Author's note: Yep, another unfinished Elder Scrolls fanfic. What can I say? It's my favorite fantasy 'verse. Not sure if this counts as T or M at the moment, so I played it safe, especiallh since some of the stuff I have planes definitely veers into M territory.
Not as well-written as A Pragmatist's Guide to the Dawnguard, and this one contains gratuitous non-canon worldbuilding, including but not limited to an unofficial mage club in Bruma housed in the ruins of its old Guildhall, some details about the process of becoming a werewolf, and some other things. All harmless unless you don't like the idea of mage clubs in Bruma, or the high quantity of OCs in this. There are no official canon characters in the second century of the Fourth Era outside of Skyrim and Solstheim, and the Dragonborn is a wildcard who could be literally anyone, so everyone in this fic is a character of my own.
Contains and/or will contain violence, homosexuals, and implied past trauma which may become triggering at some point in the future. Oh, and also people who genuinely don't consider Talos to be one of the Divines, for you more enthusiastic Stormcloaks out there, and for you Thalmor, heresy and discontent.
Title subject to change. I'm trying to think of a better one.
The biggest problem, thinks Runs-at-Birds, isn't that wearing full plate prevents you from using magicka effectively. It's that committing that much energy to a spell more than moderately difficult while running away from whatever is trying to kill you is much harder when you're wearing a stiff metal suit that weighs more than half as much you do. But at least the armor makes you harder to kill.
He's been stubbornly trying to prove to a fellow apprentice that he could use heavy armor and still be an effective mage since the beginning of Sun's Height; it's now nearly Last Seed, and he's made virtually no progress. Finding rats and wolves to test himself against is no problem, nor is keeping his armor in shape thanks to his unlikely friend at the smithy, but Direna Falan's arrogant bravado and dismissive disdain, in typical Dunmer fashion, will be the death of him. Unless this werewolf kills him first.
Runs-at-Birds knows he has a couple of options. The simplest is to just keep running for dear life, and he has no intention of stopping while he runs through the other possibilities in his mind. He could turn around and fight the thing, but he is poorly armed, and once he runs out of magicka he'll be dead. He could also try slinging spells at it while running—wouldn't Direna be impressed—but again, it would slow him down, and he'd run out of magicka eventually. He could also save as much of his magicka as possible for healing spells to use on himself (he knows only two). This option would keep him alive longer, allowing him to run farther and maybe get within earshot of a guard patrol before his legs give out, but fighting the werewolf would earn him a bit of respect and prove Direna wrong. If he survives. If not, he'll be taking a one-way trip to the Void...
He is quite literally running faster than his legs can carry him. He stumbles and falls (luckily, not to his death—yet), and he feels his heart start to skip beats, knowing the werewolf could merely pick him up in its jaws and crunch up his spine as he tumbles out of control down the mountainside. And then he sees a brown shape kneeling at the base of a tree, directly in his path.
Runs-at-Birds spent his teenage years surrounded by beastfolk who hated each other more than the Dominion hates mortality, yet he has never been so happy to see a Khajiit in his life. The scream practically erupts from his jaws: "Gatel-ri! GET HELP!"
(He hates the way that name rolls off his tongue so smoothly, and so does Gatel-ri; he was named and raised by Bretons who, in spite of trying their best, have absolutely no knowledge of Ta'agra, especially where nomenclature is concerned. Runs-at-Birds doesn't know why the Khajiit doesn't just change his name, like he himself has done, if only because Nords can't pronounce his name's Jel equivalent.)
The Khajiit nods in understanding and immediately scrambles to his feet, running in the direction of Bruma. Just as well, since he's awful in a fight...
The werewolf after him has been slowed down by the steep slopes of the Jerrals and the many trees in the way, giving him a chance to pick himself up from the tree he's crashed into and start running again. He desperately prays to the Divines, Sithis, anyone, that he's closer to Bruma than he thinks he is, or that Gatel-ri is able to find a nearby guard patrol. He's panting hard now, and his armor isn't getting any lighter, and if there aren't any miracles soon he will be unable to keep running and the werewolf will rip his heart out. And Direna will laugh at his memory for being such a fool.
He won't give her that satisfaction.
Fueled by hatred, he puts on a last burst of speed, covering a couple meters or so before his knees buckle and he collapses. Moments later, he can feel the werewolf's breath on his exposed scales, hot and more foul-smelling than that burnt troll corpse he'd run across last winter, and he holds his breath, sends a quick prayer for his egg-sister, and wishes he still had eyelids so he could screw his eyes shut while waiting for death.
He's thankful for his armor now. He can hear the werewolf's claws screeching against his breastplate, can feel it prying him out of his metal shell to make for an easier meal. He's stopped holding his breath and is hyperventilating instead, but he's too weak and exhausted to even cast the simplest spell he knows; all the magicka he saved to heal and protect himself is wasted now, as is his life.
He'd imagined getting mauled and devoured by a werewolf would involve fewer explosions.
Everything is somewhat muted. Underneath is a constant, high-pitched whine, and behind the he can dimly register that the werewolf is howling before it drops him rather heavily on his right leg, bringing a crack of searing pain, one he feels rather than hears. The beast's flesh sizzles where the fireball hit, reeking of burnt fur, but there isn't as much blood as he expects. The flame cauterized the wound, which is fortunate for Runs-at-Birds, else he'd have to scour Tamriel for a cure for lycanthropy. Before he can even attempt to identify his savior, another blast of flame goes searing above his head. It misses, but the explosion from its impact catches the beast in its radius. Its tail between its legs, the werewolf sprints away, surprising Runs-at-Birds' rescuer with its speed. No more fireballs come.
Dimly, he sees two humans standing before him (powerful Destruction users—must be Ezekiel and Isra, but he can't tell one from the other right now). One of them kneels down, tries to talk to him, but he can't make out any of the words (nor did he ever learn to read softskins' lips) and everything fades out.
Runs-at-Birds wakes up in what used to be the Bruma chapter of the Mages' Guild, before the guildhall was destroyed and said guild was dissolved. For a while, magic users in Bruma just went their separate ways, wanting little to do with the Synod or the College of Whispers, and doing their best to avoid upsetting the locals, Nords especially. In 4E 160, a few mages got Countess Bruma's permission to restore and repurpose the old guildhall for a local association of mages, aptly named the Mages of Bruma. They had no official recognition outside County Bruma, and were required by the Countess to have no affiliation with either the Synod or the College of Whispers, but it was better than nothing. Finally, it was possible for Bruma's magically gifted to get together, work together, and form something resembling a guild.
It is this pseudo-guild which both Runs-at-Birds and Direna Falan are a part of. Dazed though he is, he immediately recognizes the infirmary wing, which has taken over the job of providing healing services to the people of Bruma since the destruction of the Chapel of Talos and the signing of the White-Gold Concordat. Upon seeing that he is awake, one of the healers on duty sends for someone.
Minutes later, Isra, Ezekiel, and Gatel-ri (whose application to join the Mages of Bruma was denied recently, in spite of his skill in enchanting and alchemy—perhaps because he is incapable of using any actual spells) are crowding around him, all asking if he is all right, what happened, where the werewolf came from, why he was out there alone. His hearing has returned somewhat, but his head reels from the overload of information. It takes a while before he is able to get a word in edgewise and tell them to talk one at a time.
Ezekiel goes first, but it isn't much better, he talks so fast and asks so much. "Are you feeling all right? Did you get bitten at all? How about the creature's blood, did you get any on you? What about saliva? Are you otherwise hurt at all? Britte can't heal you until we know whether or not you may have been exposed to lycanthropy."
"No blood," Runs-at-Birds slurs. Speaking is a bit difficult, which concerns him. "Fireballs cauterize. Don't think it drooled on me. Lots of wounds. Scratched, dented my armor. I feel dizzy. Talking is hard. Very tired, too. Think my right leg broke."
This does nothing to assuage the young Imperial's fears. "What about bites?"
"Don't know. Might have bitten armor. Might have bitten me. Couldn't tell. Too much pain, exhaustion, fear to tell what pain came from."
Even though Runs-at-Birds is not the best at gauging human facial expressions, he can tell the always-nervous Ezekiel is terrified, but he isn't sure if his friend is terrified for him or terrified of him. Either way, he's gone quiet.
Isra talks next. "Did I hit you with a fireball?" Short, blunt, to the point. Isra never saw the point of padding her speech. She's never polite, but she isn't rude, either, and she's always brutally honest. Spending twenty of her thirty years of life as a mage raised in a culture that is wary of magic will do that to a woman. Runs-at-Birds finds her manner refreshing.
"First one. Blew out my hearing. Can kinda hear now. Obviously. But not as well as I should."
The Redguard woman frowns, but does not offer an apology. "As long as you aren't becoming a werewolf, that can be fixed." She does not say anything about the fate of his hearing if he has contracted lycanthropy. He doesn't need her to.
Finally, it is Gatel-ri's turn to speak. His throaty, rolling speech, combined with the clipped Breton accent and human speech patterns he learned from his parents, is one of the strangest voices he knows, yet it is also the closest thing to the hissing rasp of the Saxhleel he is ever able to hear since he and his mute egg-sister (the only other surviving member of his clutch) moved to Bruma. It reminds him of home.
"Where did you find the werewolf?" is his first question. Doubtless, he has more, but unlike Ezekiel he waits for Runs-at-Birds to answer before moving on to the next.
"Jerrals. Southern slopes. Between Dragonclaw Rock and where the," he paused for breath, "the Great Gate opened. Just finished off an imp. Wolf came from west."
"And you ran all that way in heavy armor?"
Runs-at-Birds laughs, though with difficulty. "Adrenaline and my only potion. Fortify/Restore Stamina."
Next is a question the Khajiit probably wouldn't need to ask if he'd successfully joined the Mages of Bruma. "What were you doing all the way out there?"
"Experimenting. Proving a point. Being stubborn. Pest control. Being stupid. Nearly getting killed. Take your pick."
Ezekiel explains, for which he is thankful. He is much too tired to tell this story. "He's got a sort of bet or competition going with Direna. He's been trying to prove to her that he can be as effective as a mage while wearing heavy armor as what she'd call a 'pure' mage would be without the armor. She looks down on magic users who don't go for the classic enchanted-robes-and-no-weapons approach to combat, whereas Runs-at-Birds, as you know, has trained for years in the use of heavy armor and is currently learning to use a blade. Given his stubborn nature and Direna's holier-than-thou attitude, plus her, ah, disdain towards tailed folk, you can see where that went."
Gotta love them racist Mer. At least she isn't a Thalmor sympathizer, not that they'd take a Dunmer in the first place. Gray skin, red eyes, tradition of Daedra worship, and that nasty business with the Tribunal? That isn't exactly a "superiorly bred Mer," and certainly not the type to claim Aedric ancestry. There's a reason they weren't in the First or Second Aldmeri Dominion, either.
Still, from the way Direna acts, you'd think she was born and bred in the Summerset Isles, not in the ash wastes of Morrowind to parents fleeing the Argonian Invasion, parents who left behind every trace of lineage and carried that knowledge to their deaths. Direna is no one, yet she acts like she's a noble of House Telvanni...
It's Runs-at-Birds' turn for a question. "Speaking of Direna...where is she?" She at least ought to know I nearly died because of what she started.
Ezekiel and Gatel-ri shrug. Isra says, "She and Shurgruk are out in the field. I don't know where."
Runs-at-Birds narrows his eyes and waits for another question to come at him, but none do. He asks another of his own. "How do you check for..." Pause. Breathe. Force tongue to shape words. "For whether or not you're becoming a werewolf?"
Silence all around. Gatel-ri and Ezekiel exchange an uncomfortable glance, and Isra just looks Runs-at-Birds over with a critical eye. "The first step," she says after a while, "would be to examine yourself for bites, broken or missing scales, and any open wounds." She moves to remove his blanket, at which he yelps, his voice jumping up at least an octave.
"No! Isra! I don't think I'm dressed!"
If Saxhleel could visibly blush, he would (or maybe he'd go pale instead, he's not quite sure), but Isra is unperturbed. "I am a mammal. You are a reptile. There is no reason for embarrassment."
"B-but—!" Isra means no harm, despite the rather unfortunate way she expressed herself; she just doesn't see why he's—(no, no I'm not scared, wherever did that idea come from)—given their biological differences. But still... "I'm just. I'd prefer you didn't. One of the guys. Or a healer. Please."
Isra shrugs and turns her back, taking a few steps away from his bed. But all the healers on duty right now are women, and despite the detached professional manner with which they would examine him, he isn't comfortable... He gives Ezekiel and Gatel-ri a pathetic, pleading look. "I'm sorry. Would one of you be okay w—"
"I'll do it," Ezekiel says quickly, cutting him off. "Gatel-ri, go over there with Isra, ok?" The Khajiit obliges, and Ezekiel turns back to Runs-at-Birds. "I won't...look, or anything," he promises, then he pulls back the blanket, stopping just above his friend's waist.
The werewolf mostly got his back and sides, so there isn't much to see. He thinks he's injured his chest somehow, though, given his difficulty breathing and speaking. He tells his friend this.
"...Bruises wouldn't show through scales, would they. Hmm... Tell me where it hurts, I guess?"
And so, awkwardly, they go over the injuries to his upper body. He tries his best to pinpoint the sources of all his aching, searing, stinging, and burning, where his armor dented in on him, where the claws got past, where trees appeared in his way, and the spot where the imp seared the side of his neck with a lightning bolt. He has numerous claw marks on his upper back and arms, including several deep gouges on either side at the base of his neck. Ezekiel can't tell whether they came from claws or teeth. These injuries, with their broken scales and exposed, open flesh, along with the fact that his rather low quality armor left that area somewhat exposed, are the most likely entry points for potential lycanthropic infection on his upper body.
The blanket is rolled back up when they are confident they've covered everything. But then Ezekiel stops and looks at him. "I, uh. I need to look at your legs and tail now."
"Right one's probably broken."
"That's not what I'm worried about. I..." He goes red and mumbles, "I don't know much about Argonian anatomy."
Runs-at-Birds gives him a level stare, sits up (with difficulty), and rolls back the blanket enough to show his legs but preserve his privacy. He flops back onto the bed with an exasperated sigh of, "Softskins." Ezekiel is making this way more uncomfortable and awkward than it needs to be.
Not that I helped, freaking out like I did with Isra. But—but I have reasons for that!
His leg is, indeed broken. No surprise there; he fell on it with all the weight of his armor, and at an unfortunate angle. His tail is crushed about halfway down, too—the werewolf must have stepped on it. Stupid human-made armor. I'm lucky Gatel-ri was able to make a hole for my tail at all. Proper Saxhleel armor, or at least armor made to fit beastfolk, would have protected my tail from sharing my leg's fate. But of course it costs twice as much to get in a city so far from both Argonia and Elsweyr... Thankfully, there are no open wounds or broken or missing scales on his lower body, aside from where his limbs crumpled. The awkwardness ends much more quickly this time.
"I'm definitely injured," he says after Ezekiel calls the other two over again. "And you said you couldn't...heal me until we know if I'm going to turn. So why am I not in as much pain as...as I should be?" Speaking is getting a bit easier, at least. But I'm still short of breath.
"I gave you a pretty powerful potion after you passed out," Ezekiel explains. "To make sure you didn't die on the way home. We couldn't tell how badly you were hurt."
"In addition to stabilizing you, it numbed much of your pain," Gatel-ri says, with a purr of pride. "I brewed it myself. I didn't expect the effects to last this long, though."
Great, just great. "What do we do now? Is there a spell you could use?"
"Only very advanced magic, well beyond the capabilities of anyone in Bruma, could detect the onset of lycanthropy. Sleeping can be an indicator, unless you have a history of sleeping poorly. A werewolf's sleep is never restful."
"Doubt I could sleep easily now anyway."
"Diet is the only other major indicator. Watch for cravings and changes in appetite and tastes, and any similar impulses. Aside from that, only time will tell."
"Can I receive any healing?"
"For now, no. A master healer can aid the crippled and the improperly healed, but no spell or potion can cure lycanthropy, and the few rituals known to work are well-kept secrets, courtesy of the Father of Manbeasts. Death is the only reliable cure and knowingly aiding a werewolf is a crime. If you are infected, leaving you injured will make you easier to kill."
The matter-of-fact way she says it terrifies him, and he can swear he feels the ambient temperature in the room go down. Ezekiel quickly says that of course it won't happen, he's not becoming a werewolf, no one is going to kill anybody, but all of them know that if Runs-at-Birds does turn, they (or, at least, Isra) would kill him in a heartbeat. And scared though he may be, he would want them to.
Ezekiel's heart is breaking. His mind is reeling. His best friend could have died today, and he might be turning into a werewolf, and if he is—
He doesn't want to think about it. He doesn't want to do it. He can't lose Runs-at-Birds. He wants to turn back time, rewrite history, do anything he can in order to keep today from turning out the way it has. And then...maybe his nerves would stop jumping long enough for him to tell his stubborn Argonian friend what he knows he'll probably never get to say now.
He knows Runs-at-Birds would rather die than become a monster. He owes it to him to—to kill him, if it comes to that. But now that it's come to that, Ezekiel doesn't know if he has the strength to keep that promise.
But maybe I won't have to. Gatel-ri, despite having the makings of a stellar blacksmith-to-be, doesn't know the first thing about fighting except how to claw at things and "pointy end of knife goes in bad guy," but Isra... Isra could probably do it. I think. I—I don't hope she's a potential killer, but I hope one of us has the selflessness and willpower to perform a mercy killing, and she's the most likely candidate. She's...detached, seemingly emotionless, an excellent Destruction mage, and you don't get that good without practicing on real targets...
But I'm almost as good with Destruction magic as she is, that little voice added, the one living in the corner of his head where self-loathing and guilt are born. She taught me a lot of what I know, sure, but...
I don't want to think about that.
The healer shoos them out of the infirmary soon after that. Ezekiel finds himself cooped up in the old living quarters, which have been retrofitted with bookshelves—many, many more bookshelves than Ezekiel thought it possible for Nords to have in one city—and converted into a library. Unsurprisingly, he's scouring the shelves for every book on lycanthropy he can possibly find without having to travel down to Cheydinhal or Chorrol or even the Imperial City. He doesn't find much. Vampires are understood thoroughly enough, and since most vampires are turned by disease it's easy enough to cure—and even if a cure can't be obtained, vampirism can be controlled. But werewolves? The children of Hircine are much harder to study than those of Molag Bal, and far fewer major figures are known to have been werewolves. The Nerevarine became one during the last Hunt of Hircine, but the last anyone heard of them was that they'd set off on an expedition to Akavir around 200 years ago. The Hero of Daggerfall had sometimes been a werewolf as well, but what with the Dragon Break and the many, many converging timelines it was impossible to learn anything from that.
What I wouldn't give to save him.
He knows he does have one option, but it's such a drastic measure he doesn't know if he could pull it off anyway. Even aside from that, he is a faithful man: not the most religious of folk, but he was raised pious and puts faith in the Divines well enough, and trading his own soul for Runs-at-Birds' is, along with killing his friend outright, something he just cannot do.
Still, the fact that making a pact with a Daedra even occurred to me... Hircine isn't the only one I could do it with, either. Hermaeus Mora could give me the knowledge, and if I was really desperate I—
No. Shut up, brain. Why am I even thinking this?!
If there is one trait of Ezekiel's more prominent than his nervous nature and loyalty to his friends, it is his ability to scare himself with the extents to which he is willing to go. Contemplating giving himself to a Daedric Prince so that his best friend might walk way from this uncursed—especially since he doesn't even know yet whether Runs-at-Birds even is cursed—has brought Ezekiel to the edge of a moral precipice, one he fears he may soon fall over. Committing an evil to prevent an evil, or playing by the rules and likely, nay, surely failing—which is worse?
He leaves the library after that, not trusting himself to be alone with his thoughts and the books which held so little on werewolves but so very much on Daedra. After wandering restlessly for a time, he finds himself at the smithy, where Gatel-ri is repairing the bent, cracked blade of an otherwise finely crafted steel broadsword which, Ezekiel notices uneasily, is inlaid with silver.
The Khajiit flicks his tail in greeting, not taking his eyes off the blade. "Do you need something?"
"Just something to take my mind off Runs-at-Birds," Ezekiel sighs, leaning against a wall. "I hope you don't mind."
"As long as you don't distract me from my work. This sword is worth a lot of money."
"You're actually getting jobs yourself, now? Whatever happened to apprenticeship?"
"Brynja broke her arm in a bar fight. She can't work until it heals. I am helping."
Gatel-ri's voice has taken on a terse overtone, so Ezekiel stops talking for a while. But even with the sound of metal on metal in his ears, and the rhythmic motion of Gatel-ri's hammer, the lack of words makes it much easer for werewolves and what could be done about them to seep back into his mind. Once a few minutes pass, he finds his mouth going off again.
"I can't stop thinking about it. About him. About what I could do to help him, even the—the—the wrong things, the awful, horrible—"
"I do, too," Gatel-ri cuts in, surprising Ezekiel. "If I could save him by skinning myself and offering up my own pelt, my claws, even my tail as a sacrifice to one god or another, I would do it. I'd need someone to help me, but I'd do it." His voice, usually rich and suave and just a bit silly with his utterly Breton accent, is cold and steady now, monotone and devoid of emotion. Driving the point home, his next few hammer strikes break rhythm in favor of blows so vicious Ezekiel wonders for a brief moment if his friend, who'd admonished him for being a distraction earlier, is in danger of damaging the oh-so-expensive sword he's supposed to be fixing.
"I'd..." Oh Divines, can I even tell him? How could I possibly tell him? That does sound like the kind of thing one of the Princes would make you do for a summoning, but... "I'd—oh, by the Eight, Gatel-ri, I can't even say what I'd do. The thought of it even scares me." A Nord woman walking by the smithy gives him a dirty look before continuing on, and he winces. At 24, he hadn't been born until two years after the end of the Great War, so he'd been raised on eight Divines...but there are plenty of people in Bruma well over the age of twenty-six, Nord and otherwise, who resent the ban on Talos worship. And even those of us who don't, or are too young to have lived in a world under the Eight and One, resent the Thalmor's brutal enforcement of that ban...
The stone in his friend's voice melts into dry sarcasm. "Many things scare you, O timid one." He throws a glance over his shoulder at him, hammer pausing, voice softening. "I understand. If you ever want to talk about those things, I'll listen...or even help, if that's what you want to do. I can keep a secret."
He turns back to his work before he can see Ezekiel's reaction. Confusion, gratitude, fear, perhaps a touch of horror and plenty more besides: the gods only know what his face must look like.
Direna Falan returned late that night with a dead body in her arms. Or, rather, several pieces of a dead body, which would be unrecognizable if not for the distinct scarification on the left arm, identifying its owner as Shurgruk gro-Dushnikh, the resident Restoration expert and Direna's mentor of thirty years. Not even the stray cat one of the mages picked up, who napped most of the day and night through even the most explosive of Isra's experiments, was able to sleep through Direna and Shurgruk's daughter Kharzog's mournful wails, which persisted until they both fell asleep from exhaustion.
Now the sun gleams on Bruma's near-perpetual snowbanks. Kharzog and the city's priest of Arkay have taken Shurgruk's remains to prepare for his funeral. One of the most senior mages, a sullen and impeccably old Altmer known as Ilroon the Shaper, called in all the rest of the Mages of Bruma to hear Direna's explanation of her mentor's death. It feels more like a murder trial than anything else.
Runs-at-Birds sits with Ezekiel off to one side, having used him as a human crutch as he limped his way from the infirmary wing to the largest room in the guildhall. From his spot he can just see Direna and Ilroon's profiles. The former visibly trembles, swallowing (tears or fear, Runs-at-Birds isn't sure); the latter's perpetual frown stern and grim in the wake of his associate's death. His voice matches his expression as he asks (or commands) Direna to explain what exactly happened on what was supposed to be a field lesson on the restorative herbs of the Jerral Mountains.
"We'd made camp just south of The Sentinel," she begins. "We'd found a lot of motherwort and milk thistle, and Shurgruk had brought a lot of herbs along with, and he was teaching me how to make potions with the ingredients we'd gathered. He—he was making a paralysis antidote, since I'm awful at the spell, and—" She cuts off, lets the sob she's been fighting since she began to speak escape her. "I never saw where the werewolf came from. It...it ripped his arm off before I could do anything, and he tried to put up a ward or blast it away or something, but the beast had taken off his main casting hand and he only had time to—to scream for me to run... I ran faster than a cliff racer flies, mostly east, and I didn't stop until my legs gave in, and I hid like a coward for what must have been an hour or two, praying to—to Arkay, Malacath, Azura, Stendarr, anyone for Shurgruk, for myself. When I made it back to camp, the werewolf was gone, and S-Shurgruk was in p-p-pieces..." The young Dunmer dissolves once again into tears. Runs-at-Birds holds no love for her, but seeing her like this is painful. Direna's haughty attitude is insufferable, but she has a strength he's always admired. All of that is dead with her mentor.
A healer stands and mentions him. "An apprentice, Runs-at-Birds, was attacked by a werewolf in the same general area yesterday. Her story seems to check out."
Direna visibly starts. "Runs-at-Birds?! Oh gods, is he—?"
The apprentice in question leans on Ezekiel's shoulder and asks him to help him stand. When Direna sees him, leg and tail visibly broken, neck scorched, gouges wrapping around his shoulders, she goes quiet for a minute, then asks the question Runs-at-Birds has been dreading:
"Why has no one healed him yet...?"
Runs-at-Birds' difficulty speaking is amplified by the pain of standing on a broken leg, which is nearly enough to shut him up in and of itself. "I...might be turning. Don't. Don't know yet. Can't be healed until...we find out."
Direna's first visible reaction is dread, followed closely by guilt as Ezekiel helps his friend sit down again. She turns away, facing the floor, and shuts her eyes and clenches her fists, muttering something under her breath.
Ilroon is even surlier at this point. "What did you say?"
"This is all my fault," she repeats, louder; not lifting her face from the wood beneath her feet. "If—if I'd done something, fought back, protected Shurgruk—"
"I have no patience for survivor's guilt. We have a dead man to take care of and a werewolf to kill. We need details, girl! What it looked like, where it came from—you have to have some idea, even just a direction!—anything that could help us find it before it finds anyone else."
Direna flinches. "I-It had...it had reddish fur, that's all I saw before I ran. I'm sorry. I don't know anything else." She looks to Runs-at-Birds, who confirms the werewolf's fur color, but as he was running away the whole time he didn't see much of it either.
Isra speaks from the crowd. "It fled north-northwest after we attacked it. It likely lives somewhere nearby The Sentinel."
Ilroon acknowledges her with an incline of the head. "Notify the City Watch. Have them send out a detachment of guards, and make sure they bring plenty of Destructionists and Restorationists with them." The Redguard salutes and heads out, and Ilroon turns to Direna. "As for you, apprentice, you are not to leave the walls of Bruma until this matter is resolved. Am I clear?"
"Yes, sir." In that moment, she is the smallest person in the room.
Direna visits Runs-at-Birds in the infirmary later that day, bringing her girlfriend Kirste Hammer-Arm (coincidentally, the daughter of Gatel-ri's boss, Brynja Hammer-Arm) and his sister Burnt-by-Sap with her. Runs-at-Birds is thankful for the company, but he hates for his egg-sister to have to see him in such a state.
The Dunmer is trying to apologize to him, but he can't hear her. His sister flung herself on him the moment she saw him, and he's too absorbed in the hug to listen to anything else. After a couple of minutes, though, he murmurs in her tympanum to let him go; he's starting to have a bit of trouble breathing and needs some space. She nods and backs up a bit.
He almost doesn't recognize Direna. The supercilious frown he had thought to be her default expression is gone, replaced by a look he almost wants to describe as tired. But no, that doesn't do it justice: Direna is exhausted, and even more than that, she is stricken with— Is that guilt or grief? Is it both? He can't tell. Surely she has survivor's guilt, but she almost looks like she personally committed the werewolf's crimes. And that can't be right. I've known her for years and years. I may not like her, but I know her well enough to know that blaming herself and dwelling on mistakes isn't her style. She's taking this much harder than I would have expected...probably because Ilroon seems to think, for whatever reason, that she had something to do with it. One thing he does recognize is the way Kirste, despite being taller and certainly stronger, hangs off her arm as if she were the waifish girl of the pair, rather than Direna. The only Nord stereotypes Kirste fits are the physical ones: easily more than six feet, muscled, solid wide-shouldered frame, pale skin, blond hair in a braid, blue eyes. She may be good with a hammer, but she prefers flowers to fists, prayer to drinking (she does a surprisingly good job keeping her devotion to Mara from conflicting with Direna's worship of the Reclamations), and—rather obviously—elves to humans. Familiar, too, is the way Kirste's voice softens Direna's hard expression, coaxes a smile from her lips. No, the Dunmer he knows isn't all gone yet.
The first thing she does is apologize profusely for, as she sees it, indirectly leading to his injury. Ha. Couple of days ago, she wouldn't even ask a Saxhleel to pass the salt. Disaster brings humility, it seems. Then she asked, "Do you have any idea how to find out if you're turning? A-aside from waiting, that is."
"No." He hated to admit it, but there was no point in leading her on.
"What if I—" she started, but Kirste put a hand over her mouth.
"No, 'Rena, please don't, you don't have to do this—there must be another way. Please." Even through her thick Nordic accent, he can hear the concern in her voice, sharp and ragged with a bitter taste of fear.
Before anyone can respond, Gatel-ri and Ezekiel enter the room, padding over to Runs-at-Birds' bed. Hurriedly, Kirste drops her hand. The Khajiit offers a small smile, unaware of the troubling turn the little meeting had taken, and said in a hushed tone, "We heard somebody was throwing a get-well-soon party without us." Ezekiel smiles his thin, nervous smile before going to stand by Burnt-by-Sap. They exchange a few sentences in the sign language she is trying vainly to teach him.
"We were just talking about how awful it is we don't know any way to test for or cure lycanthropy," Kirste replies, still talking quickly, and with a pointed glance at Direna.
A long, uncomfortable quiet stretches out between the six of them and takes a minute or so to settle itself in before Gatel-ri swipes it away, as if it were a cobweb. "Actually, we do." Ezekiel visibly flinches. "But it is not for law-abiding, pious citizens of the Empire."
Runs-at-Birds has a pretty clear idea of where this is going. Daedra worship isn't exactly illegal under the laws of the Empire (surprisingly enough, considering the Oblivion Crisis), but it is most certainly not appreciated (though it is far more widespread than authorities would have one believe), the Thalmor treating Daedra worshippers almost as badly as Talos worshippers, and the Vigil of Stendarr are absolutely devoted to their eradication.
Direna laughs at this. "The Thalmor don't scare me. They can't touch the Reclamations; they can hardly peg me for heresy. I'm protected by what little is left of Morrowind."
Kirste, on the other hand, is much more concerned. "I...don't think I should take part in this," she said slowly. "Meridia or maybe Azura, Mother Mara might forgive, but somehow I don't think this will involve them."
Burnt-by-Sap's hands fly, and her egg-brother Runs-at-Birds takes up the duty of translator. "I answer only to the Hist and, through them, Sithis. Heresy in this context has little meaning to a Black Marsh native. If it will save my egg-brother, I am not bothered."
Runs-at-Birds, on the other hand, is a bit more cautious. "I want to know what you're going to try before I say yes. I agree with my egg-sister, but if you're going to do something stupid and put more people in danger than need be, forget it."
Gatel-ri seems satisfied by this. "Ezekiel? Would you care to elaborate?"
The young Imperial clearly would not care to elaborate, but he did anyway. "I...went through the library, and there wasn't very much information on werewolves. I know there are ways to cure lycanthropy, but they're all secret, like Isra said...but everyone knows where werewolves come from originally. The Daedric Prince Hircine. And we have a lot of books on Daedra."
Direna shoots a look at Kirste. "You won't let me suggest this, but you let him do it?"
"I'd hoped he would have a better idea."
"So would I," Ezekiel admits. "I really don't want to do this. If there were any other way..."
"But there isn't." Gatel-ri points out. "How d'you summon Hircine?"
Burnt-by-Sap starts signing. "First we should find his shrine in Cyrodiil. One of his followers might be able to diagnose my egg-brother, and I want to know for sure before we call on the Father of Manbeasts."
"That's probably a good idea. We'll have to go there anyway, if we're going to summon him...," Ezekiel says slowly. "None of the books mentioned where the shrine actually is, though. Probably for the safety of his worshippers. We don't have the luxury of searching all of Cyrodiil, so...how do we find the shrine?"
The group goes quiet for a few minutes as they all consider their options. It is Runs-at-Birds who finally suggests, "Isra is your mentor, Ezekiel. She likes you. Ask her if there are any Daedric scholars in Bruma, or anyone else who might have such knowledge. Tell her you want to learn more about the beast which savaged your friend." The Imperial's caramel cheeks turn bright, but he nods in agreement. "All right. I'll talk to her when she returns."
Direna curses. "Of course. She went along hunting for the werewolf..." She turns and stares at nothing for a moment, biting her cheek. "Ezekiel, you didn't happen to find a copy of Modern Heretics, did you?"
His blush deepens. "I-I saw a copy, but I didn't look at it. I was focused more on Hircine specifically. I should have thought—"
"Well? Go get it!" He hurries out of the room, soon returning with the book in question, which he hands to Direna. "Good," she says. "This book is less modern than the Third Era, but it'll do." She flips to a page near the middle of the book and reads quietly for a minute.