A/N: I apologize for the shortness of the chapter, but after all, it is only a prologue :) Following chapters should be much longer :)
Prologue
"I've told you before Durak, no."
"I am certain you have too, numerous times."
"Then why persist?"
"Because we need you," Durak's grim Orcish face twisted into an ironic smile. "Isran specifically asked for you."
"Isran? Is that old bastard still alive?"
"Yes, fortunately for Tamriel."
Kotold sighed, his Breton features softening. "That's true," he murmured, "If our suspicions are correct, we'll have every need of men like him."
"Hence my recruitment."
Kotold laughed. "You Orsimer are stubborn. Why am I so important to Isran? Surely there are others, better suited to the task."
"No one has the expertise with tracking and hunting vampires quite like you."
"I'm flattered," answered Kotold, a smile flitting across his face.
Durak grunted. "And no one has such a hatred of them outside of the Vigilents."
"I heard about what happened to them."
"Everyone has. People are fleeing Solitude and the surrounding areas upon our advice. But nowhere is truly safe unless we can stop this."
Kotold sucked in a cheek, gazing out the window of his small shack in Bruma. Outside, a blizzard tore viciously down from the Jerall Mountains, breaking upon the city's high walls. The inside of his lodging was simple; a single bed, a table and small pantry and a warm hearth burning brightly.
"This sounds similar to the Whet-Fang incident in Black Marsh," Kotold said finally.
"Oh?"
"Yes. The Whet-Fang vampire bloodline exist in Black Marsh. About 50 years after the Dagon's attack upon Tamriel, they rose as one and began to spread across the land. But before they did so, they took out the small base of Vigilants located in Black Marsh and hunted down any known vampire hunters within the borders, some outside of them."
"Does that mean…?"
"Yes, I'm likely a target, living so close to Skyrim."
As if on cue, there was a shout outside, followed by a piercing scream.
Durak swore and snatched his crossbow from where it leant beside his chair. Kotold's fingers flicked a silver dagger from its sheath and he stood, assuming a ready stance. The door burst into splinters, caving inwards to admit a small, dark form. A sharp twang sounded as Durak's crossbow bolt sped towards the intruder but the form knocked the bolt from the air. Kotold reversed his grip as the intruder jumped towards him. Stepping nimbly aside, he slashed at the intruder, satisfaction filling him as crimson flowed. The attacker landed crumpled in a heap and lay still, a pool of crimson spreading from him.
"Dunmer," spat Durak, cranking his crossbow to reload it.
Kotold grunted a touched a finger to the blood. "It's cold," he murmured.
"What's that?"
"The blood," Kotold said louder, "its cold."
Frowning, Durak knelt and tested the blood himself. "You're right," he said puzzled, "Why do you think that is?"
"Volkihar."
"Isran has to know," growled Durak, making to leave.
"It wouldn't surprise me if he already did," smiled Kotold, "Isran has always had a bad habit of sticking his nose into anything and everything."
Durak grunted and thrust his crossbow towards Kotold. "Here, you take this."
"I said I wouldn't join your guard, Durak."
"Oh, I know," said Durak gruffly, "But consider this a wager that you'll be leaving for Skyrim tomorrow, Dawnguard or no."