Skyrim belongs to Bethesda. Any OC or plot-line not recognizable belongs to me. :) Enjoy! Fanart of Ivor can be found on my deviantart page: h.t.t.p.:././.e.r.a.-.a.g.e...d.e.v.i.a.n.t.a.r.t. ..c.o.m./.#./.d.5.j.o.6.6.y. (remove periods)

Vimund hauled the latest blocks of wood up the steps to the Wind District. It was just the small hours of the morning, the markets just starting to open up shop, and Jorrvaskr's fire pits were cold. He did not want to see Tilma, that wee thing, take to the hatchet. Though the old woman made a fuss about him overstepping his boundaries and saying that a Companion should not take to chores, he could tell she was grateful for the small reprieve.

Vimund snorted. They don't seem to have an issue with me fetching mead, now do they?

He came to a stop in his tracks when he recognized the half-elf sitting on a bench beside the Gildergreen, staring at the stream of water trickling around the courtyard of the Wind District. Vimund smiled in greeting and plopped his load of lumber beside Isben, chuckling when the man jumped in his seat, before joining him.

"Lovely morning, aye?"

Isben stared at the water, his gaze distant as Vimund waited for an answer. The Nord gave him a curious look and watched him as he idly ran his hands over the wood of his bow.

"Ah, so you're an archer then. The posters don't do you justice after all, or are you just that talented, Dragonborn?" Vimund chuckled and offered him a friendly clap on the back. He held Isben steady when he lurched forward from the force of the gesture. Vimund shook his head and rolled his shoulders back, popping a few bones here and there. "Aye, but it is a lovely morning. Heimskr isn't even out yet preaching about Talos. Whiterun is a beautiful city before it awakens, no? Just use your senses: you hear the water trickling, you smell the ironworks of the Skyforge and Warmaiden's, you feel the wind of Kynareth!"

Isben closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the bench, listening to the water trickle through the gratings in the District. He synchronized his breathing with that trickle trickle trickle and absently rubbed his temples with his fingers.

Vimund sighed in contentment and glanced about them. "They say Whiterun is the truest Nordic way of living in Skyrim. Give a man a hearth, sanctuary, and food, and he will have his true Nordic way of living. What say you? You look a bit ashen there, friend. Come." He hauled Isben onto his feet and kept him upright when he wobbled. "Hulda's loaves are the best this time of day."

With Vimund keeping Isben on his feet and not falling on his face or bottom, the two made their way to The Bannered Mare. Isben wasn't given a chance to protest when Vimund paid for their breakfast. They sat in the back corner, away from the prying eyes of Whiterun's curious citizenry—not that they would go anywhere near the big Nord man with the even bigger axe resting right beside him that he knew very well how to use.

"Butter's nice and tender here, too. For a tavern, it's not bad. Probably not as good as what the Jarl's sinking his teeth into right now, but food is food. It's better than the slop they gave us in the army."

Isben nodded as he helped himself to another slice of bread. He was all but gorging himself on the food now, Vimund's quiet commentary keeping him from noticing the man's eyes on him as he stuffed himself. He didn't realize how starving he was—how could he have realized with that demon still looking at him?

"You ever eat potetballs?"

Isben looked up from his bread long enough to nod. "An Aldmeri variation, I believe. It had noodles, vegetables, and a type of meat stuffed in it."

Vimund nodded and took a swig from his tankard of ale. "Ever had it with lingonberry jam? You ever want potetballs—good potetballs, not something a peddler wants to con you with—you go to Solitude."

Isben smiled into his tankard. "I'll take your word for it."

"You'd better. That's what they don't tell you: half the Nords up in Solitude? They're there for the potetballs."

They left The Bannered Mare after finishing their food, Vimund smacking Isben's hand away from his purse when he tried once again to pay for his own tab, and headed out back into Whiterun.

"Don't look now, friend, but you see that scrawny lad over there?" Vimund murmured as he and Isben climbed the steps back into the Wind District.

"The man accosting that woman at that stall? What about him?"

"That's Mikael. Scrawny light-weight milk-drinking bard. Plays good music; his hands know the keys on flutes better than anyone else in Whiterun."

"I take it that's not all those hands know."

Vimund laughed and clapped Isben on the back. "Right you are. Watch yourself about him. He has this belief that all women in this city belong to him or some such rubbish."

"Women are the least of my problems."

"Fair enough." Vimund motioned back to the bench and didn't join Isben when he sat back down on it. "I'm only saying is that you're Dragonborn. That carries a lot of weight to it, and while Mikael is a tit-suckling sap, there are other men in this world who would do more than glare at a man because of their title. We don't want you ending up like this tree here, do we?" Vimund rapped his knuckles against the bark of the Gildergreen and gave a soft sigh.

Isben twisted his body to look up into the branches and frowned. "What is this tree anyway? Is it Whiterun's symbol? In Chorrol, the Great Oak was on the back of every note from the city. Of course, the Thalmor blocked the Oak off from public affairs after they invaded."

"From what I've heard, this tree, the Gildergreen, has been in Whiterun soil since the city was first founded. It's said to be a blessing from Kynareth Herself. I don't know if that's true or not, but Danica Pure-Spring, the priestess of Kynareth here in the city, assures me it's so. Something happened to the tree—a storm, I believe, and it withered."

Vimund ran his hand up the bark and shook his head. "It's a fine tree, too. A shame that—eh, friend of yours?" He nodded his head toward the Plains District, and Isben followed his line of sight.

Isben sighed and scratched the back of his head. "Closest terminology possible."

"She has blood on her clothing and has a look in her eye." Vimund narrowed his eyes and flexed his fingers. "Looks agile, too."

"Oh, she is, she is." Isben lifted a hand up in greeting and wasn't surprised when Shêza didn't even nod her head in response. Slowly, she made her way over to them, keeping her eyes on Vimund. "Good morning," Isben said once she was as close as she could bring herself to them.

She grunted and adjusted the bow on her back.

Isben gestured between the two of them and said, "Shêzanaré, this is Vimund Brawn-Haul. Vimund, Shêzanaré."

Vimund inclined his head. "A pleasure to meet you, my lady Nord."

Shêza nodded once, too busy studying the scars across the man's face and bare arms. She shifted on her feet before turning to Isben. When he stared at her with a blank look on his face, she huffed and gestured to his bow.

"I see your teacher has arrived," Vimund laughed. "Ah, well, the Gildergreen won't be going anywhere any time soon. Another time, perhaps."

"The Gildergreen?" Shêza looked up into the bare branches of the tree, a sad look in her grey eyes. "What do you know of the Gildergreen?"

"Only that hagravens are guarding the means to restore it to its former glory," Vimund said.

"The Gildergreen is but a sapling compared to its mother, the Eldergleam," Shêza said. She ran a finger down its bark as if it was a baby bird instead of the gnarled tree before them. Her gaze hardened and she whipped her head toward Vimund. "For hagravens to desecrate it in this way... those beasts. They will pay for this crime against Kynareth."

"I never knew you were religious, Shêza," Isben said with a small smile.

"There is a difference between religion and honor," she said. "You know how to use that axe?"

Vimund smirked and let a wolfish grin split across his mouth. "The Companions wouldn't have accepted me into their ranks if I didn't."

"The Companions," she spat. "And why haven't they tried to right this injustice? Are they not supposed to see to the people of Skyrim?"

"This situation is borderline politics." Vimund crossed his arms. "War's driving everyone to the brink, miss. Danica explained that the temples are being used as respites for soldiers and the wounded. For them to ask for aid, even in something that does not relate to the Rebellion, would give them... unwanted attention. It is not the will of the Divines to stoke the fires of war in the hearts of Man and Mer."

"Is that what your Harbinger taught you into memorizing?" She hissed and shook her head. "Whatever the reason, it's a stupid reason. No. This is not a Companion matter. There's too much honor involved in it for them."

Vimund clenched his jaw.

"But it can be used to prove your worth as a Companion," Isben suggested. "Maybe give you a different job other than serving mead?"

Vimund rubbed his beard. "You have a point there, friend." He shrugged and slung his pack from around his shoulder and pulled out his map. He laid it out on the bench for both of them to see. "Danica said that the hagravens took the Gildergreen's instrument and hid it away in Orphan Rock. It's southeast from Whiterun, about a day's walk there. If we leave now, we can make good time."

"Nettlebane," Shêza said. "The hagravens are guarding Nettlebane. It's said to be the only blade able to cut through the bark of the Eldergleam."

"A good swing with a sharp axe wouldn't hurt to try, either," Vimund said with a chuckle. He cleared his throat when Shêza glared at him.

"And?" Isben prompted. "We find Nettlebane, we take a cross section of the Eldergleam? Then what? Do we replant the Gildergreen and hope for the best?"

"We need the sap," Shêza huffed. "Honestly, do you not know these legends? I thought you were an alchemist."

"I'm a scientist, my lady, not a legend-chasing fool."

"Well." Vimund clapped his hands together and packed his map away. "We'll explain the lore on our way there, aye? Don't want to burn any more daylight, now do we?"

"He is a warrior," Shêza said loud enough only for Isben to hear as they followed Vimund out of Whiterun. She made sure to place herself behind him—probably to keep an eye on him—and just a little to the side of Isben.

Isben nodded and hurried over to the side of the road to snatch up another handful of mountain flowers. "He served in the Great War."

Shêza made a sound from the back of her throat, and he didn't need to look at her to know she wore a disgusted look on her face. "You trust him?"

"Hasn't given me any reason not to." Isben stuffed the flowers into his pack and trotted after Shêza. "You don't?"

"I don't trust where he earned those scars. Some of them are... vicious."

Isben eyed the scars crossing over the thick muscles on Vimund's arms. He bobbed his head up and down. "I wouldn't want a sap with me."

"You mean another you?" Shêza threw her head back and laughed when Isben pouted. She skirted away from him when he moved to slap her arm.

"So, I'll have two arrows at my back, eh?" Vimund called over his shoulder. "Not what I'm used to, but it'll be a nice change of pace."

"More like one and a half—"

"One and one eighth," Shêza snorted.

Vimund laughed and headed up the slopes to Riverwood. "Still learning, eh? No harm in admitting that. I can respect that, Dragonborn."

"Respect won't save us from Dragons," Isben said.

"Nor will cowardice," Shêza snapped back. She moved to the side, letting Isben pass her, and sniffed the air for any sign of trouble. She cringed when she smelled the telltale scent of Ivor on a bush. Must have just taken a pee-pee. When Vimund and Isben were a few good paces ahead of her, she picked up a loose stone and lobbed it into the woods, snickering when she heard a small oof!

"Keep watching, cousin," she whispered. "You might learn something."

"Modest folk here," Vimund said as he and Isben past through Riverwood. "Good, hardworking people. True Nords of Skyrim."

"As fine as a quaint village will ever be," Isben said with a shrug.

"Village life isn't for you?"

"I'm city-borne. I'm used to the hustle and bustle. Too much static... upsets me."

"Ulcers?"

"Might as well be." Isben gave a small wave over to Gerdur when they past by her house, and she returned it with a smile.

"You seem to have quite the reputation here," Vimund mused. "Good. At least one of us does." He looked back behind them to see Shêza lagging a few paces behind, keeping to herself and refusing to make eye contact with any of the villagers. "Is she always...?"

"From my observations? Yes. Further tests will need to be done for more information."

Vimund laughed and rubbed his hands together. "You attract strange members of the fairer sex, my friend."

"If I could repel her, I would."

He chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. "She's probably better than what you give her credit for, aye?"

"You were never used as live bait by her before."

Shêza looked at them when Vimund gave off another hearty laugh—a sound she was beginning to associate with the man—and couldn't help but to smile. That smile fell off her face like a troll off a bridge when Isben chose that moment to turn and make eye contact with her. She scowled and growled at him, finding some satisfaction when he quickly turned around.

"Bloody wolves," Vimund snarled as he swung his axe at another one of the beasts. "You'd think they'd leave travelers well enough alone. Don't they know we're armed and ready for them? Miserable beasts."

Shêza fired off another arrow and felled a wolf trying to sneak its way toward Isben. "They're hungry, and we're in their eating grounds."

"Aye? Well, now they're dead." Vimund cleaned his axe on his kill's fur and grimaced. "Poor sods. Probably just wanted to get some breakfast. Didn't survive the War to end up in your stomachs, though." He set his axe down and unsheathed a knife at his boot and started to skin the pelt off of the corpse. He looked up when he heard a gag and shook his head when Isben excused himself.

Shêza rolled her eyes when she heard him heaving and retching up whatever he ate that morning. "Tit-licker," she scoffed.

"Give the boy a break," Vimund said. Finished with cleaning the corpse, he rolled the skins into his pack. "Not everyone can stomach guts and entrails."

"That's our Dragonborn," she growled. "You wager those flying demons care whether or not he pukes at the sight of blood?"

"Scolding him won't fix anything. You whip a horse, and it'll only continue to shy away from its surroundings." Vimund stood and collected Isben, making sure his bulky frame hid the wolf carcasses from his view. "Let's be off. Hate to see if there are more of these buggers nearby. Probably have a nice cozy den somewhere around here most likely."

Shêza bristled.

They past a small group of Ritual Stones, Vimund explaining their blessings along the way, and continued their trek up the steep slopes through the mountains.

"Cold up here," Isben said when sprinkles of snow started falling.

"Should have brought a cloak, friend. I'd say it's about to get colder." Vimund chuckled and adjusted his axe. Isben gave the man a long look before rolling his eyes. He had enough meat on his bones for a mammoth to keep warm.

"Well, I hope you're not right about—"

Shêza hissed when she walked into his back and shoved him with her hand. When Isben still remained rooted in spot, she looked over his shoulder to see what he was looking at.

Vimund crossed his arms. "A fortress?"

"No," Shêza said quietly. "You can hardly recognize it, can you?" She took Isben's arm and motioned Vimund over into the brush. He followed without question, and Shêza cringed with each step he made; his armor was louder than Ivor's snoring.

"Helgen," Isben said once they were concealed in the bushes. "Or what's left of it."

Vimund's eyes widened and he stared in shock at the ruined village before them. "That can't be! The place is overrun with bandits now! Look at them, flaunting corpses about and parading through the ramparts as if they own the place." He hefted his axe and drummed his fingers against the length of the weapon. "Makes me want to bash some skulls in."

"Three of us against an entire fortress? Even if we were to hail them with arrows first, we would not stand a chance."

Vimund turned a furious eye onto Shêza. "Those villagers died because of a Dragon! They were caught unawares and did their best to defend their city with their lives! They didn't sacrifice themselves to let these miscreants take over their homes!"

Shêza lowered her head. "Then you would make their sacrifice be in vain if you threw your life away. No; today is not the day to retake Helgen. The village is going nowhere. We will tell the Jarl of this news and see if he has any men he can send to purge the village of this crime."

Vimund's nostrils flared as he stared at Helgen's gates and at the bandits casually leaning against the battlements. "Those sons of bitches... I didn't join the Companions to sit on my haunches and do nothing."

Shêza shook her head and squeezed his arm. "It is not a stain on your soul for not retaliating against this. These... men, if you even want to call them that, will face their judgment. One day. Just not today. Even a warrior must know when to choose his battles." She waited until the rage in Vimund's face died down before leading them further away from the main road.

Isben followed along, his face pained as he remembered those terrible fires. The sounds, the sights, the smells...

"Aye," Vimund said after they cleared Helgen. "Aye. Orphan Rock should be just up ahead. Good. I need to kill something."

"It's colder here," Isben said as he and Shêza followed Vimund through the brush.

She nodded. "There is something evil here." They stopped when Vimund held up a hand, and all three of them fell into a crouch—Vimund doing his best. Shêza lifted her head and took deep lungfuls of air.

"I'd know these smells anywhere," Vimund growled. He shifted his grip on his axe and spat in the brush. "Smells just like the Thalmor and their cursed magic. If those damned elves are involved in this..."

Shêza cut him off with a wave of her hand. She crept ahead of them, keeping low to the ground and seeming to not even move a blade of grass. She used the environment to her utmost advantage, being sure to stay behind tree stumps and tall grasses and out of sight.

I can smell you, but where are you?

She calmed her breathing and opened her senses, letting her wereblood pool into her veins. One further ahead, two to the right, and one... one very close. She held up four fingers for Vimund and Isben to see. Slowly, she crawled back to them and unslung her bow.

"Hags," she murmured.

"Filthy casters," Vimund spat. "Just as bad as the Thalmor; all the mages are." He flexed his shoulders and readied his axe. "You two keep me covered with those arrows, aye? Don't want one of those mages hitting me with a spell in a blind spot."

"We're just charging in? No planning? No preemptive strike?" Isben frowned and looked at Shêza, hoping she'd support him with this. She seemed to be thinking along the same lines as him.

"You listen here, Dragonborn. I'm not cut out for stealth. I'm big, see? With an axe. I've got muscle, I've got momentum. That is the preemptive strike. Now quit chatting like housewives and let's see what the Dragonborn's made of." Without further ado, Vimund sprung to his feet, a warcry spewing from his lips, and charged ahead of them, his axe held out in hand. Shêza and Isben took either side of him as they followed a small ways behind for cover.

"You mage-bred cowards! Come and fight like a true Nord of Skyrim!" Vimund shouted again as he caught sight of the first hag. He yelled and swung his axe at the witch, cursing when she threw up a protective barrier just in time to absorb the shock of the blow. He swung again, the coiled muscles in his arms twisting with each movement he made, and swept one of her arms clean off. She screamed and charged a fireball at him, but had another think coming as Shêza's arrow found its way into her throat.

Vimund snarled as something cold crashed into his side. He turned his head to see another hag in the distance readying another frost spell his way. He snapped the icicle off of his iron armor and charged her. He faltered in step when another spell hit him in the center of his chest piece, and instead of following through with his attack, he veered behind a tree stump for cover. Splinters of wood rained around him as the hag pelted the bark with shock spells.

"Go ahead; waste your flimsy magicka reserves, you wretched thing!"

The assault on his cover stopped after a few more spells. After collecting his breath, he gathered his weapon and was about to charge back into the fray, but just in front of him, another hag was closing in. He swore beneath his breath and ducked just in time as a ball of fire exploded where his head just was.

"Dragonborn! Shêzanaré! Now would be a good time for that cover!" When no response came, he took the risk to look for them. He couldn't see Isben, but he saw Shêza standing on a raised cliff squaring off with an enraged hagraven. Vimund swore beneath his breath and let loose another cry when he caught a glimpse of magic from the corner of his eye. He turned just in time to have a shock spell catch him in the leg. It wasn't fatal damage, but it sent tingles up the entire limb and made him lose feeling in his right side. He swore and caught himself before he hit the ground.

He heard the crunch of leaves just ahead of him, and still continuing to feign injury, waited until an unfamiliar pair of slippers appeared in front of him, followed by the small whisk of a knife sliding out of its sheath. He smirked and brought his weapon up just as the hag tended to cut into his neck with her knife. He knocked the flimsy blade from her grasp, and with his good leg, pushed himself up to his full height and cleaved her head off with a swift blow.

Shaking out his leg, he ignored the pain and ran to where Shêza was still struggling with the hagraven. With the close quarters, her bow was not an option, and she had slices in her clothes and armor where the hagraven's claws had taken out chunks of her flesh. Vimund snarled and raised his axe, planning to tip the battle back into her favor. He carefully maneuvered his way across the fallen tree that connected the cliff to the rest of the land and announced his presence with another battlecry before swinging his axe at the hagraven.

"Where is the Dragonborn?" he shouted over the sounds of the hagraven's shrieking.

"He's not with you?" Shêza pushed Vimund out of the way as the hagraven tossed a fireball their way. It exploded once it connected with the ground and sent embers flying into the air.

"If he was with me, he'd be here, aye?" Vimund pushed himself to his feet and dealt another blow to the hagraven. Shêza took the opportunity to flank it and dug her knife into its exposed thigh. It screamed and reached behind it with its bony claws, but another swing from Vimund's axe hacked its hand right off. As it turned to screech at Vimund, Shêza swept her knife over its throat, ending its miserable life.

She wasted no time before clambering down the cliff, not even bothering with the tree as the makeshift bridge, and looking for Isben. Her ears picked up the sounds of a struggle, and she bolted in the direction of the sound, not paying any heed to Vimund calling after her.

Blood matted the shoulder of his leather armor, caking it to his skin. She sprinted as fast as her legs could carry her when she saw that the battle was not in his favor—not that they ever were. He'd forsaken his bow for the sword he acquired at the Barrow, and he and the hag were dueling. The hag, with one hand holding her knife and the other firing off spell after spell, would no doubt be the victor of their match if Shêza hadn't started screeching nonsense at the top of her lungs.

A shock spell collided with Isben, sending him sprawling onto his back. He gasped as the electricity coursed through his body, making him jerk his limbs out and choke on his breath. The hag cackled and raised her blade to end his life, but the sounds of bushes being trampled and screams had her turn around to see the madwoman charging right at her. Furious at being denied her kill, the hag readied another shock spell.

Isben clutched his chest and managed to prop himself onto his elbow. He glared at the hag's back and willed himself to climb back onto his feet, to fight, to protect Shêza. The shock spells were attracted to movement; they weren't like the fireballs that could be dodged, and Shêza was running right at her—

Isben coughed and managed to croak out, "Fus!" The Word's power, weak and immature as it was, managed to reach out toward the hag's ankles. The hag stumbled, a startled yelp escaping her lips as she suddenly fell forward, her spell all but forgotten as she landed right on Shêza.

Isben's eyes flew open as something in his mind popped, like a small hole opening in a dam and letting out a trickle of water. He clenched his eyes closed as he heard screams coming from the two women clawing each other on the ground. He could hear her screaming, crying for help, smell her blood, hear it splatter—

Taste it like the Fires. Like Yol.

Isben's mouth opened like that of a fish's out of water. He clutched at his scalp and tugged his hair, those orange eyes boring into his mind again. He tried to scream, tried to tell someone what he was seeing—eyes, orange, not human, the Dragon's! Mirmulnir! He can see me! He is watching me!—but nothing, not even a whimper, left his mouth. His heart pounded against his chest, and he swore that at any moment it would tear free from its cavity and pop out of his ribcage. He almost wish it did. Then he wouldn't have to see those eyes.

A squelch reached his ears, like a knife splitting into a ripe fruit—like Vimund beheading the hag. Bile dribbled out of the corners of Isben's mouth, and he felt hands on him turn him onto his side—so grateful—so he wouldn't choke on his own vomit.

"Arm... burned..."

Isben closed his eyes tighter as his body purged itself of his breakfast. The veins in his forehead stood out against his ashen skin, and it was all he could do to not tear them out in frustration for not being able to communicate what was happening.

"Doesn't... good... hear... aye?"

He tried to find the trickling water, the feel of Kynareth's winds, the smells of the forges, but nothing. Instead, he found the darkness with the orange eyes staring at him.

Shêza swatted the strands of the hag's hair and flesh off of herself and crawled over to Vimund. "Why is he so ill?"

Vimund shook his head as he watched vomit pour like a river from Isben's mouth. Mindful of his shoulder, he eased him onto his side. "I don't have the foggiest, miss."

"Why will he not make a sound? Is he poisoned? Is it a spell?" Shêza dug through his pack and pulled out several healing potions. She was about to uncork them, but Vimund stopped her with a hand to her shoulder.

"Those will be pain killers at best for him. What he needs is a healer. Aye, and a good one, too. His arm's burned along with his shoulder. At least it was magicka-based fire, not the real thing."

"What's the difference? Fire is fire."

"Magicka doesn't scar as bad."

Shêza snorted and stuffed the healing potions back into his knapsack. She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead and frowned. "He's burning up with a fever."

"Aye. He doesn't look good." Vimund tugged his waterskin from his belt and poured some water on Isben's forehead. "Dragonborn. Can you hear us? Say anything, make a noise, wiggle your fingers. Anything, aye?" Vimund frowned when they didn't receive a response. "Something's not right with this. We'll have to carry him back to Riverwood. I don't want to take a chance making it back to Whiterun. At least in the village he'll have a headstart at healing. You go retrieve Nettlebane from that... thing while I do something about him, aye?"

Shêza nodded before taking off toward Orphan Rock's highest point. She stepped over the fallen tree and curled her lip at the hagraven's corpse. There was Nettlebane, nestled in its tattered robes and looking like it wanted to be anywhere but on that hagraven. She plucked it from its body, giving it a cursory look. The blade resembled a tree branch in some ways, but looked dull and in need of a good shine. Shrugging, she tucked it away into her pack.

She spared a glance at the arcane enchanter on the other side of the cliff, not surprised to see the mechanism destroyed beyond recognition. No wonder it took Vimund a while to catch up with me. Shaking her head, she made her way back to him, passing by the three corpses of the hags that she and Vimund disposed of.

She stopped dead in her tracks, her body going on full alert. Something was wrong. She remembered distinctly smelling four hags, the hagraven not included. The hair on the back of her neck stood on edge as she instinctively took on an offensive stance. She fell to the ground, making her body as less noticeable as possible, and sniffed the air for any danger.

Nothing. Only Vimund and the Dragonborn.

She frowned, conflicted. While she trusted her wereblood, she didn't trust this situation. Two plus one did not equal four. Shêza stood and scanned the forest, thinking perhaps she might have missed something.

And she did.

Pinned to one of the trees was a hag with an arrow through its skull. Shêza inspected the body, and after finding it still warm, pulled the arrow from its forehead, not caring that the body crumpled to the ground at her feet.

Shêza's eyes widened when she saw the all too familiar arrow tip on the shaft. "Ivor's arrows."

Translations:

Fus: first word of 'Fus, Ro, Dah', meaning 'Force'

Yol: first word of 'Yol, Toor, Shul', meaning 'Fire'

And FF, Fun Fact. For those of you who don't know what potetballs are, they're dumplings. :) I like adding cultural foods into my stories, and potetballs are Scandinavian dumplings (there are many many many names for them, I just like potetballs), so I thought why not?