The Howls of Nahkriinah

The Bastion never liked how wooden chairs creaked as he sat down in them and they always did with one as large as him. Instead he often found a perch on a stone bench, just like he did here in the capital’s main inn, the Winking Skeever. With his back against the wall, Siggard watched the crowd. One of his fellow men sat across the tavern, within another group of people. They were there as spies, essentially. Keeping an ear out for talk of Thalmor patrols, the two were just waiting for some news they could use. Anything was good for them, and imperial soldiers did have loose lips when their belly was full of mead or wine.

Dressed in a brown tunic, Siggard could’ve passed for a visiting smithy, which the man wasn’t going to argue against. No one really paid him much mind after giving him some funny looks due to the sheer stature of the guy when standing. Even whilst sitting down on the stone bench, it was clear he was a big guy. He reached calmly over to his soup, dragging the bowl closer and spooning some in his mouth. It was getting dark, and the city gates would be closed for the night. At least it was warm in here… though it didn’t feel like home. Then again, what was home anymore? Dawnstar maybe? He hadn’t been there in a very long time. His parents were dead and his house probably lay empty infested with rats. Hell it might’ve been given to another family by the jarl. If he had to say though, the fort would probably be his home. He didn’t even know if the fort had a name. It had since been called Siggard’s Fort; bit that coming from his mouth sounded presumptuous, even if he had been the leader years ago. He’d been at war for too long, even if he did live for the fight. He wasn’t necessarily tired of the fighting. It’s just that he would’ve liked to have seen Skyrim’s enemies dead before now. That wouldn’t happen until the empire was granted dominion over, well, the Dominion. Siggard smirked at the thought.

Grabbing his cup he was reminded of the cold as some new people arrived at the tavern. One of them held open the door. Siggard growled. The idiot was letting out all the warmth and exposing everyone to the cold. Whilst Nords could deal with the cold, they still felt it, especially when inside, warm and cozy. The two was getting a stern look from Siggard as they arrived. His expression softened somewhat as he noticed the Vigilant. He hadn’t seen one of their order in a while. What reason could they possibly have for showing up at a time like this? He glanced over at her companion, wondering if this guy too was with the Vigilants. Siggard wasn’t really an expert; he could’ve been for all he knew. With a shrug, he glanced over at his companion sat across the tavern and gave a slight nod in the direction of the newest arrivals, before going back to his soup.

He sat alone in the middle of a table, the other patrons had given him a wide berth. He was a Skaal. A Mountain-Stalker. A Hunter. He smelt of the wild, of living rough amidst herbs and washing scarcely in mountain springs, of dead animals and dirt. What was he doing in this establishment, one of the busiest taverns sat upon the busiest street, which meandered through the busiest city in Skyrim. The food certainly hadn't drawn him, it was clear by the way he played around the filth they sold as 'soup' that he wasn't enjoying himself. Chunks of old vegetables floated around a bowl filled with what tasted like piss-water, with meat that probably came from a Skeever's ass. If it was meat at all. The Skaal slurped some off a spoon, a look of great distate upon his face. The one good part of this meal was the Goat's Cheese that had come with it, which he had heartedly enjoyed (although too Earthy, for his tastes) with a chunk of bread. He was sad that was all gone.

No, he definitely wasn't here for food. Nor for ale, the Skaal's tankard had nought in it but water. Farsten wasn't a great lover of drink. Few of his people were. It was a beverage that was born out of laziness, out of city-living and mismanagement of time. Why waste away one's days drinking, when you could be out hunting. Or whittling. Or securing your home for Winter's embrace. Drink was to be savoured for special occasions, like a betrothal or a celebration to the All-Father. Not drunk at every opportunity in every dirty inn throughout the land. It baffled him where these people, the Nords, who looked so much like him and sounded not too distinct, had gotten such an addiction to the drink. Not like it was much to yell about, Farsten had tried what the Nords drunk when he first arrived in this land. It was flavoured water, at best.

What the Skaal was here for, was coin. It wasn't often that Farsten had a need for Septims, but four days passed was one of them. He'd broke his spear. The hunt was like any other, he begun by tracking deer through the woodlands around Solitude. It was cold up here, the snow reminded him of home. Unlike Falkreath, where the land lay green for half a year - or Whiterun where the ground was unsuitable for tree growth. No, up here - near Solitude - was as close to home as he'd get this side of Dawnstar. He'd cornered one of the beasts, struck it true with his bow and was about to finish it off cleanly - when a great roar had broke his strike. A Troll, as big and brutish as Trolls go, practically leapt off a cliff to steal his kill. Far wasn't unused to trolls, they plagued his home isle just as much as the mainland. But this one would make a Grahl think twice, it brought back memories of his youth. Of a beast known as the Udyrfrykte and her monstrous kin. Indeed this one was dark skinned, like the tales had said, but its eyes were black like any other Trolls - not the pale sickly green of the stories. So, unfettered by fear, Farsten had leapt into combat.

Normally, Far would've prefered to hunt the Troll with fire. As was proper. Without fire, he had to use his Spear. The head sunk deep time and time again, the Stahlrim-licked steel at the end striking easily through the beast's armoured skin. But on one fateful strike, deep into the Troll's chest, the beast had flailed at the haft and broke it clean into three pieces. With the spear buried deep into its chest, the Troll stumbled about the rest of the fight until Farsten got a clean hit on the beast's neck with his sword. He'd brought the head back, as a trophy of sorts, after wrapping up the deer. It was a long, heavy, treck back to civilization. Eventually he'd arrived at a small settlement, sold what was left of the deer and headed on his way to Solitude. It was an easy enough city to spot, being visible for miles around and from almost every mountain in the Hold. He'd hoped to find someone who'd buy the Troll's head off him, a large and unique kill like this would surely fetch enough Septims to get his spear repaired.

He'd been right. It wasn't exactly a bulging coinpurse, Far wasn't one for negotiating, but it had been enough to buy himself a new haft and a blacksmith to secure his old spear's head upon the wood. He got it reinforced, for added measure. Again. He would've already left if the guard hadn't locked down the city gates. One night had already been enough in this... Horrible place. He dreaded the next.

He rose his gaze from the soup bowl, when a drift of cold air prickled his hairs. Two had entered, he knew not who they were. Another called over to them, or one of them, with the term 'vigilant'. He had heard of such people before, although never seen one himself. Hunters, like he, but of magical beasts. Not Trolls or Grahl, nor Frost Wolf, nor Giant. But rather Daedra, those who meddled with them. Werewolves and bears, too, so he'd heard. The thought of those beasts, who spat in the face of the All-Father prickled his skin. He glanced around, almost nervously. Were they here because one of the beastmen sat amongst them here?

He wouldn't put it passed this wretched city to harbour such scum and villainy.

For a brief moment she paused at the foot of the doorway and shot Aventer a look out of the corner of her eye. “That wasn’t necessary,” she said, and shut the door closed firmly behind them once the knight stepped into the inn as well. The sudden blast of cold air did not go unnoticed and Mhalla felt a glare the moment she stepped into the Winking Skeever – a large man leaned against a wall, a blacksmith most like given his threadbare brown clothing and the muscles coating his arms.

The tavern seemed unusually full – most of the tables filled. Perfect.

“Vigilant.”

The single word caught her attention. To her right, in one of the alcoves that lined the far wall of the tavern – the one with windows that overlooked the main street – sat a scarred Dunmer mage. The robe was a clear give away – enchanted too by the looks of it, though with what the Vigilant could not tell. Instead of going over to him as the stranger seemed to want, she merely held one finger in a Wait one moment gesture.
With that she approached the bartender.

An Imperial stood at the counter. He had light brown hair that fell to his shoulders and a faint shadow that traced over his cheeks and formed a moustache. The man also wore the threadbare clothing of most commoners, with a patch of cloth sewn onto his left shoulder. A hard working man, most like.

“Hello,” he said as Mhalla approached, “Not often we get Vigilants around these parts. Could I get you a beer or – ”

“I need to borrow your floor.”

The bartender seemed taken aback at that. “Excuse me?”

“I have an announcement to make, so I’m giving you some fair warning ahead of time that things may get noisy.”

With that she turned around from the counter. A last “Wait…” following after her.

She stopped in front of everyone. She stared at the crowded room. She sucked in a breath.

“Listen up!”

When the last ringing echo of her shout faded, Mhalla clasped her hands behind her back and said in a more normal tone, “I am Vigilant Mhalla of Stendarr’s Sanctuary – the Hammerfell chapter. This,” she said, gesturing over to her companion, “is Sir Julius Aventer – a descendant of the Order of the Knights of the Nine. My order has been chasing down a coven of witches for the last decade, and, at last, we have narrowed down their location to the area west of Solitude, up in the Druadach Mountains. This coven is led by a Hagraven named Halivid and her strongest supporters are Hags in truth – we managed to follow one of them,” Two, but we killed one of them., “but she was killed before we could find out what her end destination was.”

Then she stepped forward, once more her voice raising – though not as loud as her earlier shout. “First,” the Vigilant said, holding up a finger, “We need a tracker who can either find the one who slew the Hag or find the trails of other witches of the coven, and two,” a second finger rose up, “We need men. Those strong in arm or magicka. There will be at least two dozen witches there, more if Halivid has recruited Forsworn from the Reach as she has in the past. This is a chance to strike at the Forsworn who have been plaguing these lands for centuries and to strike at these witches and their foul magicks. However, if you are more … mercenary … in nature, there will also be all the loot from the base which can be split up among the fighters – armor, weapons, robes, staves, potions and the like. A chance to gain honor and riches.”

There was also a chance that the Sanctuary itself would recompense fighters who have aided them in stopping one of their oldest enemies. The Sanctuary itself was known as one of the richer orders of the Vigilants of Stendarr, having its own silver mine and having a massive statue made of pure silver to overshadow the Retreat. But she didn’t want to tell the taverngoers this. She didn’t tell them for the same reason she didn’t tell them of the Helm of the Crusader or the Ancient spell of Halivid’s The Hand of Decay – such knowledge brought out the greed lying dormant in the hearts of men.

Mhalla glanced back at the bartender. He rubbed the bridge of his nose at Mhalla’s pronouncement and the chatter that followed it, “Do you have a large room I can rent?” She asked, “I’ll wait there for those who want to follow through on my offer.”

“Uh, yes,” he said, suddenly perking up, “Here’s the key to the room upstairs – first door on the right. Free of charge just … please leave once your work is done.”

“You have my word.”

With that she scooped up the key and turned to the tavern goers, clearing her throat to get their attention. “I’ll currently be up on the second floor, first door on the right. If you wish to take up the mission or have any further questions, meet me there.”

She took the stairs, arriving at the designated room in moments, before unlocking it and stepping inside.

Sure enough, it was fairly big for a regular inn room. A small couch, a large oaken table lay in the middle of the room with two long benches, and a chandelier – the burning oil filling the room with a dim light – filled the main room. To the sides two doors stood, likely leading to bedrooms, as this room was clearly meant for parties of four or more.

Mhalla took a seat at the head of the table and waited for the rest to filter in.

Practically everyone had shot the two newcomers a look when they eventually stepped inside. It wasn’t all that surprising. In fact, Siggard wouldn’t have paid it much mind, had he not have seen a mage wave a hand to them immediately. Did he know them? It seemed not; as the Vigilante gave him a gesture Siggard couldn’t exactly see. Nonetheless she moved right on to the bartender.

Siggard gave a look to the crowd, some of whom were watching, before looking at the Imp. The tavern certainly was attracting some unusual folk tonight. Then again, he didn’t have any room to talk. Giving his beard an absentminded stroke, he leaned forward and rolled his shoulders. Benches weren’t very comfortable after half an hour or so. Soon he’d have to get up and have a walk about, just to make sure his legs hadn’t fallen asleep. As he moved his sword made a clank against the stone bench, so Siggard adjusted it and rested back against the wall. By now his soup was done, and he was drinking from a mug of mead. The mug seemed to be dwarfed in the ‘giant’s hand, a fact that he always noticed. Why did nords make their cups so small anyway? He’d have thought they’d have made tankard sized cups for special occasions. They did not however.

A couple of minutes later, when Siggard had decided to give his legs a bit of activity and was about to rise, when suddenly the lady Vigilant spoke up over the crowd.

“What in the name of Talos…?” Siggard breathed, sitting up to attention. Siggard listened to the woman, taking a glance to his fellow stormcloak on the other side of the room. He gave a look as if to ask ‘are you hearing what I’m hearing?’ The busy right eyebrow of Siggard rose with the reference of Hammerfell. A long way from home, he thought. Nothing could’ve prepared him for the description of her companion. A descendant to the knights of the nine? He had to admit, if it was true he was certainly impressed. If nothing else, she just told everyone he was an enemy to the Thalmor. Anyone who was an enemy of the Thalmor instantly became favourable in Siggard’s mind, so he gave them his full attention. He did pay this man some attention however, noticing how pale he was. Siggard gave a small chuckle, though he understood why. It seemed the woman had blurted out something she wasn’t meant to say, so Siggard couldn’t help but chuckle. Still, it was dangerous to say such things in the capital, especially with the embassy so close by. He scanned the crowd, he was sure if anyone left there would be Thalmor waiting for them in the courtyard as soon as they left. Siggard would have to assist them with that, if nothing else. He’d never be able to show his face in the capital again though.

What was the heir to the knights hunting a witch though? Surely he had better things to do… like hiding for instance? Siggard shook his head, he’d find out later. They were recruiting however, and they needed someone strong in arm… there wasn’t anyone stronger than him here. That was for sure. Siggard was clearly amused now; perhaps he would go with them for the fun of it. Given the announcement of his ties to Talos, chances are they’d run into the Thalmor at some point. Might give him a chance to crush some of them too and he held no love for witches. He might need his armour first though. Luckily that was just outside the castle gates being guarded by one of his other men. All he’d need to do is go and collect it on the way out. His mind then went to the reference of the Foresworn. Siggard knew how to fight those bastards. He knew far too well about those damn Foresworn. He’d been with Ulfric Stormcloak’s militia during the purge of the Reach; maybe it was time to relive some old memories. As the woman spoke more, Siggard almost forgot the word ‘no’. He was up for this.

As her little speech came to an end, Siggard rose to his feet almost immediately after she was done speaking. The stone bench visually moved as he got to his feet. His size was now fully visible, standing quite a bit higher than anyone in the tavern. Siggard watched the Vigilant and Aventer vanish into a backroom and then turned to his companion. Siggard nodded over to the door to the tavern, leading out into Solitude where he stood quietly as his friend approached. In a hush tone he issued his ‘orders’. “Go out into the street, pretend you’re getting fresh air… if someone so much as looks like they’re heading to the Thalmor, let us know.” After giving his friend a quick pat on the shoulder, Siggard turned on his heels.

His companion didn’t waste any time, immediately slipping out of the tavern and finding a spot outside, where he would remain, watching the streets.

Siggard made his way across the tavern in the meantime, squeezing through gaps far too small for a man of his side, and brushing past anyone. He barely said a word however, even if he didn’t mean to brush past them. It wasn’t because he was rude, but more of the fact that he had no real control over it. When he finally made it to the stairs, he breathed out a heavy sigh. Calmly he trenched up the stairs, grabbing a loose grip on the bannister. He immediately heard voices as he got outside of the door. He didn’t wait however, and immediately pushed it open, making sure to duck just slightly to avoid banging his head on the doorframe as he stepped in.

“No need for any questions. I’m in.”

The Skaal looked over his mug of water, noticing the Vigilant's companion approaching. He lowered the mug and straightened up - not often he had company, but the Skaal were told from an early age to greet strangers with at least wary kindness. They were all children of the All-Father, even if they'd forgotten or rejected his warm embrace. He opened a hand as the Imperial neared the table, indicating for him to at least talk his mind if he didn't wish to sit. If there was one in this establishment who wasn't the Were-beast this Vigilant surely hunted, it would be her companion. He begun to talk- but the Vigilant drowned out his words with her own yell. Her voice rung of strength and power, he was impressed by how her voice amplified her presence. So much that it silenced the busy tavern.

So this Vigilant was from Hammerfell? Even the Skaal, who lived largely on the outskirts of society, had heard of the brutal destruction of the Skyrim chapter of that particular Holy Order. While he couldn't fault their mission, the sad tale of the Skyrim chapter was a lesson in the futility of the Tamrielic Divines. Only the All-Father watches and protects... He had never been to Hammerfell, though, and had seen few of the Redguards native to that region. They looked odd, to the Skaal, Dark of skin like a Dunmer - only more like a tree. Yet Human. They were a curioisity, more so than the mead-swilling Nords and their demanding little Imperial cousins. That they too seemed to follow the religion of the Imperials, like the Nords of Skyrim, was news to him. Was there any on the mainland who didn't?

But the companion? The Skaal gazed back at the Imperial, who had gone as white as Riekling hair. Something had spooked this.. Julius? A Knight of the Nine, whatever they were. The Skaal wasn't stupid, he knew what a Knight was. A warrior, heavilly armed and armoured, who rode a Horse and went on adventures to save women from Dragons. Why the women couldn't just save themselves, the Skaal had no idea. Far too many stories he had heard on this mainland pained the local ladies as pathetic weaklings - Skaal tales painted them as strong additions to a clan, who brought useful skills and raised all the Skaal of legends with love, care and strength. Or even passed into legend themselves as powerful Shaman, or brave Hunters.

If the Vigilant required a Knight, then their mission must have been far more dire than the Skaal had thought. They had come here for a Tracker and strong arms. The Skaal could fill both those roles with ease... Yet he was finding it difficult to reason why he should. This Witch coven held no threat to himself, although he did hunt - and live - in that area. They held no threat to the Skaal, either. Nor would the Forsworn - a group the Skaal had avoided completely by wisely keeping out of the Reach... Although... The Skaal was low on Septims, exceptionally low. All of his septims had been spent replacing his spear. Perhaps the Skaal could lead these two on this Hag's trail - that was all they wanted, a tracker to find and follow the trail. Farsten could do that, for some septims. He'd be leaving soon anyway, and traveling to that area. He may as well earn some septims in the process?

The Imperial dismissed himself meakly, following briskly after the Vigilant Mhalla. Farsten just gave him a nod as he left. From his vantage, he managed to spot a Dunmer and an exceptionally large Nord follow not long after them. Far wasn't in such hurry, the Vigilant hadn't called for them to immediately assemble... So he settled back down and finished his piss-soup.

---

It didn't take Farsten long to finish, but it would've been long enough for those who had followed the Vigilant to get aquainted at least. He was already in all his furs - he rarely took them off - and with his weapons dangling freely from his side or the pack on his back, he looked ready to climb Mortrag Peak. He rapped on the door, his furred gauntlets muffling the sound. He didn't wait for a response, rather just warning the inhabitants that he'd be stepping through. The door creaked open, and the Skaal got his first good look at the group. The Vigilant was well-built, a warrior through-and-through, as was the Knight (although Farsten expected him to be a little bigger). The Dunmer wore a robe, and looked to be a Mage-type, Far found that one a little distasteful. Dunmer were a pain, their mages more so, but this one had a glint in his fire-eyes that sparked of... Greed. The Nord? Well he just filled the room with his presence. Far knew which one he'd like to send into a cavern first.

He coughed, his voice was a little hard to muster from disuse, he bore an accent unusual for Nords. It was clear, even if his armour wasn't, that he was different. "You called for a Tracker? I can track: man, beast or fiend."

Mhalla had barely taken her seat when the door creaked open.

She had expected Aventer, she had expected they would exchange a few words, if he felt up for it, about the mission prior to the others filtering in. But whatever words she might have brought up died when she saw the look on his face. A look that seemed to be equal measure panic and … betrayal. Over these last few hours she had been upset at him, over the fact he had just laid there – giving up, ready to die (and she still didn’t know what the hell that had been about) when the Flame Atronach came, but as the silence dragged on she felt a cold knot just curl itself in her stomach. When he hissed out his accusation the realization dawned on her.

The Thalmor. Of course.

“Julius. I’m so sorry. I was just throwing out a recruiting pitch. I should have said that you “came from a line of knights” or something. The Thalmor I …” And her voice trailed off. How could she possibly say I just forgot about them to him? That she must have been weary from the day’s traveling (no matter what front she put on) and that she just forgot about one the greatest menaces Tamriel has seen in this era? When he has already opened up to let her know of his issues with mer?

She was saved from needing to finish her trailing thoughts when the door opened once more. It was the large-supposed-blacksmith from before, though his next words put that into question. “No need for any questions. I’m in.” Simple, straight and to the point. He seemed to be a man of action.

“Glad to hear it.” Mhalla said after she took a moment to gather herself. “Please take a seat.” She said, gesturing to one of the chairs.

They started filtering in after that, one by one.

The mage she had spotted earlier, the dunmer that had called out to her, had followed along in the big Nord’s heels. He seemed content, at the moment, to wait for more to arrive before asking her questions – a fact Mhalla appreciated.

The next to enter was a Skaal – still decked in his furs from Solstheim. Under her scarf Mhalla felt a grin breaking through, “Excellent,” she said, “Your skills will be most welcome.”

The last to enter in was a young Wood Elf, one that seemed to just boldly ignore the table and her at the head of it and just plop herself down on the couch next to Julius and began to speak to him, or at him, given that Julius still seemed tense. Mhalla cleared her throat, catching the woman’s attention, “I take it you’re here for the recruitment, correct? Well, there seems to be no more takers so we might as well introduce ourselves. That and now would be the time to start asking questions – though I do ask that you only give one at a time.”