Morndas 5 Mid Year 4E 180 7:13 PM

It was dusk at the time the Breton man finally stopped his running and leaned against a tree in Falkreath Hold, heaving his lunch onto the forest floor. He couldn't take it any longer. He had been running all the way from the Rift to escape the one pursuing him, but it seemed as if he would never escape. That man was a hunter, through and through.

The Breton's eyes flicked around as he tried to discern if the Redguard was still on the hunt. He'd heard enough of his pursuer to learn to stay out of his way, but the Breton had skipped out on one-too-many payments to Maven Black-Briar, a new and influential woman in the city of Riften, and the Redguard had been sent after him.

Arkay preserve me! he thought frantically. Dealing with that Black-Briar woman's lost me everything! But... maybe I can reason with her lackey...

A thought he'd had too late, it appeared. An arrow lodged into his shoulder just as he'd regained enough breath to run again. Faceplanting into the dirt, the Breton cried out in pain as blood spurted from the wound. His fingers dug into the earth as he attempted to escape, but he screamed once more when a boot smashed onto his back, pinning him to the ground.

"P-Please!" the Breton begged. "I-I don't want to die!"

"It's not your choice," the Redguard breathed, sliding a dagger across the Breton's throat.

_/-\_

Tralen wiped his dagger clean of the Breton's blood as he sat on the ground with his back against a tree. He enjoyed the sights and smells of the forest around him. It differed greatly from his homeland of Hammerfell, which was nearly consumed with sand, and although he felt a pang of homesickness he didn't let it bother him. There was nothing left for him back in his homeland, anyhow.

He'd already been in Skyrim, the homeland of the Nords, for four long months. It had been a lucky break for Tralen when he found the power-hungry Maven Black-Briar in need of some hired muscle. She had only just inherited the Black-Briar empire of mead from her departed parents, and needed her influence to spread. That was where Tralen came in.

Before Skyrim, Tralen was a warrior, and a damn good one. He'd scouted and assassinated targets that the Empire discerned, and even partook in the Battle of the Red Ring to reclaim the Imperial City. He'd been under the command of General Decianus at the time, but after the White-Gold Concordat was signed in 4E 175, five years prior to Tralen leaving Hammerfell, he traveled back to his homeland in disgust of the Empire.

He was a war hero; a Redguard war hero who was doing menial tasks for a Nord. In Hammerfell, he'd aided his kin to drive away the Thalmor. He wanted their blood, and stained the very sands crimson. But then his people signed the Second Treaty of Stros M'kai only a scant five months ago, ending the bloodshed, and Tralen left.

Skyrim was rife with unspent anger. The Nordic people and their stubborn traditions were eventually going to spin them into war with either the Thalmor, the Empire, or themselves, and Tralen wanted to be there in the centre. He wanted to have his scimitar taste of Thalmor blood again. Until such a time, he was stuck with killing to survive for his next meal. Kill or be killed. Tralen liked and preferred it that way.

Testing the dagger's edge with his thumb, Tralen drew blood and, satisfied, replaced the iron dagger into its sheathe. He squeezed his bleeding thumb and let the blood dribble onto his thumb. When he had a sufficient amount, Tralen dipped his forefinger into the crimson liquid and used it to border his eyes like warpaint. He needed to replace his, but he hadn't found the time. Warpaint always faded after a year. Sooner if one found a sculptor to change one's face. But his ebony hair remained the same: his thick dreadlocks were tied back, and he always kept his facial hair in a manageable, if a bit messy, beard.

Tralen finished and picked up his hunting bow with the intention to leave. He'd already taken what gold the Breton had on him and a ring that Maven would want to see to prove his death. Besides, his body was beginning to smell and the vultures would find him soon enough. He could already hear the blatant caws of the crows.

The Redguard slung his bow over his back, the bowstring laying diagonal across his chest, and made to leave. The hunt had spanned the day, and he thought that Maven would be eager to know that the two-timer was dead. Still, he knew he wouldn't be able to make it to the Rift before midnight, so he decided to follow the road and stop in Helgen for the night.

He was examining the gold he'd lifted from the Breton to make sure he had enough to eat and drink as well when he heard the cry of a stag. Placing the jingling coin purse onto his belt and weighing it down so it would reduce the noise, Tralen silently followed the cries until he came upon a small home in the woods. A white stag limped through the forest in pain, its front left leg cradled close to its chest. The Redguard couldn't remember ever hearing of a white stag, much less seeing one. The front of the beast's leg was red with blood, contrasting the white of its pelt. Tralen chastised himself for slowing his progress to Riften, but the temptation proved too much and he had his bow in his hand before he could properly stop himself. What was one hunt, anyhow? The stag would bring him some more gold with the sheer size of its shoulders. He knew a lot of people that would pay well for the meat within.

Tralen nocked an iron arrow into his bow and pulled it back, awaiting the wind to die down. He had a clear shot, but no excitement. When the wind died, Tralen loosened his hold on the arrow and shot just above the rack of the stag, startling the beast. Tralen grinned as it limped off as fast as it could into the woods, and he began his pursuit as soon as he'd yanked his arrow from the home.

The stag led him west, near the road to Half-Moon Mill, and then he chased it north, past Lake Ilinalta. If the stag slowed, Tralen would fire an arrow and lodge the projectile into a tree, setting the stag off again. It then turned east as they passed the small mountain in which resided Bleak Falls Barrow. If the stag went north, Tralen knew it would have no place to hide in the large plains of Whiterun Hold, but another hunter might claim his prize. With renewed energy, Tralen followed the beast until it suddenly turned to its right and ducked into an outcropping of rock. Tralen grinned as he realized that the stag had trapped itself within a grotto.

He continued his pursuit of the stag into the grotto, and was momentarily stunned by the sheer vastness of the grotto. He could spot two waterfalls (a smaller and a larger one), wildlife, and plants of all sorts. He had to jump out of the way of three rabbits that tore past him as they avoided the stag—his prize. The stag had collapsed beside a small pool at his right that had some water flowing into it via one of the waterfalls. Exhaustion was about to take it, but Tralen had no intention of allowing his hunt to go to waste.

Tralen threw his bow to the ground and drew his iron dagger. The stag was on its death throes and attempted to scurry away, but even it knew that it was useless. Tralen felt a smirk appear on his lips as his prey's eyes widened in undiluted terror, and then he struck it with his dagger, sinking the blade hilt-deep into the stag's neck, where its jugular vein was. It felt as if his hand was submerged in blood, and it may as well have been with all that covered it. Tralen twisted his dagger, avoiding the hoof of the beast by ducking his head, and then he ripped his dagger from the stag's neck. Its legs twitched, and then moved no longer.

He didn't even bother to retrieve his bow. Instead, Tralen began to skin the animal then and there, heedless of the blood that rippled into the water of the pool. He had almost skinned all of the animal and was about to start on taking its meat when he realized how red the pool was with the animal's blood. Then again, the waterfalls were also red, and so was the light...

Tralen turned his head to the night sky to see that the moon no longer illuminated the land in its vibrant white light, but it had changed to become red as the stag's blood. Its light defined the shadows of the grotto, but lit the ground enough that Tralen could see footprints in the dirt. Ones that were not his own.

Magic was a thing that Tralen despised. Not simply as a Redguard, but as a warrior who had seen elves use it primarily over their weapons. He could feel the magic that electrified the air around him, and it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge, as well as the ones on his arms. He regretted not grabbing his bow beforehand, and when he searched the area with his eyes, he saw that his hunting bow was nowhere in sight. Tralen, however, decided to ignore the red of the moon and his missing bow. Surely it was just the fumes of the dead animal that was clouding his thoughts. After all, it was a beast he'd never seen before. But surely there would be more?

He lowered his dagger to the stag again, only to stop when the electrified air became harder to ignore. He could no longer simply brush off his feelings. He spun the dagger in his hand so he could hold his weapon against the enemy he couldn't see, and waited patiently, listening to the sounds around him. Strangely though, there were none.

"And so, the hunter senses that he has become the hunted." Tralen pointed his dagger upward, towards a broken pathway and a log that laid precariously over it. A man crouched atop the log, his skin pale despite the redness of the moonlight. The red light illuminated the contours of his muscles, hinting at Tralen that this man was some sort of a warrior as he. A white skull of a stag adorned his head, peaked by a set of antlers that reached high up as if stretching towards the sky. At the back of his head was the pelt of a brown wolf that almost acted as a cape, but seemed more like hair. He wore brown leather boots and bracers that seemed practical for a man such as he, and a brown half-tunic that covered only his lower-body from his waist to his knees, exposing his lean and muscled chest.

But that was not the strangest thing about the man whose head was tilted at the Redguard. His hands, which rested lazily on his knees, had black claws in place of nails. His shoulders appeared to move in the wind, but that was because Tralen realized the skin of his shoulders slowly faded into brown fur. This man, Tralen realized, was the sole reason why he could feel the magic around him.

"Well met, hunter," the spectral man greeted. "This is a grand day for you. You have been chosen to become a true hunter. What say you?"

Tralen rubbed his eyes, not daring to point his menial weapon anywhere else. He wondered if he wasn't going insane. But when he opened his eyes again, the same scene laid before him. The man, still balanced upon the log with his head continuously tilted at Tralen, waiting with the patience of a true hunter.

"What... Who are you?" Tralen asked the man.

"I am Hircine," the man replied, "Lord of the Hunt. I live through the stalking of the prey and the death of the predator. You have found me on my Summoning Day, mortal, and I have watched your pursuit of my aspect. I am impressed, hunter."

"Hircine...?" Tralen had, of course, heard of the Daedra. He just never expected to come face-to-face—rather, face-to-skull with one. Tralen noticed Hircine eyeing his dagger and spun it, shoving it unceremoniously into its sheathe.

"Puny weapon," Hircine remarked. "I will grant you the strength and speed of a true hunter. You will have unmatched skill, able to track your prey for as long and far as needed. What say you, hunter?"

Tralen's eyes widened with the prospect of Hircine's offer. Strength, speed, skill... He was most certainly tempted by the offer, but the few months of his service to Maven Black-Briar had him hesitate. He slowly stood, all but ignoring the white stag, and regarded Hircine.

"What are your terms?" he asked the Daedric Prince of the Hunt.

Hircine paused and studied the Redguard, and then he reached behind himself to grab a long wooden spear with a curved spearhead, a red ribbon tied around the head of the shaft underneath the blade, and a red tassel at the pommel of the spear. He leaped from the fallen tree nearly seven metres before landing in a crouch. As he stood, Hircine slammed the tasselled pommel into the ground and pointed the tip of the spear at Tralen's chest.

Tralen's blood ran cold as ice as he stared into the eyes of the Daedric Prince. Tralen's eyes were dark brown, which was common amongst his people. But Hircine's eyes were a golden-yellow, like the primal eyes of a beast that had found its prey. His irises were black as the shadows that spilled from the rocks and trees surrounding the two.

"You will serve me in death," Hircine told the Redguard, his tone darkening, "although it would be difficult to kill one such as you. The abilities I would bestow would be more than a match for anything in your path. Of that, you have my word. And hunters keep their promises."

Swallowing and staring at the tip of Hircine's spear, Tralen thought the proposition over. He could walk away. Maybe even take the dead stag with him. Head back to Riften to let Maven know of his success and live off a few months with the money the meat of the stag would fetch him. But... No. Tralen had no desire to come at her every beck and call like some dog. The Redguard was only at his thirty-third winter. In time, no matter his training, his skills, his speed, his strength would disappear as the years would pass. He would become a husk of his former self. And in death, he would be nothing, truly.

But to accept the offer from Hircine... His skills would never dull, his strength would increase tenfold, and his speed... He would surely be able to cross from Morrowind to Hammerfell in a day! What could stop him? And in death, he would serve Hircine, which meant that the Daedric Prince would need him at his best—the Daedric Lord of the Hunt would have Tralen keep his gifts.

"Speak promptly, mortal. The Bloodmoon is almost at its height."

Tralen's eyes fixed on the Daedric Prince's. "I agree to your terms, Lord Hircine. I will serve you in death to hunt in life."

He could have sworn that Hircine smiled, but he had no way to tell. In one swift motion, Hircine cut the palm of his clawed hand with the tip of his spear. Crimson blood welled up from the wound and then fell in small waterfalls to the ground. Tralen watched it with a morbid fascination. The Lord of the Hunt's blood resembled his own.

"Drink," Hircine commanded the Redguard. "Drink of my blood. It will make you the hunter you truly are, and deserve to be."

Tralen didn't hesitate and took Hircine's palm in his hands. He lowered his face to the blood and began to drink. It was difficult, at first. Hircine refused to move his hand and allow Tralen to drink as if from a cup. Rather, the Redguard was forced to his tongue to bring it to his mouth. Swallowing was a different matter entirely. Tralen collapsed onto his knees as he tried to force the foul-tasting Daedric blood down his throat. Hircine crouched to his level as he finally managed to and was gasping for breath.

"You aren't finished yet," he told the mortal. "Drink. You require more."

It became easier after that. Tralen didn't even get up from his knees and continued to use his tongue to lap the thick crimson liquid from the Daedra's palm. The blood continued to flow like a river as if it wouldn't stop. Several times Tralen had to gasp for breath, but that was now behind him. He drank of Hircine's blood as if it were the life-sustaining liquid called water, and as if he had been a man on the brink of dehydration and death without it. More and more blood went from Hircine's palm to Tralen's stomach, and more and more did the Redguard desire the blood of the Daedric Prince. He knew there was no going back. He would truly serve Hircine in death. But he was alive, and he intended to live for as long as he could.

He must have drank Hircine's blood for hours, but Hircine wasn't dead. He hadn't moved since he'd crouched in front of Tralen. He simply watched the Redguard, his chosen hunter, as he lapped up his blood. And then, all of a sudden, Hircine removed his hand from Tralen's grasp. Tralen fell forward onto his face, his arms outstretched. He realized that he had reached for the Daedra so he wouldn't leave—so he could drink more and more. The area around his mouth was stained crimson with dried and fresh blood. His tongue shot out of his mouth to taste of what remained around it. He even found himself licking his hands in desperation. Hircine's blood was like skooma to him. He needed more!

"More will come, in time," Hircine told the Redguard, as if he'd read his mind. "You're a greedy one, aren't you?" Tralen found himself nodding in response to the Daedra. Hircine chuckled low, and then offered his hand again. "Again. You need more."

Tralen nodded again, and managed to force himself to stand. He dove face-first into the pool of blood in Hircine's palm and gulped down as much as he could before Hircine could take it away again. What if he did? What would he do? Tralen shoved those thoughts away before they consumed him. He only wanted Hircine's blood. The stag and his hunting bow lay forgotten on the ground, as well as whatever dignity as a warrior he'd had left.

Tralen's right arm suddenly flung backwards, yanking him away from Hircine and his blood. He landed roughly on that arm and writhed on the ground as fire erupted in his belly. Digging the tips of his fingers into the soil, Tralen's forehead broke into a sweat as he forced himself onto his back. He shook in great trembles and began to unbuckle his leather armor as the heat travelled down his spine. As soon as he was naked, his armor, once so meticulously taken care of, thrown away and consumed by an unseen shadow, he could feel something slither underneath his skin. It wasn't his muscles, as he could feel they still remained, or his bones or tendons or veins, but it was there. It tickled at the surface of his skin and sent shivers of pleasure down his spine. He wanted it. He craved what laid beneath his dark skin. He wanted it out now!

"Good," Hircine commented once Tralen forced himself onto his hands and knees. "Very good, hunter. Now..." Hircine pointed a clawed finger to the stag. Tralen felt his mouth water as some of Hircine's blood dribbled onto the stag. "Eat the stag, hunter. Consume its flesh. Become a true predator."

Tralen crawled towards the stag without any hesitation whatsoever. His breath came in excited gasps as he closed in on the blood and flesh of the fallen beast. Once he reached it, his hands were foregone for his teeth. They tore into the large shoulder of the stag, plump with meat and muscle. The first mouthful slid down Tralen's throat like ale after a long day of training and hunting. He savoured it, and then tore further into the stag. Each bite was as satisfying as the first and he found his mind and body screaming for mouthfuls more until he would be fat with the stag's meat. But he felt it the moment the Bloodmoon reached its apex in the sky, and he stopped his feast to admire it.

"Yes... You'll do nicely," Hircine said.

Fire erupted in Tralen's belly at the same time his head began pounding with pain, as if his brain was contorting and expanding, slamming against the confines of his skull. The flames in his belly didn't dim simply because of what his head was going through; if anything, it worsened. He could relate the pain to someone cutting open his stomach and skipping rope with his intestines. His mouth opened in a scream as his hands gripped his head, but no sound came out. He could feel his vocal cords snapping against his throat, thickening with each passing second until what came from his mouth was not a scream, but a roar. There was pain beyond anything he'd ever felt before, but the blood searing through his veins told him that the pain was right. That he needed it. And Tralen found himself desiring more pain—more fire!

Tralen released the grip on his head and grasped at the earth with his fingers. He watched with a morbid fascination as his nails sprouted long, curled claws not unlike Lord Hircine's. The flesh on his fingers swelled as his fingers snapped and reformed into stronger bones, and Tralen's newfound deep voice moaned in ecstasy. Pads formed on each of his fingers and his palms, and his hands were then far too large for a normal man's. Probably three times their size. His skin gained a purple-grey hue as the rest of his skin swelled, travelling up his arms, and then swelling in the middle of his chest. The nails on his toes also forced new claws out to replace them. He watched his feet, eyes widening in excitement, as his big toes shrank and then forced themselves higher up his leg while his heels stretched into more durable joints.

His veins popped out against his changed skin, beating strong with the blood of Lord Hircine. His muscles expanded underneath his skin, slithering around as they reformed to what they needed to be. The shadow that crawled under his skin took hold of him, wrapping him in an embrace that acted as a gentle warmth and comfort to him. His chest expanded, forcing new muscles to stand out against his skin. Tralen felt his ears begin to travel upwards on his skull, pulled by an unseen force, as his teeth elongated to a point where he couldn't shut his mouth. His neck twitched as muscles slithered upwards and thickened his neck, expanding his shoulders and forcing his collar bones outward. Tralen's head snapped forwards once his ears reached their peak and began to point, his earlobes lost entirely as the cartilage shot upward. He moaned again as his spine stretched outward, tendons and muscles and veins wrapping delicately around the new joints and bones. His mouth began to creak with pain, and then his jaw snapped and broke. It followed his swelling skin and stretched outward, reworking the bones in his face as it did, and the top of his mouth followed. He ran his tongue along his mouth and felt the rough texture of it surprise him until his mouth stopped stretching.

The shadow that lingered under his skin finally broke free of the prison that was his skin, and Tralen welcomed it. Coarse black blur began to push out from his skin, enveloping him in it as it spread. From under his jaw to his feet, he felt it come and free itself. He wondered if ripping his skin off could make it come any faster, and he almost tried when he felt a hand grasp one of his. He then realized his exhaustion and felt his neck twitch again as the last of his vocal cords solidified. The Bloodmoon became too much a temptation, and on all fours, Tralen threw back his head and howled long and low to it. And when he was done and out of breath, Hircine crouched before the hunter, pointing his spear at him.

"One last thing." Hircine used his spear to point to the remains of the stag. Some of his blood was sprinkled upon it. "You know what you must do."

Tralen leapt at the stag and ripped into it with his fangs greedily. Hircine watched the predator—his prized hunter—as he was reborn. Only now was he truly alive. His debt to Hircine was great, but Hircine looked forward to the day that he came to claim Tralen's soul for his Hunting Ground—the day that he could have such a beast at his side, and at his beck and call.

"Remember my terms, Werewolf," Hircine said before evaporating into the shadows, disappearing from the sight of the Bloodmoon.

A/N: This was a gift from WhiteZephyr, who graciously allowed me to post it under my own profile. Tralen is a character in my current Elder Scrolls Fanfic: Redemption and serves as the main antagonist for the story.

I strongly suggest you take a look at WhiteZephyr's Elder Scrolls: Skyrim fanfc, you will not be disappointed.

Thank you for reading!