Krev the Skinner POV:

I slowly open my eyes, a steady pounding in the back of my head. How long have I been out of it? As I sit up on my busted up cot a beer bottle clatters to the floor. I flip around so my feet are on the floor, then rest my elbows on my knees and my face on my hands. A sour taste fills my mouth and sweat covers my naked body. I slowly rub my eyes and take a moment to look around my room, checking for anything that's missing. My chest is shoved in one corner, my mirror is hanging above my washing basin, and I'm currently sitting on my cot. Beer bottles litter the floor, and even more are shoved in my bed. For the hundredth time I feel a deep longing in my heart.

Is this all there is to life? Sitting around in my pathetic room and waiting to die? I shake off my feelings and make my way over to my basin. I splash water over my dark hair, then flip up and check my appearance in the mirror. My mud colored eyes are bloodshot, my long hazel hair is a ratted mess, and my usually dark skin is extremely pale. Just common symptoms of being too drunk. I search for my dagger and find it in my chest. Then, I return to the mirror. For a moment I think about cutting all my hair off, but ultimately decide against it. I just take off the parts that need removal. Eventually my hair is under control, and my eyes have calmed down a little.

There. Now I look presentable. I place the dagger on the lip of the washing basin, then go back to examining myself. If only I could do something about the wrinkles around my eyes. A sigh passes my lips and echoes across the empty room. I'm too old for this. Far too old. I should have gotten out of the werewolf hunting game years ago, but now it's too late. It's no longer a matter of 'if' a werewolf kills me, but rather a matter of 'how' and 'when'. A knock on my door. "Krev. Are you coming? A letter's come from the Jarl.". I take a deep breath and call back, "I'll be out in a minute. Just let me get dressed.". I hear my lackey walk away. I walk over to my chest, flip it open, and start dressing.

Underpants, breast bindings, and a full set of steel armor. My metal hide is dented in places and has a few patches of rust here and there, but it's served me well over the years. I wouldn't trade it for anything. Well, that's not true. I'd trade it for a lot of things. Mostly whores and drinks. Once I'm dressed I grab my dagger from the basin and my sword from beneath my bed. I put the smaller blade in my boot and proudly hang my sword from my waist. They're both rusted and slightly dented, but I'm proud nonetheless. Finally, I step outside into my group's hiding place. The small cramped corridor leads me to The Silver Hand's main meeting area.

The large circular room is raised up the father back you go, there are pillars scattered around the room, and a stone seat is at the very rear. My fellows are all gathered around the seat. Waiting for me as usual. I push my way past the men and women, then sit down in my seat. I clear my throat until my second in command comes up. He's a young Altmer who's barely sixteen, and goes by the name of Bartholomew. As I look at his fresh face I'm once again reminded I'm forty-eight years his senior. Sixty-four year old women should be able to sit back and enjoy life, not out hunting monsters. Yet here I am. Bartholomew clears his throat and I snarl, "What?".

He shies away from me a little and explains, "We've received word from the Jarl of Falkreath about hunting down the werewolves.". I nod and flick my hand to tell him to go on with it. By now he knows what my flicking means and continues. "He's given us the job, but there's a catch.". I flick my hand for a second time. "The Companions have also applied for the job, and he's given it to them first. We can only go to Falkreath if The Companions fail to capture or kill the werewolves within a week's time.". In an instant everyone is screaming curses and roaring their outrage. I know why. The Companions themselves are werewolves. They wouldn't really hunt down one of their own kind.

They'll probably actually let the beast escape. And, my fellows all know that. That's why the bickering starts to get louder, and someone pushes someone else. I sigh and scream, "ENOUGH!". Everyone shuts up and looks at me. Even Bartholomew seems cowed by my shout. I stand up, using my somewhat taller height (the only member taller than me is Bartholomew) to my advantage. "Enough. While we stand here bickering and arguing among ourselves, The Companions are working together!". I look around the room, meeting the eyes of every single one of my followers. "Even as we speak they could be letting their fellow werewolves get away with murder."

"The only choice we have is to ignore the Jarl's order and go down there ourselves.". A few people are nodding. "It's not going to be easy. Our intentions are seen as evil by those who are unaware of the threat werewolves present to our way of life.". Obviously, or else we wouldn't be living in a bandit's camp. "But we have to save them. What we do is no different than what The Dawngaurd do. Only they're revered while we're hated. Now, here's what we're going to do. We're going to sneak down to Falkreath, find the murderers, avoid The Companions, and kill any transformed werewolves. If we slay The Companions everyone will turn against us, so we'll need to try to avoid that.".

Everyone is silently agreeing with me in some way. "Now, it's not going to be easy. The Jarl stated we could only hunt them in his Hold, and the other Jarls haven't consented to let us continue our search into their realms. Obviously the werewolves will attempt to run away into a different area of Skyrim. It's only logical. We can't let them do that. These beast are worse than any others we've faced. Most werewolves eat a few idiotic travelers. These damned beast went into a city two nights in a row, ate over three fourths of its population, and destroyed some of their ancient buildings. They need to die to secure the safety of all of Skyrim. We'll have to hunt them down no matter where they are.".

"If they go to The Rift, then we go to The Rift. If they go to The Reach, then we go to The Reach. If they go to Cyrodill, then we go to Cyrodill. If they go to Morrowind, then we go to Morrowind. If they- well, you get the idea. We're going to hunt these monsters down and bring them to justice.". My voice barely rises or falls during the entire speech, but everyone's still hyped and excited. Just one of the advantages of leading for so long. You no longer have to convince people to follow you. When everyone's calmed down a little I finish the speech. "Get your gear ready. We leave tonight, and we won't stop until we reach Falkreath.".

Everyone nods and breaks up, but as I head to my room Bartholomew catches up to me. "Hey, can I have a word?". When we're right outside my door I shake my head at the young man and beg, "Bartholomew. Please. Don't put yourself through this again. It's 'no'. The answer has always been 'no' and it will always be 'no'. Just go. Don't make yourself suffer any more than you have to.". I see his face fall and he whimpers, "Please.". I shake my head and tell him, "Go get your gear ready.". He can't meet my eyes as he nods and slinks away. If he had a tail I'm certain it'd be between his legs. For a moment I feel pity for him, then get over it.

If his ego is so big that he can't get over the fact I don't yearn for him, then it's his fault. Not mine. I slide into my room and close my door. As I turn around I see all of my belongings, and a heaviness settles over my stomach and chest. I'm alone. I've waited sixty-four years to meet someone I could talk to. Someone I could be friends with, and share all of my secrets and concerns. Someone I could love. But the only person who wants me is a sixteen-year old boy who can't even count to three. I mentally slap myself. I have more important things to do than mentally bitch about how alone and dead inside I am. I have two werewolves to skin, and there's no telling what they could do in the meantime.

I gather my clothes, armor, and one final weapon. Underneath my bed and pushed against the back wall is a long, short trunk with five master locks. I yank it out and pull a key from the very bottom of my normal chest. After unlocking the chest I happily flip the trunk open. Inside is my most prized possession, one I've carried around since I was Bartholomew's age. The gigantic arrow can be used as a spear and javelin, and its sheer size makes it terrifying (it's the length and width of my arm). The black wooden shaft is wrapped tightly in elm's bark, the stone arrow has four curved points like a harpoon, and the point is sharp enough to pierce even the toughest of armor.

I once had a bow that was a foot taller than me, and it was the only bow capable of firing my arrow. But it took too long to aim, and it was far too hard to fire. Eventually it broke and I never got around to repairing it. A part of me kind of wishes I had. The idea of a werewolf being impaled on my arrow from a hundred feet away is appealing, but I suppose spearing them will have to do. I gently strap the weapon to my back and stand up, finally ready to go. I find everyone waiting outside for me. A few of the higher ups are mounted (including Bartholomew), but a large majority of my men have to walk. Oh well. I mount my horse, point him towards Falkreath, and begin riding. Time to kill some werewolves.


Ria POV:

I slowly crouch down in the underbrush, following the deep gouges in the earth. Njada is practically on top of me. She's likewise crouched down, and I can feel her heavy breathing on the back of my neck. "Njada. It would be easier to work if someone wasn't right on top of me.". The Nord moves back a little and mumbles an apology. I nod in acceptance and keep following the tracks. Now that Njada isn't rubbing against me I don't feel uncomfortable and terrified, so it's easier to work. However, within a few minutes she's back on top of me. Her breast digging in to my back and her breathing on my neck. I sigh and keep working. It's doing to be a long day.