Chapter 1 – The Legend Begins
The sky was an even shade of dark blue, shimmering with the silver of a night sky. Torchbugs lit the darkness in a glow of bright yellow-green light. Crickets screeched softly in the spring air, giving a somewhat comfort to the lowly town of Riverwood. Old Anise followed the narrow dirt path to the small village from her hut in the woods. Her pale blue hooded robes flapped in the slight breeze as she crossed the icy waters of the White River. Her metallic grey eyes lifted when she reached the entrance to Riverwood. The town was humming with life as they celebrated a harvest festival. Makeshift wooden stalls lined the streets, selling baked pastries, sweets and beverages.
As she neared the Sleeping Giant Inn, a small crowd of villagers gathered around her, excitingly shouting greetings with tankards filled with sweet, warm mead to chase the chilly breeze from their bodies.
"Anise!" Hod opened his arms, welcoming her to Riverwood. "Are you here to tell your tales of dragons and warriors?"
"Something of the sort, dear," Anise replied, shifting slowly through the mass of people. "If you would like to hear a story, I will be in the warmth of the inn."
Soft murmuring added to the festive atmosphere as the old woman made her way to her destination. Pushing open the worn, wooden door to the inn, Anise shuffled to a chair seated by the roaring fire in the centre of the room. She muttered a greeting to the innkeeper, Orgnar as she relaxed her aching bones. Sighing with relief she watched the fire crackling, orange flames licking at the empty air. Anise raised her hand to rest her head on it and she caught the fire moving in sync with her. Inwardly smiling to herself, she welcomed the warmth in the stead of the cold, lonely nights in her cabin on the edge of the woods.
As she drew back her hood, revealing her dark silver hair, which was roughly tied back into a ponytail, the door creaked open. Some of the villagers walked inside, scanning the inn for Anise. They strode over to her and stood before her, wide grins on their faces.
"Anise!" Embry stumbled to the aging woman, a full tankard of mead in his hand. "Tell us a story! Tell us about the Dragonborn or…hic…something like that."
"Embry!" Orgnar called sternly in a deep, threatening voice. "If you're going to disrupt my customers, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave."
"Hush, my dear," Anise waved off the bartender, "leave the poor man alone. He just wants to hear old Anise tell a story."
"If she's going to be telling stories," Alvor the blacksmith gripped the drunkard by the shoulder firmly, "you've got to be quiet this time."
"Alright, alright, you won't hear me at all!" Embry raised his fingers to his lips. "I'll be as quiet as a Skeever."
Anise's grey eyes rose suddenly. "Skeever, eh?" A small smile appeared on her mouth and a reminiscing expression crossed her face. She shifted in her seat so she was sitting on the edge, old elbows resting on her knees. "There is an old tale about a Skeever."
"You're going to tell a story about a Skeever?" the blacksmith's wife, Sigrid, asked, surprise and somewhat disgust faded onto her face.
"And a Hawk." Anise replied. "It is a tale of fear, adventure, lust, romance and tragedy." She studied the anticipation on the villagers' faces. The aura in the room was changing. Curiosity wisped through the tavern air. "But this tale is not like the others I have told. I must warn you. Whatever is told in this room must stay in this room. You do not want this story to reach unwanted ears."
"What is the problem?" asked Gerdur the miller's wife, running a hand through her dull blonde hair. "Why do we have to be so secretive of this story?"
"Because," Anise's expression was firm, "this story is about Daedric Princes."
A hush fell over the villagers. They were unsure of how to continue. They were curious, however as they exchanged worried looks with each other, they knew how dangerous just talking about the Daedric Princes can be.
"Go on, old lady!" Embry raised his glass to his lips. "I ain't afraid of these myths about Daedra and such." He drank deeply from his tankard, muttering, "Unlike these milk-drinkers."
"We ain't milk-drinkers!" Hod, the miller boomed. "We are Nords! We ain't afraid of children's tales."
"Yes," Anise hardened her gaze, "children's tales." Leaning back in her chair she rested her aching back.
"Go on, Anise," Gerder said, shifting her weight to her left leg, "tell us what Daedra have to do with Hawks and Skeevers."
Anise's shiny grey eyes rested on the blonde Nord woman. "Well, the legend begins in the Oblivion Plain of Coldharbour, home to the Daedric Lord, Molag Bal…"