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Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak.
High up in the mountains above Bruma, on a jagged peak overlooking the Jerral mountain range, Havilstein Hoar-Blood sat, miserably rubbing two sticks together in a half hearted bid to make a fire. It was cold up here on the mountain top, the sharp wind cutting through his thick fur armor and heavy cloak, ice crystals embedding in the weave and melting through to his skin.
He didn’t like being cold.
Normally on nights like tonight, he’d make the trek down the mountain to Bruma and hole up in J’Ghasta’s cellar until the wind died down. His catman Speaker always had a nice pile of furs by the fire and a bit of stew to spare for him, and many was the storm they’d waited out together sipping good mead in silence. Tonight however, was different. Tonight the Listener and Speakers and Silencers had all gathered at J’Ghasta’s house for their monthly meeting to talk over the business of the Black Hand. Tonight the Black Hand would discuss its business and then some of its more self-indulgent members would drink and whore the night away. The normally quiet house with its comfortable smells of stew and Khajiitii incense and pine would be full of skooma smoke and the sour stink of high elf wine and perfume. By morning's light they'd toddle out the door and leave their filth and mess behind, and it'd be up to him to help clean it up and keep the catman from tearing his whiskers out over the chaos and ruin done to their nice home.
Damn wasteful fools.
He shivered again, disgusted and freezing, before giving up and tossing the sticks aside. With the wind blowing as it was he'd have no fire tonight. It was better to just hunker into his tent and wait for morning than sit around and be blown off the mountain.
Retreating into his small tent and securing the flaps tightly, Havilstein burrowed under the pile of old furs he kept for a bed. Wolf pelts, cougars, a Skyrim troll, and a few very pretty Khajiit skins. Some he had hunted himself, some J'Ghasta had given them to him years ago when he first became his Silencer, taking advantage of his new position to escape the closely confined, constantly echoing bustle of Burma's Sanctuary for the free air of the Frostfell peaks.
Though why free air had to be so damnably cold…
Slowly, he settled into a fitful slumber, the shriek of the wind raking at the canvas tent a calming lullaby despite the bitter chill. Soft, sibilant, slipping to sleep, the song of the Void whispering in his ears-
His eyes snapped open, muscles tense, one hand already gliding silently to wrap around the haft of his Great Axe, the other reaching into his pocket to slip on a chunky silver ring, fingers brushing over the scrawled sigils engraved over its surface, dark, sight, clear, life. The world around him drifted into shades of blue, the tiny colored streaks of several lifelights darting about beyond the canvas wall, dim and oddly flickering, fading– why?
He was not alone.
listening…listening…the wind keened and moaned, roared, slowed…
There.
The faintest crunch of quick footsteps pattering over snow: quick light, fast. Too fast in this weather to be human.
He flung himself forward out of the tent with a bellow of rage just as the battered, rusted blade of an ancient longsword cleaved through the canvas to stab right where his neck had lain a half second before. It's owner hissed in reply, a feral unhinged noise, jerking the blade free and dancing back into the whirling cloud of snow faster than he could see. Around him, the northern winds howled, laden with something heavy and putrid, a scent like rotting meat fowling the clean sharp smells of pine and snow. There was no moon to see by, but with the ring he could still see them. Four women: two humans, one elf, one orc. They wore rusted, broken armor in an older style, their clothes rotting from their bodies in strips that shone in blotchy shades of purple and indigo in his spelled vision. Their faces were chalk white set with bright, red glowing eyes, the sickly light shining with bloodlust over mouthfuls of jagged teeth. Vampires. To his spelled sight their life forces appeared oddly smokey and stretched, as though some thing held a part of their soul and was attempting to drag it from its semimortal shell. They stalked around him slowly, near soundless, slipping in and out of the whirling snow as they hissed and paced, seeking an opening.
In answer, Havilstein growled back, baring his teeth in a grimace of fury, letting it rumble up from his chest like an oncoming storm as he pondered his options. There would be no running here, this was not his first time fighting vampires, they'd be on him in an instant, and several grueling lessons with Speaker Valteri had been more than enough to teach even him that one did not simply hide from immortal bloodsuckers. Not when they had his scent. Fighting was his only option here, but four on one, with no idea if any still hid in the treeline…Havilstein stood still, calculating, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind as he tried to picture the best outcome, the best strategy.
The matter was decided for him.
With an eerie, feral screech of desperation, the elven woman lunged forward, the bow in her hands seemingly forgotten as she lashed out with fangs and claws, reaching, grasping for his throat and the heated ichor of life she could smell coursing there. At her cry the other three paused for a moment, uncertain, but it was enough. With a bellow that shook the mountains, Havilstein raised his axe, its long haft spinning with deadly intent in his expert grasp as the two engaged. Swiping for his face, the vampire dodged his first blow, pivoting around to land at his back and lunge forward once more, only to catch the butt of his weapon directly to her face. Bits of shattered teeth flew through the air and she stumbled back, her pained moment of distraction all the time he needed to cleave her head from her shoulders.
The other three vampires wailed in anguished fury as their sister disintegrated, attacking as one maddened, slavering pack that hurled themselves at his throat and wrists, seeking to drag him down into the snow to feed. No time to think, no time to plan, he simply moved, ducking, weaving, axe a blur as he swung it in a wide arc to scatter them, catching one across the chest and sending her flying towards the treeline in a cloud of ash. His was not the traditional Nordic fighting style, not after three years of training with J'Ghasta. Instead of standing as a bulwark against his foes and holding some imaginary line, he danced, allowing the momentum of his swing to carry him like a seed on the wind. Landing between the two remaining vampires he ducked an open handed swipe, jabbing the pointed head at one, catching her under the jaw and heaving with all his strength, the satisfying crunch of her vertebrae snapping with a gargled scream like music straight from the Void.
Revels are for AFTER all your opponents lie dead, Assassin, not before. This one should not have to keep telling you this.
J'Ghasta's chiding voice rang in his head like a thunder clap as pain, wet and fiery engulfed his side, the final vampire's clawed hand sinking deep into his flesh. Careless, he'd been careless and now she had him.
The two combatants fell to the snow, Havilstein's axe landing nearby as they tussled, locked now in a pure test of strength and will. The vampire had one hand still buried in his side, the other scrabbling for his jugular like a wildcat as he attempted to toss her away. Rolling back and forth, slamming into rocks and through his meager supply cache, Havilstein could feel his strength flagging. Too much of his blood stained the snow around them now, and his thick shirt and pants provided little protection against the sapping frost or her furious claws. Finally, the vampire loomed above him, pressing him into the snow and rearing back, her teeth bared, mouth wide as she prepared to sink her fangs into his exposed throat…
Desperation lent him one last surge of strength, and in a manic burst of terror driven inspiration he struck first, seizing the opportunity to sink his own teeth deep into her neck, crushing flesh and cartilage, silencing the joyous cry that would have been his death knell as he bit down and ripped . It was like biting into desiccated mort flesh, dry and ashy and tough. There was no blood. These poor creatures had been starving for far too long for that, and above him the vampire's stunned expression slowly flaked away with her undead existence, bits of dust catching in the howling wind until there was nothing left but a pile of rotted cloth and dented armor sprawled across his lap in a filthy heap.
Dazed, Havilstein took a deep breath and coughed, spitting up filth and ash. That had been…somehow worse than expected. Perhaps he'd mention it to Speaker Valteri when he saw him next.
Gingerly, his ribs screaming in protest, blood dripping from the gash in his side and from a thousand small cuts where the vampire's claws had sliced. Havilstein crawled to where his axe lay, its familiar haft a comforting weight in his hands as he used it to lever himself off the ground. His body felt like nothing so much as a lumpy, bruised sack of potatoes. He needed…it was difficult to think straight– He needed potions, something to prevent the disease from taking hold, but first something to stop the blood, or– no–
He never saw the fifth vampire
Charging out of the snow with an enraged, inhumane screech, the male orc would have been a worthy opponent as a mortal. As a vampire, he was an unliving nightmare of muscle powered by unliving hunger. Already disoriented and weak, Havilstein stood no chance as in an instant his axe was ripped from his hands once more. The monster's weight bore him down, driving the breath from his lungs as they hit the ground and then its fangs were in his throat, twin spikes of agony driving, deep, deep into his jugular. Hot blood gushing forth to splatter the two of them in red. Dimly, his senses growing weaker with every desperate pump of his heart, Havilstein realized he was dying at the hands of an amateur. No mature vampire would waste so much blood, no experienced hunter of men would rip and claw at his gut like an unhinged animal. He'd be shredded bones and smears of viscera on the mountain at this rate…
The catman would never get over this…
He felt himself floating, fading into the dark.
Mother…
A howl broke the Void
Sweet Mother…
The vampire gurgled, biting down fully, jaw clenching as it shook with delight at the rich red nutrients beginning to course through its dried out veins. Its pallid face flushing with its first meal in centuries.
Send your child unto me…
His neck tore open further, blood splattering the snow as the vampire's teeth were wrenched from his throat. The weight of its body was abruptly thrown off him by the force of something far more massive than either of them, ripping it free and hurling it into the air. A chorus of screams and snarls followed as whatever it was bound after the orc. Then silence.
Such silence…
The last thing Havilstein saw as the Void claimed him was a gaping maw with teeth like Sky-Forged daggers, sticky crimson dripping from them to stain the snow beneath.
Warm.
Soft.
Havilstein had had little of either in his life, but it seemed his death would be kinder. It felt to him that he rested, cradled, in the embrace of something far greater than himself, curled into a cloud of luxuriant heat with the texture of silk. For a moment his heart ached, thinking of J'Ghasta, and the pile of furs waiting for him by the fire in the little house in Bruma. He knew his Speaker would look for him eventually, and he wished he could apologize for the mess he would find. The catman had trusted him to take care of himself, and he'd failed miserably.
There didn't seem to be time in death, but after a while, hours? days? He became aware of more. There was a steady, pulsing beat, like a drum sounding in the depths of his mind. There were also other noises, gurgles and snuffles, an occasional sound like a great wind sighing in his ear. Dimly, as though ascending through deep fog, he came to the realization that he was not dead, couldn't possibly be dead. He still had things to live for, people to kill, a Speaker to serve.
But if he wasn't in the Void, where was he?
With a moan, Havilstein pried open his eyes, wincing at the sting as a cold, blinding field of crystalline white filled his vision. Squinting against the glare, he found himself in a small circular cavern, some six feet across, that appeared to have been dug deep into the glacial layer of the mountain. Above him, sunlight filtered faintly through the snow pack to illuminate icy walls and a floor worn nearly smooth beneath his hands. This deep in the glacier, the air whistled and cracked with the movement of the ice, the frozen scent of it biting at his nose and already aching lungs.
He was not alone.
At his back, something breathed, a warm, roiling fire wrapped around him, the beat of its heart thrumming within his own blood. A slight shift in the softness beneath him was Havilstein’s only warning before a long, deep red appendage, no, a tongue , swiped across his face, the smell of blood and raw meat making him gag slightly, drool dripping from his chin
and ears as he abruptly found himself staring up into the deep, wide open mouth of the largest wolf he’d ever seen.
Sweet Mother…It's the size of a fucking bear.
Dark as pitch, the beast's thick fur fluffed around it like a void born cloud, gently stirred and poofed by a phantom wind despite the still air. Eyes the color of arterial spray gleamed bright above an oversized snout, cold and warm and familiar and strange, he knew those eyes, had seen them a dozen times before, though it had been years since the Bruma Sanctuary had a pet. The spider Lis in Falkreath though, Schemer in Cheydinhal, Saber in Anvil and- Speaker Lachance’s demon horse, a personal blessing from their Mother, given in a time of need.
Send your child unto me…
Slowly, Havilstein could feel his memories eeking back, the shrieks and snarls, silence, and then being dragged here and enveloped in heat. The wolf grumbled, curling tighter around him, its warmth soothing the strained muscles that ached and throbbed with every breath. Tentatively, Havilstein reached out, shaking fingers carding through night dark fur. He had called, he had called and his Mother, their Mother, had answered. Even if it wasn't personal, and this wolf was the new pet for Bruma, it had come to him. Blood and shadows, wrought in flesh and birthed by death, it had come to him.
As a boy growing up in the Velothi Mountains, he’d been promised a companion when he came of age, a beast of Kyne that would stay by his side through life’s trials. Those dreams had died with his clan, but- perhaps the Nightmother now granted them anew? Lady Death’s eye upon him, perhaps the Kiss at the End had not forgotten he’d once served her in a different light.
“Good boy” The wolf whined quietly, ears flicking back to listen to his voice, “Good brother”, Havilstein’s tongue felt thick, the words slurring together as darkness closed in, but they needed to be said. “Good– ” Wolf , but Wolf wasn’t right. Wolf wasn’t a name.
Teeth, long and glinting like skyforged daggers, mouth red and dripping with blood, a vampire killer, parasite shredder, immortal ashes scattered to the winds by that glistening…crimson…Red…Maw.
“Good Redmaw.” falling into the Void once more, the words were a whisper amidst the ice, but he knew his brother heard. Against his side, he could feel the wolf wriggling even closer, reverberations echoing throughout the cavern as his tail beat a happy tattoo against the frozen floor. Good Redmaw…
He’d finally found someone within the Brotherhood he could bond with.
J’Ghasta would be so pleased.