If anything had been watching on that cold, snowy, windy night in northeastern Skyrim, it
would have observed four dark shapes proceeding along the southern road that lead to
Windhelm. The only thing out of the ordinary was that while one shape forged ahead and
plowed a trail through the nearly waist-high snow to make the going of those behind easier, two
others that followed were carrying the fourth and final shape. It looked as though they had made
a rough stretcher out of two fairly straight saplings and some sort of hide, which was supporting
the weight of the fourth shape.
The shapes were, in fact, men, battered and bloody after a long, brutal day of walking,
tracking, and fighting. Through the snowflakes the leader could be seen, trudging along in his
battered armor he had obtained as a member of the Dawnguard. And under his helmet and his
dark hair, were his green eyes. Eyes that betrayed the fear in him. Fear for the health of the
man who lay wounded on the stretcher behind him, and fear for the fate of that man.
--------
The day had started out well enough in the camp of the four warriors, which lay to the
southwest of Winterhold near the ruins of Alftand. It was a frosty morning, as most in Northern
Skyrim are, although the wind wasn’t overly strong. The previous night they had scraped away
the snow around where they were laying, so that it wouldn’t melt and soak them by the morning.
The Orc was the first awake a bit before dawn, who had little hair but an enormous, musclebound body and large, protruding teeth. He quickly set about saving their dying fire. Then the
leader woke up, a middle-aged Nord with several battle scars obtained during the course of his
career as a Dawnguard soldier. Next awake was the newest group member, and recently a
student at the College of Winterhold, a young Breton, who had plenty of hair and but an
average-sized body. He began roasting a few rabbits killed the day before by the final man, a
young and athletic (aren’t all of their people?) Redguard, with dark, fuzzy hair and dark eyes to
go along with it. But, as usual (as the Breton was to learn), the Redguard woke up grumpy.
“Why aren’t those rabbits cooked already? Why don’t you just use some of your fire magic to
insta-cook it for us?” he grumbled.
“Because, horker brain, although the fire would cook the outside of the rabbit, the inside
would still be raw,” the Orc growled. “And everyone thinks my people are stupid,” he finished
with a barely concealed grin.
“Oh, and since when are you the damn Gourmet, Orc?” the Redguard retorted. “Maybe if he
used a weaker fire spell, then the meat would cook all the way through.”
The leader decided to interfere, saying with a grin, “If you two fine chefs are done arguing, I
think the rabbit is ready to be eaten.”
The Breton, although he had looked somewhat nervous during the “argument”, realised that
the two were just fooling with each other, and ripped off a piece of meat for each man and
handed it to them.
“Mmmm,” the Redguard said with relish, “This rabbit is good. Did I mention that I killed them
myself?”
“Yes, several times,” said the Breton, joining in, “It’s almost as though you’re proud of it.”
The Redguard, with exaggerated slowness, turned his head to look into the Breton’s eyes.
“Well, maybe I am. Something the matter with that?” he said.
The Orc chuckled, glancing between the two. “Well, I can see that you two are going to be
good friends,” he said with a toothy smile.
Then the leader got to his feet and said, “I’d say it’s about time that we checked up on our
equipment,” with a glance to the Breton, who, as a mage, had but a small satchel of his
belongings and nothing in the way of weapons and armor. “You sure you’ll be fine without
something for close quarters?” he asked.
“Yes, don’t worry about me,” said the Breton. “I’m sure I can just hide behind one of you big
warriors when my reserves run dry,” he ended with a smile.
“Well,” said the Redguard, picking up and restringing his hunting bow from where he had lain
it on top of the rest of his equipment, some brown leather armor and a quiver, “If I was you, I’d
pick one of the broader members of our party.”
“Oh,” said the Orc, reaching around his set of heavy steel plate to grab and heft his double-bit
steel battleaxe, “I hope you’re not aiming that at me.”
“Of course not,” said the Redguard hurriedly. “I was just pointing out that with all that armor
on, you look rather large and. . . imposing.”
“Why Breton,” asked the leader, “Were you referring to me?” as he donned his black
Dawnguard armor, picked up his steel shield, and slid his shiny steel mace into his belt.
“No, I wouldn’t dare insult my boss the first day on the job,” said the Breton with a grin.
When they had all finished laughing, the leader said, “We’d best be getting back after
that beast by now. It could have gone far in one night, though I think it’ll stay in the snowy parts,
so we should have no trouble tracking it.”
“Aye boss,” said the Orc as he pushed himself off the ground, while the Breton put out the fire
with a burst of frost magic.
After they had all gotten their armor on, they set out to the east, following their leader as the
sun began poking up over the horizon. The Redguard soon came up beside him, as he was the
only one besides the leader adept at tracking, although with the snow there was usually little
trouble following the trail.
“This beast takes some great strides,” said the Breton, panting. “You said this is the first one
you’ve ever gone after before?” he asked of the party in general.
“Yes,” said the leader. “Me and the Orc have mainly dealt with vampires before now. This is a
whole different type of prey, or so we hear. We picked the Redguard up in the Braidwood Inn in
Kynesgrove while we were heading North, but I doubt he’s done much battle before.”
“You’re right about that,” said the Redguard. “My experience is mostly with the tamer varieties
of animal. But I thought I’d come along with you two and try something more dangerous.”
“Ah,” said the Breton. “And then you came into the College asking for a mage with some
healing experience, and I volunteered to come along. I must admit though,” he said sheepishly,
“That I am mostly untrained in the school of Restoration. Destruction and Alteration are really
the only schools that I have any experience in.”
“And little enough of either of those, I’m sure,” said the leader ruefully. “Well, we’ll manage,
and your skills will improve in time, especially if you stay with us.”
“If it helps, I do have one potion of Minor Healing,” said the Breton, half drawing it from his
satchel. “Do you want it?”
“Well. . .” said the Orc, “It’s better than nothing. But you’d better hold onto it for now. If we’re
lucky, none of us will need it. Though that it unlikely,” he ended quietly.
Soon they came upon the carcass of an elk. The Redguard knelt and spat, saying, “Not long
dead. But the animal kills I’ve seen never looked quite like this. This elk is ripped apart, and a lot
of it eaten too. That beast has a large appetite.”
As the day wore on and the sun crawled across the sky, the four continued to track their prey.
The prints gradually became more defined as the snow lessened and the stride decreased, and
the group took a short break. The Breton wandered over to inspect one of the tracks closer.
“By Julianos,” he said, still short of breath, “I’ve never seen tracks like these.” For the tracks
they were following were not those of a giant, bear, sabercat, nor even a troll. They looked like
human feet, but were bigger, and the marks from several-inch long claws could be seen
extending off of each toe.
“Aye,” the Orc said, “Werewolves have damn big feet.”
--------
As the sun started descending beneath the horizon, the hunters arrived at a rather menacing
dark opening in the side of a mountain to the south of Winterhold, from which the smell of rotting
meat wafted out to them. The wind was quietly whistling past them, but there was no snow
falling as of yet.
The Breton winced after he had examined the opening. “So. . . we’re going to have to go in
there to get it?” he asked nervously.
“Yeah,” grunted the Orc, “And I doubt your bow will be of much use in there,” he said,
glancing at the Redguard.
The Redguard nodded his head, saying, “Some caves are big enough to use a bow in without
feeling too cramped. But I dunno about this one.”
The leader turned around and looked at all of them. “Well, we all know why we’re here,” he
said. “We gotta kill this werewolf. But take care none of you get bit. Some stories say that you
can get infected by even a little scratch from a werewolf. Then you turn into one. Just like with a
vampire,” he said, looking back at the Orc.
“Some sort of strategy might not be a bad idea,” said the Breton.
“Aye,” the Orc said. “Going into a cave with a werewolf living in it with no plan isn’t the
smartest thing we could do.”
“Alright,” said the leader. “Me and the Orc will lead. Breton, use any frost spells you know to
slow the beast down, and make him tired. If all else fails, use fire. Anything with fur hates fire,”
he said with a grin. “Redguard, you back him up, and be ready with that bow of yours. If either of
you needs to retreat, don’t worry about it, just do what you need to do to be able to stay alive
and keep fighting.
“Alright, old friend,” said the Orc with a smile. “I heard the strategy, and I’m ready to go. While
we whack the big hairy thing, the kids will shoot things at it. Sounds great to me”
“You heard the man,” said the leader. “Let’s go get it.”
The leader slid his mace from his belt, lifted his shield, and started forward, the Orc with
his battleaxe next to him, with the Redguard following, bow strung and arrow nocked, and the
Breton taking up the rear, frost spell ready. Before they entered, they noticed that the wind had
started picking up, as well as the snow. A blizzard was coming, along with night.
As soon as they entered the cave, they realized that it was warmer inside, and that some
of the snow and ice had melted. It was eerily quiet inside, and water ran down the walls, making
dripping and plopping noises as it fell on whatever lay beneath it. A large droplet fell down the
Breton’s neck, and he swore, not liking the cave. The fact that there was a hungry werewolf
somewhere inside didn’t raise his opinion of it, either.
They all kept walking, ears straining to hear every sound. The Redguard had better
hearing than the others, and attempted to separate the natural cave sounds from anything
unusual. A small gust of air, the rustling of a small animal, or even small rocks falling were
normal, and these were all he heard. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary to any of them,
besides the smell, and the bones and rotting carcasses everywhere.
Suddenly, the leader stopped. He had seldom had such a strong feeling of foreboding,
even when going into the darkest vampire den. At least they usually attacked you as soon as
you set foot inside, instead of waiting until you got farther in. Then again, on occasion the
vampires didn’t know you were coming. He was pretty sure that this werewolf knew that they
were here, as he had heard and read tales about them having an extremely sensitive sense of
smell, as well as hearing. Yes, he decided, it was very likely that the werewolf knew that he was
not alone in his cave.
The Redguard moved up beside the leader and whispered, “I think I hear something
coming. I think it knows we’re here.”
The leader nodded slowly, trying even harder to pick out any unusual sounds. He
glanced behind them quickly, and was glad to see that there was plenty of room for retreat
straight backwards, as they would likely soon need.
Then they all heard a low growl, coming from a fair sized opening in the cave to the front
and right of them, and that area was somewhat lighter, as there appeared to be a hole in the
ceiling that a bit of light filtered through.
And then it came.
It came leaping out the the darkness to slam into the leader, flinging him backwards
several feet to land in front of the Redguard, although his shield took the brunt of the blow. The
Redguard loosed an arrow, though his aim was off and he hit the beast low on the right side,
doing little damage but annoying it thoroughly. The Breton then flung an ice spike at it, slowing it
but drawing its attention as well.
The Orc, meanwhile, roared, leaped, and swung his battleaxe into the beast’s left arm,
nearly crippling it. It howled with rage and anguish, and with its right hand swung at the Orc. It
was all he could do to block the blow with his battleaxe, which completely broke in half at the
impact. He swore and flung the useless 3-foot long handle piece down.
The beast lunged over at the Redguard, and forced him to roll out of the way to save
himself, but he came away unscathed. While the beast was rebalancing itself, the leader finally
had extricated himself, and swung his mace at the back of the beast. He was dumbfounded
when all it did was bounce off, leaving just a small mark. The beast turned around and roared,
jumping over to attack the leader once again when he was hit by a second arrow, this one
hitting him while he was turning and completely crippling his left arm, almost pinning it to his
body.
Looking for easier prey, the werewolf’s eyes fell on the Breton, who was preparing
another spell. Heading for the Breton and roaring with the bloodlust, the beast didn’t notice the
leader until he slammed his shield into his side. Not to be distracted, the beast still managed a
swipe with his right hand before the Breton could use his magic, sending him tumbling several
feet back. The leader swore and yelled at the werewolf, ready to bash him again, and drawing
his attention away. At the same time, the Redguard fired another arrow which nicked the bottom
of the beast's heart, causing it to bleed heavily.
By then the Orc had retrieved the other half of his battleaxe, and as the beast lunged to
try and kill the leader, he ran forward and swung it, imbedding it into the neck of the beast, just
about decapitating it, and silencing it forever. The weight of the werewolf falling nearly pulling
the axe out of his hands, as it seemed stuck. He placed a boot onto the body, and ripped the
axe out with both hands.
The Orc and the leader sagged, exhausted after the brutal fight, and from the weight of
their armor and weapons. The Redguard had already dropped his bow, and was running over to
where the prone form of the Breton lay on the cold, wet floor.
He quickly checked for a pulse. “He’s still breathing,” he yelled to the others. The leader
swore softly.
“That may not be for the best,” he whispered to the Orc, who just glanced at him, worry
in his eyes.
They both walked slowly over to where the Breton lay, unconscious.
“There’s a problem, kid,” the Orc started.
“What is it?” asked the Redguard confused.
“It’s night, and we’re in a cave in the middle of a blizzard, hours away from Winterhold, even
in good weather. And if he doesn’t die, he’ll turn,” said the leader quietly.
“And even if we could get him to Winterhold,” said the Orc, “There aren’t any alchemists
there. Even the college doesn’t have a mixer anymore.”
The Redguard looked up after a moment of thought. “What about Windhelm?” he asked
hopefully.
The leader pondered for a minute. “Windhelm is several hours further,” he said. “But if we
have him drink that potion he has, that should buy us enough time.”
The Redguard grabbed the Breton’s satchel, and went to pull out the potion, and then swore
bitterly. “His weight must has smashed it,” he said sadly, “It looks like only half is left.”
“Well go ahead and feed him that, and we’ll just have to go a bit faster, won’t we?” said the
Orc, with a sudden burst of energy.
The Redguard held open the mouth of the motionless Breton, and poured the remains of the
potion in. The effect was almost immediate, stopping the bleeding and healing the gash
somewhat.
“Good,” said the leader, galvanized. “Now go cut a few saplings, as straight as you can find,
with that twigsplitter of yours,” he said to the Orc.
The Orc soon returned with two young trees, and began cutting any small branches off.
“What are you planning on using for the bed part, though?” he asked.
“None of the hides on the carcasses in here will work,” said the Redguard, returning from
looking around after feeding the Breton the remains of the healing potion. “They’re all ripped to
shreds.”
“But there’s still one more carcass in here, isn’t there?” said the leader, drawing his hunting
knife and grinning at the irony of it.
--------
And so we arrive back at the group trudging through the deep snow, with the Breton laying on
a stretcher made from the pelt of a werewolf. The beast that had just nearly killed him had
provided the Breton with something to help him survive.
They had cut four small strips of hide to loop through holes cut into each corner of the bed
part of the pelt, and then tied them to each sapling. It wasn’t the best stretcher ever made,
reflected the leader, but it was much better than nothing.
The wind was really blowing now, and with the snowfall it was about as bad a blizzard as any
of them had ever seen. But this did help them, as most of Skyrim’s creatures retreated back to
their dens and caves in bad weather, even the more dangerous ones, which pleased all
members of the party. None of them had any desire to meet a snowy saber cat in the middle of
a blizzard while they had a wounded man with them.
They had been walking for several hours since they left the cave, and it was still black night. It
was all the leader could do to keep on the road to Windhelm. Not that he could see the road, but
if he stomped hard enough he could feel the rocks that paved it. If he stomped when not on the
road, it didn’t feel the same, more like hard dirt or ice, in which case he had to retrace their
footsteps until he found the road again.
Then the Redguard started slowing. “How close. . .do you think we are to Windhelm?” he
gasped.
“We should be able to see the lights in another hour,” said the leader. “From there, it’ll only be
a half hour or so until we reach the gates. There’s a settlement at Anga’s Mill, too, which is
about when we should be able to see the lights.
Right about an hour later they were walking through Anga’s Mill, although there was nobody
outside to greet them, just the snow that had been falling all night. And then they saw the lights
of Windhelm, with the dark stony walls rising outlined around them, and the dark roofs of houses
with tall chimneys reaching up into the sky beyond them.
“Here, let me take your end,” the leader yelled over to the obviously exhausted Redguard.
The Orc still showed few signs of fatigue. The Redguard took point, though the snow wasn’t
quite as deep this close to Windhelm.
Soon enough they arrived at the giant gates to Windhelm, and the guards there opened the
doors for them.
“What happened to the kid?” one of them yelled.
“Oh, we ran into some bandits, and he got hit by one of them. He should be fine though,”
yelled back the leader. “You got an alchemist in town?”
“Nah, ever since the White Phial closed down there haven’t been any. Nearest one is
probably in Whiterun,” the guard yelled. “Nobody in town even sells potions any more. But if you
want to rest and heal up, I’d head over to the Candlehearth Hall. They’ve got cheap beds for the
kid, if you want him to rest there,” said the guard.
The leader waved, dejected. He knew that if they couldn’t cure the Breton, they’d either have
to kill him or he’d slaughter half of the town. He didn’t like either option.
“We’d best head into the hall,” he said to the Orc and the Redguard. “I’ve got enough gold for
one room. We can leave the kid there and look around for anybody with cure disease potions.”
They carried the Breton inside, and were very happy to feel the warmth permeating the inn
from the great fireplace upstairs, with the famous candle above it, from which the Candlehearth
Hall got its name. After asking, the leader gave the price of a room to the barwoman, and after
they all had carefully lowered the Breton onto his bed and closed the door, they headed up to
the top of the inn to rest. They sat down in a table close to the front of the fire, noticing a middleaged bearded man wearing fine clothes, as well as a dunmer woman playing a lute. There was
also an old man with grey hair, a long grey beard, and a worn robe within earshot, sitting with
his back to a corner and reading, with a large satchel leaning against his table leg. After a
glance at each patron, the group ordered an ale for the Orc and the Redguard, the leader
declining, wanting to keep his mind clear until they had helped the Breton as best they could.
“So, as the guard told us,” the leader started, “Nobody in town sells potions. Although that’s
probably true, we should at least check. One of you head over to the general store in town,
Sadri’s Used Wares, and see if he’s open and has any potions of Cure Disease. The other can
ask around about anything that can cure Sanies Lupinus, and I’ll go ask around at the Palace of
Windhelm for the same. I wouldn’t get your hopes up though,” he said grimly. “If we can’t find
any potions, I’ll kill the kid.”
As the Orc and the Redguard finished their ales and went to go searching for a potion, the
leader glanced over at the old bearded man in the corner. He noticed that the old man had
lowered his book and slowly turned to look at them at the mention of Sanies Lupinus, and was
still looking at them now. When he noticed the leader looking at him, he started to speak.
“Somebody you know get hurt by a werewolf?” he asked quietly.
“Friend of ours,” said the leader. “Got swiped across the chest. We think he can survive the
wound, but, as I think you heard, we can’t find anything to cure him with.”
“I might be able to help with that,” said the old man, with a smile that deepened the already
large lines across his weathered face. “In most company I can pass for a fair alchemist. Why
don’t we go to your friend so I can get a look at him?”
“Sounds good,” said the Orc, relieved. “I’m guessing we won’t have to go looking around
town anymore, will we?”
“No,” replied the leader, relieved as well. He then stood up and lead the way down to where
the Breton lay on the bed. He was sweating a bit, but showed no ill effects besides the claw
marks on his chest that weren’t fully mended by the healing potion.
The old man grabbed a nearby chair and sat down next to the bed, thumping down his
satchel next to him. “Alright,” he said, rooting around in his satchel. “It doesn’t look like I have a
Cure Disease potion. . . but I do have something just as good,” as he pulled out a Hawk
Feather.
“What’s that going to do?” asked the Redguard in confusion.
The old man chuckled. “You don’t have to be much of an alchemist to be able to get the
basic effects from an ingredient. This feather may not be anywhere near as appetizing as it
would be if you mix it with something else to make a potion, but it’ll do the job.” This said, he
grabbed a mortar and pestle, broke the feather in half so that it would fit, and started mashing
away. Soon enough it was reduced to a near-liquid paste, which he scraped into the Breton’s
mouth.
“That should stop the sweating, as well as cure him of Sanies Lupinus” said the old man.
“He should be fine and awake by morning.”
“Thank you,” said the leader simply, and the others echoed him. “I’m sure the boy will
thank you when he wakes up, too.”
“Glad to help,” said the old man. “I’m happy my skills could be of use to someone other than
myself.”
The Orc and the Redguard soon laid down on the floor by the Breton to sleep, while the
leader and the old man reclaimed the corner table upstairs. The fire was still burning hot and
bright, although the other patrons had retired.
“Why did your group go after this werewolf?” asked the old man.
“Me and the Orc have been with the Dawnguard over in their fort to the southeast of Riften for
a few years, fighting vampires. Since we smashed the Volkihars maybe 3 years ago, there
hasn’t been a whole lot of trouble from the vampires, so Isran, our leader, decided to expand
our operation, so to speak. He wants to start a new “branch” of the Dawnguard that specializes
in hunting werewolves. We were the first attempt at that, and I suppose it could’ve gone worse.
All of us still have a lot to learn though,” said the leader. “This particular werewolf we heard
about because it’s gone feral, and has been killing people around Winterhold. We set out North
from the Fort, and when we stopped at Kynesgrove the Redguard joined up with us. The Breton
was supposed to be our healer-” here he stopped, laughing at the irony along with the old man.
“He had been studying at the College of Winterhold, which is where we found him, and he
wanted to come with us. Next we cut through the mountain south of Winterhold, and while we
were headed east we ran into his trail, so the Redguard tracked him to his den. And there we
killed him.”
“I’m no expert on werewolves, but I’d say a fair amount of luck was involved with your
success,” said the old man with a grim smile.
“Yes. . .” said the leader. “Knowledge about fighting creatures like these generally comes with
experience. Or if you’re lucky enough, you can find a person who has survived their
experiences, which is nearly as good, and quite a bit less dangerous. I know a lot about
vampires, but these werewolves are completely different. Almost like starting all over again,” he
said, smiling.
“Well, we’d best get to bed,” said the old man. “I’ll be staying here for a while, so if you
happen to chase another one up around here, stop by and I’ll tag along with you. You never
know when you might need a more experienced healer,” he said with a grin. “Which will
probably be often, given your line of work. And who knows, maybe I can make something
besides healing and disease-curing potions.”
The leader smiled. “That sounds great,” he said. “We can always use an older and wiser man
in our group. We’ll definitely stop in the next time we come this way.”
And with that, they headed off to bed.
Around noon the next day, when the others of the group were already up, the Breton finally
awoke, and was very confused. They filled him in on all the details, scaring him when telling him
about his close shave with becoming a werewolf. Then, he cut the pelt off of his stretcher and
near deathbed, and carried it upstairs to give to the old man as thanks, and a souvenir of sorts.
The old man, laughing, accepted the pelt and bade them goodbye. They all then set off for Fort
Dawnguard to report their success, as well as the recruitment of two new men. They had each
now survived their first encounter with a werewolf, which is more than most residents of Tamriel
can boast of. Isran, the leader decided, would be very pleased.