"Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more." - Revelations 12:1

Chapter I

Rowyn's bow shuddered under the chill of the Rift's morning hours. The slightest breeze in the morning dampness sent chills down the young man's spine, and made it difficult to keep himself steady and still in the shrub. He crouched as low as he could, remaining a mere shadow within the foliage of the Rift's thinning forestry. There were few hiding spots for him to take advantage of, but he did what he must with what means he could scrounge.

His eyes peered through the greenery, the stems and sticks obstructing his view like broken glass. He stayed his arrow, watching the careful scene of a doe and her fawn feeding on a small patch of dewy grass. It wasn't the prey that Rowyn wanted, but with necessity came drastic measures. The poor fawn would lose its mother today.

With his breath clouding in front of his through slightly parted lips, Rowyn easily drew back the string of his bow, aiming the arrow for the neck of the deer as she kept her head up. She was watching for danger, no doubt. Her fawn was growing, testing out the grass for what could have been the first time in his life. Still, he was attached at his mother's hip, and merely raised his head up now and then to gently bump her side in affection.

It was only a matter of time before the doe lowered her head to feed, and following the sudden whipping tear of leaves was the slick whistle of the arrow as it sailed. The steel tip plunged its way into the doe's neck, and she let out a squeal before twisting off and bolting in the opposite direction. The fawn followed after her, making terrified screams as it darted away on spindly legs.

Rowyn kept low, watching as the deer fled. It wouldn't be long before the mother bled out and the fawn eventually picked off by another predator, or returned to its herd should it be nearby. The former, however unfortunate and sad, was the most likely. Carefully, Rowyn crept out from the brush and followed the deer as it fled. He would track it until he eventually came upon it. The severed artery in its neck would prove an eventual fatal blow.

The grass had little give against the leather of Rowyn's boots. The softened soil made little noise as he went, making quick but light strides in direction of the wounded deer. The fawn was nowhere in sight, and just ahead, he finally heard the doe start to slow with weakness. He followed her for a short while-a bit of careful treading but it would be worth it in the end. The practice with the bow and arrow and creeping about in shadow was needed.

He was of a Nord mother and Imperial father, and the nordic blood that flowed through his veins made him stockier than the Imperial population that dwelled within Skyrim's borders. It was a slight difference, but it made it all the more difficult to move around unseen.

Just ahead of him, the doe was coming to a stop, blood creaking down the wound in her neck. She wasn't bleeding out so much as he'd hoped, but the internal damage was no doubt much worse. The arrow was stuck at an angle, as he now saw it, pointing inward towards her skull, branching off from the back of her jaw just under her ear. Her legs shook as she took another step before stopping completely, body showing signs of fatigue.

Rowyn took this time to ready his bow once again and aim it at the back of her head. It would all be over soon.

Another arrow sailed through the air, plunging into the back of the deer's skull. She fell forward, crumpling like paper to the grass beneath her, and Rowyn slowly rose back to his feet before setting off towards her body. Coming near the dead deer, Rowyn rose fingers to his lips, and gave a quick whistle call. As he stooped down to examine her, the low muffled clatter of hooves approached him from behind, and coming to a slow trot.

"Good boy, Cutter," Rowyn said, reaching a hand up and touching the horse's nose. "Got ourselves a nice healthy lady here." He stood, then crouched, bending his knees as he gathered up the doe's corpse. "Now hold still," he grunted, hoisting up the deer and throwing her across Cutter's back. Rowyn went about securing the deer to Cutter when the stallion's ears perked and turned towards the back of him. His nostrils flared and he gave a snort.

"Easy," Rowyn said, stepping back away from the stallion to give his handiwork a once-over. "Think we should go for one mo-" Cutter pushed himself forward, giving an indignant whinnie. "Cutter, easy," Rowyn said, voice growing stern. The steed then vaulted towards the brush, leaving Rowyn alone and annoyed. "Cutter!" he shouted in direction of the horse, taking a step forward and huffing in irritation. The young halfbreed froze, then, eyes going wide and ears straining to hear the faintest digging of claws into soil and breathing against the stale, cold air.

Rowyn's hand slowly went for his dagger, easing it from its leather sheath.

He was being hunted.

The loud screech of a roar rang through the otherwise still atmosphere of the Rift, and Rowyn tossed himself to the side, a massive body leaping towards him and swiping him across the back. He rolled across the back and got to his hands and knees, to see his attacker for what it was. A sabre cat, growling with hunger and baring its fangs. Those teeth would crush him effortlessly if they got the chance. The beast recovered quickly from its second lunge and charged him again, with little distance between them and no time for Rowyn to catch his breath. The cat was on top of him, teeth only kept a mere number of inches away from his face. Inches away from mauling him. His arm was stuck under the cat's neck, holding up as far as he could as long as he could, with the dwindling hope that someone would happen across them in time to help, or something bigger would take an interest in the cat and take its attention away from him.

Giants, how few there were in the rift, were usually interested in the pelts of these beasts, and the effortless strength of these supermen were something that Rowyn would only beg the Divines for. Unfortunately, within the few seconds it took for Rowyn's strength to begin wearing down, no assistance came.

Adrenaline rushed through him and he let out roar deep from his own chest into the cat's face. His arm slipped, going into the cat's mouth. Its jaws clamped down, but luckily in far enough that only the razor molars behind the fangs tore at his skin and flesh. His hand, free of the cat's maw, grabbed a fistfull of hackle and whiskers, and pulled to the side. His other arm was pinned by the cat's claws, but with a yank, he pulled it free, and shot his hand towards the cat's eye, embedding his dagger deep into it socket. The cat jumped back and screamed, shaking its head wildly this way and that, moving away from the injured nord and making frantic attempts to remove the cold steel from its skull.

With the tremendous weight removed from his body, Rowyn pulled himself back, dragging himself across the grass and shouting to the sky, "CUTTER!" This may be his only chance at fleeing. At best, he only infuriated the predator, and without at least the speed and endurance of his horse, the damn coward, Rowyn was as good as dead.

The faint sound of Cutter's tromping hooves brought some relief to Rowyn's shaking form, but it didn't outweigh his need to avoid the cat's next charge. Luckily, Rowyn's legs weren't hurt, and there was a tree just a foot away. Launching himself up, Rowyn, grabbed onto the lowest branch and hoisted himself up, narrowly avoiding an enraged swipe of the cat's claws. He climbed until he couldn't anymore, both of his arms throbbing and his back stinging against the cold. He was up far enough that the beast couldn't reach him, and as far as he knew, sabre cats couldn't climb. He was safe, if temporarily.

Below, the sabre cat circled around the tree, growling in its dissatisfaction. Of course, Rowyn had to wonder just where the hell his horse had run off to. "Goddamn coward," the halfbreed grunted. He grew agitated and shouted again. "Cutter come back here!" He rose his fingers to his lips, and whistled like before. It wasn't long following before Cutter charged through the brush towards the cat, ears back, eyes wide and teeth bare. Perhaps the dumb steed got lost, but hearing Rowyn's whistle lead it back to him and his attacker. Cutter was easily twice the cat's size, and with cuspate hooves, he had only one objective in mind: to kill the wild feline before him.

Rearing up, Cutter aimed its hooves at the cat's head, slamming them down, but missing direct hits. The sharp edges of his hooves, however, were cutting up the cat's face something fierce. It was, however, doing damage to the horse, too. Cutter's resilience kept him going, but if the cat didn't slow, then the stallion would be in danger. Rowyn had the brief thought to simply drop onto the horse and flee from the cat, but with Cutter proving to be a glutton for punishment, the halfbreed adopted the idea that getting rid of this cat would make this part of the Rift a less dangerous area.

Unfortunately, his bow was scattered where the deer's body once lay. Rowyn watched Cutter and the sabre cat fight as he gently eased himself up from his spot on the tree. He had to get his bow while the horse still had the hunter's attention, and with a deep breath, Rowyn vaulted himself down from the tree, tumbling onto the grass and rolling forward to his feet, dashing towards his bow and readying it with an arrow, strafing behind the massive feline. "Payback's a bitch is it not," he whispered in a husked voice, aiming for the back of the cat's head and firing.

He fired off another arrow, and then another, and another. The cat was growing weary, and slower than before. With another arrow to the cat's skull, Cutter reared up and slammed his hooves down, smashing the cat's head into the ground. When the beast went lip, Rowyn lowered his bow, putting away the last arrow he pulled out from its quiver, and staring bewildered as Cutter removed himself from the cat's body and trotted around it. His heart began to slow, and the full, painful extent of his injuries became prominent. "Argh," he growled, holding up his bloodied left arm.

Cutter approached him with a lilt in his step, and Rowyn briefly pondered skinning the cat and bringing back the prizes. The glory of defeating a hulking beast would have been nice in the face of his injuries. Rowyn's lips tightened and pressed together, eyes narrowing as he looked down at the grass. But no doubt Brynjolf would be having none of it. He was going to get yelled at for this for sure, and Rowyn shuddered just thinking of it. Still, he couldn't fake wounds like these. It wasn't like he asked to get attacked, right?

He grabbed onto Cutter's reins and pulled himself up onto the saddle, "Alright, back to Riften," he said, tapping his heels against the horse's sides.

The ride back to Riften was a painful one. It wasn't as though there was any strain on his arms. Cutter's movements were wonky at best, his usually rhythmic running now erratic and hesitant. He was hurt just as Rowyn was, slices straying across his chest and the fronts of his shoulders. Rowyn was relieved of the stress of having to run all the way back home, but each uneven movement made on Cutter's part had a backlashing consequence, both literally and figuratively. Red slices ran across Rowyn's spine and shoulder blades, and they burned with each jarring movement the stallion made.

Rowyn's face creased as the ride went on, cursing his inability to keep his stoicism to ward away travelers on foot. He didn't want help from anyone he didn't know, didn't want to owe any favors. Cutter's trot at least was a quick one, whisking Rowyn away before any wanderers could realize either of them were injured. Carriages, however, were a different matter. Avoiding them required them to gallop. Carriages were now much more common since the war had ended two decades before. With the Stormcloaks and the Imperials no longer raising hell across Skyrim, people felt more free to brave the wilds.

Riften, of course, profited as a result. The war left Maven Black-Briar in charge of Riften with her meadery. The town had expanded and become bigger, and the Thieves Guild experiencing the most success it has seen in years. Riften had become one of the most profitable settlements in Skyrim, and even with the Thieves Guild having an established presence, it wasn't much for people to complain about.

Rowyn's arrival back to Riften was less than elegant. He handed off Cutter to the stable hand before pushing himself in through the gate, trying to hide his wounds as best he could. But fuck if they didn't hurt. Rowyn pushed himself through the crowds, finding his way to the secret entrance into the Thieves Guild behind the Black-Briar manor. After a quick double-take, he pressed the button and watched quietly as the sarcophagus pulled back into the wall, allowing him entry into the guild's base of operations.

Once he was inside, Rowyn kept his head down as he moved, weaving his way towards where his bed was before being stopped by a rough hand on his shoulder. He froze, but kept his head low, holding his arm in front of him. "An' just where dae ye think ye're goin'?" Brynjolf's voice, despite being so characteristically calm, had a dangerously parental tone to it. "Well?"

Rowyn tensed. He didn't care much for Brynjolf's crusade in being a responsible guardian, but there wasn't much he could do except grin and bear it. "Over here?" Rowyn didn't make any effort to look at him. "Funny. Looks like got yerself in a scrap of trouble. Again. Turn around," said Brynjolf.

The boy sighed and turned, his efforts at hiding his arm unsuccessful. "Fer gods' sake boy, ye're gonna get yerself killed one day," Brynjolf took Rowyn's hand and held up his arm, examining the cuts and gashes that lined it, "What the hell happened? What we're ye doing? No, not here. Back here, come on." Brynjolf started off towards the south, veering off to the right down a hallway that lead to a more private room with a few wooden cabinets sitting about a round table. "Sit," Brynjolf nodded to a chair, going uninterrupted to one of the cabinets and pulling out bandages, rags, and a small potion. "Take off yer armor. Now tell me just what the hell ye were doin' and how ye got yerself banged up like this. Out with it."

Rowyn unclipped the leather cuirass and allowed it to fall to the floor. Even with its defenses, the big cat's teeth tore through it like paper. He flinched as he peeled off his undershirt, reddened by blood and sticking to his skin. "I went hunting," he said. It was an innocent response. He truly was just hunting this time, hunting for game anyway. "Uh huh," Brynjolf said, unconvinced, dripping a rag into a bowl of water and squeezing it out, "Go on boy. Don't keep me in suspense."

The halfbreed sighed before flinching as Brynjolf began cleaning the wounds on his back, flipping his ponytail up over the top of his head to keep it out of the way, "I was hunting. And I got attacked by a tiger. True story."

Brynjolf froze briefly before continuing to clean and moving on to Rowyn's arm, "Sure looks that way... Gods, lad, how'd ye manage tae escape? What happened to yer horse?"

"Cutter's fine. He's hurt too but not badly. We got a deer!" Rowyn turned up a hopeful smile to the nord thief, and Brynjolf only frowned at him, "Don't change the subject boy. Ye're damn lucky ye didn't get your stupid ass killed. Rowyn frowned back, "Yeah, I am, but I didn't anticipate a giant cat coming and trying to kill me. It wasn't my fault."

"Ye still should have paid better attention tae yer surroundings, boy. Have I taught you nothing over the years?" Brynjolf began wrapping Rowyn's arm and torso up. "Take this potion. It'll help the pain at least. An' hopefully give ye some brains tae think with next time ye're out hunting. Ye should have told me where ye were goin' at the very least. Ye could'a died an' we wouldn't have known. Yer mother would never forgive me if I allowed ye tae die before it was time."

Rowyn was silent. As much as he hated to admit it, Brynjolf was right. He was reckless and loud, despite his attempts to remain one with the shadows. But he was a novice tracker, whereas the massive beast that hunted him down had to have been an expert with years upon years under its belt.

"Bryn," he said, after a moment.

"Yes?"

"About my mother... and my father," he said, voice quiet and uneasy.

"Ye'll find out when ye're ready. But not now, lad. Ye need tae rest up for tomorrow. Ah don't want ye leavin' this damn dungeon fer tha rest of the day, got it? Delvin needs ye for a special job in tha morrow." Once Rowyn was good and wrapped, Brynjolf grabbed a spare shirt from the cabinet and tossed it at him, before promptly smacking him on the shoulder blade, "Don't do that again!"

"Ow!" Rowyn hissed, jumping out of the chair and arching his back.

Brynjolf picked up Rowyn's cuirass off the floor and gave him a pointed look, "Go get some kind o' rest. Delvin will call ye when he's ready tae brief ye on what ye're doin tomorrow."

Rowyn nodded solemnly, slipping the shirt on over his head, "Alright."