The room was dark, except for a dim candle on the nightstand that gave a pumpkin tone to the worn walls. The Nord maiden lying in the bed, covered only by a pelt, was even darker however. She was the essence of beauty. Sun-kissed from her youth on the mountains of Skyrim, with long brown, silk-smooth hair that shined and made her deep, dark eyes twinkle whenever Varulv would stare into them. And stare he did.

"Come, my husband," she giggled, eyeing the dark Nord, with his rough knotted beard, and toned muscles. "I can't keep this bed warm by myself."

"And you won't have to much longer," Varulv replied, slipping off his tunic and sliding into the bed next to her. He held her face in his hands, taken by her beauty, her soft features, and warm smile.

"Kiss me, darling," she whispered.

Varulv leaned in and touched his lips gently against hers, before pulling her to him and putting out the small candle with his hands.

Varulv awoke, eyes peering into the gray mist around him. He realized that he was shivering, even in his sleep. Outside his puny tent the rain continued to drone, only adding to his loneliness. The cold bit at him, and stole away the last kiss from his lost dream and leaving him to stare into the wilderness.

"If she were only here. Only here," he thought, as a tight feeling swept over his stomach. He missed her deeply. They had been married only two years, a new couple, lost in their love and the joyful youthfulness of their marriage. After he had made her his, he could never live without her, he thought. But now he had to.

Varulv stirred the fire just outside his tent. The ashes were still dying out, and the glow gave him some small relief as he held his frostbitten toes over the heat. He used the rain to wash away the remaining blood on his hands from the rabbit he had killed and skinned earlier. It was his first time to eat in two days, and he devoured every bit of it. Had he known the rain would pour so heavily during the week, he would've built his tent on the other side of the mountain.

"Choices made are choices lived with," he thought, pondering where he would go next. He was alone, with no companions or friends, no trusty steeds, no loyal dogs. He lived only with a constant solitude that was a bitter substitute for the life he once held dear.

It was time to pack up, however. Time to move. No time to be lost in thought, lost in dreams, in sadness. He pulled down the flimsy makeshift tent that he fastened using his cloak and a few soggy sticks. He stomped out his fire, if it even qualified to be called a fire, and threw his pack over his shoulder, checking once more to make sure his battleaxe was cleaned of all blood and ready to go.

The big axe itself was a sight to behold. Varulv had taken it from the rotting clutched hands of a filthy Draugr, one of the ancient undead that haunt Skyrim's ruins. The axe itself was probably older than its previous cursed owner, and with a bit of Varulv's sharpening handiwork, skills he picked up while fighting for the Imperial legion some years earlier, he made it into a deadly weapon, a bane of his enemies. When he combined his own skill and speed with the power of his ancient axe, Varulv was certainly a force to be reckoned with.

Checking once more to make sure he removed all traces of his makeshift camp, Varulv started his drudging walk through the wilderness. It would be another long walk. But he knew the forests like the back of his hand. Varulv had been hiding in the wilderness for seven months now. Seven months since the Imperial Legion ransacked his home in Riverwood on their tireless search for Ulfric Stormcloak. Seven months since he returned from his hunt to find his beloved wife lying on the stairs of their home, with her throat slit, and the twinkle of his love gone from her eyes.

"I used to be an adventurer like you, before I took an arrow to the knee." The weary guard bragged to another passerby, to their discomfort. He told many his tale, trying to hold on to some small rememberance of his old life of adventure.

"Shut up, Rankvar," his companion scoffed. "Those days are over. Leave the poor people alone, I already have to hear your old war stories enough, I'm sure they don't want to either."

"What's the harm in wishful thinking?" Rankvar queried, putt off by his friend's frankness. "Besides, you know I've still got every bit as much fight left in me as before I took an arrow..."

"Thats enough," his friend sighed. "I know you miss it, brother."

Varulv watched them from the dense brush of the dark forest. He was cloaked in black, and had pulled his black hood over his head as well. He wore his soft shoes from his back as well, hard enough to protect his feet but silent enough to let him move without being heard. As he crouched down in the thick trees, hidden from view, he tightened his gloves, spiked gloves he had obtained from a dead Stormcloak officer he had come across while camping.

"Let's hope I don't have to use these," he mumbled to himself, before tightening them once more and preparing to move in closer.

His target was Falkreath's small inn. Varulv was tracking an Imperial courier he had spotted the night before. He had followed the courier all night, traveling in the darkness and stalking his prey over miles until the courier finally decided to bunk down for the night.

Varulv knew he was in the inn. He could smell the courier's sweat, and could taste on the air the faint hint of the Solitude mead that the officer carried. He would catch his target, and steal whatever packages the courier was carrying. Whether they were orders, dispatches, or personal letters from General Tullius, Varulv only need one piece of information from them: the name of the officer who murdered his wife and destroyed his home. Tonight, he hoped, would be his lucky night.

Varulv flanked cautiously around the side of the guards, watching every footstep and moving with wolf-like stealth. The guards were posted at Falkreath's eastern gate, close enough to the inn that he could slip around it without being seen. Silently, he crawled over the stump on the side of the gate and made his way for the basement of the inn. He found it, unlocked and slipped inside.

The basement was dank and smelly. It reaked of old meat and sour milk. The roof dripped with human waste, dumped by the buckets of floors above. As he etched his way towards the trap door that would lead to the rooms above, he was careful not to step on anything that would stink up the next room as he entered. When he finally made his way to the hallway lined with doors, it was pitch black.

"Perfect," Varulv thought, not daring to speak aloud. He knew his eyes would adjust quickly, and while he waited for them to do so, he pondered whether he would finally be able to learn just the name, if only the name, of the man who turned his world upside down.

Not wanting to lose his chance, Varulv followed the courier's scent towards his room, but before he could make it, a guardsman stepped out of the room right beside him and jumped when he saw Varulv.

In a split second, Varulv had one arm around the guard's neck, and used the other arm with his cloak to muffle the man's mouth and blind him. Within a few seconds, the guard's body went limp like a fish, and Varulv let the body fall onto his own, easing him to the floor in complete silence.

"That was close," he thought, before continuing to the courier's room.

He pushed the door open slowly and peered into the sleeping man's room. Perfect luck. The courier's bag was laying on the table next to him, and Varulv was able to find a set of sealed papers in the front pocket.

"What have we here?" Varulv thought as he removed the Imperial seal and unrolled the paper. It read:

"For illustrious duty in time of war, and for constant devotion to the cause of peace and solidity to the empire. For retrieving invaluable information in Riverwood that led to the capture of Jark Ulfric Stormcloak, ruler of Windhelm, on this day, Decius Octimus is hereby rewarded and honored for his indelible service to the empire, her allies, and her citizens."

The courier's eye slid open to find a crouched man rummaging through his pack. Not wanting to alert the intruder, he closed his eye and waited for the opportune moment to strike. The cloaked intruder, satisfied with whatever he was looking for, turned around and made an exit from the room. At this, the courier jumped up, brandishing his sword, and screamed.

"THIEF!"

Varulv jumped. The words made the hair on his neck stand up and rattled his senses. He knew he was caught, and as his heart beat through his chest and his pulse raced he had no choice but to act on instinct and run. He made a mad dash for the front door, leaping over tables as startled costumers yelled and jumped out of his way. Varulv went crashing through the door and stumbled down the steps, looking back as he went.

In his absent mindedness, he slid and flew right into the mud that had hardly dried from the week's earlier storms.

"We've got you thief," the gate guards snickered, leveling swords at his head.

Varulv looked at the ground, knowing he would be unable to escape. As he was hit over the back of his head he saw one word in his mind before it was consumed by the blackness:

Decius Octimus.

And with that, Varulv crumpled over, into the puddles and mud before him. The rain drizzled on, and the wind blew as the mountains seemed to sigh at Varulv's misfortune.

Decius Octimus.