you have presented here. I would be delighted if you brought me a leg of mutton and ham . . . if you would keep it a bit fresh and only slight less burned, I would be grateful."

"To drink?"

"Surille Brother's red."

She nodded with a bit of a chirp. He turned around for a moment and her, after some time, looked at his arm and the side of his cheek and gasped. "Oh! What happened?"

"I am well," he said. "There was a minor issue with renegade mages not too far from here."

"If you need anything else I would love to help. Just ask for-"

"Stefania."

She looked puzzled. "How did you know?"

"An educated guess," he offered a sheepish smile. "The most beautiful women in Cyrodiil go by the name of Stefania. In old Cyrodiilic it means crowned. You have that presence of a princess about you."

"You're flattering."

He shrugged. "I am but honest."

Her face flushed with red. "I appreciate your honesty. Best honest words I heard all week. Well, I'll go get your order."

To plant the seeds of ideas in her mind, Draken added. "Ah, how much for a night?"

"Fifteen septims."

"Wonderful," he said as he reached into his coin purse. "I'll stay for the day, today. Depending on everything else I might even consider spending the night."

The expression on her face was not missed. She liked that idea, very very much. And so did he.

Khan's eyes softened slightly. "Yes, indeed I am on leave, after the war we all got a year's rest at least. Now, I don't care whether you WERE a Stormcloak, and as far as I know the emperor has pardoned all those left alive, but if you were to be found committing treason again...I am terribly sorry, one's heart should not dwell on such dark matters. Barmaid! A bottle of Ashfire, if you please. So, do you hunt? I've got some hunting gear being shipped down from Skyrim, and I think I'll get some people together during the Harvest's End Festival, if you're interested."

Khan looked down as Bran rubbed against his leg. "Ah, this is Bran, my war dog. He's served me well over the years, and he seems to like you." Stefania brought over the bottle of mead, and Khan uncorked the bottle before disposing of the cork. He took a large gulp of the spicy-sweet Solstheim brew. "Lovely place, Solstheim. Ever been?"

Even from here, Hjalbir could hear the sizzling of meat being cooked as Khan talked. There was such a fine aroma in the air that he couldn't help but lick his lips. It had been a while since he tasted proper food.

Hjalbir then mulled over the Khajiit's words. So the rebels were pardoned then? That was lenient of the Emperor, but Hjalbir supposed that was the logical choice, if humankind must stand together against the Dominion. But that was a talk for another day. Right now he considered the Khajiit's offer. It wouldn't hurt, he decided, and there must be a promise of pay.

"I'll consider it," he said regarding that and then looked down at a finely bred war dog between them. He was a husky, and he had a fine coat. The giant reached down and scratched it behind the ears.

"Bran. A worthy name. But most likely he likes me for my approaching meal." Hjalbir rumbled a soft laugh. "Dogs are smart like that. And yes, I've been to Solstheim once. A gentle land, but one full of dangers. Have you visited the Thirsk Meadhall? They rebuilt it, folks say."

"Thirsk? I've been there, but the place was overrun by Rieklings at the time, and I haven't been back. Tell you what though, the Skaal are some of the nicest people you'll find outside of a Daggerfall harem. Just saw me coming, gave me a drink and a bite to eat, let me have a look round, and I went on my way without receiving so much as a "Who goes there". Not like those Redoran and Tribunal folks in Raven Rock. More uptight than a Qwama's...well, you know."

Khan took another drink, relishing the cold bite of the icy beverage. "So, you're from Windhelm? Nice place Windhelm, beautiful old city. Shame the General had to damage it with those catapults, it was some beautiful masonry, especially on the bridge. Say, you look the type, do you have a homestead anywhere? I've got a little one in Dawnstar, hoping to give myself a little armory out there, get all the great monstruous weapons out of my wife's knife drawer." Khan was, by now, somewhat tipsy.

"A firm, but fair lot those Skaal," Hjalbir agreed. His meal had finally arrived at last. Perhaps the breton barman had informed the cook of Hjalbir's size, because looking at the slabs of ham, even he considered it a large palatte. The meal was fresh and hot, and the residual smoke from it danced a tantalizing allure that seduced Hjalbir's nostrils. Bran was staring at Hjalbir's dinner intently. When the serving girl set it down, Hjalbir wasted no time in attacking it with cutlery. He gave a large and considerable cut of ham to Bran. From the spices and the way the meat was served, Hjalbir suspected the cook was a Nord. He gave himself a mental note to frequent this place, if only for the food.

He washed down the gastronomical delight with large gulps of honeyed milk. He turned to Khan.

"I agree about Windhelm, but I'm actually not from there. I'm from Markarth you see, and we had a little manor by Karthwasten."

He continued eating, and after several minutes of wolfing down the last of his dinner, he turned to Khan once more.

"Dawnstar? I would think that that place would be the last place any non-Nord would call home. Isn't that place a little too cold for you?"

Auguste

“Open another crate of Ashfire,” Auguste called to Riad. He opened a bottle and slid it down the bar.

Yetta staggered past carrying a serving platter. Lleris and Tooth followed with more.

Stefania trotted over to the bar looking hassled. “They’re still ordering meals!” she complained, slapping a drink order down.

Auguste opened the bottles while she filled a bowl with iron nuts. He debated whether to pretend sympathy and then put a boot print on her backside, or go straight to the boot print.

Before he could decide she was back serving her customers. He could stand to hear less of that mouth, but there was no fault in the way she did her job.

Bograk stood near the stairs, fists on hips. Two of the overnight guests faced her in the same posture. “Lleris!” Bograk hollered.

"Ah, you see, I'm in the south, on the border of the tundra, so it's not blizzard country, just a refreshing nip. Plenty of game out there, and it's only half an hour by horse to Whiterun. Please excuse me; Stefania! Another bottle, and a plate of chicken. What do you mean you don't have; fine, fine, stuffed mushrooms, and a wedge of sheep's cheese, that oozy kind from High Rock."

Khan turned back to Hjalbir. "So what about you? What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a drifting mercenary, going from place to place. What with Skyrim being ravaged by that winged menace, I thought that my chances were off in greener pastures."

He took off his fur cloak and laid it folded on his lap. He rolled up his chainmail sleeves and stretched. The bones gave a satisfying crack.

"Tell me about this hunt of yours. Have you already collected men or have you just started?"

"Well, I've only just arrived yesterday, so I don't know too many of the patrons, but from the look of them I'd wager most of them will be interested, and the rest will be so drunk on free beer they'll probably think themselves hardened woodsmen." Khan laughed, and Stefania put his dinner on the table.

"I figure it'll be in the Great Forest, and maybe also in the highlands, and we'll go after all types of game, monters too, I reckon. Boar, deer, fox, quail, ogres, Minotaur, the like. It would also help to bring a horse, if you've got one, and any pets you have. I'll provide any weapons and armor you need, once they get here." Khan began eating the mushrooms, stopping occasionally for a bite of cheese or a drink of mead.

Hjalbir mulled it over as he nursed his glass of milk. Deer, fox, quail.. those were too small for his arrows and he wasn't exactly the most sneakiest person around. Boar, he could deal with from afar, but he was especially looking forward to the ogres and the minotaurs. Those creatures were his kind of prey, and they could scavenged for their teeth and horns for a decent price.

He drank his milk and set the glass down.

"I'm in. I'll need a smaller bow and an arrows for some of the smaller preys. I don't have a horse, though."

The tall Imperial prepared himself for a round of food. A loaf of bread wouldn't-couldn't- sate his hunger. He pulled a chair next beside the khajiit whom he never got the name and and a very tall Nord. Taller than him, even. Unlike his own barbaric-fashioned hair, this man had a silver-white that covered his head.

"Girl," Lycus said to Stefania. "Bring me Stros M’Kai Rum. A roasted mutton chop and a side of slaughterfish with a dish of hammered potatoes and blackberry crumble."

She nodded and scurried off to take his order. Lycus waited patiently for his order, catching snippets of the conversation that was going on around him. Nothing that would peak his interest or anything that would make him cautious except the pale nobleman in the corner with burns in his arm.

Then the conversation that was next beside him ranged from places he was familiar to something even more. Something that defined him his entire life.


"Tell me about this hunt of yours. Have you already collected men or have you just started?" the Nord asked the Khajiit.

The khajiit replied. "I figure it'll be in the Great Forest, and maybe also in the highlands, and we'll go after all types of game, monters too, I reckon. Boar, deer, fox, quail, ogres, Minotaur, the like. It would also help to bring a horse, if you've got one, and any pets you have. I'll provide any weapons and armor you need, once they get here."

Lycus hunted the Great Forest all of his life, and so did his woman. He knew the dirt from stone to fern to overturned log as if it was the back of his own hand. There were plenty of game there, most of which the man already said. It was a hunter's paradise on Nirn.

The Imperial chuckled with his throat and turned to face both men. "You two fancy yourselves hunters."

He looked at the khajiit and nodded his head. "You are right of the Great Forest having all those animals. I've hunted there my entire life. The game never ends."

He began hunting when he was only a young man, and as young men grow, things change. So did hunting. At the beginning petty game was difficult; quail, fox, hares. Then it was easy until he began stalking boar or taking down deer. None of that compared to the hunting of a man, or in his own case, being involved in a hunt with a Daedric Prince.

"I have a wolf that can join us in the hunt," he said after awhile. "Nothing more cunning and fast than a wolf."

He knows this all too well.

Khan looked up from his dinner. "Not a problem, I'll have a selection of bows to choose from. Do you shoot composite, short, or long?" Turning to the Imperial he said: "Ah! My friend the card sharp. May I count you as a member of our merry jaunt? It should be quite fun, just the thing for a festival, and I imagine we can cook up our spoils here, I think everyone else would be most appreciative. Did I here you say you keep wolves? Fine stock, wolves, I'd almost prefer one of those Reachland Dires to Bran here." Khan laughed heartily at himself, which was followed by an awkward silence.

"Say, Wolfman, I never did catch your name, I imagine I was too busy weeping like a lame Horker. I am Tribune Khan, First Legion Cavalry. And you are?"

Hjalbir briefly glanced down at the man who pulled a chair next to him. With his tanned skin and mop of black hair, it was clear that he was an Imperial. And a large one too. But maybe that was because of all the muscles on him.

"I'll have a composite," he said to Khan.

Since the conversation was currently focused between Khan and this savage looking Imperial, Hjalbir retreated back to his silent nature, content to rest his fatigued body.

"I prefer wolves not of this realm," Lycus told the man. "Summoning them to hunt with us is a boon. For what better hunter than one that transcendes this world?"

He reached out to grab Khan's hand. "Lycus. And take joy in the knowledge that I am to take part in the hunt."

With that, he looked at the other man and then back at Khan. "Seek me out if you plan to hunt sooner. I have a vast knowledge of the Great Forest that can benefit men such as us."

And in those words, he parted.

Khan bade Lycus good day, and turned back to Hjalbir. "So, in addition to those bows, I've got swords, throwing knives, axes, nets, various assorted polearms, and something you may like, javelins. I figured maybe at your size you'd make the best use of them of us all. Oh, I've also got a few pieces of enchanted light armor I picked up in Skyrim, and they're specifically enchanted for hunters. Would you be interested in any of that?"

Somehow Hjalbir didn't this Lycus' declaration about 'hunters that transcends this world.' Maybe he was talking about those magickal familiars most sorcerors use as guard-dogs. They were good for combat, but Hjalbir doubted their use in hunting. The natural animals of this world had keen sensors for the scent of the supernatural after all.

If so, Hjalbir didn't peg Lycus like some kind of magician. He exumes power, yes, but the kind of power one would expect from warriors, not wizards.

Still, whatever works, works. Hjalbir wasn't choosy about tools.

"So, in addition to those bows," Khan was saying to him now, after Lycus left, "I've got swords, throwing knives, axes, nets, various assorted polearms, and something you may like, javelins. I figured maybe at your size you'd make the best use of them of us all."

Hjalbir declined.

"I'll be bringing along my own bow in addition to that composite bow you will give. Javelins won't be necessary."

His bow, made just for him, was among the largest in weapon size categories. His arrows, carefully fletched to match his bow, were comparable to short spears in length and thickness. In fact, thinking about it now, maybe he COULD use those javelins for something. As ammunition for his bow. It would mean work and time, but it always helped to be prepared.

"On second thought, yes. I think I'll have some of those javelins."

"Oh, I've also got a few pieces of enchanted light armor I picked up in Skyrim, and they're specifically enchanted for hunters. Would you be interested in any of that?"

Hjalbir looked at the Khajiit with a small flash of incredulity in his star-glittering, metallic eyes.

"Are there any recompensations or any sort of fee on the use of your gear, Tribune? It seems to me that you're almost willing for people to use your gear for free."

Khan smiled. "All I ask is that a portion of each edible kill be given to the festival-goers. I've been wanting to cook boar all year, and the wife's having me eat 'cabbage-apple salad' for dinner, says all the women in the Imperial City make it." Khan made a fainting gesture. "Mot enough damn substance to that rabbit food, I tell you. I rather fancy myself one of those ancient Nordic Warrior-Chefs they tell about in the legends." Khan laughed at his own terrible joke.

"So, what's the main quarry you want to go after? Myself I'm partial to fox and Minotaur".