The Monster Within

by HelloMyNameIsEd

My entry for the "Skyrim Evil Character" writing contest on DeviantArt. The aim of the contest is to write a story from the point of view of an evil character related to one of Skyrim's main quest-lines. This is the story of Krev the Skinner and how he became a member of the Silver Hand. For the sake of the story, Krev will be portrayed as a Nord male. One-shot.

In the northern reaches of Whiterun Hold, the autumn winds blew coldly across the highlands. Whiterun Hold had not yet seen its first snowfall, but the promise of it hung in the air, a chill that stung the cheeks and nipped the nose each time it blew past. The effect was felt throughout the land. Animals had begun to prepare for hibernation, and each day the amount of birdsong in the air dwindled. Most of the trees in the forests were turning more bare with each passing day, surrendering the leaves from their lofty boughs. Only the hardy evergreens, remaining true to their name, seemed unaffected by the approaching Winter.

In this isolated reach of Whiterun Hold, a horse-drawn wagon slowly ambled down the road. It was loaded with the personal belongings of the family it transported and the traveling equipment they would need to safely traverse the wilds of Skyrim. A middle-aged Nord with salt-and-pepper hair and stubble sat in the driver's seat with his wife beside him, a Nord woman with auburn hair the color of autumn leaves. Their garb was simple and well-worn, rough tunics of cotton or linen. Alongside the wagon walked several figures. Four of them were mercenaries, armored in tough boiled leather and well-armed. One of those alongside the wagon was a boy. He was thirteen years old, with a head of raven-black hair and bright hazel eyes. He sat atop a blood bay garron, and alongside him loped a shaggy, gray-furred Wolfhound.

The boy gently urged his garron forth, and the animal began to trot slightly faster. The Wolfhound cleaved to the boy's side all the while, its pink tongue lolling out its mouth as it panted. The boy eased back on the reins once he was abreast of the wagon driver. "How much longer till we stop for the night, da?" the boy asked.

"Just a few hours longer, Krev," the boy's father replied, looking back at his son. "We've still got a bit 'a light left yet. If we're to reach Windhelm in good time, we've got to cover as much ground as we can." Windhelm was to be the site of their new home, where they would begin their new life. After purchasing a share of land from another landlord with saved-up family money, Krev and his family were to be the new landlords of an area just outside of Windhelm, a praiseworthy step up the social ladder from the sharecroppers they once were.

"The horses are getting tired," the mother spoke from beside him, also on the driver's seat. "We've been riding since the break of dawn. Might be we'll have to stop and give the beasts some rest. I don't think our hired help would object to it, either." The mercenaries they'd hired to see them safely to Windhelm were beginning to look weary, their tread less energetic than it used to be, their shoulders drooping just slightly lower than normal. All save for one of them.

"Except Fenrir, of course," muttered the father. The boy turned his head, tracing his father's gaze to one of the mercenaries that walked alongside their wagon, further to the rear than anybody else.

Fenrir was a tall, tough Nord mercenary that towered several inches above everyone else's head, about equal in height to the draft horses that pulled the wagon. They'd first met him in Whiterun when they passed by, and Krev's father had hired the huge Nord immediately, for want of proper safety — a few days prior to their arrival in Whiterun, one of the original mercenaries they'd hired had succumbed to Ataxia that he'd contracted earlier, leaving them with one less merc to keep the family safe.

Fenrir's head was full of dark-brown hair, and his mouth was nearly hidden under the wild beard that grew around it. He was armored with thick, boiled leather just like the others, except that his leather jerkin was black as pitch and padded with furs. A sheathed sword and a dirk hung by his belt alongside a quiver of arrows, and a longbow near as tall as him was on his back.

Whereas the other mercenaries doggedly trekked alongside the wagon, as they'd done for the greater part of the day, Fenrir was looking as restless as ever. He kept his head on a swivel as he scanned the surrounding forest almost constantly — almost as if he were looking for something, but what he could possibly have been looking for, nobody could say. Whatever it may have been, Fenrir could never seem to find it, and today he looked even more uneasy than normal.

"I don't like the look of that fellow," Krev's father said lowly. Krev remembered his father once saying that the Nord mercenary's unnatural vigilance at every hour of the day and restless behavior reminded him of a caged animal. The other mercenaries also seemed to prefer keeping their distance from Fenrir.

Krev himself had no problem with the man. In fact, Fenrir seemed a decent fellow to him. He may have been intimidating due to his large size and taciturn by nature, but Fenrir wasn't a bad person. Krev had gotten to know him a little better since they'd hired him. The big Nord was a friendly man, and from what Krev could make out, an avid outdoorsman as well. He was most passionate about hunting — a pastime that the two shared, and often they found themselves sharing stories about each other's experiences on the hunt. Krev loved a good hunting tale, and Fenrir was full of them.

The mother frowned at her spouse's words; she had always been the more accepting of the two. "Stromm, don't be so distrustful of him," she chided. "Every one of these sellswords have been nothing but helpful during our trip. They've helped fetch kindling, yoke the horses, secure the wagon… and as for Fenrir, need I remind you about the saber cat?"

Krev remembered. Just yesterday, a saber cat had assaulted their wagon on the road. They had been walking along the edge of the forest when it burst out from a stand of trees to their right. The beast had been a huge, hulking mass of furry muscle, bearing a pair of canines that would have put an Orc's to shame. It had made a beeline directly for the draft animals, intent on a quick kill, but the cat had skidded to a halt when Fenrir stepped between it and its prey. The cat had bared its fangs, bristling like a porcupine as it flattened its round ears against its skull, but Fenrir had not moved; in fact, the cat was the one that had begun to slink backwards. It had already fled before the other mercenaries had even gotten close enough to engage in combat. Not a single sword stroke had needed to have been delivered.

Stromm sighed, likely remembering the event. "Yes, I suppose you're right, Liana. I guess I'm just a bit nervous is all," he admitted, giving a look to his rear, into the wagon that held all their possible personal belongings. "We've got basically everything we own in this here cart, all our little treasures. I guess I'm just being a bit too protective. So much could go wrong…"

"Nothing will go wrong," Liana assured him; she had also always been the most optimistic of the two as well. "We're safe here. We're in good hands. The road to Windhelm isn't too far from here. We'll be in our new home in less than a week."

"But for now, we've still got a lot of road ahead of us for today, boy," Stromm remarked, looking back over at his son. Glancing down at his garron, he added, "perhaps you might want to start leading your horse by foot. It looks like it could use a break."

Krev nodded and stopped the horse, swiftly dismounted, then grabbed the reins and continued to lead the beast down the road. The wind gusted slightly, blowing a small flurry of autumn leaves by his feet as he walked. The wolfhound trotting beside him nudged his hand with his nose, and Krev scratched the huge dog under his shaggy chin. "Just a bit longer, Chulainn. We'll rest soon enough," he promised. The dog licked his hand in return, staring back at him with friendly amber eyes.

Something poking out the back of the wagon caught Krev's eye, and he turned his head to look. It was the shaft of a billhook, a useful multi-purposed tool with a bladed and spiked end that the family had taken with them for the trip. Krev remembered playing with it as a boy before, pretending to be a halberdier when he wasn't clearing brushwood in the field with it. Krev moved towards the wagon and carefully pushed the tool deeper in, securing it in place so it wouldn't fall out.

Krev walked for a while, thinking about his conversation with his father about Fenrir. The boy stole a backwards glance at him now. The Nord was still looking around endlessly, one hand resting on his belt where his weapon sat. His brows were knitted slightly, as if in thought. He didn't look angry… he looked apprehensive, Krev realized; as if Fenrir knew something bad was bound to happen, but he couldn't say what it was…

It took a few moments before Krev realized that his stare was being returned.

His hazel-eyed gaze was met by the steel-grey one of Fenrir. Plenty of times their gazes had met, but this time something was markedly different in Fenrir's eyes. The Nord's stare was unnaturally intense, yet steady and unwavering. To his own surprise, Krev felt a chill run down his spine. Fenrir quickly turned his head away, focusing on some distant point, and Krev turned his own head back to watch the road.

What just happened? Why did Fenrir stare at me like that? And why am I afraid? Fenrir's a good person. He's a friend, he's one of us; I shouldn't be scared of him.

And yet, he still was. Krev found himself keeping a hand on Chulainn's back, as he always did when he was afraid; the wolfhound had always been fiercely protective of his family, and Krev was no exception… but for some reason that Krev could not discern, Chulainn wanted nothing to do with Fenrir. The wolfhound slunk quietly aside whenever the big Nord walked by, but he'd behaved so even before Fenrir had begun to act strangely. For a moment, Krev wondered if the dog felt something wrong about Fenrir. He'd once heard that dogs could smell evil spirits. Krev wondered what it was that Chulainn smelled.

"It'll be alright," he found himself saying, idly scratching the dog's back; but whether it was for his sake or for the hound's, Krev could not say.

~~~~~

Dusk was beginning to fall upon them when the group decided to set up camp for the approaching night. The horses were unhitched, the wagon was secured, and a small camp was erected. The mercenaries all assisted in setting up the campsite, putting together a small bundle of brushwood tinder for the campfire and helping the family set up their tents. Even Fenrir helped, using a piece of flint and his dirk to start the campfire.

"Pa," Krev said once the last tent had been erected, "I want to go hunting."

"Hunting? At this hour?" Stromm asked, giving his son a cocked brow.

Krev nodded. "I thought saw a bunch of rabbits moving in the underbrush just back there, in the woods." The boy pointed to the stand of trees in the distance. "We could have them for supper."

"It's too dangerous to go out at this late hour, son," Stromm responded, shaking his head. "You'll get lost, and then your mother and I will be worried sick—"

"I won't go far. I'll be gone for only a little while. I'm not a little boy, father," Krev told him. Hunting had always been Krev's favorite pastime. He'd gone out for late-night hunts back in Rorikstead, bagging pheasants and rabbits before the sun had gone completely down. What made this any different?

"These aren't the fields of Rorikstead anymore," Stromm replied, as if reading his mind. "This is unfamiliar land, and I don't want you to be getting yourself lost…" The man thought for a moment. "But… if you truly do want to go out, then at least take one of the mercenaries with you. I don't want you out there alone."

Before Krev could say anything, another voice cut him off. "I'll go."

Father and son both turned to stare at Fenrir, standing just a few feet away. Neither of them had even heard him approach. "I know these woods far better than anyone else. I've traversed them hundreds of times. I don't get lost in these parts." He leveled his gaze at Krev, and smiled; his grey-eyed gaze was still strangely unsettling, but his smile was genuine. "And I never come back empty-handed from a hunt."

Krev found himself smiling back, despite the slight chill in his spine; after having heard so many tales of Fenrir's hunts, the thought actually hunting with the man was an exciting one. Stromm looked ready to object, but Krev's mother looked up from the fire she was tending and said, "Fenrir will take good care of him. Let him go for a while; remember that he's no longer a boy, Stromm."

Krev's father let out a defeated sigh. "Very well. You may go, but be swift about returning. I don't want you to tarry out there."

Krev nodded eagerly, but it was Fenrir that answered him: "I'll have him back within the hour. We'll have caught something by then."

With that, the two turned and left. As he turned to leave, however, with Fenrir close behind, Krev noticed his father giving him a worried look before he turned back to help finishing set up the camp. He doesn't understand. Fenrir's not a bad person. A bit scary, maybe, but isn't a mercenary supposed to be scary?

Once Krev had grabbed his own bow he and Fenrir made their way into the stand of trees where he had spotted the rabbits earlier. Knowing these woods better than he, Fenrir took the lead while Krev stayed close behind, longbow in hand as he snuck through the tall grasses. Fenrir's movements were quick and graceful, stepping around bushes and over nearly-invisible fallen logs without making so much as a single leaf rustle with his passing — Krev couldn't even hear the man's footfalls, much less his breathing. Is Fenrir holding his breath? Krev wondered what would have happened were he to reach out and touch the man's armor, whether his hand would pass through the leather like a ghost, or if it would feel Fenrir's real, tangible presence.

As on the road, the Nord's eyes flitted this way and that, taking in every sight in their vicinity, craning his head to listen for any sounds that might be heard. After a while, Krev began to hear him even sniffing, like some hound; it was the only indication that he was, in fact, breathing at all. Krev had never seen a man so keen and perceptive on a hunt. Perhaps the mercenary's numerous tales of successful hunts had not been fanciful tales, but actual truth? At this point, Krev would not have doubted it.

The mercenary froze abruptly, and Krev nearly ran into him from behind. "What—"

Fenrir's head shot around to glare at him with sudden intensity. Krev shut his mouth, feeling his blood run cold at the sight. The sellsword put a finger to his lips, then pointed off into the distance. The boy craned his head to have a better look, squinting hard. He only saw a tangle of leaves and tall grass, nothing more. Krev wasn't sure what Fenrir had seen, but it must have been close; the Nord drew a broadhead arrow, a wicked thing with a barbed iron tip, and nocked it against the bowstring. He came to stand up slightly, pulling the heavy bowstring back until the goose-feather fletching brushed his cheek, raising the weapon just slightly above parallel.

Thoom.

The bowstring snapped back with a deep, reverberating thrum, the arrow shot forth like a lightning bolt, clipping the dense foliage of a few low-lying tree branches… and a second later, Krev heard a surprised grunt, followed by tapering hoofbeats.

He didn't have time to ask anything before Fenrir had bolted forth, giving chase to his quarry. Startled, Krev began to chase after him. The Nord took great loping strides as he ran down his prey. Even in the middle of a chase, however, his movements were precise and graceful, stepping over outlying rocks and leaping over rotting stumps without losing pace. Krev found himself hard-pressed to follow, feeling the autumn chill nipping at his face and having numerous tree branches stinging his cheeks as he barreled past them. After only a minute of running he'd already lost sight of the mercenary, but he could still hear the Nord roughly pushing the bushes and leaves aside in his haste, so he began to follow that instead. By the time he'd caught up, however, the chase was already over.

The carcass of a stag lay on the floor, its rough brown fur nearly identical in color to the autumnal vegetation; how the Nord had seen it from so far away, Krev could never have said. Half of an arrow shaft jutted out from the deer's flank, but the finishing blow had been marked by a deep red gash that notched its throat. Fenrir knelt over the body, already cutting away at the thing's belly with his dirk.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Krev asked from behind, coming to stand nearly abreast of the Nord. Both his hands were wrist-deep in the animal's chest cavity. "We can quarter the deer back at camp. It's not safe to do it here, there might be a predator nearby."

"I'm not quartering it. Just taking a bit off." Fenrir grunted as one of his hands cut something off from inside the body. He pulled his hands back out of the deer's chest. Both of them were covered in dark red blood. In his right hand, his dirk was bloodied from tip to hilt. In his left hand, he held the stag's heart, still beating feebly.

Krev watched in horror as Fenrir raised the heart to his lips and took a bite.

Instantly, he wanted to retch, but a part of him made him continue watching with horrified fascination. The Nord was eating the organ as if it were an apple, merrily chewing the tough muscle without balking. Was he really so hungry? Was that what had been bothering him earlier? Krev noticed that Fenrir was staring back at him as he ate.

"What's the matter, boy? Afraid of a little blood?" The Nord actually gave him a smile, still chewing. His teeth and beard were stained red. "It's just a quick bite 'fore we head back. Nothing wrong with that, right?" he asked, taking another bite of the organ. More blood dripped out of it and onto his leather jerkin.

It was then that Krev chose to expel the contents of his stomach behind a nearby bush while Fenrir merrily roared with laughter at the sight.

Krev didn't look back until his hungry companion had finished. Wiping his bloody hands against the grass, Fenrir knelt over the stag carcass, grabbing it by its rear legs. With a single grunt of effort he managed to hoist the body onto his shoulder. As he led the two of them back, Krev kept several feet's worth of distance between him and the Nord. The huge cut he'd made into the stag's chest leaked blood onto his shoulder and stained his black leather armor even more, but when Krev finally pointed it out Fenrir waved it off casually.

When the two arrived at the camp, the sight of them and their deer was welcomed with pleased exclamations. Fenrir took the animal to the campfire and set it down, unsheathing his bloodied dirk with the offer of skinning the beast himself. As the Nord set about to flaying the hide off his kill, Krev sought out his father.

"I see you've come back with more than a handful," his father remarked with a small smile, glancing over at Fenrir. "How was Fenrir? Did he make the kill or you?"

"He did," Krev admitted, still unsettled at the memory from earlier.

"Ah. Looks like he made good on his promise after all. I'm glad that—"

"Da, Fenrir ate its heart," Krev blurted out, only loud enough for his father to hear.
Stromm gave him a bewildered look. "Come again?"

"The deer," Krev repeated, "Fenrir cut it open and ate its heart."

His father gave him an incredulous look, turning his head to glance back over at the big mercenary as peeled the skin off the deer's flank. There was just a slight, hardly-noticeable red stain on Fenrir's chin, but the still-damp blood that had dripped onto his black leather shone faintly in the light of the campfire. "That… is something I would expect more of a Forsworn…"

"When's the last time you edged your dirk, Fenrir?" asked another mercenary sitting by the campfire, an amiable Breton with close-cut black hair named Locke. "Seems like you're having some trouble cutting the meat. You have any other knives you could use instead?"

"No. This one's fine," Fenrir replied tersely, thought it was obvious that the blade was not as honed as it could have been.

"A bad knife'll take longer to quarter the meat than a good one," Locke remarked. He reached to a second sheath at his hip and drew a long, silver dagger. "Here, use this. I sharpened it just yesterday."

Fenrir glanced up from the meat for a moment, and his eyes went wide at the sight of the dagger. "I don't need it." He cut roughly at a strip of flesh for emphasis.

"Come on, don't be unreasonable," the Breton replied, reaching out to hand Fenrir the hilt. "It'll take less time if you use a good—"

"I said I don't need it." Fenrir's voice came out in a low, inhuman growl as he glared at the other mercenary with a scowl. Locke pulled the knife back, giving the Nord a startled look. He sheathed the silver weapon without further objection. Krev was startled at Fenrir's reaction; the Nord had never acted so aggressively before.

"Somethin's off about him…" Krev heard his father mutter, not for the first time since they set off from Whiterun with Fenrir in tow. Stromm shook his head. "Nothing for it, I guess. Get yourself ready for supper, it looks like it won't be taking much longer."

Despite his slightly dulled blade, Fenrir had managed to quarter a good portion of venison for Liana's stew before too long. When the food was ready, Liana began to fill out bowls and pass them to each man. Fenrir received the first bowl, having been the one to both kill and quarter the deer. From his spot a few feet away, Krev watched as the big Nord eagerly fished out the chunks of meat floating in the stew with his fingers before eating anything else, tearing into the strips of venison with relish.

The other mercenaries, sitting in a rough circle close to each other — each staying a bit further away from Fenrir as usual, even though the Nord was technically still in their sitting circle — ate more slowly, taking the time to speak and even share stories. Krev always listened with interest at the tales the sellswords had; he especially enjoyed Robert's stories. The red-bearded Nord always had the more interesting tales to tell. As luck would have it, it was Robert that was sharing his story now. Krev moved away from his parents, sitting off to the side, to sit just outside the mercenaries' circle. Chulainn trod over to lay at his side, but Krev couldn't help but notice how the hound seemed to want to keep Krev between himself and Fenrir, who sat only a few feet away from them. Krev turned his attention back to Robert's story.

"So me an' my latest contractor walk into the cave, right?" the red-haired Nord was saying, holding a wine skin in his hand — and by the tint of his cheeks, it probably wasn't his first — "and at first, it was easy goin'— nothin' but a few skeevers here an' there to give us trouble. Nothing we couldn't sweep aside. But then… a pair of giant Frostibe Spiders dropped in from above! Now let me remind ye all: my contractor was a man that had killed bears and trolls without batting an eye. He killed an Ice Wolf with only his knife! And this man, who probably could have wrestled with a lion if he wanted… he was afraid of the spiders!"

"What?!" asked an incredulous mercenary, a tan-skinned Imperial man named Gnaeus. "He's afraid of spiders? I could kill the blasted things in my sleep!"

"An' this man wets himself at the sight of 'em!" Robert laughed, slapping his knee. "Oh, you should've heard him scream — just like a maiden! He was wearing steel plate armor and he was running away from a spider no larger than your foot! I had to squash them for him!"

The mercenaries roared with laughter at the amusing thought. Krev found himself chuckling as well. He looked at the sellswords, all happy and at ease. All except Fenrir.

The Nord seemed pained, his expression threatening to break into a grimace. His breath came out in low, quick grunts. Fenrir passed a nervous, harried look around. There it was again, that look of apprehension and confusion on his face. It worried Krev, and he wondered what it was that distressed his friend so.

"Fenrir? Something wrong?" asked Locke, noticing the other sellsword's unease. The Nord shot him a glare that made Locke recoil slightly.

"I'm fine," the Nord responded sharply, shaking his head. "Just… might've eaten something bad, is all… Nothing to worry about."

"If you're sick, then I think I've got a potion you could use," Gnaeus offered, preparing to reach into his satchel, but Fenrir stopped him with another brisk shake of his head.

"I said I'm fine," Fenrir insisted, though he was starting to look more than just nervous now. Harsh, almost growl-like sighs escaped through his teeth. The other mercenaries were giving him concerned and unsettled looks.

"I-I just… have to go," Fenrir suddenly remarked, standing up.

"What, now? In this darkness?" Gnaeus asked incredulously, motioning at the twin red-and-grey moons in the night sky, both completely full — a wonder that Krev had never seen before. The sight of Masser and Secunda both looming overhead in their full glory was nearly as beautiful as the aurora. Both moons cast their pale light upon them, but it was Masser's wan, blood-red glare that dominated. When Fenrir looked at them, Krev noticed how his eyes widened by just a fraction — was that fear in his eyes? Or revelation?

"Yes! Now!" the huge Nord growled, pushing his way past the other men, making a straight line for the forest's edge not too far away. Krev and the three other mercenaries stared at his retreating, hurried form until his black leather armor became one with the darkness. For a long moment, nobody spoke as they gazed at the spot where Fenrir had disappeared.

"Something's up with him," Locke commented lowly, looking to the others for their opinions.

"Maybe it was something he ate," Robert replied, shrugging.

"He did eat the deer's heart when we caught it," Krev supplied, drawing the attention of the other mercenaries. That earned him a couple of disgusted looks from the men.

"Someone should check on him." Gnaeus looked around at the other sellswords. "If he's gonna be puking his guts out in the middle of the forest at night, he's like to draw some unwanted attention."

"Yeah. Wouldn't want him ta get jumped by a saber cat when he's emptying his stomach behind a bush." Robert's mouth was a grim line on his normally-hearty face. "I might as well go. Gotta empty my bladder anyways," he said, grunting as he got to his feet. He checked to make sure his sword belt was buckled on tightly before walking off towards where Fenrir had last been seen. Robert was quickly enveloped by the darkness of the wood. Even his fiery red hair was swallowed by the inky blackness. The only thing that remained of Robert's presence was his booming voice as he called out Fenrir's name. "Fenrir? Fenrir, lad, where are ye?! You okay…?"

"I hope Fenrir's alright," Krev murmured as Robert's voice began to fade, watching the dark forest's edge with apprehension. He may have been a strange man, but he was still Krev's friend.

"He'll be fine, once he gets the raw meat out of his system," Locke replied dismissively, waving his hand.

"Meat's no good raw," Gnaeus agreed, drinking from his wine skin. "I don't know what he was thinking. Who does that? Eating hearts raw?"

"Orcs, probably," Locke replied with a disgusted curl of his lip. "Probably wouldn't put it past Argonians to do the same. I've seen one catch a fish and swallow it, fresh out of the water." Krev shuddered at the thought of swallowing a live, wriggling fish. It was nearly as unsettling as having watched Fenrir eat the deer's heart, and he quickly stopped thinking about it lest he empty his stomach again.

"Though as far as I know, Fenrir hasn't got a spot of Orc blood in 'im," Locke continued, grimacing slightly at the thought. "Even if he is a big fellow. Nords are big, too." There was a short silence between them. Locke took a sip from his wine skin.

Gnaeus spoke. "Then he's got Argonian blood in him."

What wine Locke had gotten into his mouth came out in a spray that soaked the ground a few feet away, leaving Gnaeus roaring in laughter. The Breton gave Gnaeus an appalled look which quickly began to give way to his own guffaw as well. "That's disgusting! Who in their right mind would ever want to shag one of those things?!" Locke managed to say before he himself succumbed to the raucous laughter that enveloped them. Krev laughed along with them, and for a moment he managed to forget the tension that had engulfed them all.

Robert's shrill scream from the forest brought it all back tenfold.

The man's cries resounded from within the forest and chilled their blood. Everybody's head turned towards the direction of Robert's screams. Both remaining mercenaries were instantly on their feet, hands on their weapons. "Robert! Robert where are you?!" Locke shouted, his expression fearful and wild. When all they received were more terrified screams the two mercenaries drew their blades and made to dash into the forest after their comrade.

Robert's persistent screaming was suddenly cut short.

The two mercenaries stopped dead in their tracks, frozen in place. They listened for Robert's yells, but the man had gone quiet. He'd been silenced so abruptly, as if someone had clamped a hand over his mouth. Nobody moved for a long while.

"Robert? You there?" Gnaeus called out timidly. There was no response. The only sounds were those of the crackling fireplace. No crickets chirped, no owls hooted nearby. The distant animal calls had died out. The wood itself had grown eerily quiet, making Krev nervous. Too quiet.

Beside him, Chulainn whined lowly, nervously looking at the black forest's edge. Krev's father was suddenly standing next to him, pulling him to his feet. "This place is not safe. We're moving. Now." The tone in his father's voice offered no room for objection — not that Krev wasn't in complete agreement anyways.

The mercenaries stepped away from the forest's edge and closer to the people they were paid to guard as the frightened family hurriedly prepared the wagons to move again, yoking and harnessing the horses, securing the family belongings with a taut rope. They moved quickly, hurriedly, and without sound. Torches were lit to provide light to work by, and one was given to a grim-faced Gnaeus. Bedrolls and tents were packed into the back of the wagon. The cooking set was disassembled and heedlessly thrown into the back.

Chulainn suddenly began to bay loudly at the forest. Their heads all snapped round. Krev turned his head as well, gazing into the dark wood. His breath caught in his throat. Two glowing grey eyes stared at him from the forest, like two lit, silver-flamed candles hanging in the darkness. The warm ring of light from Gnaeus's torch came up too short to see what it was. The forest's edge was black; nothing of it could be made out save for those glowing grey eyes.

The petrified family remained motionless, still as stone out of pure fear. The mercenaries turned to fully face the creature hidden by darkness. Their arming swords glimmered faintly in the torchlight. The two sellswords looked at each other, uncertainly. Then, they began to slowly walk towards the glowing eyes.

"Hey! Get out of here!" Gnaeus shouted, brandishing the torch threateningly to scare it off, waving it back and forth. The beast growled, a spine-chilling sound. The glowing eyes did not move. Yet still, the mercenaries approached.

"Another Saber cat. It must be," Krev heard his mother whisper fearfully, tightening the grip on her husband's arm as the mercenaries approached the forest's edge, shouting out more threats, with Gnaeus wildly brandishing his torch; except it couldn't have been a saber cat. It was with horror that Krev noticed how the glowing eyes hung in midair, a whole foot higher than either mercenary's heads. The mercenaries finally came close enough to see what it was.

For a heartbeat, everything was still. Then, Locke screamed. "WEREWOLF!"

A heart-wrenching roar tore into the night sky as the Werewolf lunged out from the darkness, a huge mass of rippling black muscle and silvery teeth. The sound of its terrible bellow caused the draft horses to rear and whinny in terror. Krev's garron bolted instantly, breaking free of its bonds. Abandoning everything else they'd set down for the camp, the family frantically set about to getting ready to run. While his father and mother were getting the frightened draft horses back under control, Krev went to the wagon wheels and began to remove the chocks.

There was a piercing scream as the Werewolf bit down on Locke's shoulder. The horrible crunching of bones mingled with the sellsword's death cry, pushing Krev to move even faster. Chulainn's frenzied barking added to the hysteria, but the frightened Wolfhound made no move to attack. Fenrir! Where is Fenrir?! We need him here now! One of the chocks was lodged in place, refusing to budge. Krev grunted and yanked hard on the rope attached to the chock, finally dislodging it.

The sound of Gnaeus's pained, cracking scream forced him to turn his head. The Werewolf had overpowered the Imperial and was now crushing the sellsword's chest in its jaws, shaking its head ravenously. With a final crunching bite, Gnaeus' cry of pain was cut short, and the man went limp. The lycanthrope released the dead body and shot its head up to glare at the family wagon.

Steel-colored eyes took in the sight of them. Gnaeus' fallen torch still gave off enough light to make out its hulking form as it crouched over the Imperial's body, dark blood shimmering in the torchlight against its muzzle and claws. The beast growled, and charged with another roar that roused the birds from their trees for miles around.

Krev was kept frozen in place by fear, unable to move from his spot. At the sight of the charging Werewolf, Chulainn yelped and bolted, running away in fear. Krev finally regained feeling in his legs, and in the spur of the moment he chose to dive under the wagon, just as the beast reached them.

The Werewolf barreled into the two draft horses leading the wagon. The animals, and both Krev's parents, screamed and fell. Immediately, the lycanthrope clamped its jaws around the neck of one of the grounded animals, spilling its blood everywhere, while the other one bolted and ran, having broken free of its harness. Krev remained in his prone position underneath the wagon, watching the scene with horror. Though he could only see everything from the legs down, he knew exactly what was happening not even eight feet away from where he lay.

The beast was quickly finished with the horse, releasing the animal's neck. The horse's head dropped lifelessly to the ground, staring at Krev with black, glassy eyes. Its neck was a bloody ruin. The Werewolf finally noticed Krev's parents, who had just gotten onto their feet. Krev's breath caught in his throat as the huge beast turned its body in their direction; he could not see its head from beneath the wagon, but Krev knew it was staring down his ma and pa. He heard as it growled lowly, watching them as the two stood still, unmoving.

Krev held his breath, his pulse beating fearfully in his chest. He saw his parents' legs slowly take one step backwards, then another. The Werewolf remained hunched over its latest kill, a low growl rumbling from deep within its chest. Another step away. Then another. And another. They were about ten feet away from it now. They were far enough away for Krev to see their faces; pale with fear. Krev's parents were also far enough away for them to see him hiding underneath the wagon. Liana finally spotted her son lying under the cart and gasped with horror.

Then she made the fatal mistake of taking a step towards him.

The Werewolf bristled angrily, tensing for a pounce. Seeing this and realizing her mistake, Liana screamed before turning and running, with Stromm right beside her. Then the Werewolf roared and launched itself forward. It moved so impossibly fast, the two running humans had no chance.

Krev screamed, then shut his eyes just as it reached them.

The sound of his parents dying, screaming as they were torn apart by the wild animal, shook Krev to his core. It was too brutal to watch. He shut his eyes at the bloody sight, but the horrible sounds of his ma and pa being killed still reached him. The boy found himself screaming in pain, putting his hands to his ears to try and drown out the sounds, but the death rattles of his parents were louder. He didn't even notice as his bladder emptied itself of its own accord.

When the screams finally died out, Krev remained motionless for a long while. He opened his eyes fearfully, and looked up with tear-stained cheeks. The Werewolf sat less than twenty feet away. On the ground before it lay a body, partially obscured by the tall dark grass. In its clawed hand it held the bloody ruin that was once his father. Its entire snout was covered in blood now, the blood of his parents, as were its hands. Two steel-grey eyes glared directly at him, glowing in the darkness.

The Werewolf dropped Stromm's body and began running towards him.

Krev screamed. He turned to slide out from underneath the wagon, intending to run for the woods. Coming out from the other side of the wagon, he broke out into a run. Not a moment after he'd gotten out from underneath the wagon, the Werewolf barreled into the side of the cart. All the force behind the behemoth's charge was enough to send the wagon careening onto its side, sending its cargo right on top of Krev.

Clothing, chests, books, and travel gear all fell on Krev and knocked him to the ground, burying him in the process. Before the items had even settled into place, the Werewolf was already on top of him, digging through the items in its search for its defenseless prey. Krev cried out in pain as its claws dug into his shoulder, throwing aside a heavy wooden chest in the process. The gash it left behind started to bleed. Warm blood began to drip down his arm.

He couldn't bear sitting still any longer. With a final, desperate cry, the boy burst out from underneath the upended wagon's cargo and made a mad dash for the tree line. He barely made it three steps before he felt his legs get knocked out from under him, sending him to the ground. Frantically, the boy tried to crawl away, but a grip as strong as iron clamped around his ankle.

"No!" he screamed, clawing at the soil, trying to get a grip and pull away, but it was futile. The Werewolf yanked on his leg, nearly with enough force to dislocate the limb. He was dragged into a supine position with a final yank. Krev's pale face looked up to see his killer by the light of the moons. Blood and slaver dripped down the beast's snarling mouth. The scent of its overbearing, thick musk nearly made Krev pass out, if not for the adrenaline surging through his veins. Two steel-grey eyes, almost like human eyes, glared hungrily at him. Krev gasped; he knew those eyes. The last he'd seen them, they had been set in a companionable, friendly face. A human one.

Fenrir…?

Fenrir parted his jaws and dipped his head low. Krev was too shocked by his revelation to notice his impending doom. Nor did he notice the sleek, grey-furred form dashing towards the Werewolf from behind.

Snarling like an amber-eyed demon, Chulainn savagely clamped his jaws down on the Werewolf's hind leg, tearing into the thick hide with sharp teeth. The Werewolf howled in pain, sending a blind backhanded strike in Chulainn's direction, but the Wolfhound had already backed off a fair distance. Fenrir seemed to forget Krev and instead turned towards the dauntless hound, roaring as it faced him. In his current form, Fenrir must have been ten times heavier than Chulainn, yet the Wolfhound bayed relentlessly, snarling and bristling furiously in defense of his master, with a ferocity to match the lycanthrope's. A million thoughts raced across Krev's mind, wondering about his chances of escaping, wondering if the lycanthrope would notice him and give chase.

He finally noticed it laying there, at of the corner of his vision. Krev turned his head and looked at it, laying on the ground about ten feet away from him. An idea seized him, a suicidal and extremely risky idea. It wasn't even a proper weapon for combat — but it was better than nothing. The boy got to his feet and ran towards it while the Werewolf was still distracted by the smaller wolfhound. Finally reaching it, Krev stooped low and grabbed its wooden handle. The billhook's bladed edge shone with a pale red glimmer as it reflected Masser's moonlight. The boy turned to face the Werewolf, just in time to see it pounce on Chulainn.

The Wolfhound let out a piercing yelp as the lycanthrope bit down, and then he remained silent. Krev's heart wrenched in his chest as Fenrir stared at him again with hungry eyes. The billhook suddenly felt heavy in his hands. His legs were made of brick, and his arms were made of jelly. Snarling once again, Fenrir launched himself towards Krev with an unearthly howl. Krev's heart pounded like a war drum. Sweat ran down his temples and forehead, stinging his eyes. He had one chance, one chance at this. Fenrir pounced. A maw lined with silvery teeth opened.

With one final, desperate cry, Krev lunged directly forward with the farming tool, its spiked steel end glinting in the moonlight.

The shaft of the billhook snapped with a loud crack. The blunt end of the pole arm was driven into Krev's chest with enough force to plow the boy into the ground, smashing his head against a rock. The Werewolf sailed overhead, slamming into the ground several feet away. Fenrir roared furiously, huge black arms flailing wildly as the Werewolf choked on its own blood, as well as the billhook spike that had punched through the back of its mouth.

Half-conscious, bleeding from his arm, and heavily bruised in multiple places, Krev watched with half-open eyes as Fenrir died. The roars turned into frantic gargles and choking gasps for breath. The flailing arms began to still. At last, the furry mass stopped moving entirely. Fenrir became very, very still.

Krev stared at the huge body without moving, his hand still clutching the broken shaft of the billhook with a numb, deathlike grip. His breath came in shallow and ragged. Darkness began creeping in from the corners of his vision. How long he lay there, he could not have said. He could have just laid down and never moved. He could have given up and died now, knowing that he'd survived where so many others had not. He was going to do just that, Krev finally thought. Die, and be at peace.

A low, pained whine cut the silence of the night.

Krev gasped in recognition. He made an attempt to stand. His legs felt stiff like wood, but he regained his footing after a few moments, grimacing all the while. Finally on his own two feet, the sight of the gigantic corpse on the ground a few feet away briefly seized his attention. Even when he was standing up and the Wolf was lying down, it was immense. He could see the tip of the billhook sticking out its mouth, blood running down the shaft to pool on the ground under its head. Another whine grabbed his attention. Krev finally turned to see Chulainn, lying in the grass, weakly lifting his head to look at him.

The boy gasped and staggered towards his injured Wolfhound, completely ignoring Fenrir's body. He fell to his knees just as he reached the dog, staring at him for a moment in utter shock. His grip on the broken billhook shaft finally loosened. The hound's back and ribs were bloody ruins where Fenrir's fangs had punched deep into the flesh and punctured bone. Chulainn whimpered, weakly dragging himself towards his master with his two front paws; but his two back legs remained stiff and lifeless. Not even his tail twitched. Krev cupped his dog's huge head in his hands, tearing blurring his vision. "Chulainn…" he choked. The dog licked his hand in response, looking at him with friendly amber eyes. Krev scooted closer and pulled the dog's head close, holding it tight against his chest.

For a long while Krev sat there in that position, holding the head of the only one left for him in this world tightly against his chest, sobbing. The orphaned boy pressed his face into his dog's shaggy fur and cried into Chulainn's head. The hound nuzzled his neck tenderly, whining. Chulainn was warm, but Krev felt cold. So very, very cold. Overhead, Masser and Secunda shone their pale light upon them and the surrounding land, deaf and blind to Krev's tragedy.

The sound of clanking metal reached Krev's ears, and his head shot up. Chulainn lifted and turned his head as well, to look at the approaching figures. There were six of them, armored in hide and dark furs. They walked towards them, and Krev swallowed fearfully. Bandits?

The newcomers were tall and brawny. Wolf-fur cloaks as black as the night sky were draped about their shoulders. They carried various weapons about them, from arming swords to bows to maces, but the metal of their weapons shone with a luster that did not match that of steel or iron. They were silver weapons, Krev knew.

The largest member of the strange band approached Krev and Chulainn. He was a head taller than any of his companions, and armored with thick steel plate armor. He wore no helmet, allowing Krev to see his face. He was an Orc, with olive-green skin that looked almost black in this darkness, and large tusks the color of ivory. His black hair was braided into long, thick dreadlocks that ran down his back, resting over the black wolf-fur cloak draped about his shoulders. A long silver mace hung from his leather belt, alongside a smaller sheath for his dagger. When he stepped close and kneeled to meet Krev's eyes, Chulainn whined. The Orc's broad nose and naturally-scowling face provided for a fearsome visage, but he made no move to hurt them.

When the Orsimer spoke, his voice was deep and rumbling like a war drum. "What happened here?"

Krev seemed to lose his voice for a moment. He turned his head to look at Fenrir's body laying several feet away. A few of the Orc's men were already inspecting it, poking at it with their silver blades to make sure it was dead. "Fenrir… he killed them… everyone…" Krev's voice shook as he spoke. "My ma… my pa… dead…"

"You were traveling with a Werewolf?" The Orc's snarl somehow managed to deepen even further.

"W-we didn't know!" Krev replied, startled, quaking in fear again. "He-he looked normal! He never hurt anybody b-before! He was friendly! He… he was normal—"

"Normal people don't slaughter their friends," the Orsimer growled sharply. When he noticed Krev beginning to cry again, his granite-like features softened by a modicum. "It wasn't your fault. The bloody things aren't easy to root out. You can't really tell 'till its too late. But it just goes to show you… the only good Werewolf's a dead one."

The Orc suddenly noticed Krev's wounds. He reached to where a small red vial sat on his belt and pulled it loose, handing it to the boy. "Drink this. It'll take care of your injuries."

Krev gratefully accepted the small red bottle. He pulled off the cork stopper, pressed the cool glass rim against his lips, and drank. The effects of the potion were slow to act, but before too long Krev could breathe normally again. He looked down at Chulainn, who was still bleeding, and then looked up at the Orc. "What about Chulainn? Do you have anything to help him?"

The Orsimer passed a critical look over the injured dog. "He's been bitten by a werewolf, boy. Look at him; his back's been broken and he's bleeding everywhere. There's nothing that can save him now. The best thing we could do now is put him out of his misery."

The words slowly registered in the boy's mind. Krev looked up at the Orc helplessly, his hazel eyes pleading, but he finally hung his head in resignation. The Orc lifted a huge green hand and rubbed the dog behind the ear, eliciting a soft whine from Chulainn. He opened his hand fully and grabbed the dog's large head in it. There was a flash of blue light as he cast a lightning spell. Chulainn stopped breathing. The Orc let the dog's head gently rest on the ground.

Krev began to cry again. Thirteen years old, and he was already completely alone in the world.

His sobbing abated when he felt the Orsimer's huge hand clasp his shoulder. He looked up at him. The Orc's hard face could have been carved from flint, given the lack of any emotion he showed. "He's in a better place now."

Krev stared at him with unshed tears still in his eyes. The Orc turned to look at the Werewolf corpse a few feet away. His gaze slowly passed over Fenrir's body, then looked over at the upended wagon cart, and beyond that, the bloody remains of Locke and Gnaeus' bodies. "How'd you survive?" he murmured thoughtfully. Then, seeing the broken shaft of the billhook lying within arm's reach, he looked back at the boy. "You killed it?" Numbly, Krev nodded.

"I thought Fenrir was a friend… he was nice to me when we first met… why would he do this? Why?" Krev's voice came out in a harsh whisper, full of hatred and pain. His hazel eyes looked into the Orc's steady, yellow-eyed gaze, searching for an answer.

"Because he was a Werewolf," the Orc replied simply. His voice was a growl full of disgust and hatred. It reflected everything that Krev was feeling right now. "They're heartless monsters, all of them. Spawn of the Daedric Lord Hircine. Unholy terrors that have to be hunted down and put to the sword, like any other rogue beast that threatens the common people. They're the sole reason for my existence. For our existence," he added, passing a hand that encompassed the rest of his men.

"Who are you?" Krev managed to ask, looking upon the giant Orc armored in steel plate and armed with silver weapons, bearing his huge cloak of black fur.

"We are the Silver Hand," the Orc responded, meeting Krev's gaze evenly. "We have taken it upon ourselves to wage war against all lycanthropes. Our mission is to find them, hunt them down, and kill them with extreme prejudice, so that none may be left alive. We hope to send every blasted one of the things back to Hircine's Hunting Grounds, and spare none of them any mercy."

Krev looked upon the mer with newfound respect. Something inside him stirred. He had nowhere else to go. He had nobody else to go to. This was his calling. This was what he was meant to do. "I wish to join you."

"Nobody just joins the Silver Hand, boy," a loud Nord cut in from the side, holding up Fenrir's tail in one hand and a bloodied knife in the other. "We don't let anybody in. Especially not young lads who're still pulling on their mother's apron strings! The Silver Hand don't got need for the likes of you."

The Orc quickly rounded on him. "This boy killed that Werewolf you're standing next to! And that's more than you can say for yourself, Wallace. You've yet to kill your own lycan."

Wallace gave the huge furry corpse on the floor a wide-eyed stare, then turned his head to gape at the boy; he was too stunned to even retaliate to the Orc's affront. The Orc looked back to scrutinize Krev, passing a long, critical look over the thirteen-year-old boy. Krev met his gaze without wavering the slightest.

The Orc reached to his hip, partially covered by his cloak. From beneath the fur cloak he produced a long, sharp, two-edged silver dagger. He pressed the hilt of the dagger against Krev's palm. The boy closed his hand around the cool metal hilt, grasping it tightly. "It's cold out here, boy. Go make yourself a cloak." The huge Orsimer nudged his head in the direction of Fenrir's body.

Krev stood up on shaking legs and slowly made his way over to the Werewolf's dead body. The other Silver Hand members stepped aside to let him pass. Once he'd gotten within a single pace of the corpse, Krev stopped in place. He bent low to kneel before the body. The boy stared into the Werewolf's steel-grey eyes, their gaze distant and unseeing. For a brief moment, the body on the floor was Fenrir again, not as a Werewolf, but as a human. His grizzled beard and hair was as wild as a wolf's fur. He looked at Krev with friendly, steel-grey eyes, his mouth smiling from underneath the thick mass of beard he liked to keep.

But the moment passed quickly. Fenrir the human was once again Fenrir the Werewolf; the man who was less than a man; the man who had once been his friend; the man who had taken everything and everyone he had left his life from him. Krev scowled hatefully, seething with rage, gripping the hilt of his dagger until his hand turned as pale as the silver blade it grasped. He raised the dagger high and plunged it into the Werewolf's skull, popping one of those accursed steel-grey eyes out of its socket.

He worked quickly but a bit messily for his taste; he'd had limited experience in flaying the hide off of the animals he'd killed, and even then they had usually been things like rabbits or foxes. Skinning Fenrir was not an easy task, but he did the best he could. He deftly handled his dagger as he made careful, inch-perfect incisions around the beast's neck, the edge of his blade cleanly splitting the half-inch thick hide as it traced along the sides of the lycanthrope's head, carefully running the edge under the folds of skin to peel it away from the flesh and bone underneath. The other Silver Hand members stood and watched him with utter fascination at the speed and efficiency with which he worked.

When Krev finally stood up from the corpse, he raised Fenrir's hide and wrapped it about his shoulders. The inner side of the furry hide was slick and wet with flesh and adipose, but the makeshift cloak kept the cold at bay. The Orc watched as Krev returned, handing him the dagger from underneath his new fur cloak. The Orsimer grunted and shook his head, much to Krev's surprise.

"Keep it," he said. "Where you're going, and with what you'll be doing, you'll be needing it." The Orc raised his head, and his voice. "Alright, men. Move out. Back to the camp!"

The Silver Hand all began to walk off towards the East, where the Sun was just beginning to peek out over the horizon, painting the mountain peaks with the pink halo of dawn. The Orc looked back towards Krev, who remained standing in his spot, staring at his new silver dagger.

"Hey." The Orc's deep voice brought him back to reality. "Come on, let's get moving. Remember, you're one of us now… Skinner."

Krev the Skinner furrowed his brow and nodded determinedly. Tightening his grip on the Werewolf cloak that hung from his shoulders, he stepped off, away from the site of the wreckage. As he moved to follow, a pair of objects partially hidden by the tall grasses on the ground caught his eye, and he turned to look at them.

Stromm and Liana lay on the ground right beside each other, their chests and stomachs bloody ruins. They did not look peaceful in death; their faces were twisted in pain from their last moments of life, mouths gaping in screams cut short. There was no time for a proper burial. They couldn't even bother to make them a cairn; they were a long ways out from any form of civilization, and Krev didn't want to be a hindrance. They would be food for the vultures and wolves, he knew. Though it made his heart beat painfully in his chest and made his eyes water one more time, Krev forced himself to turn away.

I'll make every one of those Werewolves pay, Krev thought fiercely, pushing onwards, never looking back. Never again will I stand idly by while one of those things is still out there. I will not stop until every single last Werewolf lays dead. I will make sure each one suffers before they die, like they made my parents suffer, like they made Chulainn suffer… like they made me suffer. I will kill them all, and I'll flay the hide off their bodies, every single one… I'll avenge you ma, and pa. I vow it, I swear it… I swear it…"

Krev the Skinner marched behind the other Silver Hand members, silver dagger clutched tightly underneath his Werewolf-fur cloak. May the Void have mercy on every one of them, for they will get no quarter from me while I still draw breath. I will send them to the Void, and when they do get there… may their souls rot in Oblivion for eternity.